Beyond the Gates of Evermoore

by Krista Wolf

  Those doors were a lot like the ones Melody stood in front of right now. Only these were a lot less warm, a lot less welcoming than the Blackstone.

  There was the heavy click of a latch, and one of the doors swung open. A man appeared before them, taller than anyone Melody had ever seen. He was pale and gaunt, with sunken cheekbones and stark white hair. He wore a somber expression as he gestured them inside, uttering only a single word.

  “Greetings.”

  Eric led the way, and she followed. As the man closed the door behind them Melody’s breath was taken away by the beauty of the plantation house. The walls were washed in bright, elegant white. Wide paneled floors gave way to a sprawling staircase that dominated the massive foyer. Everywhere she looked she saw things of beauty — paintings, portraits, exotic furnishings. Colorful vases. Meticulously-woven rugs.

  “You rang?” Eric whispered into her ear with a giggle. Melody’s brown furrowed.

  “What?”

  “You rang,” he repeated again under his breath. He bumped her and nodded toward the man who’d let them in. “Lurch! From the Addams family!”

  “The Addams what?”

  Eric looked wholly disappointed. “Forget it,” he sighed. “I guess it was before your time.”

  She wasn’t sure how far ‘before her time’ it could’ve been, really. Eric looked like to be in his mid to late twenties, tops. Only a few years older than she was.

  The man was staring down at them impassively now, as if expecting something. Melody pulled a small card of parchment from inside her dress and held it out to him.

  “Hi!” she began cheerily. “I’m Melody Larson, here for the cotillion.”

  The man stared at her as if she hadn’t said a single word. Just as she began feeling uncomfortable, his eyes shifted to Eric.

  “Me too,” was all Eric said.

  Their host nodded slowly but didn’t take her invitation. Eric didn’t offer one of his own, either.

  “The Lady of the House is expecting us,” Melody explained. “I—”

  “The Lady of the House is expecting you,” the man repeated impassively. He turned slowly away. “This way please.”

  Melody smoothed out her dress as they followed him up the staircase. The maple banister was well-oiled and polished smooth, the treads on the stairs covered in a plush, red-patterned runner.

  “This place is even more beautiful than the Blackstone,” Melody breathed. She said it just low enough so that only Eric could hear it.

  He forced back a smile. “Uh huh.”

  On the second floor landing they turned and followed their host down a fancily-paneled hall. Candles burned in sconces on either side. There were no light fixtures, only lamps and lanterns. Everything around them was period decor, one-hundred percent true to the late 18th century. Melody found herself wishing she could take pictures.

  You won’t have your phone, she remembered Xiomara telling her, so no photos, or videos, or recordings. Everything you say and do must be period, as if you’re role-playing. Lady Neveux is very strict about that. As are the other guests.

  It was the ‘other guests’ part Melody was worried about. Finding the egg would be one thing. Recovering it—

  Stealing it

  —in front of a bunch of other people? That was quite another.

  The gaunt man pushed open a door on the left side of the hallway. He turned to face Melody and held up a large iron key.

  “Your room, miss.”

  She coughed. “My… my room?”

  “In case you’d like to freshen up before your meal. Supper will be in the dining hall, in promptly half an hour. The Lady does not like to be kept waiting.”

  She took the key mechanically, all the while avoiding touching the man’s hand. Supper?

  Melody watched as Eric was led to a different room, about three doors away. He was given his own key — and the same stern warning about dinner — before the gaunt man disappeared around the next corner.

  Why are we having supper?

  The whole thing threw her for a loop. Dinner before a ball? She supposed it could make sense. Even so, Xiomara never said anything about—

  “Hey.” Eric was there again, leaning against the door jamb. He looked a little concerned about her. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I just… I didn’t realize…”

  “That Lurch would be so weird?”

  He smiled warmly, and Melody felt instantly better. Their eyes met. A moment passed between them. She was suddenly very aware that her dress — and maybe even her hair — were probably still covered in dirt from when she fell.

  “Is there a mirror in my room?” she asked.

  Eric held open the door for her. “Let’s find out.”

  6

  It turned out the room did have a mirror, and a beautiful one at that. Melody pinned her hair back up, in the places where her golden curls had fallen down. Then she began brushing herself off.

  “Turn around,” Eric said.

  She did. His hands went to her waist. Her ass…

  “OH!”

  Melody jumped as Eric brushed caked mud from the back of her dress with his outstretched fingers. It fell to the floor in a dusty cloud — little flakes of brown powder — until he finally stopped and declared her clean.

  “Now do me.”

  He turned around. Eric’s ass, and the backs of his legs, bore the same brown streaks of dirt. She began patting him off awkwardly, trying not to touch him too much in the process.

  Oh, don’t be like that, the little voice in her head admonished her.

  Melody smirked at herself, feeling stupid.

  He just saved your life!

  She finished brushing him off, this time not worrying about being handsy. It took a little bit, but she got him clean. She also got extremely familiar with Eric’s ass, which she decided was very firm, and very nice.

  “There. All done.”

  He smiled again and sat down on a thin, very uncomfortable-looking colonial bed. The room she’d been given was decorated nicely, with pretty finishes, but the bedding could sure use some work.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked.

  Eric pointed to a large porcelain pot, curved upwards and decorated with flowers, at the foot of the bed. “You’re looking at it.”

  “Ugh! Really?”

  He laughed. “That’s your chamberpot,” he said. “And your sink is right over there.”

  He pointed again, and Melody saw a large ceramic basin of cool water next to a threadbare towel. She sniffed it, determined it was clean, then splashed some of the water on her face and hands. When she looked in the mirror again she was almost presentable.

  “You want to clean up too?”

  Eric rose, and she shifted to one side. He used the basin to wash his face, then his hands, just as she did. He even slicked back the front of his hair.

  “Look at that,” he said when he was finished. “We’ve known each other less than an hour and we’re already showering together.”

  He laughed as Melody smirked back at him. As he continued laughing, she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out.

  He really is cute you know…

  Just then she noticed a bright red streak forking its way down the length of his forearm. She jumped forward in alarm.

  “You cut yourself!”

  Eric held up the back of his arm and looked at it in the mirror. “Ah, that’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

  “From the dogs?”

  “The axe actually,” he said. “I got a little rambunctious with my swing and—”

  “Let me see it.”

  She took his arm without asking, and he stood still for her. The cut wasn’t long, but it was fairly deep. If they weren’t stuck at some 18th century mansion it would probably require going out for stitches.

  “I could butterfly it,” she said. “If I had a needle, and some thread…”

  Melody began looking around, but to no avail. The closest thing she f
ound to useful was a faded old pillowcase in one of the drawers. She tore a long strip of cloth from the end of it with a much-too-loud rending sound.

  “Ohhh! You’re gonna get in trouble,” he teased.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she quipped. “Now get over here.”

  He did, and she began to bandage him. There was barely enough material to cover the wound.

  “Hmm. You’re good at this.”

  “I grew up with three brothers,” she explained. “They climbed a lot of trees.”

  “You’ll have to thank them for me.”

  In the end it wasn’t perfect, but it did the trick. Eric rolled his sleeve down and bent his arm a few times, testing her handiwork. He nodded appreciatively.

  “Not bad,” he said. “I think I’ll live.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “So are you ready for dinner, milady?” he grinned, extending his good arm.

  “Supper actually,” she said. She reached out and took it. “But yes.”

  7

  It was the strangest dinner Melody had ever been to. And considering her family she’d been to some awfully strange ones.

  The Evermoore’s dining room was a long, elegant hall filled with all things gaudy. Garish paintings hung inside gold-leaf frames, beside brightly-polished sconces of brass and bronze. A large fixture hung centered over the giant mahogany table, filled with dozens of lit candles that made the room glow. It was bright enough to see by, but just seemed… off.

  How the hell did people live this way, she wondered. Before electricity?

  The wallpaper and carpet were busy with patterns and stripes. When you added it all together, the whole place reminded Melody of a funeral parlor. It gave her an uneasy feeling right off the bat.

  She was sitting in an ornately-carved chair, with red velvet cushions and wooden arms that seemed jammed too close to her sides. It would’ve been a tight fit, even without her ball gown. With it, it was downright uncomfortable.

  “The Lady of the House will not be joining us tonight,” a middle-aged man informed them from the head of the table. “Unfortunately she is feeling unwell, but sends her best regards.”

  The man moved gracefully as he sat down at the head of the table, presumably in the place where Lady Neveux would’ve been. There was an aristocratic air about him. When he picked up his cloth napkin and tucked it into his collar, every one of the other dinner guests simultaneously followed suit. It was almost like one big synchronized movement.

  Melody turned to her left and found Eric already doing the same thing. “When in Rome…” he shrugged, tucking in his napkin.

  The man they’d started calling ‘Lurch’ was seated at the opposite end of the table. He still looked gaunt, almost clammy to the touch. Across from them was a woman, and what appeared to be her young daughter. Both wore very simple, very plain colonial dresses. They looked nothing like Melody, in her beautiful silken gown, and this confused her. If either of them were going to the cotillion afterward, they needed to change.

  She was staring down at her scalloped china place setting when the food was brought out. There was a good amount of it, all presented on silvered serving trays. The man at the head of the table raised a glass of something rich and dark, holding it out to them.

  “Please,” he said amiably. “Enjoy.”

  The clatter of silverware against plates began. There were eight other guests at the table, including them. On their side was a slender young man and an older woman. On the other, a man in a thick, uncomfortable-looking suit, and what looked to be some kind of general or high-level member of whatever passed for the military at the time. He wore a full dress uniform, with flowing white hair and thick mustaches.

  “Get a load of Colonel Mustard over there,” Eric chuckled to her under his breath.

  “Colonel… Mustard?”

  “You know, from Clue,” he prodded he. “The board game?” When Melody didn’t answer right away he actually dropped his fork. “You’ve played Clue, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I— I think so.”

  A vague memory resurfaced, of possibly playing the game with her older brothers. Maybe even her father too, before he died. She was pretty sure it was Clue, anyway.

  Or was that Monopoly?

  Either way it didn’t matter. The Colonel, or whatever he was, wore a white frocked vest and dress pants with blue sleeves and red cuffs. Rows of polished gilt buttons shot diagonally across his chest. His shoulders were decorated with golden epaulets. They hung down proudly like tiny braids of spun yellow silk.

  They ate. They drank. They observed. The main course was a delicious slab of roast beef, which was tender, tasty and pink in the center. Melody ate it slowly with her silver fork, sipping wine from a silver and glass goblet. While she did, she scanned the room for anything even remotely resembling the carved ivory egg they’d been sent to find.

  Unfortunately she saw nothing.

  As she was scanning the dining room, she locked eyes with the little girl seated across from her. Melody gave her a big smile, but the girl only looked away shyly.

  “And what’s your name, sweetie?” she asked.

  The girl squirmed in her chair but didn’t answer. The mother — who refused to even look at her — went on eating as if nothing had happened.

  Well I hope you’re not going to the ball, Melody thought to herself, slightly annoyed.

  The man in the business suit had been talking to Eric ever since he mentioned he’d been to New York. From what she gathered he was some kind of banker, and everything Eric said seemed to fascinate him. Eric on the other hand, appeared thoroughly bored. As if he knew every question was a set up, and everything the man was saying was all part of a specific persona, or character.

  It’s just like one of those Murder Mystery dinners, thought Melody. The kind where you sit around and pretend to be someone you’re not.

  She’d been to one such event before, and actually enjoyed playing her part. At first she’d thought it would be stupid, but as the night wore on and she was able to correctly guess the killer’s identity? She had to admit she’d had fun.

  This is just like that, she convinced herself. Only you’re looking for an object instead of a person.

  The woman seated across from her was Anabelle. Her daughter, Emily. Melody found these things out through listening, not talking. Many times conversations swirled around her as if she wasn’t even there.

  She turned her attention to the other end of the table. Lurch sat alone, hardly eating. He wasn’t talking to anyone, and no one was talking to him either. She was about to point this out to Eric when a loud voice interrupted her.

  “And you?” the Colonel said gruffly, pointing with a piece of meat to the young man on their side of the table. He was practically a boy, really. “Why aren’t you in the Militia, son?”

  When the boy lowered his head and refused to answer, the man turned his fork on Eric. “Or even you, young man? No uniform on you. I see no reason why someone your age shouldn’t already be enlisted.”

  The question caught Eric mid-sip. He swallowed his wine casually before lowering his goblet. “Believe it or not,” he said evenly, “not everyone is cut out for soldiering.”

  “Bah!” the Colonel spat. “Every man has an obligation to protect his country!” He thumped his chest. “Only fools and cowards shun war when duty calls.”

  His role-playing — if it could be called that — was extremely thorough. The man’s accent, his mannerisms — everything seemed to fit. And not only was the Colonel’s act convincing, but he also gave off the distinct impression that he himself was convinced of his character.

  Eric spent quite some time debating the Colonel, or general, or whatever he was. Whatever the man had to say, whatever point he’d been about to make, Eric always seemed to have the perfect counter for it. He cut him off mid-sentence. Finished other sentences with exactly what the man was about to say. It flustered him, turning him bright red
, until the Colonel threw down his fancy silk napkin and gave up. Eric left him mercifully alone after that. But for the rest of the meal, Melody noticed the man seemed almost… broken.

  The food was left out for a long time, and Melody couldn’t help picking at it. There were potatoes, turnips, carrots. A platter of various cheeses. More wine was brought out, and she soon found herself on her third glass, or goblet, or whatever the hell it was called. Her head was swimming, and she was getting tipsy. Silently she chastised herself and switched to water.

  You’ve got one shot at this! the little voice in her head screamed. You need to remain on you toes at all times.

  She gulped down half a goblet of lukewarm water as punishment. It left an unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth, and smelled like sulfur.

  Besides, Xiomara would kick your ass.

  Melody chuckled. That was for damned sure. Maybe she should ask to be excused. If she left the room alone, maybe she could go looking for—

  Abruptly a man and a woman entered the dining hall, both dressed in the same drab uniform. They cleared the plates, took away the courses, and finished pouring the last of the wine decanters. When they left, the middle-aged man stood up and clapped his hands together.

  “Good night to all of you,” he said in a sing-songy voice. “And sleep well.”

  Turning deftly on his heel, the man left.

  What the hell?

  She whirled on Eric in confusion. “Did he just say ‘sleep well’?”

  Her companion shrugged. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

  Melody shook her head as if to clear it. She was suddenly very sober. A bit groggy but otherwise okay.

  “What about the ball?” she asked. “The cotillion?” When Eric shrugged again she turned to ask the Colonel the same question. “Isn’t there a ball tonight? Aren’t we—”

  “The ball!” the Colonel laughed. “Ah, yes. The ball!”

  He got up and pretended to dance, smiling and laughing and holding his arms out as he waltzed himself around the room in spinning circles. When he reached the exit he danced himself through the archway and disappeared.