When they first arrived at the Idle Slug, Whimsy waited eagerly for the postman’s letters. She would stand patiently by the front gates for Woe to emerge from the mist, a bundle of letters in hand. Every day she would search the bundle thoroughly before giving it to Apoline, hoping to find a letter addressed to them. Perhaps one from their parents that explained everything, that said they were on their way to them, that said they loved them. Perhaps one from the Royal Police Department that said everything was going to be all right, that they had found their parents and they no longer needed to live with their aunt. But no such letters ever came. And eventually Whimsy stopped waiting by the front gates.
‘It’s all right, Miss Ballentine. I’ll see to it,’ she said determinedly. If she hurried, she might be able to make it back before Mr Solt arrived. Standing, Whimsy helped Miss Ballentine up and into a chair and then raced out of Room Three. She bounded down the main stairs, taking two at a time. Flying through the foyer, she turned a corner to grab her cloak and came face to face with the person she least wanted to see: her aunt.
7
In which Whimsy runs into trouble
‘Is there a fire?’ Apoline inquired. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it pulled the pale skin around her eyes into sharp lines. She wore a high-necked gown of black lace.
‘No, Aunt.’
‘Then why are you running recklessly about?’
Aunt Apoline knew nothing of Miss Ballentine’s disabling fears or Mr Abernathy’s tragic past. The fact that she and the Idle Slug depended on the rent from guests provided little incentive for Apoline to curtail her meanness. In their first year living at the Idle Slug, the siblings quickly realised that though they bore the brunt of her cruelty, occasionally it would seep out to harm guests. It had harmed none so much as poor Constance Everlee.
Constance had come to the Idle Slug with a yellow suitcase and a matching yellow cardigan after her sister had accidentally demolished her house. She didn’t mind, however, because Constance was a nomad, moving from place to place whenever the mood struck her. Whimsy and Woe grew to love Constance. She was kind and generous, and would often delight Whimsy and Woe with stories from her many travels. Whimsy couldn’t wait for her next tale of adventure and even Woe couldn’t resist her exciting stories about wild animals, stolen vehicles and buried treasure. One evening during dinner, Constance entertained everyone by recounting the time she had jumped from a seventeen-storey building that was on fire. Unfortunately for everyone, Apoline was at that moment walking past the dining room.
‘Lies,’ their aunt had snapped. ‘Seventeen storeys is far too high for a building. Everybody knows that. You are a liar.’
‘That’s not true,’ Constance had said. ‘When I was in the Benton Brothers Circus, I saw a building —’
‘Enough!’ Apoline screeched. ‘No wonder your sister demolished your house! It was to get rid of you and your constant lying! Seventeen-storey buildings?! The Amazonian rainforest?! Cannibals?! The Benton Brothers Circus?! Those things don’t exist!’
Constance had sat there in silence for the rest of the evening, and the next morning, she was gone, leaving behind only a worn cookbook, which now adorned the siblings’ room. Occasionally, Whimsy would open the book and some recipes would remind her of Constance’s adventures like the Purple Pudding she used as a disguise to enter a Purple People Colony. Or the Soothing Sorbet she whipped up when a scorpion stung her. Four times. Since Constance, the siblings made a point of hiding the details of their guests from their ruthless aunt.
‘I am just going to open the gates for Mr Solt’s arrival,’ Whimsy said.
Her aunt looked her up and down. Then she turned and walked up the main stairs. ‘I want the chimneys cleaned,’ she said over her shoulder.
Grabbing her cloak, Whimsy opened the front door to a gust of cool wind and descended the porch steps. She pulled open the slug-shaped front gates and then entered the blanket of mist, running in the direction of Ewe Bridge. Whimsy sprinted through the mist, keeping her eyes down and making sure to follow the worn path. If she strayed, she would soon find herself wading through Murky Lake, and how she would explain that to her aunt, Whimsy shuddered to think. Finally, she broke through the grey blanket and arrived at Ewe Bridge. The postman was nowhere in sight. Had she run past him in the mist?
Walking to the middle of the bridge, she caught her breath and waited. Beyond, she could see the outskirts of Murkwood Town. She watched people as they dashed about here and there, running errands and meeting friends. Whimsy knew little about the town because neither her nor Woe had ever visited it and few townspeople dared venture to the Idle Slug. From what she could tell, Apoline made sure nobody would ever, ever accidentally or even purposefully stumble upon the Idle Slug.
Whimsy on Ewe Bridge
Nearby, Whimsy noticed children her age walking two-by-two behind an adult. They all wore the same uniform. It was a class of schoolchildren. Whimsy’s heart leaped and she moved closer. As the wind died down she heard a pleasant noise in the air. The students were singing.
When Whimsy and her brother were taken from their home and brought to the Idle Slug, they were also taken out of school and taken away from their friends. Whimsy longed to go back. She wanted to learn. She wanted to have friends again. She pictured herself amongst them, in a nice uniform and not a dirty apron. She could play and learn, not clean and cook. Whimsy was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t see the postman riding over the bridge towards her, ringing his bell cheerily.
‘Are you all right, Miss Whimsy?’ the postman asked as he approached.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Twill,’ she said, straightening and tearing her eyes away from Murkwood Town. ‘Did you happen to see a horse and carriage on its way?’
‘No, Miss Whimsy.’ The postman handed her a bundle of letters. She took it gingerly and paused, looking down at the neatly tied bundle. Could there be a letter for them today? Her fingers lingered over the top letter.
‘Miss Whimsy?’
She shook the thought from her head and remembered Mr Solt. She didn’t have much time. ‘Thank you,’ she called to the postman over her shoulder as she dashed back into the mist. She couldn’t remember a time when she had run like this. Keep going, she heard Constance’s voice in her head. We must keep going. Whimsy remembered asking Constance why she moved from place to place. And that had been her response. We must keep going.
She kept Constance’s words close at hand as she ran faster. Then Whimsy heard the loud rumble of hooves behind her. She stopped and turned, trying to see through the mist. The sound of the hooves grew closer and closer until suddenly, two large horses appeared, galloping straight for her.
8
In which an expected guest arrives
Whimsy dived out of the way of the horses just as they hurtled along the path where she’d been standing. From her position on the ground, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a man with a goatee beard staring back at her from the carriage window as it passed by. Then he, the horses and the carriage vanished again through the thick mist.
‘Mr Solt, I presume,’ Whimsy groaned to herself.
With a few scrapes and cuts on her knees and hands, Whimsy picked herself up, dusted off her clothes and bent to collect the scattered letters. Amongst them there was a brochure advertising a new furniture store in Murkwood Town, a flyer for the Favian Festival, three letters with government seals, another with a tax collector seal, and one that looked distinctly different. It was square instead of rectangular like the rest and had a roughly placed hummingbird stamp in its corner. Whimsy’s heart leaped once again. Could this letter be what they’d been waiting for? Then her heart sank as she read the words scrawled across the front in elaborate blue ink: Apoline Mordaunt. Curious to see who had sent the letter, Whimsy turned it over. But it was blank. There were no sender details at all. Peculiar, Whimsy thought. Then with a sigh, she added the letter to the bundle and set off once more at a run.
When the carriage came into view again, it was stopped outside the Idle Slug. Whimsy was relieved to see Mrs Solt and not her aunt standing by the open gates waiting for her.
‘Where’s Vulture?’ Mrs Solt whispered out of the side of her mouth as Whimsy stopped next to her, trying to catch her breath.
Mr Solt had yet to exit the carriage. Through the carriage window, Whimsy could see that he was having some trouble with his gloves.
‘I’m sure Woe . . . won’t be long . . . Mrs Solt,’ said Whimsy in between large breaths.
‘If he isn’t here soon —’
A sharp yowl came from behind them.
‘There you are!’ Mrs Solt said, her mood suddenly cheerful at the sight of her vicious cat. Turning, Whimsy was relieved to see her brother. As Woe approached them, Whimsy was also relieved to see that the extent of the injury caused to him consisted only of small scratches to his arm.
Woe gave Mrs Solt her cat and stood by his sister. ‘Third time’s a charm,’ he said to her proudly.
Whimsy showed him the scrapes and cuts on her hands to match his own. Woe looked worriedly at them.
‘I’m okay,’ she assured him, and herself, part of her mind still on the singing schoolchildren and the odd-shaped letter in her hand.
Before them, the coachman swung the carriage door open with a flourish and out stepped Ignatius Solt. He was tall, thin and dressed in an expensive green suit with matching gloves and hat. His red goatee was sharply pointed at his chin. He managed his long legs with the grace of a giraffe as he walked over to their small group huddled by the gates. Whimsy and Woe expected Mr Solt to stop and introduce himself but, oddly, he did no such thing. He kept walking and walking and walking until he walked right on past them and up the path to the front door.
‘Ignatius, y-your ha —’ stammered Mrs Solt.
‘Come Inclementia!’ Mr Solt called over his shoulder.
Whimsy and Woe watched Mrs Solt as she followed hurriedly up the path behind her husband, talking eagerly to his slender green back.
‘You simply must meet Apoline,’ she said. ‘She has been a sheer delight. And running the place all by herself! I don’t know how she does it.’
The coachman placed two suitcases by Whimsy’s and Woe’s feet and then left without so much as a grunt. They glanced down at the cases, and then at each other. The golden buckles and hinges on Mr Solt’s suitcases were so shiny that they could see their faces reflected in them.
‘I don’t think a maths teacher could afford cases like these,’ said Woe.
Whimsy agreed. What looked like an ornate letter ‘S’ in a shield was also embossed in the centre of each polished leather case. The two siblings gingerly picked up the expensive suitcases and followed the Solts into the Idle Slug.
‘He seems familiar. Have we met him before?’ Woe asked.
‘I think so,’ said Whimsy, with the distinct feeling that Mr Solt was an unfortunate rather than fortunate acquaintance.
9
In which a clean chimney causes a commotion
The smallest of circumstances has the power to change lives. A yellow raincoat, for example, carelessly thrown upon a park bench and then forgotten, can have a profound effect on the lives of two despairing siblings. However, the placement — careless or otherwise — of a yellow raincoat was the furthest thing from Whimsy’s mind as she placed the serving tray of tea and blackberry scones in front of Mr and Mrs Solt in the parlour. Woe entered the cluttered room close behind her.
‘I’ve put your suitcases in Room Seven, sir. If you take the stairs and make a left —’
‘No, no, no. That won’t do,’ Mr Solt said with a pronounced shudder.
‘Room Seven is Mrs Solt’s room, sir,’ Woe said, hoping this clarified things.
‘I have an aversion to the number seven,’ Mr Solt said, narrowing his eyes at the siblings as though the number seven was an obvious thing to have an aversion to. Whimsy handed him a cup of tea. He snatched it from her and proceeded to wipe the rim and handle with a black handkerchief.
Mrs Solt explained. ‘Ignatius is a firm believer in numerology. He absolutely must have another room.’ Numerology, as the siblings understood it, was the study of numbers and their significance to people and events. What the number seven signified for Mr Solt, however, the siblings were too frightened to ask.
‘Which room would you prefer?’ Whimsy asked politely.
‘Three,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately, sir, Room Three is occupied.’
‘Well, make that frail creature move!’ Mrs Solt demanded. ‘I have a husband! And he wants Room Three!’
‘Take Mr Solt’s things to Room One,’ came their aunt’s voice as she entered the parlour. She walked over to them, her heeled boots clunking as she crossed the wooden floor. Woe threw Whimsy a look. In their time at the Idle Slug, no guest had occupied Room One since Constance. Apoline knew that Whimsy and Woe had been keeping it spotless in the hopes that Constance might one day return. And Room One was the closest, Whimsy noted with faint unease, to the attic.
‘You will need to serve breakfast and the chimneys are not going to clean themselves,’ Apoline said pointedly. This was their cue to leave. Mr Solt’s presence was becoming more and more foreboding by the minute.
‘If only we could hear what they were saying,’ Woe said as he tried in vain to brush the soot from his clothes. They were on the roof and had cleaned two of the three chimneys, hoping to hear at least a snippet of the conversation between their aunt and the Solts.
‘Apoline has made certain that we can’t,’ Whimsy said, tying one end of the rope to the chimney stack opposite them.
Chimney brush in hand, Woe positioned himself atop the last chimney. It belonged to their aunt’s room, out of bounds to everyone, even when cleaning. The siblings hesitated at first, but with Apoline safely distracted by the Solts, there was little chance that she would notice their presence in her chimney.
‘He might be a new guest,’ Woe suggested grimly.
‘Well, we’ll have to hide all the number sevens then,’ Whimsy replied, gripping the rope with gloved hands. Woe laughed, a sound Whimsy relished hearing. Over the years, the two had learnt to savour such small moments of joy.
Woe placed his foot in a makeshift rope foothold as Whimsy steadily lowered him down. It wasn’t long before his descent was obstructed.
‘Hold on!’ Woe’s voice bounced and echoed up the chimney bricks as he investigated the blockage. There, trapped against the side of the chimney and obstructing most of the flue, was a yellow raincoat. Woe removed it from where it was caught, tied it around his waist and called up to Whimsy to continue lowering him down. He swept his brush along the sides of the chimney to free it from ash and soot as he descended, removing a bird’s nest and what appeared to be large clumps of Vulture’s fur. When he reached the bottom, Woe swept the ash and fur into a pile for disposal. But as he did so, something caught his eye. A white, half-scorched piece of paper stuck out from the grey soot. Blowing the soot off, Woe recognised the blue emblem beneath. The Royal Police Department. Why was Apoline trying to burn a letter from the Royal Police Department? He sifted through the ash pile, and finding another piece, blew it clear to read: Dear Apoline Mordaunt, we regret to inform you —
‘Keep going!’
The yellow raincoat must have blown into the chimney, blocking the airflow to the fire so that it only burnt parts of the letter. The more he sifted through the ash, the more scraps of the letter he found. Woe untied the raincoat from his waist and, scooping the burnt scraps onto it, tied the arms together at the top to form a makeshift bag. He tried to marshal his thoughts. The Royal Police Department was still in contact with their aunt. Apoline had tried to destroy a letter from them. Had their parents been found? He looked out through the fireplace grate into Apoline’s room and wondered what else she was hiding.
Before he knew what he was doing, Woe pushed out the grate and stepped into his aunt’s forbid
den room.
10
In which Mr Ignatius Solt makes an awful proposal
His breath caught at the sight of the room. A familiar ornate chandelier hung from the plastered ceiling and a recognisable four-poster bed was pushed against one wall. A distinct cream lounge chair sat in a corner and an elaborate one-of-a-kind vanity dresser stood opposite him. All of it — the chandelier, the chair, the vanity — belonged to his parents.
Stepping into his aunt’s room was like stepping back in time into his parents’ house — their family home. He ran his hand over the wood of the bed as he walked by it. He remembered sitting on it, legs dangling over the edge of the counterpane as he listened to his parents rehearse their lines. The chandelier was from their dining room, a gift from the director of their first musical. He walked over to his mother’s vanity. Littered with the mess of Apoline’s possessions, Woe only recognised one item. A small glass perfume bottle, half empty. Their mother’s favourite. Then Woe heard Whimsy’s muffled voice calling down the chimney. Grabbing the perfume bottle, he crawled back through the fireplace and replaced the grate behind him. He tugged on the rope before holding the yellow raincoat bag in one hand and the perfume bottle and chimney brush in the other, his shoe snugly in the foothold. As Whimsy pulled him up through the flue, anger and sadness wrestled inside him.
Back in the attic, Woe could only briefly tell Whimsy of what he had discovered before the two were summoned to join their aunt and the Solts on a tour of the Idle Slug’s grounds.
Whimsy and Woe Page 3
