The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “Does it have to be down here?” she asked.

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  He followed her back up the stairs.

  “This butts up against the house, right?” Sam slapped the end wall.

  “Yeah. There’s a small gap but that’s all.”

  “Is the kitchen through there?”

  “One of the pantries, I think.”

  “Even better,” she said. “If we mount the access point here, we can broadcast to a repeater inside and build off that. Can I see the pantry?”

  “Sure.” Roger secured the doors and led her back inside, paying attention to the geometry of their turns back through the laundry and mudroom. He took her to the back corner and opened the door to a closet. “Without a measuring tape or a floor plan, I think that back wall is where the garage sits.” The room had been rough storage for odds and ends, apparently. A few open shelves lined the far wall and a bucket held a bouquet of clean mops and brooms. Other than that, the room was pristine.

  “Electrical outlet?” she asked.

  “In a closet?” he asked, but leaned over to peer around the baseboards.

  “Bingo,” Sam said, pointing to the bucket of cleaning gear.

  Roger slid the bucket to one side and revealed the socket.

  “So. Repeater on that shelf broadcasting to the house. We can use little modular relays that plug into outlets to tailor the coverage. You won’t have gigabit service, but you’re the only one using the bandwidth. Should be fine.”

  “Can you give me a work plan with estimates of the costs and who we need to do the work? I take it the cable company will need to install the line from somewhere in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah. Air gap under the garage door should be fine to get the line into the house. As long as the pixies don’t mind the equipment being screwed to the wall out there ...?” She paused and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  “I’m pretty sure that would be alright. I’ll have to get the work approved by Mr. Shackleford.”

  “I can email you the work order this evening.”

  “I have no way to print it,” he said.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “Of course not.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “You can just mail it to Shackleford House. I open the mail.”

  She laughed. “I’ll swing by tomorrow and drop it off. That will give me time to check with my guy at the cable company to see when they can schedule it.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” He nodded toward his quarters. “Got time to finish that coffee?”

  She nodded. “Probably gone cold by now but I’d take a warmup.”

  Roger grinned. “I know the butler.”

  She chuckled. “So do I, now.” She paused. “I do have one question.”

  “Only one?” Roger asked, leading the way down the corridor.

  “Well, no. More than one, but pixies?”

  Roger shrugged. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Mr. Shackleford insists that pixies take care of the routine maintenance of the house. He claimed they were upset with my interfering with their work.”

  “What were you doing?” she asked, settling into the leather chair like she wanted to move in.

  “Routine cleaning. Dusting. That kind of thing.”

  “You’re responsible for this whole building?” she asked, her eyes growing wider.

  “Yes. Technically, but as I said before the east and west wings are closed off. There’s no need for anything but the main house with just two of us.”

  “You had me going there for a minute,” Sam said, sipping her coffee. “Whatever did they use that much space for?”

  Roger frowned. “I don’t know. It’s been the family seat for centuries. As far as I know, Mr. Shackleford has no children so I guess the line ends here.”

  “As far as you know,” Sam said.

  “He’s never mentioned any. Never mentioned any wife. No pictures.” His brain halted on that and he froze mid sip.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “There are no pictures. Of anybody. Just the paintings.”

  “Think he’s a vampire?” she asked with a grin.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s up during the day. Sits in the sun.”

  Sam stared at him. “I was kidding.”

  Roger laughed. “Of course. I knew that.” He was pretty sure, anyway. He shook his head. “But there are no photographs anywhere in the house.”

  “Have you seen the whole house?” Sam asked. “I thought the east and west wings were closed off.”

  He nodded. “They are and you’re right, I haven’t.”

  “It’s just the two of you here in this magnificent house?” she asked. “Well, and the pixies, obviously.” She laughed.

  “The fairies care for the yards,” he said.

  “Fairies?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what he claims. They tend the gardens. The pixies tend the house.”

  “Is this guy around the bend?”

  Roger bit his lip and looked into his coffee cup.

  Sam paled and set her cup into the saucer. “My God. He is.”

  Roger shrugged. “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shackleford’s health.”

  She narrowed her eyes and lowered her head. “You’re going to run this work order past the old man?”

  “Well, of course. It’s his house.”

  “The old man who thinks there’s pixies in the woodwork and fairies in the gardens.”

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “That’s why I was hired.”

  “What if he rejects it for being anathema to the chi in the house?”

  “Then we don’t do it. I find some other way.”

  “Just like that?” Sam stared at him with her mouth half open.

  “It’s not like this is forever. My contract is up next summer.”

  She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “You’re going to all this trouble for a job you’re only going to have for a few months?”

  He shrugged. “So it would seem.”

  She looked around the room. “You’re going to give up this place?”

  He shrugged again. “Won’t have much choice, but yeah.” As he looked around, he realized how much he’d come to enjoy living in the house.

  Chapter 6

  Roger delivered breakfast at the appointed hour. Shackleford stood at the window, staring out at the dismal, rainy morning, hands clasped behind his back. “Breakfast, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. Did you run this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to face Roger. “Admirable. What do you do in the winter?”

  Roger placed the tray in its usual spot. “I run when I can. The temperature’s less an issue than the footing, sir.”

  He nodded. “Did I mention that the pixies appreciated your libation?”

  “No, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”

  Shackleford sighed. “It’s so hard keeping track of everything, Mulligan. I forget what I’ve said. Forget that I’ve said it before or think that I’ve said it and I haven’t.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, sir?”

  “Thank you, Mulligan, but no. This is something I brought on myself and I need to find my own way back.” He took his seat in front of the tray. “Looks marvelous, Mulligan.”

  “Thank you, sir. Blueberry pancakes. Some bacon. Simple recipe.”

  Shackleford looked up at him. “How are you doing on the internet project?”

  “A friend in the business surveyed the house yesterday, sir. She’ll get me a project plan and estimate for your approval.”

  The old man blinked. “My approval?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought you might like to know what’s being done to Shackleford House. I can’t judge what might upset the status quo, sir.”

  “Like the pixies?” Shackleford asked, a smile tickling his lips.

  “Or the fairies, sir.”

  “I told
you about them, did I?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know what other sprites might be affronted so I thought it best that I get the proposed work order for your approval before anything unfortunate happens.”

  Shackleford chuckled and took a sip of coffee. “Did you mention the pixies to your friend the consultant?”

  Roger paused for a moment, debating the wisdom of admitting the truth. “I may have overstepped my bounds, sir. I did. And the fairies.”

  “Did she believe you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But accepted the work anyway?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded. “I’d like to meet her.”

  “Shall I bring her up when she returns with the work order, sir?”

  “If it’s not inconvenient,” he said.

  “Of course, sir. Would there be anything else, sir?”

  “Have you done an inspection of the wings, Mulligan?”

  “No, sir. Ms. Patching said they were closed off and I shouldn’t bother with them.”

  “Do me a favor and just take a quick look around. Make sure none of the windows are broken? No leaks in the roof?” He nodded at the window. “Rainy day. Best time to check.”

  “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Thank you, no, Mulligan. Carry on.”

  Roger bowed and headed off on his morning routine. In just a few short weeks, the pattern had become as automatic as breathing. Each morning’s tasks varied slightly but none of them were overly taxing. He did find it strange that the old man would pick today to mention the wings. Perhaps the rain triggered something. The first heavy rain since he’d come to Shackleford House—that idea made sense. He finished the master suite and tossed the linens into the washer.

  “No time like the present,” he said.

  Armed with a fistful of keys from the safe, he set off into the eastern wing. A pair of doors on the ground floor opened into a ballroom. Roger’s laughter echoed around the room. The place looked like it could host a basketball tournament. Two immense crystal chandeliers hung from a white pressed-tin ceiling. Windows along the south wall let the gray morning light in through gauzy curtains bracketed by heavier drapes. The parquet flooring from the foyer continued through the room; his footsteps echoed in the space. Dark wainscoting ran around the perimeter. Flowered print wallpaper graced the gap between chair-rail and ceiling, giving the room a rosy glow even in the rainy light.

  A pair of wide doors opened to the north and another to the east. The north doors opened onto a windowed gallery that looked out onto the gardens behind the house. Draped furniture huddled in conversational groups along the inside wall, canvas ghosts engaged in their own tête-à-têtes. French doors at either end opened onto a flagstone patio. He could almost smell the perfume and cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

  The east doors opened into a storage space filled with folded tables and chairs that would have looked at home in any hotel conference center in the city. A closet held table linens and place settings for what looked like four hundred people. He didn’t count them but gulped at the thought of being responsible for any event that hosted that many.

  Another pair of doors on the east wall opened opposite the first pair. They hid a service area of stainless steel tables and racks. Warming ovens and refrigerators lined one wall. Glassware from crystal goblets to water glasses, and china from coffee cups and saucers to plates in various sizes stood on open shelves. A huge machine stood nearby, all copper and chrome with sliding doors, one on each side. It took him a moment to recognize the elder cousin of the dishwashers he’d seen in army mess halls. Wooden racks stood on their sides under each end of the beast.

  “What in the world ...?” Roger stared, overwhelmed by the sheer expense of having a complete conference facility in your house. “What kind of conference would need this?”

  Another pair of double doors opened on the north wall to reveal a small loading dock and parking lot tucked away behind a tall hedge. It didn’t look big enough for a semi, but any of the large delivery vans would have little trouble. “Catering. Duh.” Still, the scope of the installation boggled him.

  He retraced his steps back through the house, closing and locking the doors as he went. He went up the main staircase and around the corner to the double doors on the east side. He didn’t quite know what to expect—but after the ground floor, he braced himself against what he might find. He swung the door open to a corridor and felt foolish. He found the light panel inside the door and flipped all the switches. A string of wall sconces down each side illuminated a corridor punctuated by facing doors. The house theme of paper above wainscoting carried over up here with a lightly stained wood below and a textured paper in sand above.

  He strolled down the hall, looking up at more pressed-tin tiles on the ceilings. The white paint appeared unblemished by water—or even time. The doors had numbers on them—odd on the right, even on the left—of some silvery metal, maybe pewter. The first door opened to his touch into what turned out to be a three-room suite: a common area with bookcases, a pair of desks, and a conversational grouping for four under draped canvas, with bedrooms on either side. Each bedroom held a wardrobe, a dresser, and a lamp on a night table beside a single bed, its mattress draped in canvas like everything else.

  The door across the hall opened into what looked like a classroom, complete with almost a dozen old-style wooden desks with holes in the upper right corner for something. Inkwells? One wall held a single sheet of slate. It took him a minute to recognize it as a blackboard, complete with chalk tray along the bottom edge.

  He kept an eye on the ceilings and sniffed for mold or mildew as he worked down the hall, but the place seemed tight. At the end he turned and looked back. Six suites on the street side, but only four classrooms across the hall, along with a couple of bathrooms, one on each side near the middle of the wing. The other two doors were for supply closets with empty shelves. He had no clue if they’d originally held linens or school supplies. From what he’d found, either seemed equally likely.

  He shook his head and crossed the landing to the west wing. The ubiquitous double doors opened onto a parlor with enough room for a dozen easy chairs, a few low tables, and what appeared to be a card table in one corner. The light switch turned on a few standing lamps around the room. The wallpaper in this room—twining ivy leaves—gave the walls a pleasant greenish blush, while the pressed-tin ceiling tiles had a faint blue tinge. It made the room feel almost like it was outside.

  A narrow corridor led toward the street side of the house. He found six large one-bedroom suites similar to the ones in the east wing with windows facing the street to the south but with double beds and a little more elbow room. The corridor wrapped around the end of the wing revealing a view of the trees outside and not much of the apartment building just on the other side of it. A metal fire escape hung on the side of the house just outside the window. He found a linen closet with towels and bedding. He didn’t count but the piles filled the closet.

  The corridor ended in a locked door that yielded its secrets with the application of a key. The hallway beyond mirrored the one before, with a linen closet and a fire escape outside the window. He continued around the upper floor corridors, finding rooms that looked less like office spaces and more like bedrooms. All told, he counted enough bedrooms for a family of ten and two more bathrooms off this corridor. His spatial sense told him there was a void of some kind in the middle—a space as wide as the parlor, running the length of the wing minus the linen closets.

  Returning to the parlor, he found no door leading in that direction either. “Curious,” he said.

  He shrugged and secured the doors before going to the lower floor. Opening the double doors there revealed a fairy land of trees and gardens. He paused, stepping back into the main house again, just to make sure he knew where he was. He shook his head and re-entered the garden, following a stone path between benches and low plantings to where t
he rain beat down on the glass roof two stories above. “An atrium,” he said. “My God.” He looked around at the trees planted, some with trunks thicker than his chest but only reaching up to the glass roof at their tallest, but all still looking like healthy trees. He spotted at least four or five different kinds. Here a small birch grove, there a pine. A blue spruce contributed its spicy scent to the blend of loam and leaf, flower and tree. An odd tree with huge leaves stood tucked half under the overhang from the rooms above. It took him a moment to recognize it as a magnolia.

  Eventually he completed his circuit of the ground floor and made his way back to the main house. He locked the door and checked the time. His tour had taken most of the morning. It wasn’t at all what he expected, although he hadn’t really known what to expect. He headed to the mud room to swap the laundry and fold the clean clothing before lunch.

  Something light. A soup and sandwich, perhaps.

  He wanted to ask Shackleford about the house’s history but perhaps the Bible would be a better first stop.

  * * *

  Roger served a lobster bisque—canned but tasty—with a salad of summer greens. The warm soup felt right. He was proud of himself for whisking up the balsamic vinaigrette with only one side trip to a recipe on his phone. “Lunch, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.” He looked up from his book. “What did you find?”

  “No damage, sir. Everything seems dry and secure.”

  A smile grew slowly on the old man’s face. “Good news, but what did you find, Mulligan?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The ballroom in the east wing was a surprise. The sheer size of it.”

  “What else?”

  “Classrooms? Dormitory? Family quarters? Perhaps, faculty quarters?”

  His eyebrows rose a bit. “What did you think of the atrium?”

  “Astonishing, sir.”

  “No plants that needed insects or wind for pollination. The trees. All special dwarfed cultivars.”

  “Why is it closed off, sir?”

  He shrugged. “Easier than answering questions about how an old man in a wheelchair and his butler can manage it.”

  Roger blinked, letting that statement echo in his head for a few long moments.