Her Perilous Mansion

by Sean Williams

‘No.’

  ‘Anyone?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘How extremely helpful you are.’

  Almanac bristled at this. ‘Hey, I’m as out of my depth as you are.’

  ‘And what are you doing about it?’

  ‘I was exploring the kitchen, until you screamed for help.’

  ‘I didn’t scream. I just … shouted with alarm. And I was managing fine without you, thanks very much.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know that?’

  Etta bit her lip before she could say anything more. Perhaps this was a test of her willingness to work with others, one she would be well served not to fail. Not until she had an alternate vocation lined up, anyway.

  ‘Sorry,’ Etta said. ‘Ma always warns me about not saying the first thing that pops into my head. I suppose I should thank you for coming so quickly. It was … brave of you and if I’d needed your help … I would’ve been glad of it.’

  He seemed satisfied by this apology, difficult though it was for her to utter. Years of feeling unappreciated and ignored by her family had left her profoundly disinclined to admit fault to anyone.

  ‘Why don’t we explore the house together?’ he asked, tugging down the sleeves of his ridiculous jacket. ‘It might be quicker that way – and the more we know our way around before everyone comes back, the better it’ll be for both of us.’

  She pounced on this suggestion. ‘Yes, let’s do that. A house this grand must be full of secrets!’

  Taking his hand tightly in hers, she dragged him down the hallway in the hope of finding a magical library, at least.

  Magic, as everyone knew, was the cousin of the written word. Books contained knowledge, and knowledge was power, and secret knowledge was more powerful still, especially when written by a sorcerer. The more frequently a spell was read, the weaker it became, so mighty sorcerers like Sofia Phronesis hid their spells where they would never be discovered.

  Sorcerers sometimes stored their spells in magical libraries, either openly or hidden amongst ordinary words for safekeeping. If this house had one, Etta hoped to find it and the source of the magic that had startled her. If it meant her ill, she could read it and dispel it.

  The first rooms they entered were for entertaining guests. There was a grand hall that looked like it had seen its fair share of dancing and a dining room with seating for more than two dozen people. Plush, tasselled bell-pulls dangled discreetly from the ceiling to summon servants, attached by a complicated system of wires and pulleys to a rack of labelled bells Almanac had seen on the floor below. A smoking room, billiards room and trophy room rounded off the East Wing of the manor.

  Emboldened by the apparent emptiness of the house, the two new employees set off past a sweeping marble staircase to explore the North Wing, where they found a ladies’ parlour, two saloons, a sunroom, a room that appeared to double as a gaming room and music room, and a solidly locked door.

  Almanac and Etta exchanged glances, he indicating with a tilt of his head that they should move on and she rolling her eyes in disdain.

  She raised her hand and knocked sharply.

  ‘Go away!’ barked a peevish man from the other side of the door. He sounded old but not infirm and had a faint lisp. ‘Can’t you tell I’m busy?’

  Almanac tugged Etta’s skinny arm. She held her ground with surprising force.

  ‘We’re awfully sorry to disturb you,’ she said through the door, adopting a different accent to the one she normally had, ‘but I say, who are you?’

  ‘Lord Nigel, of course! Who the devil are you?’

  ‘That’s a jolly good question!’

  With a stifled giggle, she allowed herself to be led off.

  ‘Don’t do that again!’ Almanac said, shooting her a look that had less of a crushing effect than he would have liked.

  ‘No need to pout. He’ll never know it was me. I used a fake voice.’

  ‘And if someone else overheard you … and caught us?’

  ‘You told me this place was empty.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t know where anyone was.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing!’

  ‘Shush, will you?’

  More stealthily than before, they ascended to the next level, which was luxuriously appointed with carpets throughout and smelled of lavender and paint rather than leather and polished wood. Dappled sunlight issued from elegantly framed windows. The walls were hung with portraits of pets and farm animals, each endowed with a name from generations past.

  ‘How many people live here?’ whispered Almanac in amazement. The manor was larger than the orphanage and a lot more spacious. Most of the rooms contained just one bed, and it seemed some were exclusively for dressing, or bathing, or just sitting in.

  ‘Who do you think has to do all the dusting?’ Etta shot him a quick, agonised look, deflating as though punctured by her own hairpin. ‘Oh no, it’s me, the chambermaid!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t be the only one.’

  ‘At least I’ll be well placed to snoop about,’ she said, trying to look on the bright side. ‘There has to be a library somewhere. Maybe behind a hidden door … ’

  She began poking at knots in wood panelling and trying to twist the noses of ornamental statues. Before she could damage anything, Almanac drew her up the next flight of stairs to a series of much smaller rooms, obviously for the servants, judging by the personal effects they found there. Each came with little more than a single narrow cot and an even narrower dresser, but Almanac was pleased. He had hardly slept alone in a bed his entire life. Much as he would miss Josh’s warmth, his best friend did have a ferocious snore. Later, he decided, he would recover his property from the closet and claim a room for himself.

  Etta sniffed. ‘It’ll do, I suppose.’ She had become rather used to having a large room all to herself now most of her sisters had left home. ‘Do you think we’ve seen everything up here yet? It’s much less interesting than downstairs.’

  ‘Probably,’ he said, although privately he doubted it. Corridors snaked off into the distance, illuminated by infrequent, dusty skylights. There could be attics and storerooms full of cobwebby mementoes, perhaps even a bricked-up chamber where some disappointing relative might once have been confined …

  ‘Good, because there was at least one passageway below that we didn’t explore and … What’s that?’

  They both heard it at the same time – the ringing of a bell, blurred by distance.

  ‘It must be the telephone downstairs,’ said Almanac, remembering the gleaming device on its jade-topped table in the lobby. ‘We’d better answer it!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Lord Nigel is busy!’ he called over his shoulder, already descending the servants’ stairwell at speed.

  Etta could see the sense in that but followed at a slower and steadier pace. If Almanac tripped over the cuffs of his pants, that was his problem.

  On the ground floor, he snatched up the earpiece of the phone, realising only then that he didn’t know how to pronounce the name of his new home.

  ‘Hello! Spoil … Spoil-new Manors … I think.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ said a woman’s voice, warm and stately at the same time. ‘You must be Master Almanac, and out of breath, too! Forgive me for interrupting your chores. I am Doctor Mithily. Is Miss Jacobs with you?’

  A skipping of footsteps announced the chambermaid’s arrival behind him. ‘Yes. Who—?’

  ‘I will speak to her in a moment,’ Doctor Mithily interrupted. ‘You must listen to me now. Continue exploring the manor. When you have seen the cellars, you will know what needs to be done. Then you will come to the East Attic. Understood?’

  ‘I understand what you’re telling me, but Mr Packer—’

  ‘Packer is far too busy to be distracted by household minutiae. Give Miss Jacobs the telephone.’

  ‘I … all right.’

  ‘This is Etta,’ she sa
id into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Lady Simone has your uniform. She is in the Yellow Room.’

  ‘I wondered about that. You see, I only brought one change of—’

  ‘Also, if you’re looking for the library, find the phonogram and turn right.’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘I must go.’

  With a click, the line disconnected, and Etta was left staring at the silent earpiece in her hand.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ asked Almanac.

  She hesitated, still not one hundred per cent convinced that he was innocent of the whole magical-attack affair. She had only his word on that, after all. What if his real job was to stop her from finding the source of the magic and anything else interesting about the manor house?

  ‘Doctor Mithily told me where Lady Simone is,’ she said, omitting the part about the library. ‘I bet we would have found her if you’d let me go where I wanted.’

  ‘But who is this Doctor Mithily? How does she know so much about the manor?’ He looked down at the telephone, wondering. There was one at the orphanage, but the boys were strictly forbidden from using it. ‘Is there any way to talk to her again?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Etta said. ‘Just call the operator and ask her to put us through.’

  She lifted the receiver and turned the handle. A buzzing started up in her ear at the same time as another phone began ringing elsewhere in the house.

  ‘Is that coming from above us?’ Almanac asked, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘I think so.’ Etta let it ring on, but no one answered.

  ‘If the operator is in here with us, does that mean Doctor Mithily is too?’

  ‘Maybe. This is all very strange.’

  ‘It is,’ he said, frowning so hard his brows almost met.

  Etta replaced the receiver. ‘Well, I have to find the Yellow Room,’ she told him, wondering what he would say to that.

  ‘Okay. And I have to take a look at the cellars. There must be a hatch near the kitchen.’ The frown eased as he put his mind to that more mundane problem.

  ‘Right, then,’ she said. ‘See you at suppertime, which I hope isn’t far off. I’m starving!’

  With that, she turned and headed for the main stairs, knowing it wasn’t the proper way for servants to go, but having her reasons.

  The moment she was certain that Almanac had safely descended to the kitchen, she reversed her ascent and began to search the ground floor for the phonogram and the magic she knew was hidden somewhere in the house.

  In the manor’s vast cold store, Almanac soon found a large double hatch that opened to reveal a flight of broad, wooden steps leading down into utter darkness.

  He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs. Why was he doing this? Because Doctor Mithily had told him to. But who put her in charge? Or Etta? She understood as little about the situation as he did – perhaps less, for all she acted as though she knew everything.

  Not to mention holding his hand as easily as picking up a fork …

  That memory was possibly more confusing than everything else. Back in the orphanage, if he had held hands with one of the inmates from the neighbouring Girls’ Home, his friends would have declared them all but wed. Just thinking about the possibility now made him blush.

  He pushed that issue aside. Better to be doing than waiting, as the mistress of the orphanage always said, whenever a horrible chore lay before him. Once he knew his responsibilities and had settled into a routine, he could do something about the solemn promise he had made to Josh: to write to him and let him know that all was well. And then, if possible, Almanac would find him a position in the house too, so they both would have escaped the orphanage.

  First things first. He needed candles, and these he found in a small room next to the kitchen, along with several boxes of matches and a selection of candelabras. Lit by flickering, yellow radiance, he stepped slowly and somewhat nervously into the dusty coolness of the cellars of Spoilnieu Manors, his anxiety fuelled by stories every orphan knew by heart, of creatures who lived in the dark – such as ghosts, or worse.

  His eyes took a moment to adjust. What he saw at the bottom of the steps was a dome-roofed, stone-floored chamber filled with rows of wooden barrels and wine bottles covered with dust. Each bottle had small sign hanging from its neck, identifying its contents.

  Unremarkable, he thought, but there was more. A dark, arched opening led to another chamber deeper underground. Cold, ancient air issued from that opening, carrying with it the smell of decay and rot.

  Almanac gathered his courage and took a single step through the archway. Before him, in the candlelight, he discovered mess beyond his worst nightmares.

  Broken furniture. Smashed crockery. Empty jars. Cracked tiles. Tangles of rusted cutlery. Stacks of odd-sized planks of wood. Mounted animal skulls, missing their horns. A dented gong. A crushed model galleon. A rusty barometer. Broken walking sticks. Dried-up inkwells. Cracked pottery figurines. Stuffed clowns, faces masked with mildew. Tarnished ornamental weapons. Discarded papers merged into grey lumps by time and damp. Cushions leaking stuffing. Unpatched shoes. Moth-eaten clothes and curtains in vast tumbles and piles.

  Over all, that terrible smell of rubbish.

  Almanac pinched his nose shut, remembering a story he’d once been told about a sorcerer hired by a provincial landholder to bring rain in a time of severe drought. Half his cattle had died, putting a terrible stink all over the neighbourhood. The sorcerer laboured for many days, crafting a spell no respectable cloud could resist in letters twenty feet high along the bottom of a dry riverbed. That way, he reasoned, the rain would sweep the spell away when its work was done.

  When the spell was cast, however, no rain came. Instead, a terrible ague swept the estate, plunging people into abject agony and killing the cattle that remained. None were immune, not the landholder nor the sorcerer himself. Suspecting a counter-spell, perhaps one cast by a rival neighbour, the sorcerer called for help.

  It arrived in the form of a young Sofia Phronesis, who was then a student at the University of Wonders. No one knew where she had originally come from or what her real name was, but she had so impressed her masters that within months she was entrusted assignments such as these. She immediately identified the cause of the problem to be none other than the sorcerer’s original spell: instead of ‘rain’, he had written ‘pain’. This simple spelling error, though easily fixed, had come close to ruining an entire estate’s wellbeing.

  The lesson being, the mistress had impressed upon even her non-magical charges, to check your work.

  Almanac shivered, instinctively mistrustful of anything he couldn’t see, catalogue, or understand – let alone control. The last time one of his fellow orphans had turned a writing exercise into a spell, the boy had been adopted immediately by ambitious parents, leaving the rest of them to deal with a plague of orange frogs for a month.

  Rustling came from the shadows nearby, making his pulse race.

  Almanac swung the candles so fast they almost blew out. But all he saw was more junk.

  Rats again, he told himself. A jumble like this would be rodent paradise.

  Once his heartbeat settled, he felt a powerful itch to set things in order. Could that have been what Doctor Mithily meant by you will know what needs to be done in the cellar? It would take days to even make the slightest dent. Perhaps weeks to finish the job.

  But if that was his fate, he thought, so be it. He would be sure to change out of his uniform, first. It had been damaged once already that day …

  Etta, meanwhile, was despairing of her quest. The obvious places to look for the phonogram were in the grand hall, where it might be played to accompany dances, or the music room. Uncovering no signs of it or a hidden library in either location, she had then turned her attention elsewhere. There were only so many rooms, however, and so many spots such a device could be placed.

  Her conscience nagged at her that she really should be looking for the Yellow Roo
m and Lady Simone instead. She decided to resume her search later. After one last sweep through the ground floor rooms, in the vain hope that something previously missed would leap out at her, she headed upstairs.

  The Yellow Room wasn’t at the end of the corridor they had passed earlier: that led to a nursery and child’s playroom, where Etta spent a pleasant moment admiring an expansive dollhouse, a luxuriantly maned rocking horse, and many other gaily-painted toys tucked away in chests and cupboards before recalling her mission. Finding a scrap of paper and pencil in an absent child’s school desk, she made the first steps towards creating a comprehensive map of the floor, noting as she paced out the halls that there were whole sections of the building that she hadn’t yet visited, as well as discovering – with a hint of pride that she was a much better explorer than Almanac – the corridor leading to the destination she sought.

  That it was the Yellow Room she had no doubt. Door, frame, rugs and wallpaper all glowed like sunflowers. The giant, four-poster bed was made of light-stained pine, with curtains that matched the room’s décor. They were half-drawn, allowing her a glimpse of heaped quilts, sheets, bolsters and pillows – all gold in colour – under which it was just possible to make out a human form.

  Etta stepped through the door and nervously cleared her throat.

  ‘Lady Simone?’

  The pile of bedclothes twitched violently. A muffled voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, ma’am, the new chambermaid.’

  ‘Oh dear, and here I am, terribly indisposed! You must forgive me. I am in the grip of one of my turns. How frightfully inconvenient … ’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I mean, I am sorry, ma’am. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  The blankets stirred more feebly. ‘I fear it is my cross to bear. Thank you for coming, however. Your uniform … it should be there, somewhere … ’

  ‘I see it.’ Etta had spied the small stack of frilled frocks, blouses and underthings sitting next to a pair of sturdy work shoes at the foot of the bed. She crossed the floor to collect them. ‘Would you like to instruct me on my duties, ma’am? Or is there a housekeeper I should address myself to?’