Her Perilous Mansion

by Sean Williams

  ‘What happens when you’ve found the source of the magic?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll read the spell,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because reading it will dispel it. If there’s a spell on the manor, it has to be connected with why everyone is behaving so oddly, right?’

  ‘And the decent thing is to take it off them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose, so,’ she said. ‘More importantly, I want to avoid us falling under it too.’

  Etta and Almanac discovered no other break in the wall, and their hopes of finding their new home redolent with the scents of imminent feasting were similarly dashed. Not only was the manor seemingly as empty as ever – and growing dark, requiring the lighting of a candelabra each – but the kitchen’s hearth and stoves were cold. Furthermore, the stores in the pantry were exactly as Almanac had seen them earlier. If there was a cook, he or she was severely shirking their duties.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Etta, opening a cupboard to reveal an impressive armoury of pots and pans. Everything was ancient but impeccably clean. ‘They have to feed us, don’t they?’

  ‘Maybe the servants are expected to fend for themselves?’ Almanac was examining a selection of knives and other cooking tools that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a surgeon’s kit.

  ‘But what about Lady Simone and Lord Nigel and—Oh!’

  She darted away from the fireplace as a rattle of ash and soot fell from it, nearly blackening her new, white smock.

  ‘Watch out, I heard rats earlier,’ said Almanac with a grin. ‘But if you shout with alarm loudly enough, you might just scare them away.’

  Etta scowled at him. ‘I’m not afraid of rats.’ She didn’t like the thought of being bitten by a rat, though, so she endeavoured to explore more carefully. ‘I can hear them squeaking, now you mention them.’

  Almanac cocked his head, listening carefully. ‘I don’t think that is rats. It sounds more like voices – people talking upstairs, I expect.’

  ‘Like who?’ Etta put her ear against the nearest wall, thinking of what she might learn by eavesdropping. ‘Hmmm. It’s just one voice, and it’s not a grown-up. A boy—’

  She swallowed another startled exclamation with difficulty.

  Almanac hurried to her side and put his ear next to hers. ‘A what?’

  ‘He’s talking about us!’ she whispered.

  They both exercised their ears to detect the faint whisper coming through the walls.

  ‘Etta … Almanac … Etta … Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?’

  She gasped and pulled away. ‘He’s talking to us!’

  ‘Shh!’ Almanac was trying to find the source of the voice by closing his eyes and listening hard. ‘I think,’ he whispered, shuffling to his left, and then his right, ‘I mean, it appears to me … very much as though … yes, I’m sure it’s coming from … right there!’

  He pointed triumphantly and opened his eyes.

  ‘The chimney?’ said Etta, following the direction of his extended finger.

  ‘Yes, but what would anyone be doing up there with the rats?’

  ‘There’s one way to find out. Hey!’ she yelled, cupping her hands and projecting her voice into the chimney. ‘I hear you! Who are you and what do you want?’

  It was lucky she stood well back, for her words prompted an explosion of soot, a veritable avalanche that sent black clouds rolling across the kitchen. Almanac quickly covered his mouth, nose and eyes, despairing of the mess they would have to clean up before the absent cook returned.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said a voice, faint but suddenly clear from the chimney. ‘You cleared the blockage, but – oh dear, oh dear – too well!’

  Etta blinked black grit from her eyes and coughed up a lungful of ash. She expected to see a coal-coloured imp crouching on a mountain of cinders in the fireplace, but there was, however, nothing.

  ‘Where are you?’ Almanac asked, coming to stand next to Etta.

  ‘In the chimney, of course. Ugo, I am – Ugo the sweep.’ His voice bore the accent of a far-off place. ‘You are Etta and Almanac. Welcome? Yes, you are welcome here.’

  There was a hesitant catch to Ugo’s voice that Etta couldn’t interpret. Did he not know what he wanted to say, or couldn’t he find the correct words to say it?

  ‘Why don’t you come out so we can see you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I am … far too dirty. Proper to stay here, where I belong, yes?’

  Almanac looked around at the mess, thinking that Ugo must be filthy indeed to be worried about creating more mess. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen summers – but I am small for my age. I must be to fit up here.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘I heard you when you arrived, but you could not hear me. You thought I was a rat!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I forgive you. You were not to know.’

  ‘So there aren’t any rats?’ Etta asked with relief.

  ‘Oh, no. There is nothing … nothing like that here.’

  Etta and Almanac exchanged a glance. Again, that unusual catch in Ugo’s voice, as though something was going unexplained.

  A hammering of pipes interrupted their conversation.

  ‘That’s someone drawing water,’ said Etta, looking up. ‘Maybe we can follow the sound and see who it is!’

  ‘No, that is Olive,’ Ugo said. ‘She is a servant like us. Her home is the boiler room. When she wants to talk, she bangs. I will teach you the code. It is simplicity itself. See, she says … H-E-L-L- … Oh, “hello” she is saying! Of course. Hello from Olive! You do not have to tap back to her. She can hear you well, through the pipes. She is nice. I call her my little sister, even though she has been here longer than me. She does hate that.’

  The pipes banged fervently.

  ‘H-hello, Olive,’ said Almanac, wondering what kind of household made a child live in a boiler room.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ said Etta, and the pipes tip-tapped politely in reply. ‘We’ve met a few people since we came here, but not seen anyone—’

  ‘Who?’ Ugo broke in. ‘Tell me who has introduced themselves to you.’

  ‘Lady Simone in the Yellow Room. Lord Nigel in the study. You in the chimney and Olive in the boiler room. Doctor Mithily in the East Attic – and Silas, by the gate. That’s all.’

  ‘You forgot about Mr Packer,’ said Almanac.

  ‘Oh, yes, but all we’ve had from him is your note. Where is he, Ugo? What’s keeping him so busy that he can’t meet with us?’

  ‘Counting the cutlery, I expect. He is obsessed with silverware.’

  ‘Is there anyone else we can talk to?’ asked Almanac. ‘I feel bad that we’re just … wandering around … doing nothing.’

  ‘You are not doing nothing,’ Ugo told them. ‘This is a very odd house, and the people who live here, well, they are odd too. Some you have not yet met. You may never. They are very old and very quiet. Asleep, perhaps, dreaming happy dreams – who knows?’ Ugo laughed, but Etta heard only sadness in his voice. ‘If Madame Iris summons you, do not listen to her. She is mad.’

  ‘Madame Iris, okay,’ said Etta, making a mental note to ignore Ugo and seek Madame Iris out as soon as possible. Mad was better than what seemed to pass for sanity here. She was beginning to get more than a bit irritated by all the mysteries and vague hints. ‘Can you tell us how to leave the grounds? The gates are locked.’

  ‘Do you wish to leave?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t decided yet. We just want to know what this place is called. We’ve been arguing about it, you see, even though Almanac is obviously wrong, and … ’ Etta’s stomach rumbled noisily. ‘You know what – right now I’d be happy just to meet the cook!’

  ‘She, ah, left … and was not, ah, replaced.’

  ‘So we have to make supper ourselves? And clean this mess up too, I suppose.’ She surveyed the debris from the chimney unhappily.

  ‘I’ll do that last part,’ said
Almanac, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, ‘while you see what’s in the pantry, if you like? I’m so hungry I could eat a raw onion.’

  ‘Okay – but in a house this big, there has to be ingredients for something tastier than that.’

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Of course! I was the youngest of twelve girls. I had to cook for everyone.’

  She bustled off to forage for ingredients in the cold store, leaving Almanac to wonder where to begin.

  ‘I should light a fire,’ he said, glancing at the fireplace. ‘Will that … I mean … can I … ?’

  ‘Fear not, my new friend. I will relocate to a different flue.’

  By the time Etta returned, arms fully laden with provisions, Almanac had introduced the matches still in his pocket to several choice selections from a basket of firewood near the smallest cast-iron range and built up a healthy blaze. He had also filled a kettle with rainwater and set it on the hotplate. Most of the ash was cleared away, apart from a few smudged patches on the floor in the corner. They could wait until tomorrow.

  ‘There’s plenty of food,’ Etta declared, dumping her supplies on a counter. ‘I’m going to make a frittata. It won’t take long. Would you like some, Ugo? Olive?’

  The pipes knocked twice.

  ‘Olive says “no”,’ translated the sweep. ‘Two knocks for no, one for yes. I say the same to you, with sincere thanks. It is kind of you to ask.’

  ‘Easy peasy,’ she said, starting to chop vegetables and mix eggs and milk in earnest. Her stomach wouldn’t let her think about anything else. The questions she still wanted answered could wait until the dish went into the oven. Perhaps she should have scrutinised the invitation more closely before leaving home. But she felt better for doing something, rather than questioning her decision to come there in the first place.

  While she and Almanac concentrated on their separate tasks, Ugo told them how he had come to be working in the manor. He too had had no prospects, hailing from a poor, travelling family and being the smallest besides, so had gratefully taken up the chance to be a chimneysweep when the offer arrived. It wasn’t a glamorous job, he told them, but anything was better than mucking out sewers.

  ‘Ew,’ said Etta. ‘What about Olive?’

  ‘She fled an unfavourable fiancé,’ Ugo told them, an account confirmed by a single emphatic knock. ‘Now, I think she is happily married to the boiler.’

  A faint chuckle gurgled through the pipes, followed by a series of taps.

  ‘She says “Rubbish!”’

  Soon the kitchen was full of the smell of baking. With the fire and the promise of hearty food in the near future, their corner of the manor began to seem almost homely. Etta pulled up a stool to sit by the stove, and Almanac did the same, warming his fingers and toes by the radiant heat. When the frittata emerged, brown around the edges and lusciously fragrant, the two fell on it at once, eating directly from the dish with wooden spoons, pausing only to blow on their steaming hot portions until they were cool enough to chew.

  ‘This is good,’ said Almanac appreciatively, the unfamiliar heaviness in his stomach filling him with an incredible sense of wellbeing. ‘So good!’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ Etta couldn’t talk because her mouth was too full.

  ‘Will you cook tomorrow night too?’

  ‘If you clean up afterwards.’

  ‘Deal.’ Almanac was very happy with that arrangement. ‘I don’t suppose you know how to make a cake?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Almanac closed his eyes in bliss. Cake was a rare treat in the orphanage, enjoyed only once a year on the orphans’ shared birthday. ‘I could get used to this.’

  ‘I was just thinking that too. No one criticising me or telling me what to do.’

  ‘A hot fire, my own bed, and now cake.’ Almanac sighed. ‘Who cares about the odd mystery or two?’

  ‘Every house is a mystery, every family a maze,’ said Ugo. ‘That is what my grandpa used to say.’

  ‘Your grandpa never came here, I bet.’ Etta licked her spoon clean. ‘By the way, you haven’t told us how to unlock the gate. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Why do you wish me to tell you?’

  ‘Because we want to read the sign out the front and find out what this place is called,’ she said.

  ‘Why does that matter?’

  Some of Almanac’s contentment evaporated at Ugo’s evasiveness. Was he going to tell them anything?

  ‘It matters because we need to know!’

  Etta put a cautionary hand on Almanac’s arm. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand. Ugo, are there things you aren’t allowed to tell us?’

  ‘If there were, I imagine I could not answer that,’ came the immediate reply.

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded, taking that as confirmation of her theory, rather than another evasion. Meeting Almanac’s eye, she said with significance, ‘It must be the spell, right?’

  Almanac nodded, grasping the idea and seeing where it led. Etta had thought there might be a spell on everyone in the manor, a spell to keep them hidden, but maybe it was much more powerful than that. Maybe Ugo and the others couldn’t even talk about the spell – or anything related to it at all!

  But what did the spell have to do with the sign out the front?

  They couldn’t just ask, because Ugo couldn’t answer. They would have to feel their way around the spell to see what it allowed and what it forbade. And ultimately try to discover who had made it and what it was for, and how to escape falling under it like everyone else in the house.

  Almanac liked rules, but that didn’t mean he was averse to breaking them. The rules of the spell might seem perfectly black and white, but he wondered if there would be grey areas, where topics related to the spell might or might not be discussed. It was like when the mistress forbade the boys from throwing a ball inside, so Josh threw an orange instead. He was doing as he was told, but not doing it at the same time.

  Had one of the people affected by the spell said anything that might be bending the rule rather than breaking it? Was it possible that they could contribute parts of the solution rather than the whole thing at once?

  There was no point asking Ugo directly about the library, because no answer would be forthcoming, thanks to the spell.

  Doctor Mithily, however, had handily provided them with one extra step.

  ‘The phonogram,’ he said with a snap of his fingers. ‘Ugo, do you know where it is?’

  ‘Of course! It is behind the third panel from the right in the sunroom. The panel unlocks with a push.’

  Etta scooped up her candelabra and was out of the kitchen in a heartbeat, Almanac close on her heels.

  Shadows danced around them as they ran to the North Wing, where the sunroom lay. There they began counting panels.

  ‘One, two, three!’ Etta put the candelabra on a nearby table and pushed the panel. With a click, it sank into the wall but didn’t swing open.

  ‘Maybe it slides?’ Almanac suggested.

  Etta placed both palms on the panel and pushed to her left. It moved smoothly aside on slick, wooden runners to reveal a roughly cubical recess lined with crimson velvet.

  Within lay the phonogram, as promised – an ornate, black and silver instrument featuring a felt turntable, a delicate needle and a large, curved trumpet.

  ‘Finally!’ said Etta, staring at in satisfaction. ‘But now what?’

  Almanac searched his memory for what Etta had told him. What else had Doctor Mithily said? ‘Find the phonogram and turn right. Turn right. That sounds easy enough.’

  But when Etta stood in front of the phonogram’s niche and turned to face her right, there was nothing but a wall. No cupboard, no passageway, no door. They pressed all the panels within reach, but there was no click or give to them in the slightest.

  They had found the phonogram only to reach another dead-end.

  ‘How can a library be here?’ said Almanac, noting the placement of the stained-glass
windows, each displaying the winking lion motif. ‘This wall leads outside.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Etta, collapsing heavily into a cushioned chair. Tears threatened, and she didn’t want to cry in front of Almanac. Just when she ought to have found a proper answer, it had been snatched away from her again. She felt like someone was playing a game with her, trying to make her look small. ‘I’m too tired to think.’

  ‘Me too.’ Almanac could see that she was upset. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and she looked pale in the flickering light of the candles. ‘Let’s sleep on it. Maybe we’ll find the answer in the morning.’

  ‘Or maybe we never will,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Do you think so?’ he said. ‘I don’t really know how magic works.’

  ‘Which is a huge amount of help, let me tell you.’

  ‘Nothing will change overnight,’ whispered Ugo from the sunroom’s ornate fireplace. ‘Have no fear of that.’

  ‘Why should we believe you?’ she snapped, flicking an errant tear from under her right eye.

  ‘If he can’t talk about the spell,’ said Almanac, ‘it would be fair to say that he can’t lie about it either, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Etta took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Assuming there is a spell and he’s a victim of it. But if he was behind the spell, why would he talk to us at all? And if there’s no spell … ’

  ‘Well then there’s nothing to worry about, or at least nothing worth getting confused about.’ Almanac smiled with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. Ugo could be listening in to their every conversation and then tricking them for reasons unknown. ‘Let’s go to our beds.’

  Etta nodded, and held out her hand. He helped her to her feet, and together they went upstairs. Floorboards squeaked beneath them, and the house seemed to answer with a thousand creaks and sighs, as though attending to their every step. Rather than terrifying him, Almanac found this thought of some comfort. He had been raised in a dark house full of people. The thought of being alone bothered him more.

  Without discussion, they chose two adjacent rooms on the servants’ floor. That way they could talk through the thin wall, should the need arise.