The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2014 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever.

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CHAPTER 1

Edward Rosewood, an upper middle class businessman,

found the idea of owning a country estate so amusingly

novel, he procured a piece of land in Dorset just outside the

small town of Harbiford.

He built his home there and christened it Rosewood

Ridge.

The Ridge was a lavish house of considerable size for a

small family and half a dozen servants, yet still it appeared

quaint and inviting. A wooden porch snugly wrapped around

the whole house and the stick style construction was

reminiscent of a cottage. Located on a hill just two miles east

of Harbiford, the Ridge saw the sun rise from beyond the vast

surrounding countryside and watched it set past the town.

It was all Mr Rosewood ever wished for.

Mr Rosewood had made his fortune in the 1860’s as a

cotton factory owner and soon after married a headstrong

beauty named Edna Stewart. Together Mr and Mrs

Rosewood had two children.

Adam, the youngest, was Mr Rosewood’s pride and

joy—his blue-eyed heir who could do no wrong.

Ruth, the eldest, was Mrs Rosewood’s favourite.

Ever since Ruth’s birth, Mrs Rosewood fondly dreamed

of the day she would see her daughter married and settled,

with much planning having gone into the event, but sadly it

was a dream the doting mother’s heart had eventually begun

to part with.

At twenty-four, Ruth still hadn’t managed to make a

lasting impression on any eligible bachelors in the family’s

acquaintance. It became a more common occurrence for her

to be overlooked in favour of younger, prettier girls. Ruth’s

problem was clear—she was simply too transparent to be a

flirt and too temperamental to be charming. Youth was all

that could have recommended her to a respectable man and

now her youth had been squandered.

The time had come to accept Ruth was past her prime,

but Mrs Rosewood couldn’t bring herself to give up

completely. She still dressed and treated Ruth as quite the

little debutante, becoming increasingly strict about her

daughter’s manners. This put undue strain on the

relationship and Ruth found herself turning more and more

towards her father.

Being a self-made man, Mr Rosewood strived to keep a

shred of his former working class days alive by encouraging

what could only be described as peculiar activities for the

average middle class family. Mr Rosewood’s antics regularly

horrified Mrs Rosewood, who grew up quite wealthy and was

by no means new money.

Ruth, on the other hand, was grateful for her father’s lax

attitude. Mr Rosewood may have been an ignorant man who

didn’t take anything seriously, which was frustrating overall,

but it did grant Ruth a lot of freedom compared to the other

young women. Mrs Rosewood kept a suffocating leash on

things regarding propriety and society, but Ruth had a

healthy appetite for commotion which she indulged at every

opportunity.

Wherever the action was, Ruth was sure to be there, no

matter what objections were raised. It was not as if her

impulsiveness could ever kill anybody, so where was the

harm in it?

It was a warm July morning in 1888.

There was an uproar in the Rosewood household as

Adam, a boy of fifteen, had just returned home from

boarding school for the summer. From the very moment

Adam stepped into the house, Mr Rosewood started to

happily announce again and again that his son was home and

that everybody—including the servants—must see it to

believe it.

Ruth sat at her dressing table in her room, too absorbed

in her reflection to comply with her father’s chanting from

downstairs. She compulsively remained seated, battling with

her fringe in the mirror.

She couldn’t stand it when her hair was in her eyes.

There was something about not being able to see absolutely

everything in front of her that made her feel out of control.

She swept her dark red hair to the side time and again,

commanding it with wide turquoise eyes to stay put.

But it would not do.

Her maid, Millie faithfully stood by her side all morning.

She had only worked in the Rosewood household for a few

weeks by then, but she was already used to Ruth’s routine of

discontentment. So went every morning: Millie would finish

doing Ruth’s hair, after which Ruth would get up to head out,

suddenly flail around blindly and then sit back down to

commence the battle in a tense silence.

Millie popped her head out of the door and looked

down the hallway. “Miss Ruth, I do think we should go

downstairs. Mr Rosewood keeps calling us.”

Ruth frowned and absent-mindedly replied, “I suppose I

should… You can go, Millie. Tell Mr Rosewood I am…

preoccupied.”

The maid bowed nervously and left the room, but Ruth

called her back.

Ruth separated a tuft of her fringe and held onto it with

conviction. “Millie, bring me the scissors.”

Millie hung in the doorway. “Miss Ruth, I do not think

now is the time.”

“Quite right.” Ruth stared into the mirror vengefully.

“Quite right…”

“Miss! Please!”

Ruth jumped up. “Yes! I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Finally away from the mirror, Ruth had the faculties to

feel the excitement of seeing her little brother again. She

walked faster down the hallway and nearly tripped as she

turned the corner to head down the staircase.

Mr Rosewood stood across from Adam at the foot of the

stairs.

“Ruth, there you are!” Mr Rosewood chuckled. “Can you

believe it? Look at how Adam has grown!”

Ruth looked at her brother for the first time in six

months and couldn’t help but laugh. Although the boy’s

blonde hair and blue eyes were as she remembered them,

the rest of his face had completely changed. His jutted-out

jaw had become more pronounced and he had procured his

father’s big, round nose. How heart-warming it was to see

little Adam looking more like Mr Rosewood every time he

came home!

However, Adam was not equally pleased to see Ruth. He

just let out a dreary sigh and gave her a helpless sort of look.

There was a trick to reading his expressions, since he was a

quiet boy who did not emote readily, but Ruth knew him well

enough to know he was upset about something—and she

had an inkling what it might have been about.

Mr Rosewood was in exceedingly good spirits. “I was

just telling Adam about the apprenticeship.” He turned to his

son. “It was all Ruth’s idea, you know.”

Adam contemplated the statement for a few moments

before reacting with just a flicker of emotion. “It was you?”

he said to his sister.

The boy may have shared his father’s looks, but certainly

not his father’s outspoken disposition. Adam was placid at

best, always reserved in his opinions, but rarely bothered

enough by any state of affairs to even form an opinion.

Indeed, the very fact that Adam was complaining was a

source of hilarity for Mr Rosewood, whose large belly

bounced in laughter in response to Adam's tempered

protests.

“Father, please,” the boy murmured with his

characteristic slumped posture, “I don't want to work in a

shop.”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” said Ruth, completely

disenchanted by her brother’s cold greeting.

Mr Rosewood persisted in using the opportunity to

encourage his son. “Nonsense, my boy! A shop is the perfect

place for you to learn some real work ethic. You will be

apprenticed to an honest carpenter who will teach you what

it truly means to earn your way in life.” Mr Rosewood

paused, expecting Adam to give an optimistic response.

The room was quiet.

Finally, Adam spoke. “But, Father—a shop?”

“Watch your tone, Adam,” Ruth quickly scolded, still

standing in the middle of the staircase. “You know Papa

started out by working in a factory.”

“Yes, he worked hard so that we would not have to

work hard.”

“We are not doing anything,” Ruth defended playfully.

“Papa has a problem with your work ethic, not mine.”

“Yet I recall, sister, that this is your doing.” Adam's gaze

intensified, albeit only slightly.

Ruth smiled and leaned on the bannister. “You would

not be in this situation if you had a little more… kick in your

step.”

“That is not fair,” Adam defended. “Compared to you,

anyone would look like a glacier. You think everything is a

race.”

“Stop being so old-fashioned, Adam. Faster is better.”

“Yes, of course, because the Hare beat the Tortoise.”

Ruth rolled her eyes and groaned, “Ugh, Adam, do not

pretend you are capable of the hostility that makes sarcasm

potent.”

Mr Rosewood found the exchange highly entertaining.

“Such vigour you already have, Adam. This plan is yielding

results much sooner than I expected.”

Adam remained set in his sober senses, taking a deep

breath instead of letting his youth flare up his temper. He

would surely have proven his father right if he reacted

energetically.

Instead, he complained in a monotony that would put a

sermon to shame. “Father, my relaxed demeanour cannot be

worrisome enough to warrant a sentence to hard labour—

not during my time off at home.”

“Hard labour!” Mrs Rosewood cried as she rushed into

the room. “Goodness, Adam, you make it sound as if we

were shipping you off to a plantation!” Her tone feigned

optimism, but the lines on her forehead deepened with

concern.

Adam shook his head. “Mother, I know you did not

agree to this. Surely, you could not.”

Mrs Rosewood agitatedly shifted about in place, lightly

adjusting her already-flat skirt by way of a nervous habit. “My

son, working in a shop? It is wholly unnecessary and

unbecoming.” She recollected herself and stood as upright as

she could. “I wanted you to join your father with his daily

business, but he hardly goes out anymore. Should you go to

the workshop, you will actually do something with your time.

It is better than having you shuffle aimlessly around the

house for three months.”

“I do not shuffle aimlessly,” said Adam, his pale face

starting to turn a deeper hue. “Honestly, I have no idea

where you all get these ideas. I am fine the way I am. Simply

because I never jump into anything—”

“Adam!” Mrs Rosewood interrupted, appalled. “That is

enough! Do as we say and for Heaven’s sake, do it quietly!”

She ripped the boy towards her. “Look at the state of you. Sit

down so that I can do something about that tie. Goodness

Adam, did you even look in a mirror today?”

Adam quietly obeyed and sat in a nearby chair. His eyes

and face grew redder by the second, and his mother’s

constant preening only made matters worse.

Mrs Rosewood muttered angrily as she fixed her son’s

hair. “I have already agreed,” she swiftly looked around the

room at the others, “—against my better judgment, mind

you—” then back to Adam, “to send to you into a workshop.

God forbid I allow you to step out of this house looking or

acting less than your best. I will have my way in that respect.

This much I can promise you.”

Mr Rosewood, visibly entertained, gestured at Ruth to

take note of Adam’s sour expression. Ruth covered her

mouth to hide her smile from her already livid mother.

“Your behaviour since you have been back is absolutely

abhorrent,” said Mrs Rosewood, plucking at her son’s tie.

“You did not even greet your sister. Is this what they teach

you at school? Because you certainly did not learn it from

me.”

Adam pouted and stayed quiet. There was no fighting

with Mrs Rosewood once she got going.

“Sit up straight. Tuck in your shirt. And stop pulling your

face.”

Finally, Adam spoke, but he did not risk addressing his

mother. “Father, please don’t make me do this.” He

thoughtfully controlled the volume of his voice with his

mother at his throat. “I have barely been home for ten

minutes and you are already sending me off again—to a

shop!”

“And stop complaining,” said Mrs Rosewood.

“Mother, I—”

“Ah! Are you talking back?”

Adam stayed quiet for a few seconds. “No, Mother.”

She finished his tie and propped it into place. Adam

motioned to get up, but Mrs Rosewood held him down with a

stern glare. “We will talk about this rudeness of yours when

you get back,” she said in a threatening tone.

Adam nodded and Mrs Rosewood allowed him to stand.

She tapped him on the back as a cue for him to stop

slouching.

Ruth approached her defeated brother. She smiled at

him and gently squeezed his arm.

He frowned at her. “Time and again, sister, I am

honestly surprised by the brand new ways in which your

good intentions breed trouble.”

Ruth quickly spoke before her mother could. “Adam, I

admit I am not the best judge of your character. I mean, as

far as temperament goes, you and I are stark opposites.

But—” She tilted her head. “I ask you to trust me. Have I ever

led you astray?”

“Yes,” the boy replied direly. He relaxed his posture and

finally a trace of a smile appeared on his face. “But I guess

you always set me right, too.”

Ruth laughed. “There you

are! That’s the Adam I know.

Come now, let us get you

ready. At this rate you will be

late for your first day of

work.”

“Oh, there is no rush,”

said Mr Rosewood with a

knowing grin. “Mr Gangfield

still has not arrived and I

refuse to leave without him.”

Just then, there was a knock on the front door.

“Speak of the devil!” cried Mr Rosewood, his cheeks

bright with laughter.

One of the servants went into the entrance hall to open

the door and Mr Rosewood enthusiastically followed close

behind, beckoning Adam to do the same.

Ruth wanted to join her father in the entrance hall to

greet Mr Gangfield, but her mother grabbed her by the arm

before she even took her first step.

“This does not mean you are off the hook, Ruth,” Mrs

Rosewood said quietly. “You are still meeting Mr Byron at

dinner tonight.”

Ruth had genuinely forgotten about the planned dinner.

Despite the blow to her spirits, she still managed to sustain

her light-heartedness regarding the matter. “Oh, hurrah!

Another one of father’s old friends.”

“Actually, Mr Byron is the son of one of your father’s old

friends.”

Ruth flashed her mother a playful smile. “So at least we

are having a fellow under forty this time?”

Hearty greetings were heard between Mr Rosewood

and Mr Gangfield from the entrance hall.

Ruth was immediately side-tracked, but Mrs Rosewood

was only momentarily distracted. “Ruth, do not turn this into

another joke. You are twenty-four and still single. Men have

already stopped calling here and people might start thinking

there is something wrong with us. Think of Adam! What

employer would take him on, what woman would marry him

if people thought this family was… odd?”

“You mean odder than it already is?” Ruth replied

matter-of-factly, her eyes sparkling with indignation.

Their conversation was interrupted by Mr Rosewood

approaching the women to personally announce Mr

Gangfield’s arrival. “Right on time!” he cried. “Gangfield is

always on time, is he not? I said eight-fifteen and look at

that.” He took out his pocket watch and used it to gesture at

the standing clock in the room. “Eight-fifteen, on the dot!” he

chuckled.

Mr Gangfield, his top hat in his hands, strode into the

room and greeted the women in turn, first Mrs Rosewood—

who always involuntarily blushed and giggled whenever she

saw him—and then Ruth. “Miss Ruth, how do you do?”

“How do you do,” said Ruth, hopelessly unable to hide

her wide grin from her friend.

The sight of Mr Chester Gangfield, Ruth’s dearest friend

of four years, always made things so much more bearable for

her.

Then again, everybody Gangfield came into contact with

liked him very much, even though he was not as handsome

as the other men in the local society. He had dark hair and

eyes, which were pretty enough, but he had a rough

complexion and somewhat childlike features, as if he never

completely matured far past Adam’s age. His expression was

always slanted upwards, his one eyebrow raised and his

smile skewed as if he knew an amusing secret about every

person in the room.

At about five foot four, Gangfield could only just boast

about being taller than Ruth. However, he carried himself

with such confidence and walked with such long strides that

it was hard not to look twice at the peculiarly little man—and

peculiar he was! Not only was he a stage magician, which was

an uncommon occupation to begin with, but he took his pet

rat everywhere with him. The vermin’s whiskers could often

be seen quivering out of a crevice in Gangfield’s clothing.

“Well, I suppose that settles it,” said Mr Rosewood,

satisfied that Gangfield’s reception had attracted all the

ceremony he felt the fellow deserved. “Now that our party is

complete, we can hurry on to the workshop. Come, Adam!”

As usual, Ruth was the first to respond. “Excellent! I will

get my things.” She grabbed her coat off the nearby rack.

“Where do you think you are going?” Mrs Rosewood

demanded.

“I am going with them,” Ruth replied innocently, pulling

her coat over her one arm.

“And all the things we must get ready for Mr Byron’s

arrival tonight? Shall I do everything by myself?”

“Of course not, Mama. We are only dropping Adam off. I

will be back before you can even get anything done.”

“This is no trivial matter, Ruth. You have absolutely no

business going into a shop, even less so than your brother.”

“I have to go to the shop. I need to look this carpenter in

the eye, Mama. Lions will befriend lambs before I allow my

brother to be apprenticed to a degenerate.”

Mrs Rosewood shook her head. “We are all worried

about that. It is why your father is going along.”

Ruth glanced at her glowing father who amusedly

gestured at Gangfield to look at the perturbed Adam.

“Mama, I’d really rather go myself.”

“Come now, my darling!” cried Mr Rosewood. “Ruth will

be looked after. Let her join us.”

Mrs Rosewood planted her foot on the ground. “I shall

no longer stand to be overruled in my own home—and I shall

certainly not stand for it when it comes to my daughter. I

despise this whole business and I shall make no more

allowances for it. Ruth, you are not going anywhere and that

is the end of it!”

Ruth looked over at her father and silently begged him

to come to her aid, but the old man shrugged and shook his

head. He turned and gaily herded Adam and Gangfield out

into the entrance hall.

She got an apologetic glance from her friend, Gangfield,

but other than that, nothing more was communicated to

Ruth. She stood and watched the front door close behind the

group. The house was suddenly much quieter.

“Now take off your coat and let us go to the kitchen,”

said Mrs Rosewood.

Ruth focused her attention on her father’s muffled

laughter outside.

“Come now!” Mrs Rosewood kept speaking as she

walked out the room, assuming Ruth was close behind. “I

have it on good authority that Mr Byron is allergic to nuts, so

we must plan tonight around that little misfortune…”

Mrs Rosewood’s voice started to trail off down the

hallway.

Ruth slowly walked towards the front door. She stood

for a few moments in the sudden silence, dejected, finding

the sound of the ticking clock unbearably prevalent.

She waited. She listened.

Mrs Rosewood’s voice was no longer audible, but the

men’s voices were.

Perfect.

Ruth grinned and quickly slipped right out the front

door.

Adam and Mr Rosewood were already in the carriage

when Ruth swiftly strolled down the pebble path towards

them. She did her best to outwardly appear only mildly in a

hurry, but inside her frantic nerves urged the carriage to fly

away before her mother caught on.

“And this?” asked Gangfield, who was standing just

outside the carriage.

Ruth purposely got too close to Gangfield to force him

to make way. “My mother changed her mind,” she said so

quickly, it was almost inaudible.

“Is that so?” Mr Rosewood questioned from inside the

carriage.

Adam rolled his eyes.

They could obviously tell she was lying, but they made

no effort to expose her. Yet again Gangfield was left to think

her at least somewhat saintly.

She was helped into the carriage by Gangfield, but she

stopped mid-step to command her brother to move. “Adam,

do not sit next to Papa. Sit on the other side so I can sit next

to you.”

Gangfield was amused by this. “Still worried about

Dennis, Miss Ruth?”

Of course Gangfield’s vermin rat had a name—Dennis.

“Forgive me, Gangfield,” Ruth said as she scooted into

her seat next to her brother, “I normally have no issue with

sitting next to you, but in close proximities such as these it is

essential to make it as difficult as possible for that rat to

scurry onto my lap.”

“Oh, I would not say that, Miss Ruth,” replied Gangfield

as he got settled diagonally across from her. “Just now

Dennis will climb onto you out of spite.”

“Pray, do not even joke about that,” she replied, holding

back a shiver.

“I am not joking.” Gangfield smiled his skew smile.

“What is it that you find so repulsive about Dennis, Miss

Ruth? Is it his tail?”

“You know very well I dislike things that cannot

understand what I say,” she proclaimed proudly. “And

animals certainly fall into that category.”

“You hurt Dennis’s feelings when you say things like

that, you know.”

“I do not care.”

This remark prompted Adam to join in. “Now, that’s not

very nice, Ruth. It’s just a little rat.”

Ruth’s mouth hung open. “Are you two seriously trying

to make me feel sorry for a rodent?”

Just then Dennis’s little grey face emerged from one of

Gangfield’s sleeves. “Look at those big eyes,” Gangfield urged

as he gently stroked the rat’s head with his index finger.

“And that pink nose,” said Adam, his face finally

brightening up. He reached over to pet the animal as well.

Ruth started to laugh, but she caught a glimpse of her

mother glaring out of the drawing room window. She

immediately shut up and ducked back into her seat, failing at

her every attempt to appear nonchalant. “We, uh, we should

probably go,” she said in a contained panic.

Mr Rosewood smiled and nodded. He tapped twice on

the ceiling of the carriage with his cane and the driver

beckoned the horses into motion.

When they were far away enough from the house and

heading down the wide road to town, Ruth finally felt

comfortable to sit upright again. Gangfield was politely silent

on the matter of her frantic behaviour, but his expression

made it obvious that he was trying not to smile too widely.

Harbiford was the centre of activity for miles around.

Ever since the railway was constructed to run past what used

to be a small village, the local farmers had procured an

effective means to export their crops. This naturally resulted

in the fast expansion of the town, the modernisation of its

facilities and the increase of its appeal to middle class folk

looking to retreat from stench and smog. It was also some

forty miles from the coastline, so a leisurely day at the beach

was never too much of a hassle to arrange.

The carriage passed the church and entered Harbiford

from the northeast. This was where the more well-to-do

residents lived and where Ruth spent most of her time when

she was in town. One of her obligations was to join her

mother in calling on the other women in the local society and

gossiping about anyone who wasn’t in the room at the time.

The only shops Ruth had cause to visit were in the centre of

town—the boutique, the coffee shop and bookstore, as well

as the local theatre, which was only ever used to host charity

events.

While Mr Rosewood and Gangfield casually chatted,

Adam stared out the window angrily, his expression strained

and his arms crossed. Ruth couldn’t blame her brother—after

all, his time off at home was quickly being turned into

something very far from a holiday. He had been sentenced to

four weeks of hard labour by a sister who thought her

brother too spoiled and privileged for his own good.

It was true that the whole affair was Ruth’s idea. She

knew something had to be done about Adam’s alarming lack

of drive and ambition. His temperament was always quiet

and controlled, but what worried Ruth lately was that Adam

excelled at absolutely nothing, despite the fact that he was a

bright and capable young man—and despite him having been

given every opportunity to excel. He simply moved and spoke

slower every time he got home from school and displayed

apathy towards an increasing amount of topics.

Ruth decided that what Adam needed was something

new to challenge his mind and senses. She immediately

recruited Gangfield in her mission. His occupation as a

performer meant he moved with ease among the various

circles of the middle classes. After a swift enquiry, Gangfield

managed to arrange a holiday job for Adam with a carpenter

who carried on his business in Harbiford.

Carpentry—now that was bound to be hard work!

As they travelled deeper into town, Ruth found herself a

little lost amongst the unfamiliar sights, since it had been

years since she’d last seen past the town square. The

buildings were not as pristine as higher up in town and they

were built right up against each other. Even the road was

cramped as their carriage battled for space against one-horse

carts and men in aprons pushing wheelbarrows. Almost

everybody in sight was carrying something—crates and sacks,

tools and crops—and children ran about, playing games using

discarded rubbish as toys. It became hypnotising, watching

shop after shop after shop pass by, the people inside the

open buildings making, building and sorting.

Ruth caught herself thinking how she couldn’t

remember when last she’d seen so many people wearing

rolled-up sleeves.

She shook her head and, noticing a lull in the

conversation, she took the opportunity to voice her

appreciation, if only to shine a positive light on the situation.

“Gangfield, we cannot thank you enough for what you’re

doing for Adam.”

“Your appreciation is ill-founded,” he replied smoothly.

“I just came across the workshop—I did not build it. Though, I

did some extra digging since last we spoke and I learned the

place is quite reputable. Adam will be in good hands

apprenticing under Mr Wythert.”

The name struck a dreadful chord with Ruth. “M-Mr

Wythert?” she stammered.

“Yes, a Mr Theodore Wythert, if I’m not mistaken. I did

mention this, I'm sure.”

Ruth felt her stomach dip.

Mr Rosewood laughed. “My goodness! Do you hear

that, Ruth? Little Theodore!”

“Do you know Mr Wythert, sir?” asked Gangfield.

“Yes! Very well, actually. I contracted Theodore’s father,

Mr William Wythert to build my house! I had no idea little

Theodore had turned to carpentry.”

Gangfield’s puzzled expression made it clear that he saw

how badly Ruth was taking the news. “And you, Miss Ruth?

Do you know Mr Wythert?”

Mr Rosewood ignored the fact that he was not being

addressed. “The Wytherts were like a second family to her,”

he explained. “At first I just took her along to the Wytherts’

workshop when I checked in on Mr Wythert’s progress on

Rosewood Ridge, but after a while I just left Ruth there on

the days I had business in town.” His nose was wrinkled by

another chuckle. “And, my! Was Theodore a favourite of

hers!”

Gangfield raised an eyebrow and smiled at Ruth. “You

don’t say.”

She sensed a certain spite in Gangfield’s tone.

“Yes, indeed, Mr Gangfield, they were very close! Never

spent a moment apart if they could help it! Do you

remember, Ruth?”

Ruth stayed quiet, knowing her father would continue

without her input.

“Yes, yes, they were mad about each other! Inseparable

even for years after the Ridge was finished!” Mr Rosewood

frowned a little. “But then Theodore was needed in Ireland.

Luckily Ruth came out into society not long after and she lost

all interest in the poor boy—you know how easily distracted

young women are, Mr Gangfield.” He lowered his voice and

looked out the window. “Ah, we did not see much of the

Wytherts again after that.”

Gangfield kept his gaze fixed on Ruth. She could see the

cogs in his brain were hard at work as his smile grew wider.

She couldn’t dwell on it, however. Had she only known

Theodore was Adam’s new employer! She’d have been happy

to stay at home and help her mother prepare for dinner. She

would have been happy to do anything, no matter how

mundane or pointless.

But now she was stuck in the carriage with no excuse for

an escape. She honestly feared seeing Theodore again. She

expected neither success nor failure—she didn’t expect

anything at all. The future was blank, unclear. And she hated

not knowing what to expect.

Adam was right. Her good intentions had indeed made

an art of breeding trouble.

She fiddled with her fringe again, desperate to regain

control of something.

All she could do was pray that she could help herself

when the time came that she stood face to face with

Theodore Wythert— with the boy who broke her heart.

The rest of the carriage ride was dominated by Mr

Rosewood's lively chatting. Gangfield engaged with the

rotund old man out of politeness, but his attention was

mostly on Ruth.

It came as no surprise to Ruth that Gangfield picked up

on her dread. She knew him to be a perceptive man.

However, she wished very much she could swat his glances

away. She was in no mood to be studied.

The dreaded moment came as the carriage stopped and

the party got out and approached the entrance to the

workshop.

The stink of wood and glue hit Ruth like a bad punch

line. Her every effort to never return to the workshop was

swindled by her own doing. All she wanted was for her

brother to learn some good work ethics. Now she paid for it

by being violently tossed back in time to a place she gave

herself permission to forget.

The façade of the workshop was much as she

remembered it, the signage having been repainted, but not

more than that. It was a large, rectangular building with low,

arched windows. The red-bricked workshop was squeezed

between two other buildings, the one on the left being the

Wytherts’ homestead.

Ruth froze and swallowed hard.

The rest of the party, however, were their usual selves.

Adam moved at a snail’s pace in silent protest and Mr

Rosewood joyfully proclaimed how wonderful it was to be

back at the Wytherts’ workshop.

Ruth dared to imagine her father would remain so jovial

even if he knew what humiliation she had endured within the

workshop’s walls.

Gangfield’s glances kept tugging at Ruth out of the

corner of her eye. He appeared wholly impressed with

himself for noticing her distress.

Let him think what he wants to, she decided. Makes no

difference either way.

THEVALIARDMANSION.COM

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2

CHAPTER 2

“There’s a good girl, Florence!” Theodore called from up

on his cart. He gripped the reins a little tighter. “Don’t go that

way, girl—Oh! Sorry, sir!—You’re all right, Florence, you’re all

right.”

Theodore’s open cart rolled through Harbiford town’s

streets, pulled along by but one elderly horse whose step was

no longer as sure as it used to be.

The old mare, Florence often stumbled and yanked,

making Theodore suspect for quite a while that she was

becoming blind in her right eye. He had tried for a few

months to keep the poor horse at home, but she grew so

very depressed when confined to the yard. In the end,

Theodore couldn’t find it in his heart to just yet retire his

trusted animal.

Florence was therefore allowed to pull the cart

whenever Theodore foresaw the load would not be too

cumbersome. A delivery of six dining chairs to his uncle’s

3

upholstery shop one mile away was the perfect opportunity

for Florence to stretch her legs and regain her spirits.

The ride was slow and bumpy, and Florence’s occasional

but small starts meant that her master had to cry a good few

apologies to similarly startled pedestrians. In the two or

three weeks since Theodore started travelling with Florence

again, he started to notice more and more people scattering

when he and his dear horse approached down the road, until

only the odd passer-by would be caught off guard to shout

and curse at Theodore—and working class folk could curse

up a storm that would make the devil blush.

Theodore felt sorry that he was disrupting people’s lives

as such—them having to dodge here and there in their daily

travels—but he was grateful that more people were catching

on. Florence may not have been sturdy anymore, but she

certainly was still a big girl. She would suffer no harm should

an accident occur, but the same couldn’t be said for any poor

fellow, Theodore included, who happened to be by her side if

she faltered.

So Theodore was always on his guard when with old

Florence, ready to cry out warnings to people who didn’t see

4

them coming. The toll on his nerves was worth it, though,

and he was contently prepared to endure any public

persecution on behalf of Florence. Seeing his old horse happy

to be out and about made it much easier for him to step on

others’ toes—metaphorically, that is, thankfully.

Besides, whenever he went to stores or walked on the

street, complete strangers would greet him by name. “Good

day, Mr Wythert!” they’d say happily. “And how is Florence

doing?”

Surely he couldn’t be that big of a bother if people were

pleased to see him.

5

Theodore and Florence stopped in front of the small

upholstery shop, both a little shaken up but safe and sound.

Theodore’s uncle came out of the shop to greet them, wiping

his hands on an old rag as he walked down the path towards

the cart.

“Mornin’, Uncle John!” said Theodore. He pulled up the

brakes and got off the cart slowly on the left side as to not

startle Florence.

John Brody, Theodore’s uncle on his Irish mother’s side,

was always pleased to see his favourite nephew. They shook

hands. “Goodness, Theodore. Every day you look more like

your father. Just grow a beard and cut that mop of yours, and

I’d swear William was back from the grave!”

Theodore laughed weakly. “I think I’d rather keep my

looks the way they are.”

“Still don’t like talking about it, do you?” Uncle John just

shook his head. “Some things you just can’t help, Theodore.

You need to make peace with your reflection.”

The words sent disdain slithering through Theodore’s

chest. He turned away to pet Florence, which was sometimes

the only thing to help stifle his anger.

6

True Wytherts were able to spot each other anywhere in

the world by a single familial calling card—they all shared a

similar profile. It was characterised by a remarkably straight

bridge of the nose and the way the lower lip curved into the

chin with a tight C-shape. All Wytherts also had smooth and

delicate facial features overall.

Theodore’s late father, William Wythert was unique in

that he had unflatteringly wide nostrils and the corners of his

mouth were deeply indented, forming smile lines far sooner

than they should have appeared. Most notably, he had thick,

dark eyebrows that hung over his mossy green eyes.

All these features were passed onto Theodore exactly as

they appeared on the original. He even inherited his father’s

broad shoulders and their hands were absolutely identical.

The only thing that had differentiated them was that

William kept his hair short and wore a beard. Theodore

swore to shave his face every day—and every night if it ever

came to it. He had to be different from his father somehow.

Ironically, this obsession only made his facial hair harder to

control over time.

7

After taking a few moments to calm himself, Theodore

looked back at his uncle, mustering up the happiest tone of

voice he could. “I’ve made my peace, Uncle. Nothin’ to worry

about.”

His uncle rubbed his bald head. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Theodore replied with a fake smile that turned

genuine as he watched his uncle’s suspicions subside.

Through events best left forgotten, Uncle John had

learned how poisonous Theodore’s relationship with William

had been.

Together, Theodore and Uncle John decided that no

good could come from speaking ill of the dead, so they kept

Theodore’s mother in the dark about the whole affair. It

would have broken her heart to know what had transpired

between her beloved husband and her dear son.

Uncle John walked around the cart and unlatched the

hatch at the back. “So this is today’s delivery,” he remarked

gravely. “Six chairs. It’s less every time.”

“Ah, business will pick up,” said Theodore as he still

petted Florence, his eyes bright again. “After all, we finally

8

got that Valiard contract. That’s sure to keep us going for a

while.”

Theodore’s resolve made his uncle smile. “Well, you just

make the chairs and I’ll be sure to cover ‘em up best I can.”

“You sure you don’t want to join me tomorrow when I

go to the Valiard Mansion? Everybody says it’s ridiculous how

extravagant it is.”

“Oh! No amount of extravagance can persuade me to go

anywhere near that wretched place.”

“Come now, Uncle John! You don’t believe all those

ghost stories about the Mansion, now do you?”

“Let’s just say I have no interest in finding out if they’re

true.”

Theodore dug his head into Florence’s neck, laughing.

“Besides,” his uncle continued, “I might just join the

ghosts if I ever saw one of ‘em. My constitution wouldn’t be

able to take the shock.” He shivered. “Not a chance! You’re

on your own there, boyo.”

“That settles it!” said Theodore, still laughing. “When I

make my fortune with my furniture shop, I’m buying you the

Valiard Mansion.”

9

“Thank the Lord there’s no chance of that, then.”

They each took two dining chairs and headed inside the

shop. It had a front room with a reception desk, and through

the next door and into the yard was a small greenhouse that

Uncle John had converted into his working space.

Out of nowhere, Theodore felt quite out of breath

carrying the two chairs under his arms. He only just made it

into the greenhouse. He set the chairs down next to some

other bare furniture and leaned against one of the chairs,

catching his breath.

“Theodore? Are you all right?” Uncle John asked.

“I’m grand. It’s just—phew, what was that?” Theodore

tried to shake it off, but he was still a little breathless.

“Come here!” Uncle John slapped his nephew on the

back as if to revive him. “It can’t be the heat. It’s still too cool

out.”

“I must’ve been a little too lively on the cart,” Theodore

replied, wiping his forehead. “I’m so nervous with old

Florence. It’s bound to get to me somehow.”

“Sit down. I’ll have your aunt bring you some tea.”

10

“I’m actually in a hurry. My new apprentice will be

arriving at the workshop any minute now.”

“That’s today?” Uncle John leaned with his fists on his

workbench. “Ah, I don’t understand all this business—you

never needed an apprentice before.”

With his energy slowly returning, Theodore stood

upright. “I’m not really in want of an apprentice, but the man

I spoke to—a short lookin’ bloke—he wouldn’t take no for an

answer. But, I suppose with the restoration project at the

Mansion, now’s a better time than ever to get some help. I

just hope Adam Rosewood’s as hardworkin’ as his dad.”

“Do you think Miss Ru—” Uncle John cleared his throat.

“Do you think the boy’s sister will come?”

Theodore appreciated his uncle’s sensitivity towards

that girl’s name. He didn’t quite fancy hearing it. “Don’t

worry, Uncle. The odds of me seeing her again are very slight.

If she’s succumbed to her mother’s influence—as I know she

must have—she’d die before she set foot in a lowly workshop

again.”

“And if you get back and she’s there? You’ve got to have

a plan for it.”

11

“I do,” Theodore sighed. “I’ll be civil, but I’ll pay her no

real heed. I’ll be stone-faced.”

Uncle John burst out laughing. “Theodore Wythert?

Stone-faced? My boy, you wave your emotions on your face

like a white flag!” He wiped a tear from his eye using the old

rag he had with him.

Theodore smiled to put on a brave face. “In that case, I

still have the ride home to prepare for my untimely

surrender.”

Still chuckling, Uncle John bent down to have a good

look at the engravings of flowers on the wood. “These chairs

are worth much more than what you’re selling them for, you

know. Works of art, they are! I don’t think I’ve quite seen

detail like this anywhere else. You’ve done well to focus on

your artistic talents.”

Theodore realised his uncle was trying to cheer him up,

but it only reminded him of something unpleasant. “Real

men work hard, out in the sun and rain,” he recited bitterly.

Uncle John let out a long groan. “Why do you insist on

hangin’ on to your father’s credo?”

12

“Because he was right. I should have been out there

more often, laying more bricks and planks. Instead I sat flat

on me arse in front of a canvas every chance I got.” He ran

his fingers through his light brown hair then paused to look at

his hands. “If I’d just paid more attention, I’d have learned

from him and taken over the construction business. Imagine!

I’d be a contractor! God knows it’d better money than this.”

He lightly kicked one of the chairs and sent it screeching

three inches to the side.

“You’re giving yourself too much credit,” Uncle John

replied, sympathetically shifting the chair back into place.

“Your father’s business failed. He made too many bad debts

and you laying a few more bricks wouldn’t have changed

that. Besides, you’re much better suited to carpentry! Things

worked out after all.”

Theodore grinned and teased, “You’re only saying that

because you want me to keep bringin’ you plenty of furniture

to upholster, eh?”

“Now I just need to take to making canvasses and we’ll

be set for life!” He chuckled and dusted his apron off.

They headed out the greenhouse and through the shop.

13

When they reached the cart, Theodore went around and

lifted the two remaining chairs off the back. He set them on

the ground to the side so his uncle could take them.

Uncle John nodded towards the horse. “Don’t you let

Florence take you to the Valiard Mansion and back, you

hear? It’s a bit far for her.”

“She’s hardier than she looks.” Theodore closed the

cart’s back hatch and glanced at his dear Florence. “Aren’t

you, girl?”

Florence shook her head, briefly sending her black mane

flying.

Uncle John walked up to the horse and studied her,

slowly waving his hands past her head. “Still favouring her

one eye, is she?”

The horse pulled her head to the side.

“She might not be going blind, you know. Maybe her

problem is a sore neck.” Contradicting his own words,

Theodore climbed onto the cart seat carefully and gradually.

“Quite right,” Uncle John appeased. He reached up and

shook his nephew’s hand. “Take care, though.”

14

“You too, Uncle John.” Theodore grabbed the reins, but

paused as he felt his uncle’s hand on his arm.

“Theodore, I mean it,” said Uncle John in a grim tone.

“You must take care. Whatever you do, promise me you will

not turn your new apprentice away.”

“You know I can’t promise that! If he looks like he can’t

do the work, then—”

“This is no time for dignity! You’re on thin ice now, but

one good word from Mr Rosewood will mean steady business

for you for years to come—and one bad word will shut you

down. You’ve already slighted the young Rosewood lady. The

Rosewoods are people of consequence. You’ll not get away

with wasting their time twice. Now, promise me you will not

turn the boy away.”

After a few seconds, Theodore nodded and replied, “I

promise to think about it.”

This was enough for Uncle John to back off from the

cart. “Don’t turn him away,” he repeated.

Theodore and Florence then set off. The ride back was

the same as the ride in—rickety and slow.

15

After many starts and apologies, Theodore and Florence

finally made it back to the workshop. There was an expensive

black carriage in the road with a dressed-up driver and shiny-

coated horses.

The Rosewoods had already arrived.

Theodore drove the carriage right round the back and

into the yard where the stables were. With little time to

compose himself, he settled into the idea that as long as that

girl weren’t present, the visit would pass by effortlessly.

However, if she did decide to have shown up, he was

determined not to show any sign of emotion.

God forbid she ever found out how he suffered when

they parted.

Theodore put Florence away in her stable, promising

he’d remove her harness later, adding, “Wish me luck, girl.”

Then he took a deep breath and stepped through the

workshop’s back door.

The workshop was a big, open building with shoulder-

high, wooden partitions cordoning off its different sections.

Iron stairs led to a high-up office against the western wall and

there were some old walkways hanging by metal wires from

16

the ceiling overhead. Theodore had tested the walkways too

long ago to vouch for their reliability, but he did really like his

high-up office, so he didn’t dare to bother with the walkways

in case the whole office came crashing down with them.

In the corner adjacent to the workshop’s front door was

a cordoned-off area where the Wytherts received their

guests and clients. It wasn’t much. Three couches, a coffee

table and an old green carpet were really the only indication

that people were supposed to converse there. His mother

and two younger sisters had tried to spruce it up with some

patterned wallpaper, but in a strange way it only made the

room look shabbier. At least Theodore had found the time to

make a pretty mantelpiece for the fireplace and that tended

to distract people enough.

When Theodore turned the corner into the makeshift

drawing room, his eyes darted around to see who his visitors

were. He saw Mr Rosewood, that short Gangfield bloke and

what had to be Adam, all standing in a circle around the

coffee table.

Theodore’s lanky sister, Emily stood off to the side.

17

He immediately felt an enormous sense of relief. So

much so, he broke out into a light laugh.

Emily raised her hands in joy. She was always happy

about everything. “Good, Theodore, you’re here. I’ll get us

some tea.” She then walked out of the drawing room and

into the kitchen right past the next partition. They could hear

her humming the whole time.

Mr Rosewood was fatter than Theodore remembered,

but other than that, he was exactly the same. His blonde hair,

now peppered with streaks of white, was tightly sleeked back

and it seemed he still refused to ditch his moustache.

“Theodore, my boy!” Mr Rosewood exclaimed.

“How do you do, sir?” said Theodore as he shook Mr

Rosewood’s pudgy hand. The old man had a good grip. “It’s

so very good to see you after so long.”

“I say, would you just listen to that Irish accent!” said Mr

Rosewood. “All that time you spent in Dublin, I wouldn’t

wonder.”

“Well, that and me Mam,” Theodore replied, allowing

himself to feel a little self-conscious. He was always

18

hopelessly unable to keep a decidedly English accent tacked

on for long, especially after speaking to Uncle John.

He then greeted Mr Gangfield. Now there was a fellow

who was too confident for it to be natural. Whenever Mr

Gangfield bared that lopsided smirk of his, Theodore felt he

wouldn’t trust the man with a pinch of salt. The bloke’s

manners were dignified, kind and open, but something about

it was disingenuous. In fact, Theodore had prepared himself

for the possibility that this meeting with the Rosewoods

would have turned out to be a farce.

Luckily for Mr Gangfield, it came to pass in the end.

Young Adam was a sore sight. It was clear he wasn’t too

happy about being there. Mr Rosewood introduced Adam to

Theodore, but the boy was interrupted before he could say

anything.

“Gangfield!” Mr Rosewood boasted, proudly holding his

hand waist-high, “I have known Mr Theodore Wythert since

he was this tall!” He then turned back to Theodore. “Now

look at you! You are as tall as your father. And the spitting

image of him as well!” Mr Rosewood narrowed his eyes and

studied Theodore’s face. “Goodness—spitting image indeed.”

19

Theodore felt that familiar sting of contempt in his gut.

Mr Rosewood cleared his throat and became serious for

a brief moment. “Dreadful business about your father. Your

sister tells me his heart gave in quite suddenly.”

“It did, sir,” said Theodore. “About two years ago now.”

“Poor chap! It must have been quite a shock for you.

Having your father be fine one instant, then gone the next.”

“I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“No, of course you weren’t,” said Mr Rosewood, puffing

his chest uneasily. “Well! William was a good man. He is

certainly missed.”

Theodore nodded mechanically. “Thank you, sir.”

“So!” cried Mr Rosewood, back to his cheery self. “Do

you think you can whip our Adam into shape?”

Theodore quickly studied Adam. The boy was no more

than a bag of sand! He didn’t stand upright and his limbs

hung lifeless at his sides. His eyes showed no spark. Given a

choice, Theodore would have kicked the boy right out the

front door.

But the time had come for Theodore to swallow his

pride, however difficult it proved.

20

“May take some time,” said Theodore. He addressed

Adam, “We’ll be happy to have you here. I’m sure you’ll earn

your wage.”

Mr Rosewood chuckled. “Oh, nonsense! There is no

need for that. I will give him whatever he earns.”

Finally, Adam showed some expression, albeit only

raised eyebrows.

“It’s all right,” said Theodore. “He’ll have his wage, same

as everyone else.”

“Not at all! You are already doing us a favour. I will be

sure to give him a spot.”

“Then he’ll get paid twice.”

Mr Rosewood lowered his voice. “Theodore, my boy…

surely what you can offer Adam is negligible.”

“Negligible, maybe. But fair—definitely.” Theodore

didn’t hesitate at his response at all. He turned to Adam.

“You work, you get paid.”

Mr Rosewood appeared a little shocked and spoke

without his usual enthusiasm. “If you insist.”

Theodore immediately felt a tinge of remorse for his

sudden defiance against Mr Rosewood’s wishes, but,

21

however unintentional, Mr Rosewood insulted Theodore’s

living in front of his soon-to-be employee. Only a coward

would take that lying down.

Nothing was said after that. Mr Rosewood stayed quiet,

frowning slightly. Adam’s mouth fought off a grin.

Emily thankfully walked in with a tea tray and broke the

silence. “Goodness, it’s quiet in here!” she proclaimed

cheerily. She bent far over to put the tray on the coffee table

and snapped up, resting her long arms on her hips. Her wide

mouth was stretched into a smile. “Shall you have your tea

now or shall I get the girls?”

Mr Gangfield was the only one to reply, and even then it

took him a few moments. “We shall wait. Thank you, Miss

Wythert.”

Emily nodded obliviously and left.

“So, Mr Wythert,” Mr Gangfield began in an effort to

save the conversation, “you said before that you are doing

some work at Valiard Mansion?”

Theodore was happy to return to civilities. “Tomorrow

I’ll be startin’ some restoration on the furniture down there.

It’s why I could use the extra help.”

22

Finally Adam spoke, and even did so with some

enthusiasm. “The Valiard Mansion? Wait, you mean the

ghost house? Down by the river?”

Theodore nodded and smiled. “That’s the one.”

Mr Rosewood, much to Theodore’s relief, joined the

conversation. “Oh, Adam, it is not as bad as all that.”

Mr Gangfield flashed Theodore a sly smirk. “Do you

believe in ghost stories, Mr Wythert?”

“Only the interesting ones,” Theodore joked.

“Oh, good, then. The Valiard Mansion is plenty

interesting.” Mr Gangfield droned, sounding unnecessarily

dramatic. “A fire mysteriously broke out, sending all but one

Valiard to their ashen graves. And that one survivor—”

“He hanged himself, right?” Theodore finished as

blatantly as possible.

Mr Gangfield shrugged. “They never found his body. He

just… disappeared.”

Why on earth was Mr Gangfield taking a ghost story so

seriously? Was he just being a showman or was he really that

strange?

23

Not that the latter would be such a shock to Theodore’s

system.

At least Adam seemed entertained. Theodore was

pleased to see some life in the boy. He’d never have guessed

Adam was one for haunted mansions.

Just then, Emily popped back into the room and happily

proclaimed, “Look who I found!”

Theodore turned around and smiled, expecting to see

his youngest sister. Instead he got an eyeful of a purse-lipped

redhead dressed in pink.

Ruth Rosewood.

Theodore’s body turned ice cold as his train of thought

abandoned him. He was immediately transfixed.

The last time he’d seen Ruth, she was still very much a

little girl. She used to run everywhere in her knee-high frocks,

the pink ribbons in her loose curls bouncing and trailing

behind her.

But what had walked into the drawing room just then

was a fully-developed woman. Ruth’s round cheeks had given

way to a sharp face and her high cheekbones curved into

24

neatly arched eyebrows. Her hair was pulled up into a bun on

top of her head without a ribbon in sight.

She had also graduated from wearing flat and square

bodices to having her waist squeezed tightly into a fetching

hourglass shape. Theodore had seen such fashion on

countless other women and liked it enough, but seeing it on

Ruth was particularly disarming. It absolutely shattered the

image of the young girl he knew so well in his memory.

After their tumultuous parting years before, Theodore

expected with every ounce of certainty that the very sight of

Ruth would have disgusted him.

Instead he stood

motionless, enchanted. He still

found her every bit as

hypnotising as the first time he

watched her walk into the

workshop—though, admittedly,

his reasons for that had

drastically changed since then.

They were only little children

when they first met.

25

Ruth, however, didn’t even attempt to look back at him.

Her cheeks were flushed against her pale face. She stood

with her hands firmly clasped together and her chin sharply

pointed in the air.

Mr Rosewood beamed, probably at the unlikely sight of

seeing both Theodore and Ruth in the same room. “Ruth,

look—can you believe it? Look at how tall Theodore is!”

Ruth merely glanced at Theodore, her blue-green eyes

piercing his for but a moment. “Mr Wythert,” she greeted

coldly. She then immediately looked away, appearing wholly

absorbed in whatever speck on the floor she was focused on.

Theodore remembered the anatomy of Ruth’s face well.

Her mouth was pulled into a small triangle and her eyebrows

were even more arched than usual. It was obvious to him

that after all those years, she felt she still had enough reason

to act wounded.

A smile spread across Theodore’s face. Hope silently

crept into his racing heart.

Little Lynnie, Theodore’s youngest sister, appeared from

behind Ruth. “I showed Miss Rosewood around the house.

26

We’ve cleaned up the yard a lot since you were last here,

didn’t we, Miss Rosewood?”

Theodore feared Little Lynnie might have gotten the

same icy treatment from the well-to-do Miss Rosewood,

since the thirteen-year-old girl was messily dressed and her

brown hair always managed to hide her right eye.

But Ruth was perfectly sweet in her dealings with

Lynnie. “Yes! Much less hazardous, I must admit,” she said

with a warm smile.

Her smile momentarily broke the restraint of her

controlled movements. Theodore caught a glimpse of what

he was missing, but her relaxed grace didn’t last for long. She

was quickly back to her cold ways.

Emily laughed. “It’s so good to see you again, Miss

Rosewood! I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in—

oh, how long has it been?”

“Eight years,” chimed Theodore and Ruth in unison.

Ruth immediately rearranged her clasped hands and

stared ahead of her in dead silence.

Theodore intently watched her still, desperately longing

for her to just look in his general direction.

27

It became clear to him that eight years drove a wedge

between them big enough to make Ruth effortlessly

disregard her childhood friend.

“Right,” said Emily, finally catching on to the

uncomfortable atmosphere. “Eight years! It’s really been so

long, then, eh?”

Ruth nodded. “I’m only sorry that Mrs Wythert isn’t

home.”

“Oh, I’m not married!” Theodore blurted.

Ruth finally spun to face him. Her puzzled expression

clearly questioned whether he really was that daft. “I meant

your mother,” she explained, frowning—probably in equal

parts anger and confusion.

“Right!” cried Theodore. “Yeah, she’s, uh—she’s out.”

He grinned and wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his

trousers.

Remarkably, Ruth looked even more annoyed than

before. She shook her head in disgusted disbelief and turned

back to face the rest of the party.

28

Mr Rosewood swept in to unintentionally save the

mishap. “So, Theodore! Shall we leave Adam here so you two

can get to work?”

Theodore finally looked away from the agitated woman.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any work for Adam today, sir. Work

starts tomorrow, when we go to the Mansion.”

“Only tomorrow?” Adam asked in alarm. He appeared

genuinely disappointed.

Mr Rosewood was urged on by his son’s sudden change

of mood. “Excellent! We shall have Adam here first thing in

the morning, then.”

“Forgive me, Mr Rosewood. I didn’t mean for all this

fuss,” Theodore explained, his uncle’s warnings ringing in his

mind. “Today was more of an interview than anything else.”

“Did you hear that, Gangfield?” cried Mr Rosewood with

a hearty laugh. “Adam passed his first job interview!”

Mr Gangfield nodded and then smiled at Ruth, who was

more than happy to return the favourable gesture.

Even the tiny man with the skew face got better

treatment from Ruth than Theodore did. It immediately

ticked Theodore off.

29

All was settled and Theodore walked his visitors to their

shiny carriage, his two sisters not far behind. He watched in

disbelief as Ruth allowed that Gangfield man to help her into

her seat.

“Well, Theodore,” said Mr Rosewood before he got in.

“I’m happy to see you’ve grown up so well. William would be

proud!”

Theodore, with some effort, kept a straight face. “Thank

you, sir. That’s kind of you to say.” He could have sworn Ruth

glanced at him just then, but she looked away again too

quickly for him to be sure.

The carriage tilted with impressive suspension under Mr

Rosewood’s weight as he got in. “Send my regards to your

mother.”

“I will, sir.”

The carriage then started moving.

Emily and Little Lynnie happily waved good-bye, but

Theodore stood stunned, a strong sense of loss overpowering

him.

The carriage then turned a corner and was out of sight.

30

“Oh!” cried Little Lynnie. “How smart Miss Ruth is! She

remembered me right away.”

Emily bumped her shoulder against Theodore’s. “Well

done, brother,” she teased, flipping her yellow hair. “You

were very charming! Ruth’ll definitely show her face here

again.” Of course she’d caught on. She was nineteen, after

all, and probably had enough experience with her own

emotions to know exactly what Theodore was thinking.

“Please be quiet, Emily,” Theodore sighed.

“Well, maybe we can save your chances with Ruth if we

matched Lynnie up with Adam, eh?”

Little Lynnie whipped around, her arms crossed. “Oh,

he’s so dull!”

Theodore didn’t like the sound of it at all. “My baby

sister with that wet towel? I’d sooner see Emily with that

Gangfield man.” He paused. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?”

Little Lynnie groaned. “I tried talking to Adam—I really

tried—but goodness, he was quiet. I don’t think he cares

much for any type of conversation.”

“And that smirk of his,” Theodore mumbled. “I don’t

trust ‘im.”

31

“Were we even in the same room?” Little Lynnie asked,

looking at her brother as if he were crazy. “Adam didn’t

smile—not once.”

“I’m talking about that Gangfield man.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Emily. “I think Mr Gangfield has

a very nice smile.”

“He does if you like the look of those villains you see in

children’s books.”

Emily laughed. “I’m sorry, come again? Theodore—

you’re jealous!”

32

He didn’t even bother arguing. “I didn’t like him before,

but I admit, I like him a lot less after seeing him with Ruth.

How could she smile at him, but not me?”

Emily swiftly slapped her brother on the back of his

head. “Oh, dash it, Theodore! I’ve already had a lifetime of

this nonsense. If I have to listen to you gripe about Ruth one

more time, I will have a fit. There is a very simple solution to

all of this—you just don’t have the bottle to make it happen!”

She then turned around and headed back inside the

workshop, humming another tune.

Little Lynnie, so named because she was short for her

age, never let her size deter her from always speaking her

mind. “Emily’s right, you know. Whenever you’re reminded

of Miss Ruth, you end up moping for three days.”

“I do not.” He still helplessly stared down the road

where the carriage had turned.

“Yes, you do! You become all quiet and drag your feet

and sit alone in your room for hours—and then the crazy

dragon drawings start piling up. You know you do it!”

Theodore scratched his head. “Not every time?”

33

“Every. Time.” Little Lynnie looked up at him earnestly.

“Even I can see this isn’t normal, and most of the time I’m

only using one eye.” She wrapped her tiny fingers around

Theodore’s hand. “Maybe this is a sign. Mam always tells me

if you love something, you let it go. None of my wild pets

ever came back to me, but Miss Ruth came back to you.”

He squeezed his sister’s hand. “That’s a nice thought,

Little Lynnie. Thank you. That’s cheered me right up.”

“If it’s cheered you up, why do you still look so sad?”

“I look sad, do I?”

She nodded.

Theodore knelt down and took his baby sister by her

shoulders. He took a breath to say something, but she

interrupted him.

“Oh! Please marry Miss Ruth!” Lynnie cried excitedly,

pointing down the road. “She’s right there. And what fun

we’d have with her as a sister!”

He sighed, but mustered up a smile. “It’s just—it’s not

that simple, you see.”

“Why do adults always say that? You know, sometimes I

wonder if you didn’t come back from Ireland stupider

34

because you’ve grown up. You’re just complicating it in your

mind, that’s all.” She patted him on the head to make her

point.

Finally, Theodore genuinely laughed. “Go help your

sister, will you? I need to check in with Florence.”

Little Lynnie gave Theodore a sceptical look and then

hugged him. Still kneeling, he watched his baby sister run

inside and a thought entered his mind:

It’s not that simple, but it sure as hell should be.

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2013 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever.

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

(reference to http://The-Ez.deviantART.com will suffice) and the distributor does not make any profit as a

result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

CHAPTER 3

Ruth let out a sigh of relief as the carriage stopped outside the

Rosewood house.

At last, she was home!

The ride back was unbearable. As if having to deal with her embarrassing

encounter with Theodore wasn’t enough, she could feel Gangfield peering at

her all the way home.

Gangfield always revelled in the chance to laugh at people. She could tell

she was his new favourite joke.

Adam slid out of the carriage first, followed by his father and then

Gangfield, who finally helped Ruth get out. The hem of her frock always caught

on the step, so she appreciated the assistance.

Mr Rosewood wasted no time in parading his son inside the house—to

announce their triumphant return, no doubt.

Left behind with Gangfield, Ruth’s mind wandered far away. Her visit to

the workshop unearthed some long-forgotten memories. She slowly strolled

down the path, uncharacteristically entranced by the little cobblestones

beneath her feet.

Gangfield practically jumped in front of her, blocking her way. She didn’t

even flinch the first time, but the second time he cut her off, she looked up at

him and discovered he appeared extremely amused.

She decided she had enough of his silent teasing. “Gangfield!” she

snapped with a frown. “Is there something on your mind?”

“There is always something on my mind, my dear. Perhaps you mean to

ask me why I keep staring at you.”

“Well, why?” she demanded.

“Why what?”

“Why are you staring at me, sir?” She grew even more irritated with the

sun sparkling through the trees and straight into her eyes.

He clasped his hands together. “Ah! I am very glad you asked me that.

Indeed I am staring at you to find out what on earth Mr Wythert found so very

fascinating about you.”

Ruth felt her face heat up.

“I think he was gaping at your eyes, but Dennis is convinced the

woodworker was distracted by the kink in your hair.”

Ruth gasped and briskly brushed her fringe aside, accidently sending

more stray hairs into her eyelashes. “Oh, Gangfield! I do not have the energy

or the mental faculties right now to even consider Theodore Wythert—or your

little rat. Mr Byron is coming tonight and I am about to die of embarrassment

and nerves as it is.”

Just as she said the words, she actually reminded herself of Mr Byron’s

inevitable visit. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten again. Straight out of

the blue, a slight panic came upon her.

Gangfield rubbed his nose in an attempt to hide his grin. “You have no

reason to be worried.”

“Worried? I am long past worried. Mr Byron is the first bachelor to call

here in over a year.”

“Ah, yes, and I am just the cheery slice of ham that drops by several

times every week.”

“Alright, fine. Mr Byron is the first eligible bachelor—”

“What makes you think I am not eligible?”

She ignored him. “This may be the last chance I have to snap up a

husband. Soon I shall turn twenty-five and it will all be over for me.”

“Twenty-five is still very young, my dear,” replied Gangfield with a warm

certainty.

“I shall trespass on my family’s kindness for as long as I breathe—surely

they would wish me dead by the time I am thirty.” She held her throat.

“I doubt they would wish you dead.”

“And when my parents are gone, I will have to rely on Adam.” She

gasped. “Lord, I shall die in destitution!” She then let out a sound that

resembled a whimper.

“Alright, I get it,” Gangfield sighed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ruth immediately stood upright and waved her hand at her friend. “No!

No, you shall not help me ever again. You make me laugh at them, Gangfield—

every time you make me laugh. I cannot afford to see Mr Byron in a ridiculous

light. God willing he shall be my husband. I declare it to be so.”

At first Gangfield laughed, but he quickly stopped, opting to squint

instead. “My! You are serious about this.”

Down the path, Mrs Rosewood flung open the front door of the house

and marched towards Ruth and Gangfield with purpose to her every step.

The pathway suddenly seemed very short.

Ruth’s eyes grew wide and she whipped back around, whispering loudly,

“Oh, no! Here comes Mama. Pray, do not leave me alone with her. She shall

surely wring my neck the first chance she gets.”

“Surely she shall,” he whispered back, “if you declare it to be so.” He

quickly flashed Ruth a teasing smile then he turned to Mrs Rosewood,

beaming. “Mrs Rosewood! How good it is to see you again.”

Mrs Rosewood momentarily hesitated at the sight of him. She smiled

and nodded, then looked at her daughter with supressed hostility. “Mr

Gangfield, would you mind if I borrowed Ruth for a moment?”

Gangfield, much at ease with thinking on his feet, replied immediately, “I

am afraid, Madam, that I cannot spare her. Miss Ruth has promised me that

she would help me find a certain book in Mr Rosewood’s library.”

Mrs Rosewood did her best to stay composed. “Surely, that can wait.”

“I must be on my way very soon,” Gangfield explained, Ruth nodding

along at his side. “I give you my word I will not keep her long.” He started

walking towards the front door with Ruth trailing closely behind.

Ruth smiled nervously at Mrs Rosewood, but it did not have the same

potency as Gangfield’s gracious grins.

Gangfield bore with Ruth stumbling over his heels all the way into Mr

Rosewood’s study, where Ruth slammed the door shut behind them.

She rested her back against the door and wiped her face. Her hands

trembled a little.

Gangfield stood in the centre of the room wearing a pleasant, unfazed

sort of countenance. “Thank you for making it obvious that I was lying—you

looked like a young child caught in the pantry.” He walked past the desk and

towards one of the shelves, browsing through the book titles.

“I could not help it,” Ruth defended. “She scares the living daylights out

of me.”

“You should not have snuck off like you did.”

Ruth wrinkled her nose and walked a bit closer to Gangfield to study his

expression. “Are you… Gangfield, are you scolding me?”

He grew slightly less serious as he took a book off the shelf and opened

it. “You should not have snuck off,” he repeated.

“How dare you accuse me of something like that,” she replied, her voice

shaking consistently with the guilty smile spreading across her face. “I did not

sneak off, sir!” She crossed her arms. “I did not.”

“I completely agree. Sneaking implies some degree of stealth.”

Ruth flared her nostrils, suddenly feeling a little offended. “I simply left

of my own accord—and my mother happened to disagree with my decision.”

Finally, her friend looked at her, doing so with mischief in his eyes. “Your

impulsivity will get you into trouble someday, my dear.”

She inescapably felt like a little child—this did not sit well with her. “I

shall not stand for this,” she snapped, flicking her fringe out of her face. “I shall

not have you correct me.”

“If I were correcting you,” he replied, paging through the book in his

hands, “I would have sent you to stand in the corner for ten minutes.” He shut

the book and slowly put it back in its place. “No, I am simply reminding you

that your days of brashness and immaturity are over. If you wish to be

somebody’s wife, then—”

“I do wish to be somebody’s wife, but I fail to see what input you can

possibly offer on the subject.”

Gangfield, his arm still resting on one of the shelves, looked at Ruth,

then at the books, then back to Ruth again. He then shook his head.

Ruth sniffed defiantly. Somehow she thought this made her come across

as imposing.

He sighed and backed away from the books. Approaching her, his face

flooded with an apprehension she had never seen in him before. He even

hesitated before speaking. “My dear,” he said in a low voice. “Very few men

will treat you as I do.”

His sudden solemnity overshadowed whatever bitterness she allowed

herself to cling on to. “What do you mean?” she asked, her curiosity getting

the better of her.

He came in closer, a slight line appearing between his eyebrows. “Suffice

to say—” he stared off past her for a bit before continuing, “others will let you

get away with much less.” His face brightened. “You are impertinent, Miss

Ruth.” His mouth pulled into his signature skew smile. “And if you hope to

hook Mr Byron in tonight, you will have to watch what you say.”

Impertinent! Ruth was immediately enraged, but the mention of Mr

Byron’s name quickly brought her back down below boiling point. She nodded

calmly. “I know what to do.”

Did she?

“Good.” Gangfield’s smile grew wider and, with his eyes still on Ruth, he

reached his right arm to the side and plucked out a random book from the

bookshelf. He held it up by his face. “I’ll take this one.” His hands whipped

behind his back and instantly reappeared completely empty. “All gone!” he

proclaimed as he beamed in expectation.

Ruth sighed and rolled her eyes. She turned and headed for the door,

glancing back to beckon him to follow.

Gangfield sniffed and adjusted his coat collar. “You know, normally that

gets an applause. Do you know how long it took me to learn that trick?”

“Oh, yes, that trick that every magician on earth can do,” she said,

walking out of the room.

“Completely impertinent!” was Gangfield’s reply as he followed. “For

that you shall stand in the corner, Miss!”

Ruth managed to scuffle behind Gangfield for the next half-hour, very

appreciative of his allowing her to keep near him. She successfully avoided a

heated confrontation with her mother, who became visibly passive as time

went on.

Mr Rosewood surprisingly helped the matter a great deal when he

gathered everyone together on the veranda to share with Mrs Rosewood the

happenings of the trip into town.

When Gangfield got seated amongst the party, Mrs Rosewood

suspiciously questioned him about his insisting earlier that he had somewhere

to be, to which he replied coolly that he had “simply miscalculated the time,

madam”.

Mrs Rosewood definitely doubted him, but she always cut off

conversations with him as quickly as she could, especially when Mr Rosewood

was near.

Ruth felt a little nervous that her father would blurt out whatever he

observed taking place between her and Theodore. Surely, if he took notice of

their strained interactions, he would love to tell his wife, since he was so very

convinced the reserved woman shared his sense of humour.

But it soon became apparent that Mr Rosewood was ignorant of Ruth’s

shame. Instead he told Mrs Rosewood all he could remember about the

Wytherts’ workshop. He spent a good while listing the various alterations

made to the workshop to facilitate furniture-making—this he curiously found

fascinating—as well as the virtues that any man would learn in such a humble

place.

Ruth glanced over at her brother. Adam had been caught in a state of

blissful reflection ever since they left the workshop. Although he was finally

partaking in the general conversation his family conducted, he didn’t

personally mention anything about their visit to the workshop. A word or two

about the Valiard Mansion was said in passing, but that was as close as he got

to speaking of the trip.

At least he seemed pleased.

Then Mr Rosewood mentioned how kind and obliging Theodore was.

“And upon my word, how strict he is!” he added, with some visible offense.

This immediately gave way to a realisation and a chuckle. “The perfect sort of

teacher for Adam if I ever saw one. Yes, indeed!”

Ruth saw her brother’s expression grow even more contented and

peaceful at this remark. It seemed seeing Theodore had a much better effect

on Adam than it ever could on her.

Mrs Rosewood was not at all interested in any description of the

workshop, but she did become slightly more animated when the conversation

turned to discussing Mr Theodore Wythert. Things and places she hated

discussing, but people were a favourite subject. “What a dreadful, unkempt

boy he always was. Quiet and unassuming, to be sure, but never well-dressed,

even when he meant to be. Do you remember when we gifted one of your old

suits to him, Mr Rosewood? He still did not look quite right.” She closed her

eyes as she flapped her fan faster. “But, I suppose that was to be expected.”

She opened her eyes and frowned. “Pray, has that unkempt mess found

himself an unkempt wife?”

“Oh, he’s not married!” declared Gangfield with restrained pleasure,

mimicking Theodore’s tone when the carpenter had proclaimed it himself.

“Definitely not married, madam! He said so himself. I was there.” He glanced

over at Ruth with a playful grin. “He said, madam, ‘Oh, I’m not married!’—just

like that.”

Ruth felt herself glowing red and wished for nothing more than to bury

her head in a grave. She was grateful to see nobody else’s expressions change

at Gangfield’s jokes, but perhaps that was because he deliberately

underplayed them. It just went to show that Gangfield’s only object was to

make her suffer in silence, stopping short of exposing her shame to her

mother.

The ever-dignified Mr Gangfield, it turned out, even teased with

cordiality.

“Well,” said Mrs Rosewood with much conviction, “I do feel very sorry

for poor Mr Wythert. He was quite fond of dear Ruth, but naturally we could

not spare her in favour of… well, you know—”

“Mama!” Ruth snapped.

Suddenly, the conversation stopped dead in its tracks.

Ruth felt the icy chill of regret as she watched her mother’s eyes grow

wider. “Um!” she slowly recovered, “Mama, something just popped into my

mind.” She looked over at Gangfield before continuing. “Did you remember to

leave nuts out of tonight’s meal?”

Mrs Rosewood’s expression immediately changed from appalled to only

slightly annoyed. “Of course, I remembered, Ruth.” She went back to fanning

herself. “Had you been here, you might have known that.”

Wonderful. Ruth could only ever get deeper into trouble with her

mother.

Mrs Rosewood turned to the rest of them and explained, “Mr Byron is

allergic to nuts.”

The men nodded together politely with an “ah” and an “oh” and Mrs

Rosewood smiled gracefully, all too pleased with their acknowledgement of

her accommodating nature.

Mr Rosewood then said, “Goodness! All this commotion with Adam and

his new occupation,” he quickly beamed at his son, “and I clean forgot about

Mr Byron coming for dinner tonight. Say, Mr Gangfield, you absolutely must

join us!”

Gangfield’s face instantaneously contorted into a smirk.

Ruth was mortified. She glared at her friend as if she were warding off

evil spirits. All she could think about was the myriad of ways Gangfield’s

presence could ruin her very last chance to grab a husband. The magician was

a loose cannon at the best of times—he always found a way to make her laugh

at her suitors. This would normally be all fine and well, but Ruth could not

afford to laugh anymore. The joke was finally over and Gangfield just didn’t

seem to understand that yet.

“What a splendid idea, Mr Rosewood!” exclaimed Mrs Rosewood after

thinking it over for a moment. “It would certainly make Mr Byron feel more

comfortable if he weren’t the only young man at the table.” She finally

addressed Gangfield, but not without giggling. “Honestly, we do not want Mr

Byron to feel interrogated!”

Gangfield nodded. “Only if it is alright with Miss Ruth.”

Everybody looked at her in expectation, except for Adam who gladly

stared at the sheets hanging from the washing line.

Ruth swallowed and bared her teeth in an attempt to look pleasant. “Of

course, Mr Gangfield, you must come,” she screeched, shaking her head

profusely. “That is, if you do not have something else to do tonight. Surely, a

man like you must be very busy.” She kept shaking her head, albeit more subtly

after a while.

Everyone except Adam then turned to Gangfield. He was visibly

calculating some outcome in his mind. After a few seconds, he replied with

much alacrity, “I am never too busy for you, Miss Ruth! I accept your

invitation.”

Mr and Mrs Rosewood expressed their joy at having an extra guest that

night, which beckoned Adam to snap out of his daze and lazily ask what they

were so happy about.

Meanwhile, Ruth’s mouth hung open. She may have been impertinent,

but Gangfield was downright ridiculous. No doubt his only motivation was to

witness another of Ruth’s encounters with the opposite sex to add ammunition

to his teasing.

Feeling that familiar panic come back to bite her, Ruth abruptly excused

herself. She did not even look back to watch Gangfield’s reaction.

Mrs Rosewood excused herself as well and followed Ruth inside the

house. “Ruth, wait.”

Ruth paused, turned and said, “Mama, I am sorry I snuck out this

morning, alright? I could not watch Adam leave without me to look out for

him. I just could not do it.”

Mrs Rosewood nodded and closed the door behind her. “I know. Now

stop interrupting me so I can speak.”

Ruth let her shoulders drop, mentally fortifying herself for the scolding

she had done so well to avoid all afternoon.

“Ruth—did you see him?”

“Who?” Ruth asked, a little taken aback by her mother’s calm tone.

“Ruth! Did you see Theodore Wythert?”

Ruth nodded, but said nothing and made no eye contact. She started to

twiddle her thumbs.

Mrs Rosewood’s voice grew even softer. “If I knew he was going to be

there, I would really never have let you go.”

“I would not have wanted to go.”

“I hope you put him in his place,” Mrs Rosewood sighed sympathetically.

Ruth smiled, her eyes still on the floor. “In a way.”

“And I hope he did not have any effect on you.”

“Indeed, I shall never see him again if I can help it.”

“Good. The last thing you need is to get caught up in the past.” Mrs

Rosewood then collected herself and spoke with more confidence. “Now we

must focus on tonight!” She walked up to Ruth and brushed her daughter’s

fringe aside. “Do not look so vexed. I shall be there at every tick to back you

up.”

Ruth looked up, a mixture of pain and excitement wrenching her face.

Mrs Rosewood smiled and gently shook Ruth to liven her up. “Come, let

us catch you a man! I want to have to leave this house to see you. God knows

we have little hope for Adam.”

Ruth sighed. “He will be fine.”

“Yes, with a sister like you looking over his shoulder.” She kissed her

daughter on the forehead. “I swear my brain shall rot when you take off. You

keep me on my feet, Miss Ruth!”

“You keep me on mine, Mama.”

Mrs Rosewood, satisfied that Ruth’s spirits were in a good state, then

headed back outside, but Ruth chose not to follow.

Instead she headed upstairs and into her bedroom. Checking up and

down the hall to make sure nobody was around, she quickly closed the door.

She then stood for some time in front of her closet mirror and tried to

practice for her upcoming meeting with Mr Byron.

She mentally replaced her reflection with that of a 40-year-old bachelor

with waxed whiskers and waistcoat buttons clinging on for dear life.

Holding out her hand, she greeted her imaginary visitor. “Hello, Mr

Byron! Good to meet you—ugh, no! Stop blurting everything out, Ruth!

“Stop—” she sighed, “—stop being impertinent.”

She took a deep breath and tried again, this time with the warmest smile

she could conjure up. “Good evening, Mr Byron. What an enormous pleasure it

is to finally meet you.” She dusted her hands off. “Ah, much better.”

Then came the matter of refining her posture. It started out well as she

turned from side to side, pulling her shoulders far back, but she soon got

distracted by a wiry hair above her left temple. She licked her fingers and

pulled at it to straighten it, but it curled even tighter against her forehead.

This beckoned her to move in closer to the mirror. She started checking

the usual things. Her skin was clear, her teeth were clean and she ran her

finger over her one eyebrow to make sure all the hairs went in the same

direction.

She then looked her reflection in the eyes and was immediately

reminded what she and Gangfield had in common.

“Oh, I’m not married,” she mimicked Theodore in a deep voice, laughing

at how poor her Irish accent was. She even ensured to attempt a manly frown.

“Nope, nope, far too busy makin’ chairs to find me an unkempt wife!”

It’s always so much easier to laugh at something embarrassing when

you’re on your own.

Thoughts of Theodore flooded her head and she started to wish with

everything in her she actually got a good look at him, since it appeared at a

glance that he had changed quite a bit since they last parted.

Then again, given enough time in his presence, she might have ended up

kicking him in the shin.

Would have served him right for all his foolishness.

Soon she gave up on preening herself and spent the rest of the

afternoon pacing up and down in her room, eventually carrying one of her

pillows along so she could bury her face in it whenever the embarrassment

was too much for her to take.

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever.

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

(reference to http://The-Ez.deviantART.com will suffice) and the distributor does not make any profit as a

result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

CHAPTER 4

Evening came and it was time to get ready for dinner. Ruth once again

sat at her mirror, only partially dressed but determined to straighten out the

chaos that was her hair. “Millie!” she cried as she pulled at her fringe. “Millie,

do hand me the scissors. Here is a wild strand—right here—that needs my

immediate attention. It just simply will not stay put and I am going to go mad!”

Millie approached her and quietly reminded her, “Miss Ruth, the cut

strands will simply grow back and will bother you all the same again in a few

weeks.”

“But it keeps tangling in my eyelashes. No, I need the scissors.”

“I will gladly cut it for you myself, Miss Ruth, but please let me try to fix

it my way first.”

Ruth agreed, groaning in frustration. “It will do no good, you shall see. I

have tried everything.”

Millie took a fine-toothed comb from the dresser and carefully combed

through Ruth’s fringe until the wild strand was in place.

Ruth looked in the mirror in disbelief. “I can see!” she cried. “Millie, you

work miracles, you do!” She shook her head a few times to make sure the

strand would not escape and she was delighted when it did not. But then Ruth

noticed that the bow on her gown was skew. She tried to straighten it, but it

did not stay put. It just slouched back into its sad state. “Millie, we might need

the scissors after all.”

Millie was mortified. “Miss Ruth, please! You cannot cut your—” She

sighed. “You’ll be late. We must get you ready, Miss.”

“Quite right! I can deal with this later.” She raised an eyebrow at the tiny

silk bow, then suddenly hopped up.

Millie started to lace Ruth’s corset. Millie was a mousy girl of about

Ruth’s age, and she had very small but strong hands—strong enough to rein a

corset so tightly, Ruth felt her ribcage shrink a size a day.

However, breathing problems were the last thing on Ruth’s mind at that

moment.

“Perhaps this Mr Byron fellow will be the one,” said Millie.

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Or he will be an embittered older man with

nothing more on his mind than my dowry. And then he will run for the hills

after spending five minutes with me—just like they all do.” She let out a heave

as Millie pulled the corset even tighter. “Why do you think that is?”

“Why do I think what, Miss?” Millie said reverently as she tied the corset

off.

“Why does every man who calls on me eventually disappear?”

The maid wrung her tiny hands, genuinely startling Ruth with the sound

of her crackling knuckles. “I cannot say, Miss.”

“I mean, I think I am pleasant enough. I must be doing something wrong,

but I cannot glean what it is.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Millie probably struggled to find

something appropriate to say. “Have you spoken to Mrs Rosewood about this,

Miss? She might have some advice for you.”

Ruth was a little disappointed at Millie’s eventual response, but she was

quick to admit that the thought had crossed her mind, adding, “Oh, but Mama

worries enough, what with Adam and everything.” She ran her hands across

her squeezed waist as if it would help. “I would much rather have her think

nothing of all of this.”

Mille held up a big bustle. “She is your mother, Miss Ruth. She knows.”

Ruth then got dressed in silence, neither she nor Millie breathing

another word in conversation, but she could tell Millie was clearly unhappy

about something. When she was ready and dressed, she couldn’t help but

check up on her maid. “Millie, are you alright? You have become deathly quiet

all of a sudden.”

Mille started to say something in reply, but stopped herself.

“What?” Ruth beckoned with a smile. “What is it, Millie? Tell me.”

Millie shook her head. “I don’t want to upset Miss Ruth before Mr Byron

comes.”

“I’m already upset,” replied she with a sigh, but still smiling. “You can tell

me.”

“Well,” Mille began, “It’s just I heard that Master Adam is… Well, I heard

you saw Mr Theodore Wythert today.”

Ruth laughed hopelessly. “Do you wish to mock me as well?”

“Not at all, Miss.”

Ruth stayed quiet and played with her necklace, her heart beating a little

faster at the mention of Theodore’s name.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me, Miss.”

“No, Millie, it is fine. I simply did not expect Mr Wythert to still be a

talking point downstairs. You have not been here a month and even you know

about him.” Ruth had the strength to smile knowingly. “So! What have the

others told you?”

“Not much,” said Millie. A slightly dreamy smile appeared on her face.

“Just that you were very fond of Mr Wythert.”

“I was.” Ruth surprised herself with how whimsical that sounded.

“I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of place, Miss,” Millie began, looking a bit

nervous. “I’ve just always wondered, and it never came up before... Just, if you

were so fond of him, why did you end it?”

Ruth let out a weak laugh. “What makes you think I was the one who

ended it?”

“You mean he ended it?”

“You’re surprised.”

“Shocked, Miss.”

Ruth got up. “Good. That means I walked away with at least some

dignity. Alright, how do I look?”

Millie nodded. “Very nice indeed, Miss.”

“Thank you.” She started heading out, but stopped just as she reached

the door. “Millie—I would appreciate it if we never spoke of this again. I do not

like discussing Mr Wythert.”

“Yes, Miss.”

The family plus Gangfield awaited Mr Byron’s arrival in the entrance hall.

Whilst each was dressed in their best, Ruth wore, despite the occasion and to

the resentment of her mother, her favourite purple and white frock with her

most comfortable shoes. She figured if she were to be presented to yet

another old man, she’d at least want to be able run away if it came to it.

When an approaching carriage could be heard faintly in the distance,

Mrs Rosewood sprang into action. She checked each family member’s

appearance and adjusted everything to her liking that she had adjusted

otherwise just minutes before. She even accidentally started preening

Gangfield, who humbly received her corrections after she apologised

profusely. Adam smiled in vindication.

Finally, the carriage stopped right down the pathway and the family

exited their home to receive Mr Byron.

On their way out, Gangfield quickly took the opportunity to tease his

friend. “Fear not, my dear Miss Ruth,” said he, “for old men sometimes retain

their handsomeness in their bone structure.”

“If I do not take an old man now, then I will surely have to persuade an

even older man to likewise rely on my bone structure.”

Gangfield grinned widely. “I apologise beforehand that I will certainly

enjoy this evening at your expense.”

Ruth glanced at him and, seeing the sparkle in his eyes, found herself

both charmed and infuriated by him. “As long as you behave yourself,

Gangfield, you can enjoy it as much as you like.”

“Behave myself? When do I ever not behave myself?”

Ruth wanted to threaten her friend once more, but they had already

reached the end of the path.

Everyone froze as the carriage door squeaked open.

A thick leg in a light grey trouser stepped out of the comparatively small

carriage and supported the weight of a burly, square man who only appeared

larger the more he emerged.

Finally, Mr Byron stood upright and bore witness to the tiny family of

Rosewoods looking up at him in awe. Even Adam’s lazy eyes grew wide.

The large Mr Byron was almost as wide as he was tall. He was a little

chubby, to be sure, but it was easy to tell that his size was mostly attributed to

muscle mass.

He had curly, light-blonde hair and blue eyes. His strong, square jaw

matched his sturdy build. His clothes were tight, but not ill-fitting.

Ruth had to admit— Mr Byron was definitely handsome. Although she

personally would have preferred his size to be less imposing, he was by far the

best-looking, most clean-cut man to ever call at the Ridge.

And best of all, he appeared to be on the good side of thirty!

Mrs Rosewood flashed her daughter a look of pure victory. Ruth couldn’t

help but return her mother’s gesture with a hopeful smile.

Beyond her mother, Ruth caught a glimpse of Gangfield, whose nose

was held firmly in the air, his grin having completely disappeared.

“Mr Byron!” cried Mr Rosewood. “How good it is of you to come!”

Byron’s round cheeks formed deep dimples as he revealed a row of

perfect teeth. “Mr Rosewood, what a lovely home you have.”

The bass in his deep voice momentarily drowned out all surrounding

sounds as he spoke. The big man definitely made beautiful sounds!

Ruth stood in nervous anticipation as Mr Rosewood introduced the

family one by one. She clenched her fists and tensed her jaw, repeating her

practised greeting in her mind.

Good evening, Mr Byron. What an enormous pleasure it is to finally meet

you! Good evening. Enormous pleasure. Not ‘hello’. Good evening. Good

evening. Good evening…

Ruth watched Mr Rosewood introduce Mr Byron to Gangfield. Gangfield

glanced at Ruth, then said to Byron quite loudly, “Good evening, Mr Byron.

What an enormous pleasure it is to finally meet you.” His brown eyes then

spitefully darted towards Ruth.

Ruth couldn’t believe her ears! Gangfield had stolen her one good line!

She didn’t even had time to figure out how he could possibly have

known what she was about to say, as her turn to meet Mr Byron followed

immediately after Gangfield’s.

Byron stood in front of her, his open and pleasant face towering above

her. Ruth uncomfortably bent her head far upwards to face him.

“And this is my daughter, Ruth,” Mr Rosewood finished.

“How do you do, Miss Rosewood,” said Byron with his drumming voice.

Ruth’s mind raced, completely thrown off balance. She took a few

breaths and hastily replied, “Hello there! I’m Ruth!” She then stuck out her

hand so fast, Byron actually flinched, probably in fear of her hitting his crotch.

Byron admirably took this quite well, unassumingly shaking her hand and

then following Mr Rosewood down the path to the house.

Ruth stood in complete and utter shame, covering her face as soon as

Byron was far away enough down the path not to notice.

Mrs Rosewood was almost immediately on Ruth’s case. “What in the

world has gotten into you?” she whispered angrily. “Pull yourself together right

now!” Her mother then hurried after Mr Rosewood and Byron to continue with

the pleasantries inside.

Ruth stood still, trying to regain her composure.

Gangfield deliberately walked past Ruth before following everyone else

inside. “Come now, my dear. You cannot tell me to behave and then dawdle

like this.”

She momentarily let her temper get the best of her. She plucked

Gangfield by his arm. “You snake! You were eavesdropping on me! In my

room!”

He calmly smoothed out his sleeve. “I would never do such a thing. That

would be utterly reprehensible!”

“Then how? How did you know what I was going to say?”

“I have a friend who is very good at hiding in small corners.”

“Gangfield, I swear if I find out that you—”

“My dear, you are overreacting. I was simply reminding you that you

must think on your feet.” He took a deep breath, stuck his chest out and then

walked on.

Ruth didn’t pay him any more attention—she couldn’t afford to. All her

attention had to be on Mr Byron. She planned to be wholly charming, to bat

her eyelids and to flatter the man until his boots flew off.

This was her last chance. She was not about to let him get away

disenchanted.

At the dinner table, Mrs Rosewood took the initiative when she realised

her husband would not. “Mr Byron,” she said politely, “I understand you are a

lawyer?”

“Yes, madam,” he replied with his beautiful voice.

Ruth, very eager to hear him speak more, asked, “And what area of the

law do you specialise in, Mr Byron?” She momentarily scolded herself for

sounding as flat as a scullery maid. Who could compete with Byron’s soothing

vocal chords?

“Deceased estates—same as my father.”

“Oh, yes, Archibald Byron!” cried Mr Rosewood with a hearty laugh.

“What a capital fellow! Do send my regards when you next see him.”

Byron nodded, and Mr Rosewood quickly continued,

“Yes, yes! Archibald and I had so many good times together. Has he ever

told you about the time we—” Mr Rosewood then saw the look on his wife’s

face, which was so tensed, it was impossible to misunderstand. He cleared his

throat and kept on eating.

Mrs Rosewood continued. “The trip from London must have been tiring.

I hope you are in good spirits.”

“I thank you, Madam, I am.”

“Harbiville,” said Ruth as pleasantly as she could, trying out a more

breathy tone, “must be so quiet compared to the commotion of London.”

“It is, but I greatly appreciate it,” Byron replied. “I quite dislike

commotion.”

“Oh! So do I!” Ruth lied. “When things go, as they say, without a hitch, I

am at my most comfortable.” Her voice climbed in pitch despite her trying to

keep it low.

Byron smiled his perfect smile and Ruth felt her stomach flutter—the big

man appeared so very plain until he smiled.

“That is not to say I mind a busy town!” she quickly chirped. “I find my

quiet time wherever I am. I have always quite fancied that a change in scenery

would improve my mood indefinitely. I am quite sure I would be very happily

situated in a place such as, oh, I don’t know—London, I suppose is the best

example.” She then laughed coquettishly.

Byron shook his head. “Then you are very fortunate. The noise is starting

to get to me. I have long planned to move to the country. I hope to realise my

plans next summer.”

“Oh, yes, do! I do not think I would ever be able to live anywhere but the

country—in the long term, I mean. I am so used to it, and I very dearly love it.”

Ruth started to feel the exhaustion of flirting already. How did other women

keep it up? It was no wonder she didn’t have a husband yet.

No doubt her sudden personality change was cause for surprise. Her

mother beamed with pride, and amongst her father and brother was a mixture

of amazement and amusement.

Gangfield, however, silently studied Ruth and Byron and appeared

completely unimpressed with whatever he was uncovering. His left eyebrow

steadily climbed ever higher on his face and he barely touched his food.

The rest of the meal passed by without any apparent embarrassments.

Adam did briefly chirp in about his job at the Wytherts’ workshop, but he was

promptly silenced by Mrs Rosewood.

Afterwards, they all retired to the drawing room, where Mrs Rosewood

did her utmost to isolate Ruth and Byron so the two could have a chance

alone, secretly ordering the others to keep away as much as they could.

Mr Rosewood obeyed his wife, despite his strong desire to hear of his

friend, Archibald, and it was quite easy to just tell Adam to sit with them—he

was exceptionally good at sitting.

Gangfield, however, proved far more problematic. He paced around the

room like a panther in a cage.

Ruth sat with Byron on one of the couches on the right side of the

fireplace, whilst the rest of the family were confined to the couches on the left.

Ruth felt a little out of sorts, having practised her standing posture, but not her

sitting posture. She shifted about aimlessly whenever Byron looked the other

way.

“Mr Byron,” she started, visibly uneasy but doing her best to conceal it.

“Do you enjoy reading much?”

Byron smiled his perfect smile again. “No, I am afraid I do not read at

all.”

Much to Ruth’s dismay, this was when Gangfield decided to get involved

in the conversation. “A lawyer who does not read? Surely your clients must be

livid.”

Ruth wrung her fingers together and gave Gangfield a dirty look.

Byron was quite amused at this. “Yes, they must be turning in their

graves at the fact I would rather distribute their assets than stay up to date

with romance novels.”

Gangfield indignantly mumbled something inaudible and strolled on

towards the others.

Byron then turned to Ruth. “No offence to you, Miss Rosewood, of

course, if you enjoy reading romance novels. It is just I do not have the time to

read anything but law books.”

Ruth was unsure of what to say. On the one hand, if she said she did

read romance novels—which of course she gladly did from time to time—she

might have implied she was overly romantic and scare him right away. On the

other hand, if she came across as completely stoic, that would not cultivate

any tender feelings in the man.

Instead, she brushed it off and changed the subject. “I understand you

are here on business, Mr Byron.”

“You understand correctly, Miss Rosewood. I am just sorting out a will of

a client who hails from here, although it is taking a little longer than I hoped…”

For the first time she noticed a certain nervousness in Byron’s

countenance, so she tried yet another subject. “May I ask where you are

staying?”

“With Mr Simmons and his family.”

Mr Rosewood could keep quiet no longer. “Ah, yes! Mr Simmons!

Delightful chap, he is! Their daughter just came back from her first season out,

did she not, Mrs Rosewood?”

Strangely enough, Adam was suddenly interested and looked towards

Mrs Rosewood as well.

Mrs Rosewood shuddered, but she did alright with hiding her distress.

“Oh, you know I do not pay attention to such news, Mr Rosewood,” she

insisted, laughing it off.

Ruth was grateful Gangfield did not interject on this matter… on his own.

Of course Mr Rosewood’s oblivious curiosity prompted him to turn around ask

the magician about it. “Say, Gangfield! Surely you would know of Miss

Simmons!”

Gangfield stood by the window, a sort of grimace appearing on his face.

Byron was quick to respond. “Oh, do you know the Simmonses, Mr

Gangfield?”

After a quick little sigh, Gangfield replied, “I take up lodgings with Mrs

Smith—Miss Simmons’s grandmother.”

Ruth almost did not recognise Gangfield by his curt behaviour. He

usually unreservedly chatted away upon making new acquaintances.

“It is strange, then, that our paths have not crossed before now,” said

Byron kindly. “I dined with Mrs Smith not two nights ago.”

“I dine here every other night.”

And that ended the conversation. Gangfield made it very clear from his

tone that he was in no mood for small talk.

Gangfield’s eyes darted towards Adam’s head slumping again and he

approached the boy, bending over and whispering something to him.

Ruth tried not to pay attention to it. She returned to her conversation

with Byron by saying, “It is quite amusing, actually. Mrs Smith refers to Mr

Gangfield as Mr Graham, you see.”

“Oh, yes, now Mr Graham!” said Byron, a grin appearing on his face.

“She did not stay silent about Mr Graham for a second.”

“Yes, Mr Gangfield has been very good to—”

“What? Really?” Adam exclaimed. He was reacting very energetically to

something that Gangfield had said to him. Adam turned to Byron and leaned

forward, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Mr Byron! Have you ever

seen a corpse?”

While everyone else was silent with complete shock, Byron hesitated for

only a moment before replying with a smile, “Ah, no, I admit I have not.”

Adam did not waver. “But you work with dead people.”

Gangfield stood upright, grinning from ear to ear. “Mr Byron works with

dead people’s money, Adam—a slightly less tasteful pursuit.”

“So you go to dead people’s homes, then, Mr Byron?” Adam quickly

asked.

Byron nodded. “Yes, sometimes.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“Alright, Adam, that is enough!” Ruth finally responded, laughing

nervously, but only just as her mother opened her mouth to speak.

Mr Rosewood chuckled, highly amused. “You must forgive Adam, Mr

Byron. He has a peculiar interest in the macabre.”

“I hope to see a ghost at the Valiard Mansion tomorrow,” Adam added

as if it were the turn the conversation had actually taken. “Maybe meet the

ghost of Lord Joshua Valiard himself!”

“Well, then, you must make sure he would want to meet you,” Gangfield

joked. “Perhaps you must take him a gift. The dead seem to appreciate validly

executed wills, for one. You think you can whip one up for us before

tomorrow, Mr Byron?”

Byron did not take Gangfield’s remark as a jab at all. He happily

proclaimed, “Mr Gangfield, you definitely are exactly as I imagined you would

be!”

Gangfield looked a little affronted. “Do you know me, sir?”

Byron nodded. “Of course I do! You are Chester Gangfield, are you not?

From the Amazing Gangfield and Dennis magic act. I saw you in London a few

years ago and I never could forget it!”

This made Gangfield appear pleasant for the first time that evening. He

puffed up a bit with pride. “Yes, yes…”

“You two are just brilliant! I cannot imagine how you trained your rat to

do all of those tricks.”

This prompted Gangfield to sit down on the couch with Ruth and Byron.

He even made sure to sit next to Ruth to ensure she was uncomfortably

squeezed between the two men.

“I did not teach Dennis a thing,” Gangfield happily explained. “Except the

arithmetic. That is something we must practise every day.”

“Oh, yes, where you put the marbles on the table and Dennis has to ring

the bell to say how many there are!”

“Yes, exactly! We have lately been working on a trick where I write a

sum on a blackboard and he must answer with the bell.”

“No! Really? That is brilliant. Simply brilliant!”

The two of them were very much engrossed. Gangfield had found in

Byron the perfect admirer who was very ready to flatter him and pander to his

already insurmountable vanity.

There was no getting a word in edgewise.

Just then, something caught Ruth’s eye. There, right out of Gangfield’s

coat, his little grey rat scurried onto the couch.

Ruth froze, but didn’t take her eyes off of the critter.

The little rat stopped for a second, looking up at its master with beady,

black eyes, and then proceeded to climb down the leg of the couch and run

into the hallway behind them.

Ruth decided to keep her pose. She quickly glanced around to see if

anyone else noticed the rat was out and about.

Everyone was carrying on as if nothing happened.

Gangfield and Byron were still fervently discussing how wonderful

Gangfield’s magic tricks were when Ruth chirped, “Mr Byron! Would you like to

meet Dennis? Mr Gangfield takes him along wherever he goes.”

“That so? Yes, I would love to, please, Mr Gangfield.”

Gangfield was clearly caught off guard. He glanced wide-eyed at Ruth.

“Ah, Miss Ruth, I… Well, if you insist.”

Ruth smiled sweetly at Mr Byron. “Little Dennis surely is the most

charming rodent you will ever meet.” She turned to Gangfield. “Come on, now.

Hurry up.”

Gangfield nodded. “Alright.” He propped himself upright, placing his

hands on his knees ceremoniously. “Dennis!”

Nothing.

“Dennis, could you come out, please?”

Ruth contently looked on, the tickle of revenge putting a knowing smile

on her face.

“Dennis?” Gangfield started patting his coat as if it were on fire.

“Dennis!” He took a moment to return to his ceremonious posture, then

remarked quietly and steadily, “Forgive me. I seemed to have misplaced my

rat.”

Ruth feigned concern, struggling to contain her laughter. “He could not

have gotten far. You must go find him directly.” She started whispering, but

still loud enough for Byron to hear as well. “My mother will not appreciate the

fact that there is a rat loose in the house. Pray, do your utmost not to alarm

her—or the servants, good gracious.”

Gangfield forced a brief smile. “I would not dream of alarming anybody.

If you will excuse me.” He then slowly got up and started pacing around the

room again, his eyes secretly set on the ground.

Ruth turned back to Byron, her spirits renewed and her smile more

genuine than it had ever been that night. “We are fortunate little Dennis does

not venture out more often. Else I doubt Mr Gangfield would ever be allowed

inside the house!”

“Surely, even a rat should be allowed to take a turn,” said Byron,

although Ruth was unsure if he was joking.

She giggled anyway. “I would imagine that a rat that travels in a

magician’s pockets must see its fair share of sights and sounds. Gangfield takes

a great many short trips to all sorts of places. He has just returned from—”

Ruth noticed that Gangfield, his head firmly locked in looking down,

strolled his way out of the drawing room and into the hallway.

“Miss Rosewood?” asked Byron.

Ruth’s attention was plucked back to Byron. “Forgive me, Mr Byron. I

was distracted for a moment there. What were we talking about?”

“You were telling me that Gangfield travels to all sorts of places.”

“Oh, yes. He has just returned from Italy some two weeks ago…” Her

attention drifted off to the hallway again.

She heard… whispering? Could it be?

She shook her head and briefly apologised, “Mr Byron, please, will you

excuse me for just a second?” She then got up and walked past the couch and

into the hallway.

The passage was unusually wide. To avoid having it look completely

desolate, Mrs Rosewood had lined it with as many decorative objects as she

could: cabinets chocked full of gaudy trinkets, flower pots with plants that

pricked you as you passed by, a grandfather clock, two classical-style statuettes

of barely dressed women and three end tables.

It was at one of these end tables that Ruth spotted Gangfield on his

knees and elbows, his head ducked under the red tablecloth and his bottom

perked up in the air. She heard fervent whispering from under the table.

No doubt Gangfield had found his pet.

Normally, Ruth would laugh at such a sight, but it’s hard to find anything

funny when you have an uncontrollable compulsion to strangle someone.

She clenched her fists and spoke in a way that sounded like yelling

without the excessive volume. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

“I am coaxing my rat out from a under the table,” Gangfield bellowed,

not budging from his compromising position.

He then continued whispering loudly under the table, this time with a

Scottish trill.

Ruth thought Gangfield’s fake accent was a bit too much—she was a

little unsure about whether he was mocking her—but if he intended to insult

her, he certainly succeeded. “Stop playing dumb!” she scolded, whispering a

little herself. “You know very well that you are busy ruining my chances with

my future husband!”

Finally, Gangfield popped his head out from under the tablecloth, the

tiny bronze tassels still clinging to his hair. “Future husband?” he said with a

sneer. “Future husband?”

“Yes. And what is wrong with that? Do you not like him?”

“Oh, I like him quite a bit. He is a good sort.”

Ruth sighed, a little relieved. “Oh, Gangfield! I did not want to say this

before, but it really does mean a lot to me that you approve of him.”

“I said I like him.” Gangfield lunged onto his haunches with a groan.

Dusting his hands off, he continued, “I did not say I approve of him. Not for

you.”

“You do not even know him.”

“Of course I know him! Byron is a mediocre man with an average life

expectancy and an above-average income. He shall never strive for anything

more and he will gladly settle for less if it means he can still watch his life pass

by with minimal discomfort.”

Although Ruth was intrigued by exactly how Gangfield came to this

conclusion, she chose the high road instead and defended the soon-to-be love

of her life. “Even if that is true of Mr Byron specifically,” she lowered her voice

even more just in case, “plenty of people settle and they even find happiness

in it.”

“I completely agree!” Gangfield declared cheerfully. “But you, my dear,

are not one of those people.”

The little rat slowly dug through the red drapery and peered at Ruth, as

if it anxiously awaited her reply. Gangfield gave her a similar stare.

Convinced that the ball was officially in her court, Ruth responded

sincerely and with an assertiveness that surprised even her. “Forgive me,

Gangfield, if this sounds unbecoming, but—” She took a breath. “I do not give a

rat’s ass at this very moment.” She glanced at the tiny animal apologetically

and then went on, “Settling for life-long security sounds like a pretty good deal

to me. Right now I—me, Ruth, right here—I have nothing. But sitting in that

living room back there is more than nothing. So! If you please, Mister

Gangfield, I would really appreciate it if you stopped your self-righteous quest

to save me from the clutches of mediocrity and started living in the real

world.”

Ruth hoped her little speech would convince Gangfield to change his

opinion, but it only made the magician more vigorously eloquent expressing

his own point of view.

“He is not right for you!” he said with a grin. “He evokes absolutely no

emotional response from you. Watching you with Byron is like watching a

monkey dance for coins!”

She immediately jumped to her own defence. “Did you just compare me

to a monkey?”

Gangfield sighed, a twinkle in his eye. “You do not look at him the same

you look at the Chairmaker.”

“No, I should think not,” she snapped, “as I am not furious with Mr

Byron. Besides, my disdain for the Chairmaker has nothing to do with any of

this!”

“Yes, indeed—completely unrelated! After all, anger and passion are so

very far apart from each other on the emotional spectrum.”

The rat rightly fled back under the table.

“You go too far, Gangfield,” Ruth replied hastily. “Some of your little

intrusions I allow, but tonight you go too far.”

Gangfield took the tablecloth in his hand and lifted it up again. “Marry

Mr Byron, then. Learn just how… transcending a passionless marriage can be.”

He tucked his head back under the table, his other hand once more reaching in

to coax the rat back toward him.

His tone infuriated Ruth. How dare he act so high and mighty! He knew

nothing of Mr Byron or of Theodore. He knew nothing of marriage, either. He

was but a peculiar little bachelor with a filthy rat as his only companion.

Ruth decided she had weathered enough of Gangfield’s arrogant antics.

She planted one foot in front of the other and dove down to her knees next to

him, nearly knocking him over. The trinkets on the table clinked as she

violently plucked the red tablecloth over her head.

Her friend raised his eyebrows, hopefully in surprise, but probably in

amusement.

“Dennis!” Ruth addressed the rat agitatedly. “Tell your master for me

that he is an unpleasant, imposing animal who needs to learn some manners.”

The little rat curled up against the wall and froze with just his pink nose

quivering left and right.

“What are you doing?” Gangfield chuckled.

“You keep insisting you can speak to your rat, so I’m hoping he

understands English—as you most obviously do not.”

Dennis’s perceptive master played along. “Dennis, please inform Miss

Ruth that her childish tactic of using you as a device to mitigate her own

rudeness has magnificently failed.” He paused, looked behind him, and

returned to the conference under the table. “And also that her shoes are

hideous.”

Ruth whipped her head to face him, throwing herself off balance for a

moment as her one hand still held the tablecloth up. “These are my

comfortable shoes!”

“Your favourites, no doubt.”

“And what if they are?”

Despite the lack of light under the table, Ruth could clearly see

Gangfield’s brown eyes turn a richer hue. Instead of making a witty reply, as he

always strove to do, he quietly studied Ruth’s face, the left corner of his mouth

curling even higher.

Ruth decided to stand her ground. If this staring contest were another

tactic of his to annoy her, it certainly wasn’t a very good one—no, at the very

least she was only unsettled, since she was never before close enough to

Gangfield to hear him breathe.

His eyes narrowed—he was visibly deep in thought. Ruth, unsure of

what to do, checked in on the rat, whose beady eyes also appeared to question

Gangfield’s sudden silence.

But God knows silence never lasts long when Chester Gangfield is

present.

Gangfield took a breath to speak, briefly hesitated, and then finally

asked with conviction, “What ever happened between you and Theodore

Wythert?” His face contorted into a mischievous, slanted grin.

Ruth instantly saw red, her heartbeat quickening with indignation. She

was about to yell at him again, but a sweet and low voice interrupted their

interactions.

“Miss Rosewood? Mr Gangfield? Is there anything I can do to be of

help?”

Caught off guard, Ruth lost her balance again and wrestled with the

heavy tablecloth, the likes of which never seemed to end. She eventually won

her lengthy struggle and escaped from under the table. “Mr Byron!” she cried

with a dopey grin, her eyes squinting from the sudden exposure to the

comparatively bright candlelight in the hallway. She clambered onto her feet

faster than Mr Byron could offer her his hand. “I was—” She cleared her throat

and continued with her best impression of what she thought a graceful

debutant would sound like. “I was simply helping Mr Gangfield to coax his rat

from under the table,” she said slowly. She nervously adjusted her hair, feeling

how frizzed and undone it had become.

Gangfield nonchalantly popped up from the floor with his hair in perfect

condition and his vermin pet perched comfortably on his shoulder. Ruth fought

the urge to jealously sneer at her friend, and instead managed to gesture

towards him as graciously as she could. “Ah, there we go. Naughty little

Dennis, making us worry like that.” She then forced a—well, one might call it a

giggle, for lack of a better term.

Gangfield saved the moment. “Forgive us, Mr Byron. I do hope we did

not leave you on your own for too long.”

Byron laughed—Ruth felt a little like he was laughing at her—and he

replied politely, “Please, I cannot imagine why you are apologising. It cannot be

helped! Animals always tend to get their owners into trouble. Why, my two

Spaniels often find ways to escape through the front door and run right off.”

“Oh! You have dogs!” Gangfield exclaimed. “Miss Ruth loves animals. Do

you not, Miss Ruth?”

“Is that so?” Byron urged excitedly.

A little exasperated from all the lying, but not secure enough to tell the

truth, Ruth chose not to answer the question. “I, um… Shall we return to the

drawing room?” She took a step forward, but Byron interrupted her.

“Miss Rosewood, I was just wondering if… if Mr Simmons had issued

your family with an invitation to his ball next week.”

Ruth was stunned by Byron’s forwardness—or she was simply flustered

in general. To tell the truth, she struggled to tell the difference at that point.

Gangfield answered on her behalf, “Yes, they will be there.” He

narrowed his eyes in an attempt to appear intimidating. “As will I.”

Of course, the boy-faced man-child could not appear intimidating even if

he tried, especially in the presence of the behemoth that was Byron.

“Good, good,” said Byron, his flawless smile drawing wider. “That is very

good news indeed.”

Ruth nodded as politely as she could and walked past Byron and back to

the drawing room. She would have liked to have started some exhilarating

conversation about the Simmonses, or their home, or what wonderful hosts

they were, or how talented their cook was, but she was far too emotionally

drained. The night—and especially that morning—had taken a lot out of her

and she was starting to wish she could simply kick Byron out the back door so

she could proceed to stew in her bed for three days.

What was it about the mere mention of Theodore’s name that threw her

world so off kilter?

Well, that and a full stomach always managed to make her drowsy.

She sat back down on the couch with the others and picked a thread of

the tablecloth’s tassel off her right sleeve, hoping her mother wouldn’t ask

where it came from.

Gangfield and Byron stayed behind in the hallway for a few moments.

Gangfield was probably saying something to assert his so-called dominance

and Byron was probably either unaware of it or simply unaffected by it.

The giant had a thick skin, that much could be said about him.

Byron did not remain at the Rosewood household for much longer after

that. He promptly excused himself, citing an early morning’s work schedule as

his reason for leaving.

Ruth was relieved, but she tried to concealed it.

The family escorted Byron out the same way they ushered him in—

Rosewood heads bobbing in a single file behind him.

Byron greeted Ruth last. “Good night, Miss Rosewood. I am quite happy

to have met you.”

Ruth wrote this off as simple politeness. “And I you,” she replied, failing

dismally at containing a hopeless sigh.

“I shall see you at Mr Simmons’s next week, then?”

“You shall indeed, sir. Good night.”

He turned and got into the carriage, and when the door closed behind

him, Ruth spun around and rushed back inside.

She stood in the entrance hall, a wave of emotions overcoming her—but

still she did not react. She simply stared at the wall opposite the front door.

The rest of the party came back inside and passed her by without even

acknowledging her existence. Mr Rosewood gushed to Gangfield about how

much Mr Byron was like “that Archibald” as they headed back to the drawing

room for a drink and cards.

Adam started to creep upstairs.

Mrs Rosewood, however, was sure to pay her daughter some attention.

She closed the front door. “That… could have gone worse,” she remarked

grimly, a little more to herself than anything else.

Ruth let out a weak laugh. “I am not too sure about that.” She sighed

deeply. “He was perfect.”

“Was?” Mrs Rosewood wrapped her arms around Ruth and hugged her

shoulders from behind. “Now is not the time to give up, Ruth.”

“Ah, Mama, promise me you will tell me when it is.”

Mrs Rosewood laughed and walked around to see her girl’s face. “It is

never time to give up.”

“Do you think I scared him off?”

“Why would you say that?”

Ruth shrugged. “I always scare them off.” She felt the familiar chug of

tears welling up. “I always scare them off…”

“Hey!” Mrs Rosewood snapped, flicking Ruth on her nose. “Now is not

the time to cry, either!”

“Yes, Mama. Yes, yes, yes.” She shook her hands to get the blood going.

“You are right!”

“Remember—this was just round one!” Mrs Rosewood started to walk

out the entrance hall, turning around before going into the drawing room. She

grinned and held onto the wall firmly, adding, “Next week’s ball is round two.

And we will kill the competition!”

“Who is getting killed?” Adam cried as he hung over the staircase

bannister.

“You,” scolded Mrs Rosewood, “if you do not stop with that morbid

tripe!”

Adam rolled his eyes and continued making his way up the stairs as

slowly as any human being conceivably could.

“Do not worry, Mama,” said Ruth quietly with a hopeful smile. “He will

go to the Valiard Mansion tomorrow and either be scared straight or find

nothing to admire. Both results will silence him on the matter forever.”

Mrs Rosewood chuckled. “Or it shall render him far more interesting!”

“I think tomorrow shall render us all a little more interesting, Mama.”

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2013 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

(reference to http://The-Ez.deviantART.com will suffice) and the distributor does not make any profit as a

result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

CHAPTER 5

It was a little after 8 o’clock. A cold drizzle fell and dark clouds blocked

out the morning sun.

Theodore sat at one of his work benches, hunched over and deep in

thought. He couldn’t sleep a wink the night before, and after some hours of

tossing and turning in bed, he had decided to make his way to the workshop to

keep busy.

The only problem was that business had dried up so much, he had

absolutely no work to do. So he just grabbed some small, left-over blocks of

wood and carved away aimlessly.

The longer he worked, the deeper into delirium he descended. He

started off by carving pretty flowers and curly designs into the wood, but the

decorated blocks started to pile up and the images grew more bizarre as time

went on.

Ruth just would not escape his mind. He suffered terribly from

flashbacks all night, seeing old memories from their childhoods together as if

they were brand new.

Theodore had always loved to draw, but part of the joy he derived from

it was the fact that Ruth loved to watch him draw. Whenever he took out his

paper and pencil, seven-year-old Ruth would instinctively scoot over to his side

or drag another chair closer to sit and see what he came up with. Sometimes

she would sit across from him, and because she’d have to watch the picture

develop upside-down, every now and then she would forcibly pluck the paper

out from under his hands to turn it about, look over it, approve it and then give

him her permission to continue.

As children, they also drew together a lot of the time. Ruth would get

frustrated with her own lack of artistic skill and just end up copying whatever

Theodore was drawing—and then Theodore would have to comfort her

because, even though she copied Theodore’s drawing, her picture still wasn’t

as good as his.

As they grew older, Ruth watched him draw less often with every

passing year, in an attempt to give him some ‘artistic gestation space’, as she

called it. This didn’t mean Theodore was ever left to draw alone. Ruth would

keep herself busy with a book or help Mrs Wythert in the kitchen or do some

sewing with Emily, and simply check in every now and again on what progress

Theodore was making on a picture. She also regularly went through his

completed drawings, usually expressing praise, but never afraid to criticise

anything in a drawing that looked ‘particularly shite’, as he called it.

Theodore always secretly wanted to ask Ruth if she could go back to

watching him draw like she used to, but something about it seemed

inappropriate. And besides, by the time he was fifteen, he fancied her so much

that being too close to her had the habit of sending his steady hands into

frenzied trembling—so in hindsight it wouldn’t have been a productive activity,

anyway.

The white light from outside silently shone through the empty workshop

and Theodore felt, for the first time in eight years, just how harrowing it was to

work without Ruth there to constantly involve herself in every little thing he

did.

In fact, he felt more alone right then than he had in his entire life.

Although he knew it was wrong, a small part of him wondered if Ruth

was also miserable at that moment. He didn’t wish for her to have lost any

sleep as he did, but he did allow himself to picture her being just a little sad

thinking of what they had lost when it was good.

Surely there was no harm in wanting her to miss him.

He now sat, lost and silent, engraving a fire-breathing dragon into his

last scrap block, though to amuse himself, he gave the dragon big puppy eyes

and a tongue hanging out like a dog’s.

There was a knock on the front door of the workshop. Theodore got up,

his exhaustion manifesting in a sore back, and he was about to go to the door,

but he stopped and looked at the embarrassingly silly dragon block in his hand.

Unsure of another way to get rid of the block quickly, he turned around and

flung it across to the other side of the workshop. It landed with several hollow

clunks.

There was another knock. This one was a bit louder.

The door was quite close to where he was working. It only took him a

few strides to reach it.

He opened the door and saw Adam standing on the step with his

scrawny arms wrapped around himself. He was hobbling a bit. “Mind if I come

in?” the boy asked, narrowing his eyes.

Theodore stepped back and let Adam into the workshop. Adam shook

himself off a bit—not that he had enough vigour to really make a difference to

his soaked hair. He was carrying a black leather satchel of sorts. He carefully

lifted the strap over his head and set the bag down. Then he slowly peeled his

thick blue coat off his shoulders. The bag was picked up almost immediately.

He seemed unusually protective over it.

“Ready for work, then?” Theodore asked, trying to sound enthusiastic.

He didn’t get the spirited response he hoped for.

Adam held his coat in his arms and looked around the shop. He nodded

in the direction of one of the work tables. “You still have a candle burning

there.”

Theodore hesitated, wiping his hands on his sleeves. “Yeah. I’ve been

working since dark.”

“And the door is still open,” Adam added, draping his coat over a nearby

chair. He picked up a loose, bent nail from the wooden floor and twirled it

around in his hands, pacing and taking in the workshop interior.

Theodore closed the door, too taken aback by how overtly at ease Adam

was to think of anything to say. It was as if the little bloke thought he was still

at home.

But the carpenter was not long deterred from taking initiative. “So,

Adam!”

Adam peered at Theodore with half-open eyes.

“What can you do?”

The boy didn’t hesitate. “Probably nothing that could be of use to you.

Say! When are we leaving for the Valiard Mansion?”

Theodore shook his head, partly out of confusion. “In a little while. Are

you saying you’ve never worked with wood or other materials?”

“You know,” Adam said, pointing at his new employer with the bent nail,

“I remember you from when I was little. You were always kind to me—never

bullied me.”

There was a certain sincerity in Adam’s low voice that made Theodore

dismiss the fact the boy wasn’t answering any of his questions. “I remember

you, too. You were terribly quiet all the time. I’m glad to see that’s changed.”

Finally, Adam laughed, albeit weakly. “I only speak when I have

something to say.”

“Excellent. You think you can say what you can do for me here, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is nothing I can do, so there is nothing to say about it.”

Adam returned to twirling the nail and wandering about the room.

“Alright,” said Theodore, crossing his arms, “I’ll teach you, then!”

This prompted Adam to look at Theodore with slightly widened eyes.

“Teach me what?”

“Whatever I need you to do,” Theodore replied, walking up to the boy.

“Like right now I need you to put that nail down and come with me to the

supply room. Though I think I don’t need to teach you how to walk.”

Adam smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Right.”

To Theodore’s surprise, Adam obeyed straight away. The boy

unceremoniously dropped the nail back onto the floor and looked about in

anticipation, probably in an attempt to locate the supply room on his own.

Theodore, supressing his laughter, took Adam by the shoulder to lead

him through the workshop and into one of the areas in the back.

The supply room wasn’t a room per se—it was just what the family

called it. The workshop was one big open building with shoulder-height

wooden partitions cordoning off its different sections. Iron stairs led up to a

high-up office in the corner and there were some old walkways hanging from

the ceiling over the workshop. However, Theodore had walked on the

walkways too long ago to vouch for their reliability.

He did really like his high-up office, though.

The supply room housed all of Theodore’s tools and smaller materials.

He had inherited a great deal of tools from his father, but, determined to use

them only until he could afford new ones, he slowly saved up and replaced his

father’s tools with his own. Only a few of William’s trinkets now remained.

The back door was perpetually open and it was the quickest route from

the shop to the Wythert household right next door.

Leading Adam through the shop, Theodore could hear the clinking of

someone digging through one of the toolboxes. “Adam,” he said as they

reached the supply room, “Meet Salty. He’s like you except he’s a lot better at

his job and he gets paid more.”

Salty’s crooked figure turned from the grey toolbox on one of the tables

and he grunted at Adam. He then returned to his digging.

Theodore bent over and whispered to Adam, “Don’t mind him. He’s just

shy when it comes to strangers.”

“I’m not shy,” Salty growled. “I’m just angry.”

“What’re you lookin’ for?” Theodore asked, quite used to Salty’s

manners.

Finally, Salty stood upright. He was in his early twenties and almost as

tall as Theodore, but much skinnier. “Little Lynnie’s been buggin’ me to fix up

one of her doll houses. Says you told her to ask me about it.”

“So?”

“Can’t find the li’l hammer.”

“Have you tried the drawers?”

“Of course I tried the drawers!” Salty exclaimed. “And the cabinets, and

yes—in there, too.”

Theodore was rummaging through the crate on the floor. “It might have

fallen in here and dropped to the bottom.”

“I already unpacked and repacked that damned crate last night. Look,

it’s not in there, alright? I’ve been tryin’ to find the blasted tiny hammer since

yesterday!”

Theodore rested on his haunches. “Can’t you just use a normal

hammer?”

“It doesn’t bloody fit. One of the li’l floorboards has gone loose in a

space the size of a squirrel’s arse. Can’t fit nothin’ in there!”

Theodore was immediately worried about the image Salty was

projecting to Adam about the working conditions there, but Adam had the

widest smile imaginable on his face.

Little Lynnie ran into the supply room holding a little piece of pink board.

“Salty! Have you found the hammer yet?”

“Little Lynnie!” Theodore interrupted. “Say hello to Adam.”

“Oh, hello Adam,” Lynnie quickly chimed.

Adam nodded.

Salty sighed deeply, making almost a roaring noise. “What’s that you’re

holdin’?” He slammed the grey toolbox shut.

“Um…” Little Lynnie guiltily looked at the delicate pink board in her

hands. “I thought I’d push the floorboard back in, but I pushed the wrong

way… so it came clean off.”

Salty was deathly quiet.

“Is it a crisis, Salty?” the girl asked.

“No,” Salty finally replied, still frustrated but considerably kinder than

before. He knelt down. “Give it ‘ere. Maybe now we can just glue it back.”

Just then the front door of the workshop flung open and bashed against

the wall. “Theodore!” Emily shouted from the other side of the shop as she

entered.

“Emily!” Theodore called back over the partition. “Look—it’s Adam!”

Emily threw her arm up high and waved. “Hello, Adam! Um, Theodore,

what in God’s name is this?” She held up the very tiny hammer Salty had been

looking for.

Salty jumped into a sprint towards the front door to meet Emily. “Where

did you find that?” he demanded. “I’ve been looking for that since yesterday.”

Emily shrugged and handed it over. “It was in my sewing basket.”

Mrs Wythert walked through the doorway and immediately cried in her

thick Irish accent, “Oh, Emily, don’t you remember?” Being the second-

shortest Wythert family member next to Little Lynnie, she always had to look

up past her spectacles at everyone. “We nicked that hammer to get my ring

out of the roast chicken.”

Emily instantly burst out laughing. “Wait, what? You lost your ring in the

chicken?”

Mrs Wythert scratched her head, messing up her frizzy chestnut bun

even more. “Yes! Just the other day. You were there, weren’t you?”

Little Lynnie climbed onto one of the working benches and popped her

button nose over the supply room partition. “No, mum!” she cried. “That was

me!”

Her sister was still folded over in laughter. “You… lost your ring… in the

chicken!”

Salty didn’t share in the joke. “Little Lynnie! You had it last?”

Little Lynnie froze for a moment then ducked back behind the partition.

“Don’t worry! I’ll fix it myself!” she declared. She then ran out the back door

and off to the house.

Salty followed bitterly, tiny hammer in hand. He mumbled something

about “using bloody tools in the kitchen”, but he was soon out of earshot.

With Salty gone, the atmosphere in the workshop was decidedly more

cheerful. Adam seemed very amused by the goings-on of the Wythert family.

Emily eventually collected herself enough to announce through giggles,

“Mum, Adam’s here!”

Mrs Wythert immediately spun about, her grey eyes darting to find the

boy. She squealed when she spotted him. “Oh, Adam Rosewood! Can it truly

be?” She shuffled towards him at an alarming speed. When she reached him

she lifted her head to study him through the spectacles resting on the tip of

her rosy nose. “Bless my eyes, so it is!” she chuckled. “Come ‘ere!”

Suddenly, Mrs Wythert grabbed Adam and hugged him as if he were a

close relative. She was far too overjoyed to even notice Adam wasn’t hugging

back, but nevertheless, Adam received the attention in his usual, placid

manner.

“How do you do, ma’am,” was his reply as Mrs Wythert let go of him. A

vacant but polite smile appeared on his face.

Mrs Wythert tapped Emily on the arm. “Oh, he doesn’t remember me,

does he?” she remarked sweetly. “You were such a little thing, Adam, with

bulging blue eyes and barely any hair. Now look at you! How handsome you’ve

become!”

Theodore thought he’d step in to remind his mother that her behaviour

might be embarrassing Adam. “Mum, he’s fifteen,” he said.

Mrs Wythert didn’t get the hint. “Fifteen! Already? My, you must be

attending school, then. Gettin’ smarter than the rest of us here. Tell me! How

are your mum and dad?”

“I left them in good spirits,” Adam replied.

“That’s good, that’s good. And tell me…” Mrs Wythert briefly glanced at

Theodore then returned to addressing Adam. “Is your sister well?”

“As well as she ever could be, ma’am. She has the uncanny ability to

always find something to complain about.”

“Alright!” Theodore interrupted, the conversation having taken a

winding turn. “We better get to work, Adam!”

Mrs Wythert waved her hands. “Yes, yes, yes, don’t let me get in your

way. Be sure to come say good-bye before you two leave. It is so good seeing

you again, Adam!” She then turned and went out the back door.

Emily followed, but paused to dig in her sewing basket. She shoved a

yarn of green string aside and pulled out two yellow apples. She tossed one

each to Theodore and Adam in turn. “In case you boys are hungry.” She then

pranced out the back door, too, calling something out to her mother about

curling Little Lynnie’s hair.

At first Adam appeared unsure what to do with the apple, but when he

saw Theodore take a bite of his, he followed suit. The two of them stood for a

few moments in a crunching silence.

“Grab that toolbox, will you?” said Theodore after swallowing his first

mouthful. He popped the apple into his mouth to free his hands and picked up

the wooden crate from the floor.

Adam mimicked Theodore by biting into the apple to keep it in his

mouth, and he lugged the toolbox off of the work table. At first he nearly gave

in under the weight, but he soon found his feet.

Theodore led Adam out the back door and into the yard.

The Wytherts’ yard was quite small. Although the drizzle had thankfully

stopped and the sun started to shyly peek past the clouds, the yard was still

very muddy with a few red bricks sparsely laid down to form paths.

The path from the workshop back door split off three ways. One led to

the stable, the other to the woodpile and the last to the back door of the

house. The yard was blocked off on two sides by a tall wooden fence and the

third side to the left was the brick wall of the shop next door.

Theodore and Adam followed the path to the stable where Theodore’s

wooden cart stood. Adam nervously trod past the clucking chickens who didn’t

seem bothered to make way for the stranger. The back latch of the cart was

already open, so all they needed to do was load the crate and toolbox into the

cart.

One of the horses in the stable neighed.

“Calm down, Florence,” said Theodore as he chewed. “It’s just Adam!”

Florence neighed again, at which point Theodore realised she was

probably eyeing the half-eaten apple in his hand. He walked over and, without

hesitation, fed the apple to his beloved horse. “There you go, girl. You greedy

thing, you.”

The stable had only two compartments. One was Florence’s and the

other was for Bester. Florence was a spectrum of colour with her rich

chocolate coat, her black mane and her white nose and socks. Bester, on the

other hand, was pale with grey speckles and she was considerably smaller than

Florence.

Adam pitied Bester and fed her his apple. She immediately took to

Adam—and he to her, it seemed. Adam petted her forehead and he started to

smile again.

Theodore introduced Adam to the horses. “That one’s Bester,” he said.

“She’s our youngest. We got her a few months ago because Florence—” The

brown mare interrupted Theodore by shoving her nose right into his face and

nibbling on his hair.

Adam let out a weak laugh. “I see you are her favourite.”

“No,” said Theodore, gently shoving the horse away, “I think she might

be lookin’ for another apple. I haven’t got any, girl.”

“That’s a one-horse cart,” Adam noted. “Which one will we be taking

along to the Mansion?”

Although Theodore would have liked to take Florence, he noticed a

compassion in Adam’s eyes as the boy fluffed Bester’s mane.

“I think it’s too far for Florence,” he said. “We’ll be taking Bester today.”

It was probably for the best. Maybe Uncle John was right after all.

Maybe the journey was too far for Florence to travel. She started so very

easily, poor thing.

Soon they were off and on their way to the Valiard Mansion.

Theodore felt a little strange having someone sit next to him at the front

of the cart. It was as if a speck of dust was caught in the corner of his eye.

Except, of course, that speck of dust was a slouching blonde boy with a

sheepish grin on his face.

As they travelled through Harbiville’s Main Street, the odd passer-by

would call out to Theodore, saying something along the lines of, “Where’s

Florence today, Mr Wythert?” and “See you finally got the reliable one pulling

you along.” The baker stood outside his shop and joked, “Since when did

Florence lose so much weight?” The mail man on his bicycle honked his little

horn and waved.

It was all in jest—well, mostly—so Theodore laughed politely, waved

back, and made whatever reply was appropriate. “Florence is resting today,”

was the easiest one to dictate. Though, “Ah, good one!” was reserved for those

who did the effort of attempting to be clever.

The villagers were elated about not having to dodge a large, brown

horse, and so it was easy for them to notice Adam.

And so people called out to them, asking who Adam was or just going,

“See you got a friend there, Mr Wythert!”

Adam whipped his head around at every person who greeted them, and

Theodore realised for the first time just how used to the attention he had

become, since he himself probably acted like a terribly important person,

barely shuddering and simply waving at everyone. He wasn’t entirely sure if

that was a good thing or not.

But Adam did enjoy it. Theodore could have sworn he heard the boy

chuckle once or twice.

After about fifteen minutes, they reached the outskirts of Harbiville and

the commotion died down. There was nothing in front of them but vast, green

fields, sparsely vegetated with trees here and there.

It had grown so humdrum since they exited town that the clatter of

Bester’s hooves and the sound of the wheels colliding with loose rocks had

started to become deafening.

Admittedly, with only two younger sisters and a mother in the house,

Theodore was very much at a loss when it came to how one must treat a

fifteen-year-old boy. He did his best to imagine how he would have wanted to

be treated, but his blasted nerves imposing on his mental cognition made his

fifteenth year seem so long ago, that everything he spent all morning

remembering was forgotten in a flash.

It quickly became apparent to Theodore that Adam felt no sense of

uneasiness in this new company. Adam contently appeared not to mind any of

the awkward silence, hugging his black satchel closer and looking around at the

passing scenery.

Still, out of propriety, Theodore felt an obligation to engage the boy in

conversation. The only problem was that he could think of nothing to say.

Well, he could think of many things to say—especially of many things to

ask—but they all related, in some way or the other, to Ruth.

Probing the little bloke for information about his sister seemed rather

unfair, so Theodore decided to stay quiet until something appropriate popped

into his head.

However, the monotony of the clatter and shuffle made it so very easy

for Theodore’s mind to drift off to Ruth—and to the way she just stood in the

drawing room the day before, not batting an eyelid, not even looking at him…

“Do you think it’s haunted?” Adam somewhat murmured.

“Hm?” Theodore shot back to reality. “Sorry, what?”

Adam repeated his question a little louder. “Do you think it’s true? That

the Valiard Mansion is really haunted?”

Theodore shrugged. “My uncle seems to think so.”

“Is your uncle a smart man?”

“He’s the smartest man I know.”

“Well,” said Adam, still watching the scenery, “Mr Gangfield is the

smartest man I know, and he says it might very well not be haunted—that it’s

just stories.”

Theodore involuntarily pulled his mouth to the side. “Is that so? If you

ask me, he came across as pretty enthusiastic about the haunting when I saw

him yesterday.”

“He was just trying to unsettle you. He is quite strange in that way.”

Adam looked up at the bright sky and squinted at some birds flying over. “I

really want to see a ghost. But Mr Gangfield told me that ghosts are silly things.

They are just memories embedded into buildings that play out over and over

and over again.”

Theodore couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine. “Stuck in a

memory forever... That must be right rotten.”

Adam finally looked up at Theodore, growing a little excitable. “Oh, they

don’t mind! They’re not conscious, you see, Mr Wythert. No use even talking

to them. They can only say what is contained in the memory.”

Finally, Theodore felt comfortable enough to smile in pure disbelief.

“And this is what Mr Gangfield told you?”

Adam nodded and bit his lip for a moment before replying, “Yes, but

between you and me, I don’t really know where he gets all this from. I would

much rather like to believe ghosts can carry on conversations. Would make

meeting one a lot more fun, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t think the day would come when I’ll describe meeting a ghost in

any capacity as being ‘fun’, Adam.” He laughed. “But, to each his own, I

suppose.”

Adam smiled and wrinkled his nose. “Well, you might just have to see a

ghost today! I heard nobody has visited the Mansion without experiencing at

least one supernatural, uh, experience.”

“You really are mighty interested in ghosts, aren’t you?”

Although the answer was obvious, Adam was happy to elaborate. “I like

supernatural things in general, I suppose—ghosts, especially—but nobody else

I know cares too much about all that.”

“Except Mr Gangfield,” Theodore said plainly, feeling for the first time

that the magician man couldn’t be all that bad if he accommodated Adam so

kindly.

“Yes, I guess Mr Gangfield is the only person who doesn’t mind when I

talk about ghosts. He sometimes tells me new things about them, too, and he

knows a lot of good ghost stories. I would say he’s the closest thing to a friend I

have, but, ah—I might as well not even exist when Ruth is in the room.”

Adam’s final off-the-cuff remark sent a sharp jab into Theodore’s gut

and he immediately felt horribly ill. He wanted nothing more than for Adam to

keep talking about Ruth and her relationship with that Gangfield bloke, yet at

the same time he was too afraid to learn the truth.

Either way, it was not right to use Adam to hear more about Ruth. To

preserve his conscience and his sanity all in one go, Theodore changed the

subject right around.

“What’s in that black bag o’yours?” Theodore somewhat croaked.

Adam shifted the bag behind his back. “Call it… my contingency plan.”

“Contingency plan? For what?”

“You’ll see!” Adam grinned. “I am not a man who takes chances, Mr

Wythert.”

Theodore chuckled and thought nothing more of it. He was simply

grateful that he found at least one thing to talk to Adam about, even though

that one thing was a little bit creepy.

Once Theodore had shaken off whatever inhibitions he had when it

came to speaking with young Adam, the conversation started to run freely.

Adam, who ‘never spoke unless he had something to say’, actually did have

plenty to say, but only about those things that the average mind would write

off as silly or impossible.

They spoke at length about ghosts—Adam shared some of the ghost

stories he’d heard from Gangfield—and then they speculated whether animals

dreamed when they were asleep, and if they did, what they dreamed about.

Adam believed that animals spoke in a language so advanced that the

human mind would never be able to understand it, and so animals must dream

of the ancient secrets of the forgotten worlds.

Theodore wagered they dreamed about food.

And so it continued for the full hour and a half they travelled. Adam’s

outlandish ideas slowly began to do its work on Theodore’s sleep-deprived

brain, and he soon felt like he couldn’t form a coherent idea even if he tried.

His silly dragon engraving no longer seemed so crazy.

They had just started conversing about the effect of corsets on the

female psyche when the Valiard Mansion was in sight.

Theodore had ridden past the Mansion before, but circumstances never

required him to go close. He therefore knew the Mansion to be a tiny grey

speck in the evergreen distance.

Adam nearly jumped out of his skin when Theodore told him to look to

his right to see the Mansion. “That’s it!” the boy exclaimed. “I cannot believe

it! There it is!” He even stood up, but the road was bumpy, so he quickly lost

his balance and had to sit back down. But still he kept excitedly reciting, “There

it is… There it is…”

The closer they rode, the larger the Mansion became.

The Valiard Mansion was an imposing building, built with large stone

bricks, the bevelling of which formed a chunky grid on its edifice. The top of

the Mansion almost ran like stairs, each bit of the building taller than the bit to

its left. Rows of tall, pointed-arch windows decorated its walls and two sharp

spires asymmetrically stretched upwards through the building on either side.

Theodore had read some books about architecture before, and he

remembered looking at some Gothic cathedrals that in hindsight looked very

similar to the Mansion.

Suffice it to say, the Valiard Mansion at least looked the part of an

ancient ghost house.

The road leading to the Mansion was incredibly bumpy and Theodore

was immediately grateful poor Florence wasn’t pulling them along. Adam

didn’t seem to mind this—he didn’t even notice—as he sat, leaning forward

and hugging his black bag so tightly, Theodore was convinced the boy was

about to break whatever ‘contingency plan’ he’d packed in there.

They parked the cart under a tree about thirty metres from the main

entrance of the Mansion. Theodore instructed Adam to take the toolbox again,

but the boy was shaking like a leaf. Luckily, Adam found his feet as per usual

and carried the toolbox along, his excitement making him walk in quick, short

strides that even Theodore’s long legs had trouble keeping up with.

Finally standing face to face with the Valiard Mansion, both Theodore

and Adam instinctively stopped dead in their tracks and craned their heads

upward to stare at the building for a few moments.

It felt as if the Mansion bent over to study them much like an angry

mother would tower over a naughty child. All they could do is look back up,

hoping for a little mercy.

What a sickening feeling.

Theodore counted five stories in total, but he didn’t include the tall

tower to the left, which went up considerably higher.

He was the first to look away, since his neck was sore from the night

before. Adam’s mouth was agape in a wide smile and his droopy eyes sparkled.

It was apparent that the Mansion was everything and more that Adam had

hoped for.

Theodore knew immediately that he wasn’t very fond of the building. It

was no wonder his uncle flat-out refused to join them.

“Come on,” said Theodore, patting Adam gently on his shoulder.

Adam shuddered back to life and returned to hopping along like a piglet.

Some stone steps led up to the entrance, which consisted of large

double doors, each adorned with engravings that Theodore recognised as a

reinterpretation of Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment—countless figures falling

into the consuming flames of Hell contrasted with those lucky ones raised from

the grave and rising to Heaven.

Theodore wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a cynic, but even he

raised an eyebrow at the cheek the building had by wearing front doors that

were as unwelcoming as that.

They climbed the steps and saw one of the great doors was slightly ajar.

A buzzing commotion could be heard from inside. The pair looked at each

other, both unsure of what to do.

“I suppose we should go in,” said Theodore.

But just then one of the doors swung open with the deep scream of

metal hinges and the pair was left to dodge two painters carrying out a ladder.

The painters apologised, but they were in a hurry, so Theodore couldn’t

ask them if it was alright to go in.

The building pulled Adam inside like a magnet. Theodore followed, more

to stop him than anything else—his every instinct somehow fought against

even taking even one step inside the Mansion.

The entrance hall of the Mansion was dominated by a large marble

staircase that led up to the wall in front of them, creating arches below leading

to more rooms at the back.

The walls were stripped bare and there weren’t any plants inside. The

Mansion was still very much under construction.

But the place was alive with excitement. About a dozen or so people

were working in the entrance hall alone. Some worked together to hang large

paintings, others were scrubbing the corners of the cornices with tiny brushes,

and others were clearly dawdling, but at least trying to look busy. It was quite

noisy, since everyone was chatting to one other, often shouting to make

themselves heard from across the room.

They were practically attacked by an older woman in dark clothes. “And

who are you?” she demanded angrily. Her forehead seemed to screech in pain

as it was pulled back into a bun so tightly, Theodore was afraid something on

her face might rip open and spill blood all over the floor.

They explained who they were and she led them through an archway on

the left and into the great ballroom.

The ballroom was the most completed room so far, so there weren’t as

many people working in there.

Not one, but three large crystal chandeliers hung above the black and

white checkered floor. A massive portrait of a blonde man in military uniform

hung above the grand piano on the opposite side of the vast room.

Theodore would have loved to study the large painting more closely,

since it looked skilfully executed, but he was there as a carpenter and not as an

art historian, so naturally the chance didn’t present itself.

The woman hastily paged through her ledger as she walked deeper into

the ballroom. Theodore and Adam were forced to keep up, despite the weight

of their tools and despite the fact they couldn’t help but gawk at their

surroundings.

“Forgive me, but I cannot even hear myself think in all that noise.” She

scowled briefly at the archway leading to the entrance hall and then paged

through her ledger some more. “Ah yes, Mr Theodore Wythert. You are here

to work on the furniture.” She motioned her pen in the direction of what was

probably the dining room. “You are to start with the dining chairs. We need

twenty-seven restored and reupholstered, and we are missing three chairs that

you will have to make from scratch. You are required to notify us if any chairs

are beyond repair and we will make arrangements for you to make additional

furniture.”

Theodore laughed nervously. “That’s fine, but, ah… I’m sorry, but—who

are you?”

“I am Mrs Dunkirk.”

“Oh, you’re married to the curator, Mr Dunkirk?”

“No.”

A stunning silence hit them in the face.

Mrs Dunkirk kept going. “We have designated an area in the attic for you

to work. All the chairs are already there.” She took a sheet of paper out of her

ledger and handed it to Theodore. “Here are your official instructions with

pricing information.”

Theodore tucked it away into his pants pocket quickly so Adam wouldn’t

be able to see how little he was being paid.

“Please sign here as proof you received it.”

Theodore awkwardly put his crate on the floor and signed next to his

name in the ledger. “Is there any way I can speak with Mr Dunkirk personally?”

“No.”

Another silence.

Adam shrugged. “So! Those chairs?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Dunkirk curtly. “Follow me.”

She led them back into the entrance hall and up the marble staircase.

They were left to dodge the people walking up and down the stairs, all of them

carrying something. Quite a few carried tools, but others carried around more

delicate items, like vases or mirrors.

At the top of the stairs was a long hallway peppered with doors on one

side and windows on the other. It felt good to be walking on some carpeting

for a change, since the soles of Theodore’s shoes had been repaired with metal

plating and he made a great deal of noise whenever he walked on hard floors.

Mrs Dunkirk led them up some more flights of stairs until they reached a

dimly lit hallway. They turned right and walked further down the dim hall until

they reached the door at the very end. She opened it to reveal a set of

questionable-looking wooden steps.

They lumbered up the steps for quite a while, until they reached another

door, which opened to a vast room with a wooden floor and a low ceiling.

Theodore and Adam, exhausted from climbing all those stairs, heaved to

catch their breath and were more than happy to set their tools down. Their

relief was short-lived, however, as the attic was so hot and humid, it didn’t

help much to draw a breath and it stank badly of, well, oldness, which made

breathing even less pleasant.

Mrs Dunkirk, having not even broken a sweat, looked at them in disgust.

“I will be back to check on your progress at four o’clock this afternoon. That

will signal the end of your shift. Good day.”

And with that she closed the door and was gone.

Thankfully, there was one small window up there that Theodore

practically sprinted towards to open.

Adam sat exhausted on the crate.

Rows of dining chairs were stacked in one corner of the attic. The rest of

the attic, however, was populated with odds and ends covered in dusty rags.

If Theodore didn’t know any better, he’d have lifted the rags and see

what was under them. But it wasn’t his place, so he just walked past it all.

Adam, however, had no such inhibitions. He almost immediately walked

over to some rags next to the stacked chairs and lifted them, coughing terribly.

“It’s just more crusty furniture,” he proclaimed, happy that his curiosity was

sated.

Theodore walked over to the dining chairs.

“When can we explore?” Adam asked, a smile spreading across his face.

“Explore? We’re here to work, Adam.”

“Then can we explore after work?”

“I doubt we’ll be allowed to. Mrs Dunkirk looks mighty strict.”

Adam wandered around the room, checking the walls and creaky

floorboards, feeling and kicking. “Maybe there’s a secret compartment here

with treasure hidden inside!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Adam.”

“Or better yet—dead bodies! That would surely mean the Mansion is

haunted!”

Theodore paused to take in what Adam had just said. He shook his head

and dragged one of the chairs out. He knelt down and closely studied its

construction. “I should be able to copy this just fine,” he said, feeling quite

relieved. “Adam, come over here.”

Finally, Adam paid some attention to the work at hand. He knelt by

Theodore’s side. “No wonder these are so beaten up—hundreds of asses must

have sat on them through the years.”

Theodore couldn’t contain a brief chuckle, but, not wanting to

encourage the language, he reined himself in and continued, “We don’t want

to damage the upholstery while we’re workin’. So first we’ll have to remove

the upholstered bits.” He tipped the chair over, exposing the base of the seat.

“I want you to watch me take the first few apart, then you’ll be working on

your own. We’ll go much faster if we do two at a time.”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to let me work… on my own?”

“Only after I teach you. Now bring me a hammer and a screwdriver.”

Adam nodded and gingerly got up, back to his slow ways. He walked

along but froze the moment he heard a terrible creaking under his feet.

He shifted his weight back and forth, making a rhythmical ruckus.

“Adam!” Theodore called, doing his best to sound authoritative, but

ultimately unable to hide his amusement. “Stop that and get the tools!”

Adam turned around and began jumping lightly, making even more of a

noise. “Mr Wythert, I think there is something—”

Suddenly, a monstrous crack roared and Adam fell right through the

floorboards. He yelled as he fell and landed with a thud.

“Adam!” Theodore instantly jumped up and ran towards the gap in the

floor. He fell to his knees and looked down, very ready to jump into the hole,

but not before checking things out.

“I’m alright!” Adam called as a coughed, looking up from a swirling cloud

of dust. His now dirtied face was illuminated dimly by the light from the attic

above, but his surroundings were pitch black. “It’s just… it’s just so dark down

here!”

Theodore let out a sigh of relief as he saw that Adam had only fallen

about eight feet.

“I’m coming down!” said Theodore, still a bit panicky. He ran to his crate

to grab a lamp and a match, and he lighted it as quickly as he could. He tied it

with a piece of rope.

Adam slowly got up, dusting himself off. “Ugh, right on the arse!” he

cried.

Theodore showed up at the top of the hole again. “I’m letting down a

light!” He then let the lamp down using the rope.

Adam took it gratefully and started to look around the dark

compartment.

Theodore rolled up his sleeves some more and hung his legs over the

edge in preparation for dropping down into the hole. He thanked his lucky

stars he used to climb so many trees as a child and that he wasn’t too afraid of

heights to be of any help to Adam.

But just then, Adam sucked in a huge gasp. “Theodore!” he exclaimed

excitedly. “You have got to see this!”

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2013 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

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result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

CHAPTER 6

Theodore opted to just drop down feet-first into the compartment

under the attic. The eight-foot plunge was no problem for him, since he was

unusually tall. As soon as his soles hit the ground, he faced the direction of the

light and demanded, “Alright, let’s get you out of here. I’ll give you a boost—

hey! Where are you goin’?”

Adam silently moved deeper into the compartment, taking the light with

him.

Theodore let out a brief cough. “Adam! Get back… here…”

Before he could properly complete his sentence, Theodore was

hopelessly distracted by the scene being slowly illuminated in front of him.

His eyes trailed towards the light and he observed Adam’s footsteps had

disturbed a thick layer of dust that must have been at least a few years old.

The small compartment—about a third of the size of the attic above—

was easily lit by the small lamp, albeit very dimly, with dark oranges dancing

against pure black shadows. Admittedly, it took Theodore’s eyes a few seconds

to adjust to the darkness.

The centre of the room was mostly bare, but for a few stacks of articles

strewn against its four walls.

There were chairs and tables, bannisters, rags, mirrors and even bits of a

large billiard board. One of the chairs resembled the ones Theodore was

tasked with restoring. The articles were all very grand, but they had another

thing in common: they had all been, to some degree or another, damaged by

fire. Burnt black overpowered each object’s original colour scheme and hardly

anything was intact anymore.

Only one of the burned desks was still sound enough to stand on its

own, and so someone had inevitably piled about twenty books onto it.

The books’ spines were bent and their paged frayed—seemed like a

generous helping of water had saved them from being disintegrated into mere

ashes.

Theodore, erring on the side of caution, started to approach Adam very

slowly and carefully. He called out to Adam again. “Come on. That’s enough.

Let’s get back.”

Adam nonchalantly wandered towards the pile of books, coughing

lightly. “I am only looking around. There’s no harm in that, is there? Besides,

how often does one fall through a floorboard into a secret room?”

“Judging by the quality floorboards in this place—plenty o’times if you

don’t stand still!”

“This is a stone floor, Mr Wythert.”

Theodore ignored the boy’s remark and still tread carefully, testing each

brick before finally placing his weight on it.

By the time Theodore reached Adam, the boy had placed the lamp on

the desk. Adam lazily took one of the damaged books and flipped through it,

which inevitably sent some of the rippled pages flying straight out from their

binding.

“Don’t do that!” Theodore scolded. “They’re antiques.”

Adam threw the book back onto the pile and flipped through another

one, seemingly out of spite alone—not that one could tell much from the boy’s

expression once it was locked in its default state.

Theodore instinctively took the book Adam threw aside and tapped it on

each of its sides against the desktop to get the pages back into place. This sent

some dust flying up, and they both coughed.

“The housekeeping in this place is hateful, is it not?” joked Adam in a

high-pitched voice, doing well to toss the second book back over his shoulder

and deeper into the darkness to make sure Theodore couldn’t fix it as easily.

Theodore wasn’t about to play Adam’s games. “Go pick it up,” he

ordered.

Adam shrugged and reached for another book.

Theodore nicked the book Adam was reaching for and tapped the boy’s

shoulder with it. “Go.”

Adam coughed a little again. “Now you are hitting people with antiques?

That’s just as much damage to property as what I’m doing.”

“You got me in here. If I break anything now, I’ll be taking it out of your

pay.” Theodore then swiftly lifted Adam by his blue waistcoat and turned him

about. He then lightly shoved the boy to get him going towards the book on

the floor.

Adam obeyed, but not without some verbal contention. However, the

shuffling of his feet was louder than his mumbling, so Theodore didn’t quite

catch what the child was complaining about.

Theodore looked at the book he had taken from Adam. It was thin and

bound in red, its pages surprisingly straight and neat. He turned it around in his

hands, discovering the little red book had unfortunately been burnt at the

back, with the bottom corner of its latter half having been eaten away by

flames.

Theodore looked behind him. Adam was still bending over and

mumbling, spitefully pretending to be picking a piece of lint from his trousers.

The carpenter reckoned he at least had some time to peruse the book

without the boy’s inevitable judgment. He opened it somewhere in the middle.

It revealed hand-written texts

in a graphic, foreign language that

consisted of sweeping angles and

peaks. Paging through the book

some more, Theodore found that at

least some of it was written in

English, but it was still peppered with

peculiar diagrams and somewhat

gruesome anatomical drawings.

Theodore slowly drew the

book closer to his eyes as he tried to

confirm whether the dark brown

speckles on the corner of the page

were a simple mishap with some

ink... or blood.

“What’s that?” said Adam, slamming a book back onto the desk as loudly

as he could. This scared Theodore’s blood right into his toes.

Theodore cleared his throat and read the first page of the journal aloud.

“Journal of Lord Joshua Valiard. 1824.” The name sent a chill down Theodore’s

spine, though he could not imagine why.

“Lord Joshua Valiard?” Adam exclaimed, reaching for the red journal.

But Theodore held it up high. “Oy, Adam! Don’t grab!”

Suddenly, Adam turned into the sweetest child. “Sorry. May I see it,

please?”

“You won’t damage this one?”

“No, I won’t! I promise!”

Theodore handed it over.

“I can’t believe it,” said Adam, his expression finally animated. He tilted

the journal towards the lamp to read some of it. “This journal was started just

one year after the famous fire broke out. Just one year, Mr Wythert!”

Theodore turned around to see some paintings stacked vertically against

one of the walls of the compartment. Since he didn’t get a good look at the

paintings actually being hung on the Mansion’s walls that day, he figured he

might as well look at the damaged ones.

“Listen to this,” Adam began as Theodore paced around the paintings. “I

am the patriarch of this family. I should have been there the night of the fire. It

was my duty to protect them. Failing that, it was my duty to die with them. In

my disgrace, I have managed neither.”

“That’s mighty depressing,” said Theodore as he observed that all of the

fifty or so paintings were landscapes. He wasn’t sure if he was referring to the

heavy journal entry or the sad lack of portraits against the wall. Perhaps both.

“My series of betrayals must end. I will make this right, my beloved

Vittoria—this I swear. I shall bring you back. I shall bring you back. I shall bring

you back.” Adam paused. “Mr Wythert, can I keep this?”

Theodore spun around. “Whoa, no, no, no. We’ll be telling Mr Dunkirk of

this place as soon as we get out.”

Adam started to panic. “Everything here is damaged! This is discarded

rubbish! Who says Mr Dunkirk wasn’t the one who put it all here? Who says he

won’t trash it all if he found out about it?”

“That’s not the point, Adam.”

“Even so! Why would they miss one little journal?”

“The journal of Lord Joshua Valiard—the man himself? Yes, I think they’d

miss that.”

“But then why would they just leave it here?”

Theodore bent over to look more closely at one of the paintings. “Maybe

to keep it secret. I don’t know. Just put it back, Adam.”

“But—” Adam stopped himself. “Fine.”

Somehow, Theodore very much noticed how quiet Adam had suddenly

become. His gut beckoned him to look around, but when he did, he saw Adam

slowly approaching, his one hand holding the lamp and his other hand tucking

in his shirt.

Theodore shrugged it off.

Adam placed the lamp on the floor and peered over the edge of some of

the bigger paintings. “There are even more behind these. Oh, hello!”

Just then, the painting of a lovely, green English countryside that

Theodore was looking at started to shake. The cause was Adam tugging at one

of the large paintings in the corner.

Theodore, rightly fed up, raised his voice. “Damn it all, Adam! Are you

out to destroy everything you touch today?”

Adam briefly stopped tugging, looked Theodore squarely in the eyes and

plainly replied, “I see something.” He then continued pulling at the painting.

This prompted Theodore to approach Adam, and he very much had the

intention of just picking the boy up and carrying him out.

However, Adam had created a wedge between the two rows of paintings

large enough for Theodore to catch a glimpse of the artwork Adam was aiming

to get at.

It contained a sideways pair of eyes—it was a portrait! A portrait in that

mess of landscapes!

“Move over!” Theodore cried excitedly. “This one’s jamming the portrait

stuck, see?” Theodore knelt down and reached for the frame that was propped

between two bricks in the adjacent wall, but he was startled by a spider that

crawled onto his hand.

Adam let out a mild chuckle. “Afraid of a little spider, there, Mr

Wythert?”

Theodore wiped his palms on his trousers. “Ugh, this place is turnin’ my

spine into a salt shaker. Let’s just get this painting unstuck so we can get out of

here.”

“I could not agree more, sir.”

It was a difficult task getting to the portrait. They soon discovered it was

quite a large painting and as such, every time they moved it, three other

paintings would almost topple over. Theodore eventually assigned Adam to do

the leg work and run about keeping the other paintings from collapsing while

he extracted the portrait on his own. The portrait was heavy, but with this little

bit of teamwork, they made plenty of headway in no time at all. Soon the

portrait was freed.

Theodore decided to take a brief rest and he laid the portrait against the

stack of the others, with his foot securing the frame in place. Not unlike the

other articles in the compartment, much of the portrait had suffered fire

damage, but at least one face was visible on it. He and Adam instinctively tilted

their heads ninety degrees to get an idea of who the subjects in the sideways

portrait were, but that only made them dizzy.

“Let’s turn ‘er upright,” Theodore declared.

The large frame groaned as it was dragged across the stone floor and

towards the corner to their left.

“Alright,” said Theodore, gripping the bottom of the frame. “One, two,

three!”

And with a heave, he lifted the portrait into its upright position while

Adam held it in place, and together they rested it up in the corner. The portrait

only narrowly fit under the eight-foot ceiling. After making sure it was secure, a

slightly exhausted Theodore joined Adam in backing away to properly look at

the portrait they expended so much effort on to see. Adam had already

grabbed the lamp and was holding it up to illuminate the painting.

The portrait contained two subjects: the first was a fair-haired

gentleman standing on the left, and the second was a woman sitting down on

a fine crimson couch to the right. The woman’s face and much of the top-right

side of the painting were charred black, wobbled and melted. Only the man’s

image, and that of the woman’s silky black hair draping down over her blue

dress, had survived.

Theodore tried to study the details of the painter’s technique to satisfy

his artistic curiosity, but he found himself unable to shake off the male

subject’s glare. At first, he figured that this stood as credit to the painter for

making the subject so lifelike, but when he looked into the male subject’s

azure eyes, he felt a terrifying jolt in his chest.

“Blast,” Adam remarked, although he hardly sounded vexed. “We almost

made a fortune today.”

“And how’d you reckon that?”

“Not a single image of Lady Vittoria exists today. Nobody knows what

she looked like. If her face weren’t a melted cesspool right now, we could have

smuggled this out and—”

“Would you stop with the wantin’ to steal everything?” Theodore was

agitated, annoyed and a little panicked, suddenly acutely aware of the mass of

darkness behind them. At that moment, he wanted to leave more than ever

before, but he was strangely just as caught up in the portrait as he was

repelled by it. “Lady Vittoria—that was Lord Joshua’s wife, then?”

“Yes. And that is Lord Joshua,” Adam replied, pointing to the male

subject with the piercing eyes.

Theodore had the impulse to greet the lifelike creature, but luckily

fought it off, lest he invoke some sort of ghost.

A ghost? Was he truly wondering about ghosts at that moment? Perhaps

Adam and Mr Gangfield were starting to get to him.

Theodore studied Lady Vittoria’s olive-skinned hands delicately folded in

her lap and a great sense of remorse dragged his spirit down. She must have

been pretty indeed, and yet it is the scary man’s image that survived.

“Well, Lord Joshua’s likeness is spot on, at least,” he remarked.

“You think so? How do you know that?”

“His face—it doesn’t have the classic stylisations of the period.”

Adam’s expression remained blank.

Theodore continued, “I mean, this was painted, when? 1820’s? Compare

it to something like, say, the Mona Lisa. Big eyes, long nose, small mouth, tiny

chin… no, this fellow’s got none of that.”

In fact, the image of Lord Joshua depicted him as having a short, broad

nose, a wide mouth and an imposing jawline. And above it all hung two

narrowed, serious eyes.

Adam smiled weakly. “And here I thought all you knew about were

hammers and nails.”

“Didn’t—um, didn’t he hang himself?” Theodore asked, more to satisfy

himself that the aristocrat with the lively painted gaze was actually dead and

harmless.

“Well, they never found his body, so that’s just one theory—that he

hanged himself in a secret compartment of the Mansion somewhere.”

Theodore grew ice cold. “You mean a secret compartment like this

one?”

Adam looked around, pulled his mouth to the side and nodded easily.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose just like this one.” He then returned to silently studying

the painting, but before long, he craned his head towards Theodore, who

stared at him with wide eyes.

They each held their poses for only a moment.

Suddenly, they both bolted for the hole in the compartment’s wooden

ceiling. Theodore bent over, cupping his hands. “Come on! I’ll give you a

boost!”

Adam hesitated and looked back.

“Adam!” Theodore cried, a panic chasing his patience away.

The boy cursed under his breath and allowed Theodore to help him up

into the attic.

Despite Adam’s many protests, after they were freed from the dark,

cramped compartment, Theodore immediately reported the incident to Mrs

Dunkirk. Theodore could have sworn the stone-cold Mrs Dunkirk expressed a

flutter of concern when he told her. She ordered them to directly follow her to

Mr Dunkirk’s office.

The curator’s office was located on the ground floor, some ways past the

great ballroom where the less lifelike portrait of Lord Joshua hung. Theodore

still wasn’t brave enough to face even a poor depiction of the aristocrat, so he

shielded his face by pretending he was scratching a mighty itch around his

hairline.

All the way to the office, Adam trailed quite far behind Theodore and

Mrs Dunkirk. Theodore kept expecting Adam to slip away, since the boy who

practically led the way when they first entered the Mansion was now acting

quite differently since they left the attic. Theodore checked over his shoulder

every so often, and whenever he did, he was met with Adam briefly stretching

his face into a strangely enthusiastic smile.

They waited outside Mr Dunkirk’s office as Mrs Dunkirk announced

them.

Adam aimlessly swung the black bag that was hanging from his shoulder

back and forth, making its contents clink. “Mr Wythert, are we in trouble?” he

whispered, although, despite the question, he didn’t seem too bothered about

their situation. He just hugged his back closer to the wall.

Theodore shushed him.

“I think we did nothing wrong,” Adam continued a bit louder.

“Not now, Adam.”

Mrs Dunkirk came out the office. “You two may come inside now.”

Theodore, who expected Mr Dunkirk to be upset, was very much

surprised when the man greeted him and Adam with outstretched arms.

“Good morning, Mr Wythert!” said Mr Dunkirk as he approached them

through the brightly-lit study. He shook their hands.

Mr Dunkirk had a booming, charismatic tone and a thick, black

moustache that stretched into his deep smile lines. The curator came across as

more of a salesman than a history buff.

“So!” said Mr Dunkirk with a convincing grin. “Tell me! What do you fine

fellows think of my Valiard Mansion?”

“Very lovely, sir,” said Theodore, still a little unsure about why he

deserved such happy treatment.

“It is well on its way to being England’s greatest attraction, is it not?”

Theodore nodded and smiled.

“I plan to hang up banners everywhere,” Mr Dunkirk continued as he

ushered the boys to his desk. “Please, sit down.”

Adam almost immediately did a sort of sideways jog around Mrs Dunkirk

and sat down on one of the chairs opposite Mr Dunkirk’s desk. He leaned far

backwards, pressing tightly against the chair’s backrest.

Theodore joined him in getting seated. He quickly kicked Adam’s shoe

and gestured at Adam to sit upright.

Mrs Dunkirk stood like a statue behind Mr Dunkirk and glared at Adam

the entire time they were in the office.

Meanwhile, Mr Dunkirk pressed his pen against his cheek. “What sounds

more enticing? Come experience the excitement of the world’s most famous

haunted house, or Get your share of the mystery, murder and melodrama of

the Mansion?”

Theodore could only raise his eyebrows.

Mr Dunkirk nodded. “Yes, yes. I think the former has a friendlier ring to

it, does it not?”

Theodore smiled again. “You would know, sir.”

“Though, I do like the one with a dash more alliteration. Ah, never mind

that.” Mr Dunkirk then fervently scratched out a line on a piece of paper

before him. “Marketing, gentlemen! That is more than half of the battle. The

Valiard Mansion must be more than a museum, more than a frivolous piece of

history—it must be a product! That’s where the money is! Besides, what good

have the Valiards truly done for mankind besides die in a splendid fashion?” He

chuckled at his own joke. “No, not much value as a mere museum at all!”

Theodore wanted to thank the man for the business and lesson and urge

him to get to his point, but he thought the better of it.

“Mrs Dunkirk tells me you two have found our secret little room up in

the attic,” said Mr Dunkirk finally, albeit with less alacrity than before. “Pity the

floorboards gave way. We shall have to fix that as soon as we get a chance. We

would like to keep that room a secret, Mr Wythert. I am sure there must be

some way I could secure that secrecy.” He then tapped his cheque book with

his pen.

Theodore responded immediately. “Oh, there is no need for that, Mr

Dunkirk. We have no reason to tell anyone.”

“I’m sure,” the curator waffled. “Did you see anything of interest up

there?”

“Books and paintings… and furniture,” Theodore replied. “Broken things.

It was mighty dark.”

“And did you take anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Mr Dunkirk leaned back in his chair.

Finally, Mrs Dunkirk moved. “Surely, you cannot believe them so easily,

Mr Dunkirk!” She nodded towards Adam, a wild panic in her eyes. “That one is

a thief. I can tell! Search his bag!”

“Mrs Dunkirk, please calm down.” Mr Dunkirk turned towards Adam.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Adam Rosewood, sir,” he replied.

“Rosewood? As in Edward Rosewood? Well, that is a surprise! Do you

mind if we take a look in that bag on your lap, young Mr Rosewood?”

Adam shifted in his seat, his fingers wrapping tightly around the bag’s

silver buckle.

“It’s alright, Adam,” said Theodore—although he wasn’t quite sure

himself that it was.

The boy hesitantly placed the bag on Dunkirk’s broad desk, quite

purposefully on the very edge so that the curator would have to stretch to get

to it.

With a hopeless sigh, Theodore pushed the black bag closer to Mr

Dunkirk.

Mr Dunkirk undid the buckle and opened the bag. He peered in, looked

up sternly at Adam, and then he pulled out the bag’s contents.

It was a small wooden board with all the letters of the alphabet and all

ten numerical digits neatly stencilled onto its surface in sequence, as well as

the words YES, NO and GOOD-BYE.

Mrs Dunkirk gasped and raised her hand to her mouth.

“Have you been using this, boy?” Mr Dunkirk demanded, every hint of

his salesman’s charm gone.

Adam shook his head.

“Has he?” Dunkirk asked Theodore.

“No, sir,” Theodore replied hastily. “First I’ve seen of if it, sir.”

“You do not bring things like this in here, boy. Do you hear me?”

Adam leaned forward. “Why not?”

“You just don’t!” Mr Dunkirk was visibly close to losing his temper.

The woman’s red face was gleaming with newly-formed sweat. She

hissed at Adam, “Do you have any idea what you could have—”

“Please, Mrs Dunkirk,” said Mr Dunkirk, wiping his own sweat from his

forehead with his handkerchief. “No harm has been done. They have

guaranteed they have not actually used the talking board.”

“What else is in the bag?” the woman demanded.

Mr Dunkirk looked inside again. “Only the triangular apparatus used on

the board. Nothing else.” He put the wooden board back into Adam’s bag. “I

would happily confiscate this, but I have nowhere but the Mansion’s premises

to keep it. I would rather see it carried out of here as soon as possible.” He slid

the bag back across the table.

Adam greedily grabbed it as soon as it was within arm’s reach.

“Mr Wythert,” Dunkirk said in a threateningly low voice, “Make sure

your little employee does not bring any more spiritualist rubbish into my

Mansion—or I shall very quickly find myself another carpenter to fix my dining

chairs.”

“Yes, sir,” Theodore replied, a little distracted by how much Mrs

Dunkirk’s hands were trembling. “It will not happen again.”

Mr Dunkirk nodded. “You are dismissed for the day to recover from your

fall.” He got up and led Theodore and Adam out of the office. He shook

Theodore’s hand quite tightly. “Nobody needs to know of any of today’s

events. We have an understanding, do we not, Mr Wythert?”

“Yes, sir.”

After their dismissal, Theodore and Adam went up to the attic to fetch

their tools. Theodore again carried the crate while Adam lugged the toolbox.

Theodore wasn’t able to explain why, but he felt betrayed by Adam,

even though they were not well enough acquainted for the boy to owe him

any loyalty. The job at the Valiard Mansion, however menial to the outside

world, was incredibly important to his current livelihood. And what is the

greater shame? To be fired from a simple job and look like an incompetent

moron, or to blame it on a child and be branded a coward?

It did not matter, truly, since both would result in unemployment and an

eventual stint in the workhouse.

They walked in silence down the marble staircase and through the

entrance hall. Adam was still insistent on walking behind Theodore, but in a

lapse of coordination, they almost bumped into each other as they aimed for

the same creak in the large front doors.

Theodore stopped, then nodded to signal that Adam could exit first.

Adam shook his head. “Oh, no, you go ahead, Mr Wythert.”

“No, you go,” Theodore insisted plainly.

“I think it’s fine if you went first.”

“Adam, I will not move until you go. So, go. Now.”

The boy nodded, then somewhat slithered out of the door sideways like

a crab, making sure to face Theodore the whole way.

Just as Adam tread on the steps outside the Mansion’s front doors,

Theodore heard a loud crash echo behind him.

He spun around and saw a startled young woman in maid’s clothing at

the top of the marble staircase, frozen in place and staring down. Her co-

workers rushed to her side to comfort her.

She had dropped a glass vase that now lay shattered in glittering shards

strewn down the white staircase.

Theodore narrowed his eyes as he heard the woman proclaim, “I felt

something push me, I did! I swear it! I felt a terribly cold gush and then a

push!” The woman quickly ascended into hysterics and started to cry, which

Theodore saw as his cue to leave, since he knew he could be of no help, really,

and that his staring could only make matters worse.

He turned and found Adam peering through the doors. Theodore

practically shoved his apprentice aside and started to head to his cart,

purposefully taking long strides.

Adam struggled to keep up, calling towards his employer in between

deep breaths, “Did she say... that she was pushed?” Another few breaths. “Do

you think it was—”

“No, Adam!” Theodore exclaimed as he dropped the crate on the floor

at the back of the cart. “I don’t think it was ghosts. I don’t think there are dead

bodies in the attic. And I don’t give a damn about your stupid little ghost

board!”

“It’s called a talking board,” Adam corrected defiantly.

Theodore opened the latch at the back and loaded the crate onto the

cart. “That was your contingency plan? You wanted to talk to the ghosts?”

“Well, in case one didn’t appear to me of its own volition…”

“You almost got me fired today, Adam! Do you realise that?”

“Yes, but—” Adam set the toolbox down onto the cart. “All this just

proves it. You saw how worried the Dunkirks were! What’s the use in owning a

haunted house if you don’t want to hold séances and the like?”

Theodore found Adam’s smiling face unbearable. He took a deep breath,

closed the back of the cart and loosened Bester’s reins from the tree they were

pulled up under. He did his best to ignore the boy for fear of losing his temper.

However, Adam kept popping up practically under Theodore’s feet.

“Especially if you’re aiming to make a profit off of the ghosts, right? Unless the

Mansion’s so haunted, the Dunkirks are actually afraid! And now the woman

on the staircase!”

“Adam, drop it,” Theodore warned steadily as he got onto the cart and

sat down.

Adam happily took a seat next to Theodore. “Mr Wythert… the Valiard

Mansion really is haunted!”

Theodore, his blood pressure rising, called Bester into motion and they

soon headed towards the rocky road and were on their way home.

Adam clapped his hands together. “I am so happy I came along today—

truly, I am. What a great day it was! Tomorrow I shall try out the talking board

for sure!”

“Have you heard nothing I just said?” Theodore finally snapped. “You

cannot use the ghost board!”

“But we just practically received confirmation that it would work! Aren’t

you the least bit suspicious—or curious?”

“No, Adam. I just want to keep my head down, do my work and get

paid.”

Adam scoffed. “I do not understand why you are so worked up about all

this. I just want to have a little fun.”

“Then do it on your own time!”

Adam shuddered and Theodore realised how loudly he had spoken just

then. He wanted to apologise, but the boy had been insolent.

After watching Adam cross his arms, Theodore sighed deeply and

hopelessly questioned out loud, “Is this little penchant for getting me into

trouble some sort of Rosewood trait? I mean, your sister is far better at it, of

course…”

Adam smiled. “It’s a good thing I got in some practice today, then. Soon I

shall surpass Ruth in this matter and finally get you fired.”

“Adam, I will literally pay you money not to do that.”

“Fine,” the boy relented, albeit with some bitterness in his voice. “I shall

leave the talking board at home tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Do your parents even know you have one of those?”

“They don’t worry too much about it. I also have an old planchette—the

kind to which you attach a pencil, then the ghosts actually write out messages

for you.”

Theodore chuckled. “These devices must be the bane of every illiterate

spook’s existence.”

“Ha! Turns out mandatory schooling is paying off in more ways than

expected.”

In the distance, there was a smallish tent being erected on the side of

the road by a peculiar group of people in brightly coloured hooded capes.

There was a stall with trinkets hanging in its frame and a sign with the

following words:

FORTUNE TELLING

SPELLS

POTIONS

-and-

OTHER ENTERTAINMENTS

Theodore was happy to just drive by, but Adam’s interest was

predictably piqued. It was out of pure instinct that as Adam turned to face him,

Theodore let out a stern, “No.”

“Oh, come on, Mr Wythert. You must wonder what the stars hold for

you.”

“The stars dictate my life even less that I do.”

Adam grew more excited as the cart drove closer to the tent. “You don’t

understand. There are never stalls like these in Harbiville. This is the first time

I’ve seen one. I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.”

“Those people are occult peddlers, Adam. They’re dangerous. Don’t

even make eye contact with ‘em.”

The cart passed the tent and Adam turned about, looking back

desperately. “Surely there could be no harm. It’s not like we have any work to

do.”

“I have a job, and that’s getting you back home safely.”

Before Theodore could react, Adam plucked hard at Bester’s reins,

making the horse pull back for but a moment.

The cart skidded to a much slower speed and Adam jumped into the

back with surprising agility and ran the length of the short cart, hopping onto

the ground at the end. The boy kept running towards the tent at an alarming

speed. It was like watching a cat flee from a greyhound.

“Soddin’ little—!” Theodore pulled the cart over to the roadside. He

pulled up the brakes, made sure Bester was alright, then briskly walked

towards the stall.

There were three or four people working on erecting the last section of

the tent, pulling at the ropes that made the tent climb higher into the sky. It

appeared that the structure consisted of three smaller tents that were

interconnected.

The singular stall was manned by a mangy-looking woman in her middle

ages. From her ears and neck hung various rocks. Not really any precious

stones—just grey and brown rocks with wire and chains running through them.

Adam, who was eyeing the trinkets on display, didn’t even bat an eyelid

as Theodore reached over and grabbed his arm. “I’ve just about had enough

o’you,” Theodore sighed angrily.

Adam nonchalantly asked the person behind the stall, “Do you have

anything I can use to talk to spirits?”

Just then, a frighteningly old woman popped her head out of the tent

behind the stall. “Talk to spirits, you say?” Her crumpled skin appeared to be

starting to fall right off of her face. She was hunched over and she lumbered

with much difficulty as she emerged from the tent.

“Yes, madam,” Adam replied confidently.

The old woman’s aged hair was evidently matted into a tall, grey mass

on her head, somewhat resembling the flamboyant white wigs of the previous

century, and it was decorated with a headdress of colourful feathers and

gemstones. Her bright, yellow shawl was similarly decorated with far larger

feathers, including three peacock feathers that stood upright on her back. For

some reason, the old woman had painted her face something atrocious and

had even glued pairs of feathers to the ends of her eyebrows.

It had to be said that if she wished to look more like a bird than a

human, she most certainly succeeded.

She came closer and stared at Adam with her small, round eyes.

Theodore protectively pulled Adam closer to him. Something about the

woman was just not right.

“This one has it,” said the bird-woman, her voice crackling. “Yes, you can

sense the spirits, can you not?”

“Well,” said Adam, “I’m trying to.”

“I can show you how,” she said. She then turned around and gestured to

Adam to follow her before practically crawling into the tent.

Theodore didn’t let go of Adam. The boy glared at him. “Come on, Mr

Wythert. You’re not telling me you’re afraid of a little spiders and little old

women.”

There was a nasty challenge in Adam’s tone which made the situation

inescapable. It was clear that there was a high likelihood that the child would

never respect Theodore if he fled at that moment, despite the fact he believed

he rightly should have dragged Adam back to the cart and made tracks.

With a deep breath, Theodore let go of Adam’s arm, but he followed the

boy very closely.

Certainly, nothing too bad could happen if Theodore kept his eyes open.

They headed inside the tent.

There was a dreadful, stuffy stink—the smell of a hundred oils and

incenses burning all at once. It was sharp, incredibly sweet and above all else,

sickening.

On top of the vast population of candles, the tent was cluttered by

various superstitious titbits. Theodore could identify some dream catchers,

crystals on strings, a couple of human skulls and about a dozen jars of

formaldehyde containing baby animals of various species.

At the centre of the cramped tent was a small, round table and—of

course—a crystal ball. A few tarot cards lay strewn on the table as well.

Theodore immediately wondered if his precious cart was at risk, but

shook the thought off, instead focusing on Adam’s safety.

“I have something here that you might like,” the woman said as she

rummaged through a chest on the floor.

The woman then sat down at the centre table and Adam didn’t even

wait for an invitation to sit down opposite her.

They both looked expectantly at Theodore,

who quickly responded, “I’ll stand.”

The woman then held out an oval-

shaped, silver locket. “This may look

ordinary,” she started, turning it

around in her crumpled hands, “But

in truth, this once belonged to a

young witch many, many years

ago.”

Theodore amused himself

with the thought that this old hag

would most certainly recognise a witch if

she saw one. He then noticed how

disgustingly yellowed her long nails were.

“This witch was dreadfully beautiful, she was—with the longest, raven-

black hair and eyes deeper than the night sky.” The hag’s wrinkled mouth

stretched into an ominous smile. “She had given this, along with a lock of her

black hair inside, to the man she loved—a wealthy Duke. Oh, they were very

much in love. Have you ever been in love, young man?”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “I’m not here for love potions, if that’s what

you mean.”

The old woman, quite amused, shook her head and kept going. “Ah, but

she was hunted down by the priests and killed by them in the river. Very tragic.

However, the Duke said that whenever he wore this locket holding his true

love’s hair, he could hear her whispers from beyond the grave. He heard her

speak well into his winter years and even on his deathbed. In fact, the Duke’s

very last words were, ‘Why can you not come with me, my love?’”

Theodore let out a light chuckle at the silly story, but he was ignored.

“So,” said Adam with a grin, “if I put a lock of a dead person’s hair in this,

I shall hear them speak?”

“That’s the plan,” said the old woman. “But I can’t say I’ve gotten to

testing it yet. At the very least, it should bring you some good luck.”

Well, now! She was an honest witch.

“Alright! How much?” said Adam excitedly.

“I admit I cannot put a price on it,” the hag replied. “You’ve got the gift. I

sense the spirits are with you. I can part with this for no charge—it will sit

better with you.”

The old woman stretched out and took Adam’s hand. But as she put the

locket in his palm, she froze.

Suddenly, the feathers on her back danced as her breathing sped up.

“You do not have the gift,” she said between rapid breaths. “What have you

done?”

“Nothing,” Adam answered as he gripped the locket tighter. He tried to

pull his arm back, but the woman’s hold on him was far more powerful than

could be expected. “Hey! Let go!”

There was a mad flash in the woman’s eyes.

Theodore jumped in. “He said let go!” He tried to pry the hag’s fingers

from Adam’s wrist, but it was no use. The woman had supernatural strength.

“You shall not leave here,” she groaned. She then opened her toothless

mouth wide and let out a deafening shriek.

The five hooded figures that had been working outside rushed into the

tent all at once. Three of them grabbed Theodore and dragged him away from

Adam.

Theodore fought against them as best he could, but it was no use.

“Adam!” One of the hooded figures then started to punch Theodore

repeatedly in his side. He started to sink to his knees, but he kept fighting, not

taking his eyes off of Adam for a second.

All the while, the hag still screamed away, her cry growing ever louder

and higher in pitch.

Adam kept struggling to be freed from the old woman’s grip, but she sat

fast, unmoved, mouth agape—Adam was trapped.

One of the hooded figures grabbed Adam’s free arm and forced it

behind his back, while simultaneously taking the boy by his jaw to expose his

neck.

The last of the hooded figures then pulled out a long blade and began to

draw it close to Adam’s throat.

A thousand images ran through Theodore’s mind in an instant. The

scream grew louder. The stink grew stronger. This was all his fault. He had let

down a boy who trusted him—who was entrusted to him. There was no

redemption beyond the boy’s death.

But before Theodore could truly give up all hope, a man’s voice boomed

past the hag’s painful shriek.

“What in the nine hells—Melora!”

But the woman did not stop screaming. She kept going as if she heard

nothing.

In an instant, fire sprawled from the man’s hands in a circle around the

tent, setting its walls ablaze. Hundreds of trinkets fell to the ground, but the

fire did not spread. It was as if it formed the walls and ceiling of the tent anew

in a hot and blinding light show.

Suddenly the shrieking stopped. The hooded figures shuddered and the

hag spun around to face a man whose dark contours were shrouded by the

heat.

“He cannot live, my lord!” the hag cried. “I cannot let him walk!”

“What did I say about human sacrifice?” the man demanded, his voice

poisoned with rage.

“But, my lord—”

“What did I say about human sacrifice?”

“It’s not a sacrifice, my lord!”

The fire walls crackled on and it quickly became difficult to breathe

through the smoke.

Finally, the old witch relented. “Let them go!” she ordered. The hooded

figures obeyed, releasing Theodore and Adam.

Just as they did so, all of the surrounding flames were sucked back inside

the man’s open palms.

Nothing but a cool blue smoke and some burnt titbits now remained as

evidence of the fire, because despite the flames, the tent was intact.

Suddenly, all was silent.

Theodore immediately stumbled towards Adam, asking him again and

again if he was alright.

Adam was about to answer, but he looked up past the old witch.

Breathless, he exclaimed, “Gangfield!”

Hearing this, Theodore decided to look upon the man’s face.

His eyes met with those of the ever-odd Mr Gangfield, who stood on the

other end of the tent by one of the interconnecting flaps that led to the next

tent. His coat had been hastily pulled on over his half-open linen shirt. It

seemed he got dressed in a hurry, as his tie and waistcoat were nowhere to be

seen.

“My lord,” the feathery witch pleaded, dropping to the floor in unison

with the hood-people. “Forgive me. It was not a sacrifice, I swear it!”

Gangfield treated this behaviour with little ceremony, rubbing his hands

together and casually adjusting his fingerless gloves. “You cannot go around

killing people, Melora. How many times must I tell you this?”

The witch, Melora, crawled a little closer to Gangfield on the ground, but

she did not dare to face him. “My lord, the boy has angered the spirits.”

“Angered the spirits? Are you sober, Melora? Honestly!” He shook his

head and approached Adam and Theodore as they got up. “Angered the

spirits... With that sort of logic, I must surely fear angering the grass—or

angering my landlady’s succulent hen.” He checked Adam over, while uttering

quite loudly, “I’m serious about that hen being succulent, though. I just look at

it and all I can think of is dinner. It better not anger me or I shall very much

enjoy it with some boiled potatoes.” Gangfield then came in closer to

Theodore, whispering gravely, “We should go. Now.”

Melora peeked up. “My lord, what shall we do with the boy, then?”

Gangfield twirled around, a bright expression on his face. “I shall take

care of things. There are ways and means, Melora—” He strolled into the next

compartment of the tent, still speaking, but barely audible. “Ways and means

of banishing the spirits’ wrath without killing people.”

The slit had been left a little open, and Theodore momentarily saw into

the next compartment—there was a table with several bloodied knives on it.

What kind of awful place was this?

Gangfield then came back into the fortune-telling room, his hat, cane

and waistcoat in hand. “However, this little incident shall not be without

consequence. Next time you require my services, do not bother to contact

me.”

“No, my lord!” Melora begged, shuffling on her hands and feet. “Forgive

me! Please, it shall never happen again, I swear—”

Gangfield stretched his leg over the huddled witch and stepped right

over her towards the exit. “No can do, Melora. You have let me down for the

last time. I shudder to think of your behaviour when I am not in the vicinity.”

“I’ll do better, my lord! I do promise.”

He breathed in a long, deep sigh. “Oh... how could I stay angry with that

face? Alright, Melora. If you are good, we shall do business again very soon.”

“Thank you, my lord! Thank you! Oh, may the Hounds bless you a

thousand fold!”

Gangfield nodded in greeting then gave Theodore a stern glance.

It was time to go.

Adam was still shaken up, but he managed to walk alright. Theodore was

in a great deal of pain, his side stinging with every breath, but there was no

chance he would let it show. He just wrapped his arm around Adam and kept

going.

The three of them walked past two hood-people and out of the tent.

Theodore led the way to their left and towards the cart. His ears were still

ringing. Adam was deathly silent.

“What are you doing here?” Theodore asked Gangfield.

But Gangfield only walked faster, stopping short of a jog.

“I’m talkin’ to you!”

“I heard you, Mr Wythert, but now is not the time. We are not out of

danger yet.” Gangfield nearly missed a step just then. He appeared to be

growing weak.

The three of them mounted the cart. Adam sat in the front with

Theodore and Gangfield hopped into the back.

“Quick as you can,” the man urged.

When the carriage got moving, Gangfield still didn’t dare to relax. He

kept his gaze fixed firmly on the tent.

Adam was still in shock, but somehow this didn’t stop Gangfield from

taking it out on the boy.

“Adam,” he started, “I am just about fed up with being ignored. I have

warned you about fortune tellers and their kind on many occasions.”

Adam didn’t move, but he quietly replied, “Yes, I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do know! Because if you did know, we would not

be in this situation, now would we?”

“Look, it’s my fault, alright?” Theodore interjected. “I let him go in.”

“I will get to you in a minute,” Gangfield snapped.

“Gangfield, you encouraged me!” Adam exclaimed, close to tears.

“Encouraged you? Never in my life—”

“You’re always telling me amazing ghost stories and—and about magic!”

“But do I not always, always preface every story with a warning? The

other worlds are not to be toyed with, Adam—you know that all too well! I tell

you almost every day I see you.” Gangfield got so excited about the point he

was making, he stood up, just barely balancing upon the rickety cart. “And your

parents—”

“Um, Gangfield?” said Adam, looking up at the wobbly magician.

“Do not interrupt me! Your parents will be livid if they found out you

had anything to do with spiritualistic—”

“Gangfield!” the boy repeated.

“What?” Gangfield snapped, his eyelids drooping.

Theodore turned around and saw the man was as pale as a sheet.

Adam pointed to Gangfield’s right hand, which was dripping in blood.

“Gangfield—you’re bleeding.”

Gangfield looked down at his hand with an unfazed expression. “Ah, so I

am.” He turned back to Adam, his movements increasingly uncoordinated and

his speech slurred. “Now, az I woz shaying...”

Just then, Gangfield’s entire body went limp and he fell backwards and

right off the back of the cart. He hit the ground with a deafening thump and he

kept rolling for some distance.

“Stop the cart!” Adam yelled.

Theodore did so and he joined Adam in sprinting towards the

unconscious magician, whose body now lay twisted, bruised and dirtied on the

rough pebble road.

They quickly turned him around and Theodore instinctively tried to wake

him by shaking him. “Mr Gangfield!” But Theodore touched something wet on

Gangfield’s right shoulder. He lifted his hand and saw that it was slightly

bloodied.

Adam slowly lifted Gangfield’s coat collar, revealing the magician’s white

shirt was absolutely soaked in blood all the way on his right shoulder and the

side of his neck.

Theodore remembered the collection of knives he had seen in the tent.

“What did those people do to him?”

Meanwhile, Gangfield’s head was hanging like a dead fish from his

shoulders. He was not about to wake up any time soon, and if they didn’t act

fast, he might never have woken up again at all.

“We better get him to the hospital,” said Adam, his eyes brimming with

tears.

“No!” a tiny voice exclaimed. “No hospitals!”

“Why not?” Adam asked Theodore.

Theodore looked back at him, completely puzzled. “I didn’t say

anything.”

They both turned towards Gangfield.

The shrill voice repeated. “No hospitals!” It then cleared its throat and

spoke in an unconvincing upper-class English accent. “Ahem! I mean, no

hospitals, my good man. Just plop me back on the cart and let’s go have some

tea!”

It was definitely coming from Gangfield, but not from his mouth, which

only hung wide open on his bleak face.

The pair held their ears closer to Gangfield’s chest.

The tiny voice continued, “What are we waiting for? Chop chop, wot

wot!”

Adam was the first to react. He reached inside Gangfield’s coat with

lighting speed and grabbed something.

“Ouch!” the voice screeched.

Right then, Adam pulled out a fuzzy, grey rat out of one of Gangfield’s

coat pockets.

If this weren’t enough of a shock, the rat started to protest!

“A’right, a’right!” the little rat exclaimed. “Ye got me!”

Adam’s face lit up. “I knew it! I knew animals could speak!” He turned to

Theodore. “I so knew it!”

Theodore was so shocked, he dropped Gangfield back onto the ground

with a thud.

“Ye think you could loosen that grip there, Adam?” the rat said as it

squirmed.

The little blighter even had an accent—he spoke with the inflections and

trills of a Scotsman! His voice was high-pitched, but somewhat hoarse, as if he

spoke through underdeveloped vocal chords.

“Oh, oops,” said Adam, allowing the rat to stand in his palm. “Sorry

about that, Dennis. That is your name, right?”

Theodore felt his arse crawl up into his stomach as he watched the

animal nod.

And then the rat looked at Theodore with its shiny, black eyes. “Oh,

please don’t take my Master to the hospital, Mr Wythert!”

Somehow, Theodore managed to utter a “What? Why?” even though it

was more out of habit than anything else.

“I don’t remember,” Dennis replied, his tiny, pink paws tapping his head.

“It’s m’rat brain, y’see. I can’t retain too much information at any one point in

time.” He turned to Adam, who was excited, but otherwise unsurprised. “All I

know is Master should never go to a hospital!”

Theodore started to shake his head—slowly at first, but then fast

enough to make his side sting again. “No... No, no, no, no, no... just no!”

Adam’s mouth hung open. “Mr Wythert, I think we should listen to

Dennis.”

“Listen to a rat? No, no, no...” Theodore got up and bent back down to

begin picking up Gangfield. “We’re taking Mr Gangfield to the hospital. And

then we’re going to the police. That’s that.”

“Um,” said Dennis in a worried tone, looking back. “We best get ‘im up

and get goin’ fast. If those witches see the Master like this, they’ll skin’im

alive!”

Theodore ignored this, not at all interested in the opinion of a talking

rat.

A talking rat? First ghosts, then fortune tellers and now a talking rat?

He then slipped his one arm under Gangfield’s legs and another under

one of his arms, and with a great heave, lifted the little man off the ground

with genuine difficulty. “Uff! Does this pigmy eat bricks?”

“Could be the biscuits,” said the rat. “Master likes his sugar.”

Adam followed Theodore to the cart, Dennis in hand. “We really

shouldn’t take him to the hospital. Dennis would know what’s best!”

Theodore lugged Gangfield over the edge of the cart and into the back.

“Get up and put pressure on his shoulder.”

The boy did just that.

The little Scottish rat scurried onto the seat next to Theodore. “Please,

Mr Wythert, at least hear me out.”

Theodore called Bester into motion, wondering for a second if Bester

could talk, too.

“Master always says to stay away from the hospital and the police. Now,

I know the police usually get upset because Master dunnit have any papers.”

“No papers?” Adam called from behind.

“Aye.”

“What kind of papers?” Theodore asked, scolding himself for responding

to a rat.

“We live like nomads, me and the Master. All we have is the clothes on

our backs. Master always says we don’t exist, but between you and me, that

sounds rather silly—saying we don’t exist when clearly we do.” The little

animal then pinched his furry arm as if to make sure. “Aye, we definitely exist.”

Theodore took a fast breath. “I should have known there was something

scaly about Gangfield! Doesn’t want to go to the hospital because he doesn’t

want to get in trouble with the law...”

“That may well be it, then!” the rat conceded.

“Not my problem,” Theodore scoffed. “If he’s on the run, then let it be

time he got caught.”

They reached the end of the bumpy pebble road and were finally able to

speed up. Bester was happy to oblige—she must have been sensing all the

excitement as well.

“Yer not very nice about the fact my Master saver yer life—are you, Mr

Wythert? Y’know, Master could have easily left you! Then where’d you be?”

“I don’t think he’s breathing!” Adam cried, still pressing down on

Gangfield’s wound with some rags he found in the back.

Dennis quickly responded, “Oh, don’t worry about that, Adam—the

Master’s definitely breathing. This has happened a lot of times before. All he

needs to do is to sleep it off... though it would be nice to stop the bleeding,

now wouldn’t it? If only I had some needle’n’thread...”

Theodore grew silent, allowing himself to momentarily escape into the

turmoil of his thoughts.

Gangfield had saved not only his life, but that of young Adam. It was the

right thing to hand the criminal over to the authorities. But at the same time,

the honourable thing was surely to help him avoid incarceration in repayment

of this very large debt.

Wasn’t it?

“What did you mean he could sleep it off?” Theodore demanded hastily

as he watched Harbiville come into view.

“Oh,” the rat replied, “Master can’t die.”

“You mean he’s incredibly lucky?”

“No, I mean he can’t die. It’s the Spell.”

“Like the one with the fire in the tent?”

“Oh, you saw that?” Dennis shuffled about. “Master won’t like that.”

Theodore hesitated briefly. “And all you need is a sewing needle and

thread?”

“Aye. Then I’ll fix him up a’right.”

“Mr Wythert,” Adam called, a trace of hope in his voice. “What are you

thinking?”

Theodore didn’t even know. He had just witnessed a man set a tent on

fire with his bare hands and met a talking rat who spoke fluent English. Not to

mention the old woman with the Herculean grip.

Perhaps it was the pain in his side, or maybe he was still in shock, but

whatever the reason, he would simply have to manage—he was going to get to

the bottom of all this no matter what.

After whispering a brief, “God help me,” Theodore called back, “Hang

tight, Adam! We’re headed back to the Workshop.”

“No hospitals?”

“No hospitals.”

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2014 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

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result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

CHAPTER 7

Contentment rang throughout Rosewood Ridge. All seemed re-adjusted

to everyone’s comfort now that their youngest member was safely back in

Harbiville.

Mr Rosewood spent the morning in his study instead of restlessly

buzzing through the house to see what everyone else was up to. Mrs

Rosewood kindly engaged with the maids, actually asking them about their

personal lives and talking of giving them a full day off soon. Whistling could be

heard from outside, singing could be heard from the kitchen and humming

could be heard from down the hall.

Yes, all in all, things were quite pleasant down at the Ridge.

“I shall murder this carpet, I swear!” Ruth shrilled at the top of her lungs.

She plucked at her bedroom door, but the more she tried to open it, the more

it got caught on a folded-over mat on the floor. She had agitated the little mat

so much, it had crumpled up and the door was now wedged stuck by it. Part of

the mat was pinned down by a chest of drawers to the immediate right of the

door, causing the mat to now serve as some sort of primitive locking

mechanism.

And it soon refused to let up in either direction.

Ruth squeezed her head out of the door’s six-inch opening. “Mama!

Millie! Anyone!”

Mrs Rosewood arrived at the scene with Millie close on her heels. They

watched Ruth squirm from inside her room.

“I can’t get out,” Ruth whined.

Mrs Rosewood and Millie each took a turn to try and open the door, but

despite their earnest efforts, the door turned out to be truly and genuinely

stuck.

“Well, Ruth,” said Mrs Rosewood, pursing her lips to keep herself from

laughing, “it seems you shall just have to climb out of the window today.”

Ruth actually considered it for a moment, but she conceded that if her

dress didn’t catch on something, she might very well lose her grip and fall

either way. She never looked where she was going or tested any footholds.

“Mama, please! Can we not just remove the door from its hinges?”

“And damage your father’s beloved house? Certainly not.” Mrs

Rosewood enjoyed the exchange more than Ruth appreciated. “Millie, do you

think we can feed Ruth through this little gap?”

“Ma’am?”

“A plateful of dinner cannot fit through here, but luckily we are eating

chicken tonight, so we should be able to pass through individual drumsticks

and pieces of bread. Don’t you think?”

“Mama, please. This is not funny. What if I die in here?”

“Goodness, Ruth! Do not sound so dire. I’m actually glad I finally have

you cornered. You’ve been in a foul mood all morning.”

Millie dropped down onto her haunches and started to work on the mat,

pulling at seemingly strategic places.

Ruth dropped down, too, and started pulling at the mat on her side of

the door.

“Where is your friend today?” Mrs Rosewood pressed. “He normally

cheers you up.”

Ruth could finally see the door starting to move a bit on its hinges.

“Gangfield? He had to go buy things at a sideshow or some sort.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. What does he usually buy? Cards and brightly coloured

handkerchiefs… something for his rat.”

“Forgive me, Miss Ruth,” Millie interrupted. “I think it would be best if

you stand back now.”

Ruth took hold of one of the drawer handles of the chest next to the

door to help herself get up, but she failed to check how sure the drawer was

before putting her full weight on it. With a swift tug, she pulled the middle

drawer right out and it fell to the ground with a crash. Its contents landed

across the floor and Ruth caught a few articles in her hands by way of a reflex.

“Ruth! Are you alright?” Mrs Rosewood cried through the gap in the

door. “What did you do?”

Not in the mood to explain, Ruth just scooted over to the side, showing a

thumbs-up and saying, “Do what you have to do, Millie.”

Millie then, with a bit of a run-up, started to bang against the door with

her shoulder. It gave way a little bit with each bash.

Meanwhile, Ruth sat flat on her bottom and turned the drawer over. A

little bored, she decided to make herself somewhat useful and started to

carelessly throw its contents back into it. She had honestly never even been

bothered to check inside that drawer before, so at least she found the activity

somewhat novel. It really only held some bedding and a few undergarments

she didn’t recognise. She lifted up an old hairbrush. “Hey, I haven’t seen this in

years!”

“And this little congregation?” Mr Rosewood bellowed down the hall.

“Ruth, are you stuck in your room again?”

Ruth was about to respond, but she reached far back and lifted a white

bed sheet off the ground, revealing a battered, leather-bound file. It was

immediately familiar to her, but she couldn’t tell from where.

“Ruth?”

But there was something about the grey string knot on the binding that

sent a hallowed memory shooting into her chest—the icy chill of winter air, the

stink of cheap whiskey, the violent scuffling of feet.

Suddenly, one final bash sent the bedroom door flying open. There was

a collective cheer from Ruth’s parents as they praised Millie’s strength and

determination.

Ruth grabbed hold of the leather file and wrapped it in the bed sheet.

She got up, holding it behind her back. “Yes, thank you!” she called in a hurry,

kicking the abused little mat so hard, it slapped against the chest of drawers.

She fanned her hands wildly, ushering everyone out of the room until they

were grouped up like sardines in a can. “Yes, yes, you may leave now.”

“I though you wanted to get out of your room,” Mrs Rosewood said.

“Well, you know how you always want things you can’t have until you

have them? Well, that’s me!”

“Miss Ruth,” Millie interjected, “Surely you would want me to tidy up.”

“Oh, that can wait,” Ruth assured her, gradually closing the bedroom

door. “Alright, have a good day, all of you. See you at luncheon. Yes, yes. Good-

bye!”

Ruth shut her door right in their faces. She then charged towards her

bed, dropping the sheet on the floor mid-step. She tripped on the sheet, but

luckily she landed on her bed. She shuffled until she was sort of comfortable

against her arrangement of pillows, then she plucked out the brown file to

study it more closely.

It was Theodore’s old sketchbook—from before he left for Ireland eight

years before.

But how could it be? She could have sworn she had discarded it.

Goodness knows she felt no duty to keep it or to return it.

She ran her fingers across the bent edges of the yellowed paper inside

and was about to open it, but as she reached the grey knot and felt its rough

texture, the crystal clear image of Theodore’s hands shot into her mind.

Ruth immediately lost all her nerve and tossed the file onto the other

side of her bed. Her hands folded in her lap, she quietly stared at the file.

She remembered how she had helped Theodore to bind the papers into

the file—although Theodore tended to have a steady touch, her slender fingers

were far better suited to tying small knots than Theodore’s spade hands. She

could never forget the thrill of her hands grazing against his as he held the

file’s pages in place so she could thread the string through them. And

Theodore sketched so often, the two of them would repeat the happy act of

binding new pages into the file every few weeks.

One thing was for sure—the sketchbook had to remain hidden. It was far

more pleasing to Ruth to have everyone think of her as having no unresolved

feelings towards the boy.

Boy? No, he was most certainly no longer a boy.

Oh, if only Gangfield were around! He always allowed her to take things

out on him. After the whole Mr Byron debacle, she was far too cross with

Gangfield to speak to him the night before, and it was doubtful whether she

would see him until the next evening, as the Simmonses had Gangfield over for

dinner every other day.

Ruth desperately wanted to work herself up. And why shouldn’t she be

allowed to? She was alone, after all, so there was nobody around to catch her

if she broke down.

But, despite her wishing for some dramatics, nothing really happened.

She just felt a little more tired.

With a deep sigh, she picked up the leather file and held it close to her

chest. She played with the little knot, twirling it around with her fingers like

she used to whenever the loneliness set in. Holding the sketchbook as she lay

in her bed on dark nights was truly her only comfort after Theodore left.

Ruth certainly did not think Theodore handsome on their first meeting,

or in the years following, as he started out as a stick-thin, awkward nine-year-

old who was little more than two eyebrows and all thumbs.

She was instead first drawn to the way he pronounced only certain

words with an Irish accent, no doubt a result of spending plenty of time with

his Irish mother and uncle. She noticed it the first time Theodore called her by

her name. The boy always neglected to pronounce the soothing ‘th’ at the end

and just barked out “Hey, Root!”

Needless to say, the sheltered, seven-year-old Ruth found this hilarious

and was fond of Theodore ever since.

Sadly, Theodore’s decidedly English father, William Wythert scolded the

Irish out of his son before the boy could reach his twelfth birthday. Poor

Theodore eventually formed his vowels so carefully around his father, he often

sounded like a toddler mimicking farm animals.

But sometimes—just when it was safe—Theodore would let a

‘mispronunciation’ slip out unchecked. Ruth would always be overjoyed when

this happened, but Theodore understandably allowed himself to panic just a

bit.

What a shame.

Everything changed, however, when a sixteen-year-old Ruth returned

home from visiting her aunt and uncle by the seaside for the summer. She

stopped by the workshop on her way back and saw Theodore for the first time

in two months—and had to latch onto the nearby bannister to counteract the

shock to her system.

Suddenly she noticed the kindness in his emerald eyes, his effortlessly

energetic gait, the way his wrists led into the landscapes of his knuckles—such

little things she had overlooked before suddenly seemed so very new and

incredibly distracting.

She could have sworn that over her two months’ absence, Theodore’s

shoulders had grown broader, and a stronger jawline rendered his wide

nostrils to dominate his face a little less—but the greatest change might very

well had taken place on Ruth’s side, in her attitude or sensibility, perhaps.

The two of them had always been inseparable friends, with a tiny Ruth

regularly running away from home to go play in the streets with Theodore, but

her feelings suddenly stretched beyond the superficial. Her need to be around

him grew uncontrollably strong.

It was this failure to curb her longing that led her sixteen-year-old self to

the Workshop doors on a winter’s afternoon, setting both their lives on a

course that promised the end of their decade-strong friendship.

It was a cool Sunday afternoon in a white February. The year was 1880.

Young Ruth trudged through the streets of downtown Harbiville, almost

slipping with every third or fourth step. What wasn’t frozen was most certainly

wet. She had on two layers of clothing underneath her pink satin dress, along

with a blue shoal over that, but it did little to help her fight off the winter chill.

She held in her hands a small basket with a pretty, checkered cloth

wrapped over it. The basket wasn’t filled with treats or any such things people

would pack to ensure a pleasant visit. No—ever the practical one, Ruth had

only packed one of Theodore’s sketchbooks she was due to return to him and

some pencils she wished to gift to him. She had stolen the pencils from Adam’s

nursery, of course, but he was barely seven years old and had no interest in

doing anything with them. It was all make believe and story books for her little

brother.

Besides, she had an inkling the little thief stole the pencils from her first,

so they were even.

She stopped on the porch of William Wytherts’ Workshop.

Theodore said to never visit on a Sunday, Ruth thought as she knocked

on the Workshop’s door, but he’s probably just worried about me bounding

about alone in the snow. How caring he is! Though he must really worry less.

A mild wind blew her fringe into her eyes. With her russet curls hanging

loose at her shoulders, she had plenty of hair to fuss over, and simply brushed

her fringe out of her face and started twirling her hair around her fingers.

It was an awful habit, but it kept her calm whenever she got annoyed.

Ruth’s mother made sure to regularly remind her of her age. Sixteen was

almost seventeen, and seventeen was almost eighteen, and eighteen was a

good age to come out into society. This would have been all good and well to

Ruth, who thought little of the consequences, but adulthood would mean she

would have to wear her hair up in a bun. She shuddered each time that

thought crawled into her mind, for what would she fiddle and tamper with if all

her hair were bunched onto the top of her head?

She knocked on the door again.

I wonder if it’s true that you get grey hairs when you worry too much.

Because if Theodore starts getting grey hairs, I swear I shall pluck each of them

out. I’d rather see him balding like Papa instead of having streaks of grey on his

head!

After a few more rounds of knocking and waiting, Ruth turned the

doorknob and found it was unlocked. She figured there was no harm in going

inside. The workshop was like a second home to her, after all.

Stepping in, she saw that the workshop was empty, but it was to be

expected on a Sunday. Mr William Wythert kept a good few employees—all of

whom Ruth knew by name, of course—but “Sunday was the Lord’s day,” Mr

Wythert always said, and he would completely lose his temper if he found an

employee in the workshop on the ‘Lordsday’.

Truth be told, Mr Wythert would lose his temper if a breeze fluttered

the hem of his trousers the wrong way.

Ruth remembered she was very afraid of Mr William Wythert when she

first met him. He was more akin to a gorilla or a bear than a man. He was over

six feet tall with a heavy gait. He had large, powerful hands that he would run

through his wild brows and bushy beard whenever he got agitated, and his

voice was gruff and threatening. As far as Ruth was concerned, the fact that

such a dreadful man’s loins produced the darling-faced, sweet-natured

Theodore would forever remain Mother Nature’s greatest feat.

The girl tread deeper into the silent workshop, stroking one of her curls.

Suddenly, there was a loud rustle up in Mr Wythert’s office that made the

metal runways above cling melodically like a sort of warning. Ruth knew never

to disturb Mr Wythert, so she quietly kept walking towards the back door to

see if she could perhaps find Theodore out in the yard.

Theodore always kept busy, Lordsday or not. The boy had a tendency to

fall behind with his proper work during the week as he would often become

absorbed in a drawing or painting and lose track of time. This was another of

Theodore’s qualities that Ruth very much admired, but that he paid for dearly

at the hands of his father.

That man sure could yell at his son so fiercely.

The yard was a snowy, muddy mess. Bits and pieces of wood and metal

lay strewn about, and it was dangerous business treading back there. Large

splinters and rusty nails hid under thin layers of earth, ready to be stepped in

and send their victims howling. Ruth herself had stepped in a splinter once

when she was ten and she caught a nasty fever that lasted for three weeks. It

happened while she and Theodore were playing. They were still quite young,

but Ruth knew very well that even then, Theodore had a knack for blaming

himself. He was dreadfully protective of her ever since.

Those three weeks of agony had made Ruth wise, so she stuck to the

clearly carved-out path in the yard where she could watch her step. Seeing

Theodore through the window of the little wooden toolshed, she fixed that

corner of the yard as her destination, all while keeping her eyes on the ground.

She found it a bit annoying to have to be careful for a change, but then again,

that fever was not an event she was keen on repeating.

She started when one of the horses in the stable neighed at her.

“Florence, you stupid animal!” she cried as she recovered.

This drew Theodore’s attention and he peeked out the shed door, a

shocked expression on his face.

There was a muffled crash inside the workshop.

Ruth was too absorbed in her navigation to pay too much attention. She

was half-jogging at that point, getting all the more impatient with having to

look down. Eventually she leaped into the shed, nearly knocking Theodore

over. She greeted him with a big smile, but she was met only with a scolding.

“I told you not to come here on Sundays,” said Theodore without a tick

of hesitation. The summer sun had not yet had its chance to lighten his freshly

cropped hair, so it enhanced his dark expression in the faintly lit shed. Ruth

quite liked that.

“I know you said I should not call on Sundays, but I promise, I only came

to return your sketchbook,” she replied, still smiling.

“Get out of here, Ruth!” he replied direly, taking her by the shoulders to

lead her out. “Right now!”

She fought against him, plucking herself from his grip and stepping back

deeper into the shed. “Goodness, Theodore! You’re taking this very seriously.”

He lifted his hands carefully, glancing over his shoulders every so often.

“Look. This isn’t a game.”

“I never said it is. You know, I was just thinking, you need to worry less—

you’d look awful with grey hair.”

The sound of the back door of the workshop being flung open

interrupted Ruth’s train of thought.

Theodore’s face expressed an urgency, a panic. Indeed, Ruth knew

Theodore to be the worrying type, but she had never seen him quite like that

before.

“Billy Boy!” Mr Wythert yelled from outside. His speech was slurred, but

violent. “Billy Boy, you come here, you little bastard!”

Ruth suddenly got a sinking feeling. Looking into Theodore’s eyes and

seeing the colour drain from his face, she instantly knew she had made a huge

mistake.

“Theodore,” she began, but she was instantly shushed.

The heavy crunching of Mr Wythert’s shoes lumbering through the snow

grew louder. His steps were uneven, stumbling. “Billy Boy! Y-You!”

Theodore whipped around, shuddering at seeing how close his father

was to the shed.

Ruth had no time to react when Theodore practically tackled her and

forced her under one of the work benches against the back wall. The light from

the window above cast a safe shadow under the table.

“Stay put, stay quiet,” he whispered.

“But why?”

“For God’s sake, Ruth!”

Ruth was about to protest again, but Theodore got up and threw a step

ladder on top of her to shroud her even more. She winced in pain as the step

ladder hit her elbow. There was dust all around her and she felt cobwebs

enveloping her. She spotted clusters of spiders’ eggs and a scream trickled up

her throat. But looking up, she saw something so inexplicably frightening, it

scared all her screams away.

The bear man’s solid silhouette now stood silently but for a heavy

breathing drawing his shoulders in and out. The white of the snow glared from

behind him, creating a blinding spectacle. He effortlessly filled the doorframe

and dwarfed his son.

“Billy Boy,” he finally slurred, his last syllable lingering like a deep growl.

The man clenched and flexed his right hand, each movement like a countdown

to a painful outcome. “You been workin’ in here? Workin’ on the Lordsday?”

Theodore’s battered, brown shoes shuffled backwards closer to the

bench. He hooked his one foot around the leg of a small rig of scaffolding, then

slowly pulled it nearer, creating an even denser barrier between himself and

Ruth.

Ruth gathered up the hem of her dress and curled into a tighter ball. Her

heart was pounding. A cold wind blew into the shed and she breathed in the

strong stench of liquor. She had never before encountered a person who was

truly drunk, so she could only imagine by how much Mr Wythert’s inhibitions

where destroyed. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn’t as bad as all that

and that she could easily just stroll out of there, she trusted Theodore without

question, and his sudden need to hide her away painted a very grim picture of

their current situation.

So she stay put and remained quiet.

Mr Wythert took a single step inside the shed. “I asked you a question,

Billy Boy. You answer me when I ask you a question.” His footing was shaky,

but still undoubtedly powerful.

Theodore held his hands ready at his sides.

There was a deep clunk as Mr Wythert dropped the empty whiskey

bottle in his hand. It rolled a small distance on the dusty, plank floor.

The uncertainty of it all began to drive Ruth mad. If only she could just

look at Theodore’s face—the tiniest glance would do—she would know exactly

what to think and how to feel.

Instead, she could only watch through worn, wooden planks and past

Theodore’s legs as Mr Wythert shut the shed door behind him and lumbered

closer and closer towards his son.

The bench’s table top that shielded Ruth now made it impossible for her

to see what was happening just inches away from her. She could only observe

two pairs of legs—one pair heavy, but swaying, and the other pair as still and

sure as can be.

Ruth was certain she was safe as long as Theodore was near, but the

tension in the air made her fear for his part.

Don’t you dare touch a hair on his head, you hideous old drunk, Ruth

warned in her mind, even though she had no idea what she would do if

everything suddenly turned south.

Mr Wythert pushed Theodore into the bench. The impact was amplified

under its surface, the articles and metal tools above falling over Ruth’s head

with a series of sharp crashes. There was another push, and Ruth was forced to

counterweight the collapsing scaffolding with the step ladder.

“I said you answer me when I ask you a question!” Mr Wythert barked.

Theodore didn’t even heave when Mr Wythert shook him up by his shirt

collar.

“You’re worthless,” the drunk proclaimed. “You think you’re too good

for us here? You think you’re better than me?” Ruth heard a loud slap. “Don’t

you?”

There was a hatred and hostility in Mr Wythert’s voice that Ruth had

never heard before, not even from the man himself on the worst of days. She

always knew Mr Wythert to be strict, but never like this.

Another slap. Then another. “Oy! You look at me when I’m talking to

you!”

There was a brief silence as Theodore presumably still refused to look

up.

Suddenly, Theodore’s feet fought for their previous stability as he was

instantly lifted up and shaken about again, this time far more violently than

before.

“Your drawings won’t feed nobody! Real men work hard, out in the sun

and rain! You think you’re better that me? You, spending all your time with

your Little Miss High’n’Mighty! You think she’s better than your sisters—better

than your mother?” There was a pause, and then another of Mr Wythert’s

growls. “Oh, now I’m good enough for you to look at me.”

What followed was a series of painfully loud thuds that could only be Mr

Wythert’s fists impacting against Theodore’s bones. The loose tools on the

bench seemed to applaud each hit.

“You’re worthless!” Mr Wythert kept repeating. “You’re nothing!”

It was unbearable for Ruth to sit cramped behind that step ladder,

unable to swat the spider crawling on her arm, listening to that large man

hitting and shaking and screaming at his son—but it was far more unbearable

for her to hear Theodore’s defiant silence. Why wasn’t he yelling for help?

Surely somebody—anybody—would come. All the homes and shops in

Harbiville were practically built right on top of each other. One call and help

would be on its way.

Leave my Theodore be, Ruth silently pleaded. Just walk out the door and

leave him be!

Finally, Mr Wythert’s punches relented. With a heave, he lifted

Theodore and threw him into one of the shelves to the side. Odds and ends

tumbled down from the shelves and landed noisily around Theodore’s feet.

Theodore was too disorientated to maintain his balance and he

collapsed.

Ruth nearly jumped up, a very real pain shooting through her chest

when she saw the unmoved glower with which Theodore faced his attacker. He

was properly roughed up. He had a several cuts on his face and the top two

buttons of his shirt had been ripped clean off.

Mr Wythert turned and bent over to pick up one of the planks that used

to make up the scaffolding that had briefly helped to protect Ruth. He was so

close to Ruth that the powerful fumes of his drunk breath burst in under the

table.

Ruth froze, and by some miracle, he didn’t spot her under the bench.

He stood upright again and stumbled towards Theodore, plank in hand.

Ruth dug her fingernails deeper into her palms as she resisted the urge

to run in between father and son. She knew very well there was nothing she

could do. If Mr Wythert redirected his rage towards her, her small and frail

body wouldn’t stand a chance. Theodore was scrawny, but he was tall and

sturdy. He would be alright.

Mr Wythert inched ever closer to his son, and Ruth spotted the plank in

his grip was lined with large splinters.

If those got into Theodore’s eyes, he could be blinded. Or Theodore

could get an infection and a fever and almost die like she did that one time

when she was younger.

No. No, he would be alright. His constitution was far better than hers.

Surely it must have been. He must have stepped in a hundred nails and

splinters in his lifetime, and Ruth couldn’t think of one time he was ever ill.

Theodore fixed his eyes on the plank. His open palms tensed on the floor

and he very slowly, very carefully turned his body so he lay on his back. He

bent his knees and propped his feet against a leg of another bench. Had he

already given up? Was he just bracing for the impact?

“Look at you, Billy Boy. On the ground where you belong.” Mr Wythert

drew back the plank with its dreadful splinters, ready to continue his relentless

assault. “Where’s your Miss High’n’Mighty now?”

Ruth tore through the shed clutching the step ladder. She used her

momentum to slam the ladder right into Mr Wythert’s back. He screamed in

agony and whipped around, catching Ruth’s arm with the splintered plank. She

didn’t feel the cut at first, but she most certainly felt the impact as she fell

backwards onto the floor. The step ladder landed next to her, missing her by

inches only.

The bear man’s massive frame now towered over her, grunting

ominously. He came closer with his weighty steps.

Ruth clamoured backwards, her mind racing for a way to bring the beast

to his knees. The step ladder was too heavy to be of use now. She needed

something smaller with which to defend herself. She reached around herself

blindly, hoping to grab something metallic that had fallen to the ground, but

only grabbing dirt.

Damn it all! Why can’t I find something sharp in a bloody tool shed?

The man held the plank ready again, a dead determination in his mossy

green eyes. Ruth mentally prepared herself for the pain.

She had all but forgotten Theodore was even present when the boy

leaped up from behind and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. The

drunk started to flail. He dropped the plank and crashed to the ground.

In a fit of rage, Theodore clambered onto his father’s chest and started

pounding the burly man in his bearded face.

Mr Wythert was still flailing. He tried to push Theodore off twice, but

Theodore just quickly got back onto his chest as if the man were a bucking

pony.

The boy cried through gritted teeth, punching and beating unrelentingly.

Ruth was so shocked by the sight of Theodore’s violent outburst that

without thinking, she grabbed one of his forearms to stop the attack. “No!

Theodore, don’t!”

In an instant, Theodore snapped out of whatever had overcome him. He

faced Ruth, appearing just as shocked as she was.

This small victory was short-lived as Mr Wythert then gripped his son by

his suspenders and flung him sideways.

Ruth was kicked in her right shoulder by Mr Wythert, who scuffled to his

feet in Theodore’s direction.

Theodore couldn’t get up fast enough. He was now officially at his

father’s mercy. The burly man resorted to kicking his son with a heavy boot—in

his limbs, his gut, his face.

Nothing was sacred now.

There was no use in fighting, Ruth conceded. She had to find help, bring

someone back there to shake things up. Her spirits dropped as she watched

the drunk kick Theodore all the way to the shed door. The big, fat beast now

blocked the exit.

She looked around in a flurry and spotted the white light of the little

window.

Yes! She could squeeze out! She was certainly small enough.

She ran towards it, jumping onto the bench below. She knocked her

knee against the edge quite hard, but she ignored it.

Another sinking feeling gripped her. The window wouldn’t open! She

shoved and pushed and pulled at every nook on the frame, her thumbs, her

fingers burning, but no matter how hard she tried, the window stayed shut. It

must have been frozen stuck, or perhaps it was never constructed to open at

all.

She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were now too used to the light

to see much, so all she could make out was one shadow figure stomping on

another. She could have sworn she caught a glimpse of crimson on Theodore’s

face.

No time for dawdling.

She turned her attention back to the window and grabbed a hammer on

the bench. One deep breath. Then another. She pulled the hammer back,

turned her face away from the window, shut her eyes tightly and hit the glass

as hard as she could.

She expected the glass to shatter right off the rim of the window, but

instead she managed to get the hammer stuck in the glass. She was about to

pull the hammer out of the glass and try to hit it again when it suddenly

became frightfully quiet behind her.

She looked around and hugged the wall next to the window.

Mr Wythert now stood in suspended motion. After sniffing loudly, he

groggily reached over to the doorknob and opened the shed door. The strong,

icy wind blew into the shed, making Ruth gasp.

The big man lumbered towards the blinding white light. “Completely

worthless,” he mumbled. He unsteadily trudged a few steps outside and—to

Ruth’s ultimate relief—he passed out, collapsing face first into the muddy

snow.

Ruth sped towards the shed door and shut it as fast as she could. She

dragged a chair closer and used it to prop the door closed. She pulled at the

doorknob a few times to make sure the setup was secure.

She stood still for a few moments in the sudden silence. Everything had

happened so quickly, it was as if all of Ruth’s senses were starting to catch up

to her. She started to feel the burning cut in her arm, the scratches in her

palms and a distinct throbbing in her knee.

Theodore’s gargled coughing brought Ruth back into the moment. He lay

crumpled in the corner, bleeding profusely from his temple. She dropped to

her knees next to him and helped him turn onto his side so he could spit up the

blood on which he was choking. He kept trying to ask her between coughs

whether she was alright, but he struggled to say much of anything, really. He

just reached over to take her by the arm.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ruth eventually assured him. “Just calm down.”

Theodore had evidently sustained a cut on his forehead, and as any cut

on the head, it was absolutely gushing blood, being sure to blind him. Thinking

quickly, Ruth crawled to her basket and plucked the checkered kitchen towel

she had draped over it. She then vigorously started wiping Theodore’s entire

face with the towel—more for her own sake than for his, as she desperately

yearned to see his sweet face free of the blood. Somehow she figured that

would make everything fine.

But it didn’t. It only revealed more gashes and wounds, as well as a

marked swelling on his right cheek.

“Stop,” Theodore croaked after clearing his throat.

At first Ruth thought Theodore’s protests were because she was hurting

him with her wild wiping, but when he started physically pushing her away, she

realised there was more to it.

“Just go,” he said. He was having trouble breathing and he held his

stomach in a way that made Ruth quite worried. “Leave. Go.”

Ruth bent over him again and pressed with the towel against his head.

“Would you hold still!”

He weakly started to get up. Ruth tried to prevent this, but he was

adamant. He shuffled about until he was sat with his back against the wall.

She wiped his left eye again to make sure he could open it. His breathing

grew shaky and he refused to look at her, instead focusing on the splintered

plank on the floor.

“Here, I’ll hold this,” said Ruth, keeping the pressure on his forehead

with the towel.

Theodore’s eyelids fluttered as he mumbled something inaudible. When

Ruth asked him to repeat it, his face tensed and turned red. “Go home, Ruth.”

His breathing paused and he looked up in a moment of realisation. “Where’s

William?”

“He’s outside. Fainted.”

“We have to get him into the workshop.”

“No!” Ruth protested. “Let him freeze! Serves him right.”

The boy groggily rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

She didn’t know how to reply. It’s not as if she had ever experienced

domestic abuse in her lifetime. “Well, then—let me help you.”

“Go home, Ruth.”

“I can help!”

“This isn’t your mess.” Theodore started to get up onto his feet. He had

to grip one of the shelves and Ruth pulled him up a little. “I’ve carried him on

my own a million times before. Go home.”

“Go home like this?” She got up to her feet and dusted off her dress. She

could feel her ribbons were loose as her curls swung carelessly. “Surely not. I

must get cleaned up first. And you cannot carry Mr Wythert in your current

state, no matter how much you wish it to be so. Now get up so I can help you!”

Hunched over, he hesitantly looked up at her.

“Come now!” Ruth urged. “I do not have all day.”

Ruth opened the shed door almost as fast as it was wedged shut. They

then went outside to begin the daunting task of somehow getting Mr

Wythert’s face out of the snow.

It must have been quite a comical sight, the two of them doing an

uncoordinated heave-ho to drag the massive Mr Wythert through the snow

and into the Workshop. Florence definitely whinnied at them regularly enough

for Ruth to feel as though she were being perceived as a joke.

Ruth thought Theodore to be quite fortunate, since he wasn’t wearing as

many thick layers of clothing as she was, and he was therefore much lighter on

his feet. Of course, this was because he could not afford more clothes, and his

movement was hampered by his various injuries, so perhaps it all evened

out—but still.

Theodore grabbed the drunkard by the arms and Ruth did her best to lift

his big, booted feet. She grew tired terribly quickly, her lungs burning quite a

bit, but she knew if she said something about it, Theodore wouldn’t let her

help him anymore. So each time he asked her if she was still holding up—

which was every five seconds, good gracious—she responded with a smile and

a quick anecdote about something large she would carry around at home on a

daily basis.

“Oh you know,” she’d groan. “Trunks of clothing, bags of salt, my little

brother, things like that.”

Theodore had never visited Rosewood Ridge after its completion—the

Wytherts were thought by Mrs Rosewood to be beneath such an invitation—so

he had no way of telling that Ruth was lying. She doubted he even fully

understood the concept of having hired servants instead of one’s sisters doing

all the household chores.

They only just managed to lug Mr Wythert deep enough into the

Workshop to allow for a few feet to close the back door. Theodore stuffed

some rags under the door to prevent a draft from seeping in and then threw a

prickly-looking blanket over his father. The bear man now lay on his stomach,

snoring deeply, the sound coming off as more of a rumble.

It was much warmer inside, so Ruth gratefully threw her heavy shawl

onto the coat rack. She was still catching her breath when she heard the

screeching noise of Theodore dragging an armchair closer to the back door.

“This will be my spot for the night. Can’t have the old man choking on his

own vomit.” Theodore walked with a noticeable limp and he clutched his sore

stomach, and yet he still insisted that Ruth sit down on the cozy armchair. “At

least for the time being,” he said.

Ruth started to grow impatient with him. She blew a stray hair out of her

eye. “Look at the state of you! You’re the one who should sit down. Now tell

me where I can find a mirror in this place.”

“I’ll bring you one.”

“Theodore Wythert! You shall sit down this instant!”

He begrudgingly obeyed, but Ruth caught a glimpse of relief on his face

as he sank into the couch. All the excitement had finally worn off and he

looked exhausted. Clearly the pain was catching up with him.

Inside the Workshop, right beside its little drawing room partition, was a

large sink with three taps. There was also a small stove, which was already lit,

as well as a kettle, some cups and plenty of clean cloths.

Back at the Ridge, Ruth abhorred the very sight of a kitchen, but at the

Workshop, she sometimes helped with the household duties as if she were one

of the Wythert sisters, quite enjoying the feeling of family teamwork.

Although, a few mishaps meant she was only allowed to partake in activities

that did not require the use of sharp objects. Tea making eventually became

her usual duty.

So it was with great speed that she fixed herself and Theodore some hot

tea—which he gulped down without mentioning how she forgot to add

sugar—and she also prepared damp cloths and soapy water so they could at

least begin making themselves half presentable.

“I’ve never bothered cleaning my face with a cloth,” Theodore muttered.

“I just usually splash me with water.”

“Well, let this be a lesson to you, then. Mama says to always use a

cloth!”

Theodore’s facial wounds had clotted for the most part and Ruth was

finally able to compulsively clean all the blood off of his face. That somehow

made her feel quite proud of herself. He was far from a pretty sight, of course.

It appeared as though he had a balloon in his cheek and a horn growing from

his forehead. He had also taken a knock to his nose, but, truth be told, it had

been broken in the past and the swelling actually made it look straighter now,

although it thankfully didn’t seem broken again.

Just to be safe, Ruth kept the mirror away from Theodore. He never

cared for his appearance, but anyone would get an initial shock from seeing

themselves beaten up like that. Perhaps it was a surprise best left for later.

The swelling had to come down somehow, so Ruth quickly devised a

makeshift icepack by wrapping some snow from outside in a dishcloth. She had

no idea how quickly it would melt, but it was worth a shot.

Theodore groaned in pain as she placed the snow-cloth on his cheek.

“I’m sorry!” she cried guiltily.

“It’s fine, it’s just... everything just... doesn’t feel too nice right now, is

all.”

At that moment, Theodore jumped up and sped in the direction of the

back wall. What followed was a series of awful retches as Theodore threw up

into a sawdust bin.

Ruth had read somewhere that a back rub helps the process, so she

approached him, truly wanting to help.

Theodore just kept his head dug into the bin, pushing her away with his

one hand. “No! Get away!” he cried in between heaves.

She stepped back, letting him finish being sick. She figured it was over

when he stopped heaving and just spat out whatever was left.

About thirty seconds of silence passed before she asked, “Are you

alright?”

“No, I’m not bloody alright,” he snapped, his face still hidden as he

leaned over the bin. He coughed and spat again.

“Goodness! Well, are you finished, though? Because I can help you get

back to—”

“Go home.”

“But, I—”

“Dammit, Ruth! I said go home!”

It wasn’t like Theodore at all to talk to her that way. He had only ever

spoke to her kindly and softly, much like a loving parent to a young child. Now

he was raising his voice and chasing her away.

Even so, Ruth didn’t suspect for a moment that his behaviour was

warranted. It wasn’t as if she did anything wrong. In fact, she consciously

decided to forgive him for his little outburst and approached him again. She

put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

Theodore jolted to rip his shoulder for Ruth’s grasp. “Don’t touch me!”

he cried. His voice degraded into a whisper. “Don’t look at me.”

Ruth sat down on the floor next to him. She didn’t mind that he just

vomited—mostly because it only smelled of the sugarless tea he chugged

down minutes before.

All she saw was the back of his head as he rested against the adjacent

wall.

“Don’t look at me,” he repeated softly. “Go home.”

Suddenly, everything fell into place. For as long as Ruth could remember,

Theodore was always bruised in some form or the other, but when he was

younger he often climbed onto high places, so everyone dismissed his injuries

as a result of rough play. On top of this, he often proclaimed himself to be

clumsy.

However, Ruth knew Theodore to be so very careful, always plotting his

movements three steps in advance, and she had never actually seen him fall or

trip... or have any sort of accident whatsoever, come to think of it.

No, indeed, she was always the accident-prone one between them. The

boy always had his hands full looking out for her, so he never had a chance to

get injured, even if he wanted to.

The realisation hit her harder than any splintered plank ever could. She

now knew where Theodore’s persistent cuts and bruises came from—they

came from the one man who was tasked by God to protect him.

William Wythert.

“Theodore… who else know about all this?”

“Nobody.”

“Then tell someone!”

He sniffed. “We need him.”

“Well, you don’t need this,” Ruth scoffed. “That beast of a man needs to

be locked away.”

Theodore turned a little and gave Ruth a sideways glance. “And then

where would we be, hm? Am I gonna feed my mum and sisters with my

drawings?” He sounded so hopeless.

“I don’t know.”

“I do know. I know. We need him.”

Ruth looked over her shoulder at the snoring Mr Wythert. It seemed

terribly unfair that he slept so peacefully. It might have been because of the

whiskey, though.

“And… your mother?”

This prompted Theodore to immediately sit upright in a panic. “You can’t

tell her!”

“She has to know already. A monster who beats his son must beat his

wife.”

It was only after the words escaped Ruth’s mouth that she realised what

an insensitive thing that was to say.

Luckily Theodore didn’t take offence. “He doesn’t touch her. Or my

sisters.”

“Good! Then maybe we can get your uncle to take you in. Get you away

from the problem if we can’t get the problem away from you!”

“It’s not that simple, Ruth. I let him beat it out on me. That’s why he

doesn’t touch them. If I’m not his target, you can bet he’ll find another.”

“Oh.” Ruth couldn’t explain why, but Theodore’s replies kept making her

feel like an idiot, despite the fact that she didn’t agree with him. To her mind,

poverty was a far better option than physical abuse. In a way, it might have

evened out, since medical bills were expensive.

Though, of course, Theodore wasn’t the kind to seek medical attention,

anyway.

She was about to argue her case some more, but when she looked at

Theodore, she could tell he was fading from consciousness—and fast.

She took him by the forearm. “Your head must be pounding. I know

mine is!”

He looked up, his green eyes just about the last recognisable things on

his face, even though one of them was almost swollen shut. “Your arm!”

Ruth briefly looked at the cut in her upper left arm. It wasn’t that awful-

looking, but it did ruin her dress, leaving a bloodied, ragged hole in the satin

sleeve. “Ah, don’t even think of it. My biggest worry is that my hair’s come

undone, I promise you.” She started tugging at him to urge him to get up.

Together they walked back to the armchair and Theodore sat down.

“You been runnin’ around like a mad cat. Get yourself cleaned already

and go home. Rest.”

Ruth’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not leaving you with—” She glanced over

her shoulder at the still-snoring Mr Wythert on the floor, “—with him.”

“Don’t you worry,” Theodore replied with a trace of a smile. “He’s gonna

be out for a good few hours—maybe even until tomorrow. It’s gettin’ dark. Get

yourself home.”

The light from the windows was getting dimmer. The fickle winter sun

might have quit on them at any moment. “And what about you?”

“I’ll stay here, long as I can, then I’ll move into the house. I just want to

make sure he’s alright.”

Ruth let her shoulders drop. It hadn’t taken her long at all to learn that

Theodore was unmovable in issues concerning his father. She wanted

Theodore to get to a bed as soon as possible, but as much as she relished in

the way he often allowed her to boss him around, she knew there were a few

things even she could not convince him do.

She was about walk to get the mirror again, but she stopped as she felt

Theodore clutching her hand.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he urged weakly. “Promise me.”

Ruth looked at his beaten face, then down at his bruised knuckles. They

had never held hands before, so it threw her off a little. Not making eye

contact, she replied, “Yes. I suppose.”

This seemed to be enough for him. He let go of her and let his arm

slowly curl up to his stomach. He fought to keep his eyes open, but it was no

use.

Walking away to get the mirror from the other side of the sleeping bear

man, Ruth fought off the guilt.

It was a lie. A blatant lie. How could she not tell anyone of such a horrid

experience? Was it true that Mr Wythert would victimise the girls if Theodore

weren’t there as a punching bag? Would they survive if Mr Wythert were ever

taken away? Was Theodore being selfless or was he simply beaten until he

believed he was being selfless? Would it be selfish of Ruth to keep the secret?

So many prominent questions vying for time and discretion! She didn’t

want to consider such a weighty promise in just a few seconds when she might

very well have answered in the negative and it would have stolen hours of

much-needed sleep from her Theodore.

It was easier to make the promise and end the conversation there.

Ruth hastily settled down on the floor and propped the mirror up against

the side of the armchair—it was the only place she could ensure the mirror

faced away from Theodore and she could still keep an eye on him—and she

commenced with fixing her hair. She plucked out each pink ribbon and retied

it, twirling the occasional curl to get it bouncy again. However, she habitually

shook her head to clear her fringe from her eyes every so often, and this

tended to make her lose her grip on whatever ribbon she was trying to fasten.

In a moment’s lapse of concentration, she realised that Theodore had

been watching her from above the whole time. She could only just make out

an amused expression on his mutilated face.

“You look like you could use some help,” he managed to mutter past a

yawn.

“I shall have it in just a minute.”

His voice grew softer. “I’m sure you will.” He reached over the armrest

and held her fringe out of her eyes for her. “There.”

The job went much faster without her having to worry about her fringe.

She tied her last ribbon and was about to thank Theodore, but when she

looked up, she saw he had fallen sound asleep, his head resting on his

extended arm.

Ruth got up as silently as she could and very slowly took the very wet

snow-cloth from his lap.

Stepping over the unconscious drunkard on the floor, she eyed his

blanket jealously and lifted her shawl from the coat rack. She then carefully

draped the shawl over Theodore’s shoulders, tucking it in where she could.

He didn’t even stir.

It was so good to hear Theodore breathing deeply and steadily again.

The rhythmic whistling of his nose sounded far more pleasant than his father’s

grunting and grumbling.

Of course, Theodore would be quite cross whenever he woke up and

found Ruth had left without her shawl, but at least he would not be as cross as

he would’ve been had she stolen his father’s blanket for him—which she was

this close to doing, mind you.

Besides, her plan was to walk just a few blocks to nice, old Mrs Smith’s

house and ask her for the use of her carriage. Three million layers of clothing

were definitely unnecessary for the short trek as long as the sun held out.

Ruth crept to the front door and locked it. She slipped out of the back

door, making sure to stuff it with the rag again from outside. Her next stop was

the shed to fetch her basket—it would look odd if she returned without it. She

never did give Theodore his sketchbook or his pencils, but the opportunity had

passed for that, and she would have to give them to him another time.

Stepping into the shed, she scanned all the tools on the floor and the

plank that nicked her sleeve until she spotted her basket. She bent over and

picked it up, noticing that the leather sketchbook was not inside it. Instead the

file lay off to the side, having scooped up a little dust. She must have flung it in

that direction when she whipped the checkered towel off the basket.

She picked up the sketchbook and gently dusted it off, much the way

she wished she could stroke Theodore’s cheek, just to let him know everything

was going to be alright. Before she popped it back into the basket, she held it a

while and looked at it with all the love and care she could muster. Within its

pages it secured the most beautiful part of her dear Theodore—a part not left

unsullied by his father.

Ruth thought back to Mr Wythert’s vicious words, how he belittled

Theodore’s creativity, called him worthless. The young artist’s drawings may

not have put food on the table, but it brightened his eyes and brought dreams

to his heart.

As she walked around the yard and through the side gate, Ruth accepted

it would be best to keep Theodore’s terrible secret for the time being, but she

suffixed this realisation with a chilling thought that now weighed down her

conscience:

How could I possibly live with myself if I don’t tell at least one reasonable

soul about William Wythert?

THEVALIARDMANSION.COM

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2014 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

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In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

2

CHAPTER 8

Theodore had to carry the unconscious Gangfield up the

Workshop stairs and into his office like people always said to

carry a new bride across the threshold. This made things

slightly awkward, truth be told, since Theodore long

expected the first person he’d ‘carry over the threshold’

would have a more shapely figure.

Adam was short on Theodore’s heels with the talking rat

perched on his shoulder.

Salty had been asked to take the cart around the back,

but he must have handed it over to the part-time groom,

because he soon burst into the office, demanding to know

why Theodore and Gangfield were soaked in blood.

“Salty, please!” Theodore snapped. He lowered his voice

to a loud whisper. “Just keep it down, will you?” He then

dumped Gangfield onto the tattered leather couch in the

office. “Adam, close the door.”

“I’m calling for the doctor,” Salty insisted.

3

“No!” Theodore, Adam and—luckily less audibly—

Dennis cried simultaneously.

Salty took off his cap and patted his flat, greasy hair.

“Blimey, Mr Wythert… then what the bloody hell d’you do to

‘im?”

“You think I did this?” Theodore protested, lifting

Gangfield’s stubby legs onto the couch.

“You’re the one who skipped the hospital and brought

‘im here. Not exactly what an innocent man would do, is it?”

Adam shuffled closer. “It’s a long story.”

“I bet it is.”

“Salty—” Theodore gestured between himself and

Gangfield, “I would never—you know I wouldn’t—I can’t—”

He became flustered, but took a deep breath and calmed

himself as much as he could, managing to speak with only a

slight tremble in his voice. He held up his hands. “I will fix

this.”

Salty glanced at Gangfield. There were a few moments

of visible contemplation on his part. He slapped his cap in his

hands, frowned briefly and then took a shallow breath. “Fine.

What do you need me to do?”

4

Theodore sighed and let his shoulders drop. “Thank you,

Salty.”

He nudged Theodore away. “Yeah, yeah…” Then he put

his cap back on his head. “Do you even know what to do with

this bloke now?”

Theodore twirled around to see what he had at his

disposal in the office. “Maybe…erm…”

But nothing came to mind. He had no idea what he had

to do in a situation like this. William Wythert was regularly

incapacitated—Theodore had developed and retained a keen

talent for hefting dead weight around—but never was

William injured, and it wasn’t as if Theodore ever took care of

his own wounds.

It was then that Ruth’s face shot into his mind.

“Cloth!” cried Theodore, his mouth slightly agape.

“Always use a cloth!”

“My mother keeps saying that,” Adam remarked bitterly

as he set Dennis down on the floor.

“Come on, Adam. We need to get him undressed.”

Adam approached the foot of the couch. “I’ll start with

his shoes, then?”

5

“No, not his shoes.”

The boy raised his eyebrows. “But how can we take off

his trousers without first taking off his shoes?”

“No. Why? No, Adam! We need to clean his wound—

which is on his...” Theodore paused, hoping Adam would

finish the sentence.

Adam just stared at Theodore like he was the idiot. The

rat didn’t offer much, either, and Salty was busy with his

snuff box.

“Arm,” the carpenter finished hopelessly. “The wound

on his arm! Just—ah, just help me with his coat, alright?”

“You sure we can trust Salty not to run to the police?”

Adam asked shamelessly as he helped Theodore turn

Gangfield over.

Salty gave Adam a dirty look and snorted his snuff.

“Salty’s been here so long, he’s family now,” said

Theodore.

After some tugging and twisting, they got the coat off of

Gangfield and Theodore held the bloodied coat with his

fingertips.

6

“I pay my dues and nothing more,” said Salty, leaning on

the couch. “I don’t owe this Gangfield character anything.”

Seeing Theodore with the bloody coat, Salty kicked over

a nearby sheet of wood that fell to the floor and shielded the

carpet. Theodore then threw the coat onto it. It landed with

a bit of a splat.

It appeared the bleeding mainly emanated from

Gangfield’s right shoulder. As drenched as his right sleeve

was, the rest of his shirt was still a sparkling white. That

amount of blood loss might have surely made a person feel

dazed, but unconscious?

Still, Theodore had to take a moment to fight back a

shiver.

Adam wasn’t worried about the blood at all, so the boy

very easily dipped his hands into the mess and unbuttoned

Gangfield’s shirt without even so much as a wince.

Adam peeled open Gangfield’s right shoulder.

A lengthy incision ran from Gangfield’s collarbone and

over his shoulder, into his back. It was deliberate and precise.

But what really caught Theodore’s attention was a thick

black mark with jagged edges running along next to the neat

7

incision. This mark was by no means on top of the skin—it

was inside the skin, one with it, as if it were branded as such,

forming a bevelled indentation instead of scar tissue. Its

texture appeared scaly and rough, slightly glistening in the

light, and its contours were almost perfect, creating a stark

contrast between its surreal blackness and Gangfield's pink

skin. It was as if someone had replaced a strip of Gangfield’s

skin with coal.

“The wound’s not just on his shoulder,” Theodore

conceded, desperately fighting to get out his words beyond

the nausea. “It’s on his back. We need to turn him over.”

Then he pulled Gangfield up by the arms into a sitting

position and carefully got onto the couch with one knee so

he could support Gangfield from the back.

Adam, meanwhile, picked up Gangfield’s legs so they

could turn him about.

There was a loud bash downstairs.

And then lively, female chatter.

Theodore and Salty exchanged glances.

“Mum and the girls! Salty, you need to get them out!”

8

“Ah, leave ‘em,” Salty replied with a sleazy grin. “They

don’t know you’re ‘ere, so they won’t come ‘round your

office. They’ll just pass on through to the house like they

always do.”

From downstairs, they could faintly hear Mrs Wythert

calling, “Emily! Bring your sewing box so we can mend Little

Lynnie’s dress again.”

Emily replied happily, “Okay, mum! I left it in Theodore’s

office, though.”

Then there was the clang of footsteps running up the

metal staircase.

Everybody in the office froze, even the rat.

Theodore, his arms and legs growing tired from holding

the unconscious magician upright, tried to lay him back

down, but the leather couch made too much noise.

So Theodore just froze again and whispered, “It’s

alright—Adam locked the door.”

“I didn’t lock any door,” Adam replied, still bent over

and holding Gangfield’s legs up.

This quickly escalated into a whispering bout.

“I told you to lock the door, Adam! You never listen.”

9

“You didn’t tell me to lock it—you told me to close it.”

“No I didn’t. I said lock it.”

“You said close it!”

“Naw, the little fellow’s right, Mr Wythert,” Salty added.

“You said to close it.”

The clanging footsteps grew louder.

Theodore, his hands quite full, turned to Salty for help.

“Get rid of her!”

“I don’t know. Emily might be able to help.”

“There is no chance I’m exposing my family to this.”

Just then, Gangfield’s head tipped backwards over

Theodore’s shoulder.

“Ugh, Salty, fine—I’ll give you a full week off.”

Salty shrugged. “You’re too overprotective, Mr Wythert.

I really think they can deal with this alright.”

Gangfield’s open mouth smeared against Theodore’s

chin.

“Full week off—with pay!” Theodore screeched. “Up

front!”

Salty smiled the brightest smile Theodore had ever seen

on his employee’s oft-scowling face. There was no doubt in

10

Theodore’s mind that Salty was imagining all the drinking and

gambling he’d get done in a week’s time.

A shadow appeared in the slit of light underneath the

office door.

“Do whatever it takes,” Theodore whispered.

Salty nodded. “Whatever it takes? Yeah, alright.”

The doorknob turned, but Salty slipped out of the office

faster than Emily could get in.

Salty slammed the door behind him and Theodore and

Adam listened intently to the conversation on the other side.

“Mornin’ Miss Wythert!” said Salty.

Emily spoke in a playful tone. “Salty… what’s going on in

there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Sure, fine, then. Nothing. I just want to get my sewing

box—”

The shadows under the slit moved.

“You can’t go in there!” Salty exclaimed.

“Why on Earth not?” she giggled.

“You just can’t.”

11

Then Emily turned serious—fast. “Salty! If you’ve done

something in my brother’s office, I have to see it.”

“No.”

“Then I’m calling Mum—”

“I shat mi’self!” Salty exploded.

If Theodore’s hands were free, he’d have slapped his

own forehead. But he knew Emily would be completely

distracted by Salty’s genius comment, so he eagerly nodded

to Adam so they could get on with turning Gangfield about.

The couch crackled and groaned a bit as they moved the

magician.

“Got it smeared all over the place,” Salty continued, a

trace of a chuckle in his voice. “Whoo! You do not want to go

in there!”

There was a tapping on the metal platform which was

probably Emily’s foot. “I don’t smell anything,” she said, fully

annoyed.

With one final twist and heave, Theodore and Adam

finally got the little magician man onto his stomach, his

mouth agape and drooling on the couch. His face boasted a

12

peaceful ignorance of all the effort Theodore and Adam were

exerting on his behalf.

“What was that?” said Emily in response to the crackling

leather couch.

“Nothing.”

“Stop saying that! Salty—let me pass!”

The shadows under the slit were properly dancing about

now. Theodore also heard some slapping going on.

“Fine!” said Salty calmly. “I’ll tell you the truth. You see…

the truth is… that… erm…” He paused and Emily tapped her

foot again. “The truth is, Emily, that… I want you to marry

me!”

Emily burst out laughing—the mocking, disbelieving sort

of laugh.

“Oh, good! You’re happy! Let’s both go into the house

together and tell your mum the good news.”

Theodore didn’t quite understand Salty’s reasoning, but

all was well as long as Emily perceived it as a joke. He began

to join Adam in further undressing Gangfield, although

Theodore discovered the fingerless gloves Gangfield wore

covered most of his forearm. What’s worse, the glove was

13

buckled in place, so Gangfield’s shirt sleeve kept getting

caught on it.

But then Emily’s laughing died down. “My word, Salty.

You’re serious?”

Theodore froze again.

“Absolutely. Emily, I love you!”

“And you’ve spoken to Theodore about this?”

Salty croaked briefly before stating with complete

conviction, “He said, ‘Salty—you do whatever it takes!’”

At this remark, Theodore popped his head up and felt

his heart rate quickening.

Adam pulled his chin deeper into his neck and frowned.

Emily’s voice began to tremble. “Oh, Salty... I had no

idea you felt this way.” She paused, then exclaimed, “I

thought you’d never ask!”

Theodore instantly dropped what he was doing and

stormed towards the office door.

As Theodore reached for the doorknob, Adam wrapped

his arms around Theodore’s waist, holding him back.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered. “You’re covered in another

man’s blood, alright?”

14

At first Theodore fought the boy, but looking at his own

soiled hands, he realised Adam wasn’t exactly wrong.

Then there was the sound of two sets of footsteps going

down the staircase. Emily chatted and giggled as if a good

thing had just happened.

Theodore and Adam stood quietly for a few seconds.

“I’ll fix that, too,” said Theodore, wagging his index

finger and resisting with every muscle in his body the urge to

run out the office and kick Salty in the back.

The little rat felt secure enough to start speaking again,

now that it was just the three of them and the magician. He

jumped up excitedly. “Oh! A wedding! How grand.”

Adam nodded, although he saw fit to add, “She could do

better.”

Totally fed up with shuffling Gangfield around and

struggling with a stupid shirt sleeve, Theodore glanced at

Gangfield’s twisted figure and then at Adam. “His shirt’s

ruined already, right?”

“Probably.”

“Master has many other shirts,” Dennis assured them.

“Tea stains, y’know.”

15

This was enough for Theodore to stomp over to his desk

and pull a whittling knife out of his drawer.

He then plucked up and cut open Gangfield’s shirt,

starting at the back of the collar and down the middle, goo

and blood be damned.

Theodore felt a sense of fulfilment being able to

mutilate something just then, even though it only was a shirt.

“She could definitely do better…” he muttered.

But his indignation was quickly silenced by disgust.

The sucking sound of the blood-soaked linen being

peeled from Gangfield's gaping wound on his back made

Theodore pull his face a little. Adam laughed at this for some

bizarre reason.

The nature of Gangfield’s wound was now shockingly

clear. The skin around his neck and shoulder blade had been

sliced into far more deeply than at his collarbone.

It seemed that whoever was making the incision became

overeager and hacked straight into Gangfield’s back and neck

muscles.

16

Blood slowly rose out of the cuts and pooled into an

ever more intricate outline of swirling and jagged branded

skin which covered Gangfield’s entire back.

Something about it was just not right. Were the

brandings an unfortunate injury, or could the magician have

done this to himself? Gangfield was a decidedly middle class

performer who mingled in polite society. Surely, only the

lowest form of human being would intentionally decorate his

entire body with painful-looking black marks—marks that

were definitely too perfect to be an accident.

So were the incisions an accident, too?

The earth dipped and the world started spinning.

Theodore never trusted Gangfield, but he certainly didn’t

wish to be proven right—not like this.

“Are you sure this man is just a magician?” Theodore

asked Adam.

The boy shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face. “If by

magician, you mean a fellow who dabbles in magic…”

Fear gripped Theodore as he realised he was in the

presence of a heretic of the occult—one who was clearly

involved in dangerous rituals with witches.

17

“Lord, what have I gotten myself into now?” Theodore

sighed as he tried to remember where he had last placed his

Bible. Not that it would be much help, since it wasn’t exactly

a detailed instruction manual on repelling devils.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Adam admitted. “Not that I’m a

thrill-seeker or anything, but a double life sounds incredible.”

Theodore took a deep breath and shook his hands

about. “You can do this,” he told himself. He then turned to

Adam and said, “Alright, go down to the sink. Bring anything

we can use to clean this mess. Bucket, water, soap—cloth.

And check if everyone’s in the house and out of the

workshop.”

“Even Salty?”

Theodore blew out an angry groan.

Adam smiled and left the office.

Theodore pulled his office chair closer, too tired to care

about the bloody mark his hand left on the arm rest. Sitting

down, his goal was to recollect his thoughts and find a way to

fight the cringe.

18

The little rat stood at the foot of the office chair and

tapped Theodore on his shoe. “You’re—you’re still going to

help Master?”

“Is it the right thing to do?” Theodore asked in reply,

more to himself than to the rat.

“I suppose,” said the rat.

“Then, there’s your answer.”

Theodore dug deep to find the motivation to patch

Gangfield up. Not sure he could find a scrap of courage in

such a short amount of time, all he could do was wipe the

sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

The rat again interrupted Theodore’s train of thought,

saying, “Your sister said something about a sewing box?”

Theodore nodded, remembering Gangfield needed

stitches—or whatever substitute they could fashion in a

pinch. “It’s not sterile.”

“That dunn’matter, Mr Wythert. The Master can fight

off a plague. Literally.”

“Okay,” Theodore replied. He got up and brought a

small vanity box back to the couch, still smudging red

fingerprints all over everything.

19

He’d clean it later.

Just as Theodore sat back down, the rat quickly climbed

up Theodore’s leg and onto his knee. After the little box was

opened, the rat started digging around in it with surprising

dexterity. Each needle was first held up and studied before

being set back down again. Some needles he even held up to

the light.

“We need a sturdy needle,” Dennis explained. “A

proper, sturdy one.”

Theodore was too amazed by the rat’s behaviour to be

of any use at that point. He just stared. There was something

grounded and weighty about Dennis’s movements.

Something human.

“Aha!” Dennis declared, pulling out a thick, curved

needle, about ten centimetres long if straightened out. “Now

this is what I want to see! This one’s probably for making

pillows. Let’s hope it’s nice and sharp.” He then grabbed a

bobbin of green thread under his other arm and turned

around to look up at Theodore. “Oh, this is perfect! The

green will stand out nicely on the skin. Would you put me on

the couch, please? Right on Master’s leg would be great.”

20

Despite sometimes seeing the odd rat running around in

the backyard, Theodore didn’t have too much experience

with rats, and certainly never picked one up before.

Fortunately, it seemed Dennis was a veteran at being

picked up as he lifted his little arms as Theodore’s hand drew

close. Theodore gently wrapped his fingers around Dennis’s

furry frame and slowly released him onto the back of one of

Gangfield’s legs.

“Thank you,” Dennis said kindly, readjusting the bobbin

in his arms. He walked on his hind legs just fine, cleverly using

his tail as a counterweight.

Just then Adam came in with a pail of water and a

dishcloth. The pail was only half full of ice cold water.

It took Adam all that time just to be incompetent.

Sounded about right.

“And soap?” Theodore pressed.

Adam dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out a bar of

soap.

“You carried it in your pocket?”

“Well, it’s soap. It’s clean, isn’t it?”

21

Dennis was sat on Gangfield’s bum, threading the

needle. Theodore was about to offer to cut the thread for the

critter, but he felt quite daft when he saw Dennis gnaw

through the thread in an instant. It was distracting how well

the rat manoeuvred his tiny, pink fingers.

There was a ploink-clunk sound when Adam dropped

the bar of soap into the half-full pail. He was holding his arm

quite high—seemed he did it just to see how big a splash he

could make, which was slightly infuriating, as there was

already very little water to spare.

Theodore took the dish cloth and dipped it into the

soapy water, wrung it out a bit, then took the deepest breath

he could manage before turning back to face Gangfield’s

seeping wound again.

He didn’t bother to start around the edges of the

wounds where the blood was thinnest. He just dipped into

the main gash, where the blood was thick and dark. He

worked with his right hand and used the back of his left hand

to cover his mouth. The bubbling sound of the wet cloth

mopping up the mess was starting to drive Theodore mad. It

was all he could hear, loudly and clearly, even though Adam

22

and Dennis were unceremoniously conducting a conversation

about where Dennis learned to sew.

“Oh, you know,” said Dennis, “It’s just a hobby, really.”

The water in the pail quickly became saturated and

bright red. Soon Theodore was only mopping up blood with

more blood.

“That’ll do,” said Dennis finally, hesitantly tip-toeing up

Gangfield’s back. The pink, diluted blood reached quite high

up Dennis’s paws. It must have felt dreadful, all the warm

liquid between his tiny toes. But he confidently made his way

to the big gash and swiftly punctured the area with the

needle, stitching the fleshy bits together.

It was obvious Dennis had played nurse before. There

was no alarm in his voice, no panic in his movements—he

just calmly and mechanically stitched away as if he didn’t

have a care in the world.

Theodore had to step back a bit. He swallowed hard as

he felt his face turn cold. “Is there anything else I can do?” he

asked apprehensively, not really wanting a reply.

“Och, no—all will be right soon enough,” said the rat,

moving lower down the long, deep cut. “Let’s just hope the

23

Master won’t wake up before I’m done.” The rat squeaked—

wait, it was a giggle. “Master has a high tolerance for pain,

but that dunn’mean he likes it!”

“I’m…” Theodore began, but he choked on his words. He

cleared his throat. “I’m going to refill the bucket.”

Theodore floated down the stairs and towards the sink.

All that was heavy were his eyelids, really. Any other

sensation had gone off to frolic in the real world.

As he watched the crimson water swirl down the drain,

he could feel his spirits drain with it. He had still not

completely ruled out the possibility that he had fallen asleep

while working at the Mansion—that none of this was real.

Theodore began to think that the situation wasn’t

entirely improbable. In fact, one could easily make sense of

everything. That tent could have been set on fire by all those

burning candles and incense—not necessarily by Gangfield.

And the talking rat might as well have been possessed by a

demon, which was an easy fix—just call for a priest and some

holy water. Problem solved.

Then again, a doctor might have trumped a priest at that

moment.

24

Theodore wearily counted the hours he had gone

without sleep—twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five,

twenty…. twenty…

Twenty…

“No!”

He popped open his eyes, stretching them as wide as he

could. But it made his eyelids no easier to control.

He washed his hands and splashed cold water in his

face.

“Theodore,” he said to himself. “You’ve come this far.

You need to go back up those stairs and fix this mess. You

need to fix this!”

He filled up the pail with a new but weary

determination.

Theodore stepped back into the office and set the full

pail down by the couch.

Adam was taking off one of Gangfield’s gloves, exposing

even more decorative black brandings on the magician’s

forearm.

“Adam, honestly. Undress unconscious men on your

own time.”

25

Adam's mouth was agape in a half-smile. “Now we know

why he always wears these strange gloves.”

They were strange—buckled up to the elbow and made

of burgundy coloured leather.

“He always wears them?” Theodore asked, slowly

placing the pail on the floor.

“Unless he’s wearing other gloves.”

Theodore tilted his head and stared at Gangfield’s

sleeping face. “This little fellow just becomes stranger and

stranger, doesn’t he?”

“Good news is you’ve scratched the surface, at least!”

Dennis happily chirped. “Right! I’m done!” The rat then

knotted the last bit of thread together and patted his

master’s exposed flesh. “Not a bad job if I say so myself.”

“Now what?” Adam asked.

“Well, the Master should bleed a lot less, so we can

wash up properly now,” said Dennis, wringing his sticky

fingers.

“I’ll find some bandages,” said Theodore. “Adam, you

start wiping down Gangfield. And for Heaven’s sake, keep his

trousers on.”

26

The next hour was passed lugging the unconscious

Gangfield about some more to wrap him up in bandages. It

was quite a task, since the bandages had to be linked under

Gangfield’s arm and around his chest to properly seal his

wound. However, Dennis was surprisingly helpful in this

regard, acting like the extra hand that would swoop in and

pull sections tighter.

Gangfield’s brandings only covered his back and arms,

stopping at his collarbone and wrists. This created quite a

contrast with Gangfield’s white chest, and Theodore, being a

hirsute fellow himself, couldn’t help but notice that Gangfield

had about as much body hair as an adolescent.

It looked bizarre and misplaced, so Theodore left the

other half of Gangfield’s shirt on his uninjured arm. It kept

getting caught on his other glove anyway.

Because Gangfield’s wound was on his back, they had to

keep him settled on his stomach. He didn’t look comfortable

at all. Theodore had fallen asleep like that before, and all it

would promise was a sore neck.

27

Adam sat on a toddler’s wooden chair that Theodore

had made years before for Little Lynnie.

With Adam lazily watching, Theodore and Dennis

cleaned the worst of the mess on the couch and floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore spotted Adam

occasionally running his fingers through the grooves of

Gangfield’s brandings. There was a joyous fascination in

Adam’s eyes that Theodore couldn’t bear to see.

Why wasn’t Adam afraid?

Not being able to contain it any longer, Theodore

eventually grabbed the bar of soap and threw it at Adam’s

feet.

If Adam possessed the ability to be startled, his

response might have been noteworthy. Instead, he just

raised his brows over his droopy eyes and set his hand in his

lap. “How long has he had these?” he asked Dennis.

“I can’t say,” the rat replied. He fetched the soap for

Theodore, sliding it across the floor. “Longer than I can

remember, but that’s doesn’t count for much.”

“What does he do when he has to wear a bathing suit in

public?”

28

“Och! There’s never any occasion for that.”

“But what if he does, though? Do people stare?”

Before Dennis could reply, Theodore interrupted,

“Adam, if you’re going to ask questions, ask good ones.”

“I’d stare,” Adam quietly suffixed.

Theodore sat on the floor and crossed his legs. He threw

the damp, pink cloth onto the rim of the pail. The room was

clean enough. Whatever wasn’t wiped off was just going to

have to leave a stain.

No longer allowed to poke at Gangfield, Adam probably

had no reason to be in the office anymore. He got up. “You

have a water closet?”

“No, but you can use the outhouse in the yard.”

Adam passed Theodore, but Theodore quickly grabbed

him by his coat. “Whoa! Give me that first. In case someone

sees you.”

The boy looked down and saw a few dabs of blood had

transferred to the side of his coat. He took it off and handed

it to Theodore, then headed out the office.

Adam’s blue coat didn’t smell too fresh, but it was

warm, so Theodore absent-mindedly draped it over his lap.

29

Then there was the squeak of something moving on the

damp leather, followed by a deep, long, crackling groan.

Theodore turned and saw the magician stirring.

“Dennis…” Gangfield moaned like a ghost.

Theodore clenched his fist, ready to go toe to toe with

Gangfield if he had to.

The tiny rat scurried up the couch and onto his Master’s

intact shoulder.

Gangfield’s eyes remained closed. “Dennis!” he called a

little louder, barely moving his lips.

“I’m here, Master.”

“Dennis… Tea, Dennis.”

“Erm, Master, I don’t think now’s the time.”

“It’s always tea time, Dennis.” He opened one of his

brown eyes slowly and looked around, squinting, first finding

Theodore’s feet and steadily looking up until his eye met with

Theodore’s shocked glare. Gangfield directly shut his eyes

tightly and frowned, letting out a painful sigh. “Bollocks.”

Theodore carefully tread closer to the couch. The fear

that he had made a grave mistake caused his heart to beat at

a frantic pace. He wondered if he’d have the courage to call

30

for the police after honestly looking the wounded magician in

the eye.

Gangfield wiped the spit from his mouth and sat up,

nearly collapsing back down twice with an audible, “Ow!”

and “Damn this stupid—!”

Dennis did what he could, pushing up on his Master with

all his might in an effort to assist him. It made no difference.

After about thirty seconds, Gangfield managed to sit up

like a deposited marionette, his head drooping over his

crossed legs and his arms spread out, palms upward. “What a

mess,” he half-whispered, half-croaked. He then took several

deep breaths through his nose. “Everything is always so much

better after the adrenaline wears off, is it not?”

Little pink paws sympathetically patted Gangfield’s

knee. “Och, Master, you had a wee bit of tumble.”

The two of them spoke as if they were in a private little

bubble, shutting Theodore out in a surprisingly palpable way.

Gangfield wiped his face, concealing it. His tone was

low, but he spoke in a fluctuating pitch. “Tumble, you say?

My dear Dennis… when did you pick up the English habit of

31

politely underplaying the dreadful? Surely there was more to

it than—”

“You fell off the back of my cart,” Theodore interjected

loudly, “and you took a bloody decent pummelin’. Then you

bled out on my couch!” He gestured towards the couch and

let his arm drop onto his thigh with a slap. For some reason,

he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

32

With a long croak, Gangfield looked up at Theodore,

revealing his bleak, chalk-coloured face. After blinking and

pulling his mouth open several times, Gangfield remarked, “I

say, Dennis, do you see that?”

“Master?”

“That Wythert chap. He’s standing right there. Do you

not see him?”

Theodore pulled the toddler’s chair closer, feeling the

sudden need to get off his feet. “I’m no illusion.”

“Well, now I know he’s real,” Gangfield replied groggily.

“Because my subconscious would know the correct term is

hallucination, and not illusion.” He turned toward Dennis.

“Yet, surely my subconscious knows Wythert isn’t the

sharpest knife in the butchery.”

“Excuse me?” Theodore cried as he sat down on the

chair.

“Shh! Would you keep it down?” Gangfield whined. “I

have a headache that would cripple an elephant.”

33

The lethargic magician paused, steadily dropped his

head even further and became silent. It wasn’t long at all

before an exhaled snoring emanated from his nose.

After exchanging perplexed glances with the rat,

Theodore leaned forward and snapped his fingers right by

one of Gangfield’s ears. “Oy! Wake up!”

“Tea, Dennis!” Gangfield called out as he jumped back

to life.

“Master, I already told you—you can’t have tea now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dennis!” It was then that

Gangfield, disorientated, slurred a short speech. He swung

his head about, eyes half open. “You disgrace me with that

notion. England was built on the very idea that when a

man—nay, an Englishman—requires tea, preferably with milk

and four sugars, such tea should not be denied him. It is a

fundamental human right, damn it all!”

The speech went on, but Theodore stopped listening. He

shook his head. “He’s completely confused.”

“No,” Dennis replied contemplatively, “Master really

likes his tea.”

34

Gangfield banged weakly on the cushion next to him.

“And that, Dennis, is why our Queen’s dear, brave soldiers

are out there fighting and expanding our refined Empire. It is

to bring the majestic liberty of tea drinking to all uncultured

corners of the globe. Bravo, boys! Bravo!” He then quietly

chuckled to himself and closed his eyes. “I should enlist, you

know. I’ve always wanted to handle a gun with a bayonet

attachment. Deadly projectile weapon and bread knife all in

one.” He paused and frowned. “I can’t grow a moustache…”

Dennis looked at Theodore and shrugged. “Maybe he is

a little delusional.”

The magician lifted his left arm to point at Theodore, but

stopped when it stung too much and cried out, “Holy hell!

My shoulder burns like a thousand suns!” He almost

immediately disregarded the pain and pointed at Theodore

with his other hand. “Doyle, my good man! Some tea, old

chap! You know how I like it.”

The rat tugged at the hem of Gangfield’s pinstripe

trousers. “Erm, Master…that’s not Mr Doyle. That’s Mr

Wythert, remember?”

35

Theodore nodded and patted his chest to illustrate the

point.

What followed was crazy whispering back and forth

between the magician and his rat. All Theodore could make

out was that Gangfield reprimanded Dennis for “speaking

freely in front of company”. Gangfield turned back to

Theodore and complacently began, “Forgive my horrid

manners, Mr Wythert. I swear, you look exactly like my

landlady’s butler in this light. Please, sit down, make yourself

at home. I shall call for some tea.” He then picked Dennis up

and, thinking he was still wearing his coat, dropped Dennis

into an imaginary coat pocket.

Dennis landed on Gangfield’s lap with a tiny, “Oof!”

The charade was laughable. Theodore wearily waved his

hand. “Mr Gangfield... you’re in my workshop.”

The frazzled Gangfield studied his surroundings.

“Indeed,” he said nonchalantly, ever keeping his pose, “Then

you must surely offer your guest some refreshments.”

Theodore decided it was time to step up to the plate

and extract some answers from the magician. He got up,

turned the tiny chair around, swung his leg over the seat and

36

sat down again, crossing his arms over the backrest. His

knees almost reached his chin, but he still did his best to look

threatening. “I don’t give tea to farces who run from the law,

Mr Gangfield.”

Gangfield’s response was garbled but instant. “I do not

run from the law, sir!” He pulled at the glove on his left hand.

“I… walk briskly in the opposite direction of the law. If I am

guilty of anything, it is lax administration.”

“Lax administration?”

“Ha! I shall make you a deal, hm? How about I show you

a magic trick in exchange for a cup of tea? Here, here—look!”

Theodore was about to turn down the magician’s offer,

ridiculous as it was, but then something remarkable

happened.

After excitedly leaning forward, Gangfield flicked his

right hand with a loud snap and his thumb sparked alight as if

it were a candle. He then wiggled his fingers and the small

flame danced from his thumb, to his index finger, and then to

each consecutive finger until it reached his pinkie and

jumped back to his thumb again. One more flick of his hand

extinguished the flame completely.

37

His fingers were unscathed.

“Impressive, no?” said an uncharacteristically giddy

Gangfield.

“That’s what you did in the tent!” Theodore exclaimed.

“Do it again!”

“Alright.” Gangfield repeated the trick. “Two cups of tea

now.”

Theodore asked Dennis, “How is he doing that?

Gunpowder?”

“Do not insult me, sir!” Gangfield scoffed. “I am a

magician!”

“Master, no!” Dennis interrupted, pinching Gangfield’s

arm.

Gangfield just swept Dennis away. “I am a magician, sir.

I use real magic!”

Theodore shook his head. “Some kind of substance has

to cause the spark, but...”

Suddenly, Gangfield pulled up his right sleeve and

reached out to grab Theodore’s hand. Alarmed, Theodore

slipped out of Gangfield’s grip, but the magician kept

38

reaching out like a captive animal reaching through iron bars

for a treat.

“Come, come,” said Gangfield in a high pitch.

Dennis was adamant. “Don’t listen to him, Mr Wythert.

Master is confused, remember?”

Against his instincts, Theodore allowed Gangfield to

force his open palm around Gangfield’s bare forearm, right

over one of the indented brandings.

Theodore shivered as he felt the black mark was ice

cold.

His eyes met with Gangfield’s lopsided smirk.

The magician flicked his right hand as before and set his

entire hand on fire, exactly as Theodore had witnessed

earlier in the witch’s tent.

Heat emanated from Gangfield’s hand, but what

Theodore found more striking was the fact that Gangfield’s

black mark heated up as well. At first it was lukewarm, but in

two or three seconds, it became hot enough to burn

Theodore’s palm.

Seeing Theodore’s reaction—which consisted of a nasty

frown—Gangfield laughed and bounced lightly on the couch.

39

He eyed his black mark. “These are not just for show, Doyle.”

He then blew on his hand by way of showmanship to

extinguish the flame.

The black mark quickly returned to its icy temperature.

Gangfield playfully poked Theodore’s chest with his

index finger.

This prompted Theodore to whip his hand away from

the magician. Partly afraid, but deathly curious, he asked

quietly, “What were you doing with that witch?”

40

“Who, Melora? Pff, she’s harmless.”

“She tried to kill Adam.”

“And failed—because I am so amazing!” Gangfield

stretched out his hand and rested back on the couch. His

head tipped backwards and he began to snore again.

“See?” Dennis fake-giggled. “Absolutely loony!”

Theodore slapped Gangfield on the leg and exclaimed, “I

saw the knives! They were cutting into you!”

“Part of the transaction,” the magician mumbled.

“You mean ritual.”

“No, I mean transaction.” Gangfield still lay with his

head tipped back, staring with half-open eyes at the ceiling.

“My social calendar is too full for me to partake in complex

religious activities. Say, is there a draught in here?”

“What kind of transaction?” Theodore snapped his

fingers again. There was a sense of urgency as Gangfield

faded quickly. “Look at me. What kind of transaction,

Gangfield?”

After lifting his head with great effort and blinking

slowly, Gangfield explained in a fussy tone, “How many times

must I tell you? I… am… a… mah… jee… shin! Where else am I

41

to get my wares but from superstitious travelling

merchants?” He tried to wipe his brow, but he was too weak

to get his hand to reach his face and just let his hand fall back

onto his lap. His head gradually tilted to the side as his left

eye squinted shut.

Watching Gangfield fight to stay conscious, Theodore

felt entirely conflicted. The little bloke was as vulnerable as

he’d ever be.

Theodore had hoped to interrogate Gangfield, threaten

him and send him running out of Harbiville with his tail

between his legs—but now it just didn’t seem like good

sportsmanship. The magician couldn’t even keep track of

who Theodore was!

“Any more questions, Doyle?” Gangfield slurred, his

limbs crumbling deeper into the couch.

“No,” said Theodore. “A request.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t die.”

A smile spread across Gangfield’s half-asleep face.

“Good man, Doyle.” He then slid into the foetal position and

returned to snoring.

42

Theodore scratched his upper lip with his thumb and

kept his hand on his mouth. He watched Dennis’s fuzzy

outline move to the opposite end of the couch.

He reached out and grabbed Dennis, who tried in vain to

dodge him. “What was that, then?” Theodore demanded.

“Och, right,” said Dennis as he squirmed uncomfortably

in Theodore’s grasp, “it’s always the rat who gets the brunt

of the blame. How medieval of you.”

“You seemed dead set on keeping Gangfield quiet.”

“Master would want me to keep him quiet! You think I

care if the world knows about us? Or that I like having to act

mute all the time? Not having any friends?”

Conceding that he was being unfairly rough on the

critter, Theodore opened his palm and allowed Dennis to sit

on it.

“It’s so nice to finally have a conversation,” said the rat

as he licked his paws and fixed his chest fur, “where I don’t

need to bicker to be listened to.” Seeing Theodore’s frown,

Dennis quickly interjected, “I mean, Master isn’t cruel or

anything. He honestly does try to treat me with respect, but

there’s just no such thing as equal ground when it comes to

43

Chester Gangfield.” He squeaked in a way that resembled a

chuckle.

Gangfield as the only human to interact with? “Must be

insufferable,” Theodore remarked under his breath.

“Oh, I heard that,” said Dennis cheerily. “That’s the first

thing you notice when you’re turned into a rat—great sense

of hearing! Suddenly, you hear everything, even a pin

dropping in a metalworks factory.”

It took a few seconds for Theodore to mentally catch up.

“Wait? What did you just say?”

“It’s true! I can so hear a pin drop anywhere. Master and

I make a game of it. You should have seen me in that brothel

in Liverpool—”

“No, you said you were turned into a rat.”

“Aye.”

“From what? How?”

“Eh, Master always says it’s my story to tell and his

secret to keep.”

“Meaning?”

44

Scrunching

his nose behind his

quivering whiskers, Dennis

replied thoughtfully, “Meaning—

mind your own business.” A fuzzy

smile revealed his four front

teeth.

“I give up,” Theodore

sighed. He could physically feel

the energy draining from his

body. Little dips in his mental

cognition were occurring more frequently. Sleep deprivation

weighed on his entire being, and the world slowed down.

“So!” said Dennis, excitedly rubbing his paws together.

“What do you want to talk about now?”

“Nothing,” Theodore replied, standing up and placing

Dennis on the couch at his master’s feet.

“Wait, no! Wait! We were doing so well!”

45

Hearing footsteps up the stairs, Theodore walked

towards the office door and opened it. “I need to get Adam

home. How long do you reckon Gangfield will be asleep?”

Dennis crossed his arms. “He’d have been walking right

now if you just gave him his tea.”

“Really?”

“No.” Dennis’s whiskers pulled up as he smiled. “I’m

only joking.”

Theodore didn’t have the energy to respond.

A dejected Dennis rested against Gangfield’s foot.

“Master is probably sleeping because he’s been bleeding on

the inside. We’ll see him again before the hour’s out. Master

always recovers quickly from the bleeding.”

“You make it sound like this happens a lot.”

Dennis nodded his little head. “It used to, but, ah…

Master’s a far cry from his bold days.” A sadness rung in

Dennis’s scratchy voice before he cheered up a bit to ask,

“Mr Wythert, are you doing alright? You look pale. Well, not

as pale as Master, but still.”

Adam was still making his way up the metal stairwell, his

slow steps ringing like a sleepy metronome.

46

“Where’s Salty?” Theodore asked him.

Adam shrugged.

“Well, the rat’s going with you.” But then he paused and

turned around. “Oy, rat—you can’t do any of that burny

magic, can you?”

“What burny magic?” Adam pressed, his face

brightening.

“No,” Dennis replied, “But my scone recipe has been

described as being utterly magical!”

“Well, he’s harmless,” said Theodore, making way for

Adam to step inside. “Maybe you two can practice your

conversational skills.”

Adam calmly bent down onto his haunches and waited

for Dennis to scurry over to him. “Come on, then,” he said in

a kind tone.

Dennis climbed onto Adam’s extended palm. “Where

are we going?”

Theodore rubbed his hands. “You’re taking Salty and

going to—what? Mrs Smith’s house, right? Start packing

Gangfield’s things. He’s leaving town or I’m calling for the

police.”

47

At once, Adam and Dennis protested maniacally.

“You can’t do that!” cried Adam. “He’s my friend! He’s

Ruth’s friend!”

“And he didn’t do anything wrong,” Dennis added.

Theodore pointed at Gangfield. “He’s dangerous!”

“But not volatile.”

“Right. Until he drinks something that changes all that.”

“Please, Mr Wythert,” Dennis pleaded. “This is the only

home we have. We took so long to find it.”

“You can find another!”

“You are not seriously considering this,” said Adam,

putting Dennis on his shoulder. “You can’t tell the police

what Gangfield did unless you tell them what you did.”

“Oh, what did I do?”

Adam didn’t even hesitate. “I was under your charge

and you allowed me to run off into that witch’s den!”

“Key words: run off.”

“No! You had every chance to stop me and I swear I will

make sure everyone knows that. Especially my father—and

the curator.”

48

Theodore had to pause to take in a few breaths. “So this

is how it is? Now I’m the villain? You might not share my

concerns, Adam, but I am telling you this man has secrets—

and secrets enshroud sins!”

“You will never find work in this town again,” Adam

replied resolutely. “You and your sisters can beg on the

streets. Watch how that affects me.”

“Don’t you even dare mention my sisters, you little—”

“Stop it!” Dennis squealed. “Stop! Please!”

The talking rat was still novel enough to have had a

jarring effect on conversations.

“Mr Wythert, please! I have no threats to offer you, no

way to corner you. All I am asking is that you do not act so

rashly. Just—take some time, talk to Master and think about

all this. You find his pursuits unsavoury, and believe me, so

do I, but part of the reason for it is pure necessity.”

Theodore shut his eyes, a rush of excitement having

given him a headache.

“Talk to him,” Dennis repeated. “At the very least. Just

talk to him.”

THEVALIARDMANSION.COM

The Valiard Mansion and all affiliated characters © 2011-2014 Ezelle “The Ez” Van Der Heever

This copy is authorised for personal use only. Distribution is allowed as long as the author is credited

(reference to www.TheValiardMansion.com will suffice) and the distributor does not make any profit as a

result of or charges any amount of money for such distribution. The conditions in this document, including this

clause, may only be altered or revoked by written permission from the copyright holder.

In other words, credit me and keep it free, people. :D

2

If you‟re seeing this, you‟re a regular reader of The

Valiard Mansion and I owe you my sincerest gratitude. I

know this because anyone who isn‟t too keen on the story

would‟ve have bailed out by now.

So let‟s talk, you and me, author to reader—because I

have something I need to get off my chest before it bursts

open.

I was positively terrified when I posted the first chapter

of The Valiard Mansion online. It was the most difficult thing

I‟ve ever done. I could just hear people saying, “Ezelle, what

are you doing? You‟re an artist, not a writer. Now stop

making a fool of yourself and get back to something you‟re

actually good at.”

You could have jumped down my throat. You could have

crassly discouraged me from ever typing another word. You

could have printed out my story, literally torn it to shreds,

taken a photo of the damage and sent it to me.

But you didn‟t.

The Valiard Mansion stands solely to the credit of the

kindness and patience of my readers. My every writing faux

3

pas is met with curt correction and delicate instruction, and

my typos are often pointed out in a humorous tone with an

added, “Don‟t worry. I always make that mistake, too.”

I still feel like being sick every time I publish a new

chapter and I‟m still embarrassed enough by my mistakes that

I crawl under my desk whenever they‟re pointed out to me.

That‟s just my personality.

But what has changed in me is that I‟m no longer afraid.

Those nasty voices in my head have been replaced by the

sweet encouragement of my readers. That‟s something no

amount of money can buy. It‟s invaluable, it‟s irreplaceable,

and I know the very least I could do to thank you guys is to

work harder and tell the best story I possibly can.

I get so dang excited when I read messages from you

guys. There are those of you who have written to tell me how

much you‟re enjoying the story, which characters you think

should „hook up‟ in the end, and how Valiard has inspired you

to write and publish your own stories. I‟ve also received

numerous accounts of siblings reading Valiard together,

which just warms my heart right up. There is simply nothing

better than knowing your work brings people together.

4

And to my silent readers out there, please know you have

a profound effect on my work and I am immensely grateful to

you as well. I can see how many times my story is being

downloaded and numbers speak louder than words sometimes,

especially when you have to be your own marketing agent.

You guys are every bit as important as my vocal readers, and

even though I‟d like to hear from each and every one of you

someday, my hope is that you keep enjoying the story and that

you‟ll be moved to write your own adventures!

I think I‟ve interrupted your reading schedule for long

enough now, so allow me to wrap this up with a single,

impeachable statement:

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for

reading The Valiard Mansion.

5

CHAPTER 9

Do you think a real man sits on his arse in front of a canvas?

No, he sacrifices everything to provide for his family—everything.

He works and works until his skin is grated clean off his bones!

You’re a selfish little bastard. You don’t deserve nothing.

The dead man lived in Theodore’s mind as a parasitic

conscience, separate from Theodore’s natural senses and yet

integral to his identity. William preached an impeachable moral

code with which Theodore could not even begin to argue. He

even earnestly aspired to live up to that code.

This only served to double the pain, because if William was

never wrong about moral considerations, how could he possibly

have been wrong about Theodore’s shortcomings?

6

Theodore’s own father saw no worth in him. All the old

man could see was idleness and self-interest, and he had

resigned himself to the fact that his son was beyond help.

William had no son—just a live-in employee.

That distinct shame and loathing snuck up on Theodore

once more. Was it possible he had acted in self-interest when he

decided not to report Gangfield to the police? There was no

doubt that Adam’s influence on Mr Rosewood was strong

enough to bring ruin to the Workshop, but there was likewise no

guarantee the boy would have actually acted on his threats.

No matter what ruin might have befallen the Workshop,

Theodore should have been willing to do as much as it would

have taken to support his mother and sisters. He should not have

avoided the work that lay ahead of him. By obeying Adam, and

thereby avoiding Mr Rosewood’s wrath, there was the possibility

of an easier life ahead for the artistic carpenter. Regular work,

higher-paying clients and the opportunity to work on more

decorative, frivolous things—such were Theodore’s prospects as

long as he kept silent.

There was no way to hide from it. Theodore had chosen the

easy way out like the coward his father knew he was.

7

Theodore pulled on Berry’s1 reins and the cart came to a

steady stop in front of Mrs Smith’s house. It was night time, but

they were not under the cover of darkness. Summer kept the sun

up. Thankfully the cooling evening air prevailed enough for many

of Harbiford’s2 more delicate residents to have fled inside their

homes, and so Theodore, Adam and Gangfield had travelled in

secrecy for the most part.

Adam sat in the back of the cart, fiddling with the triangular

planchette from his ghost board. He scratched his nose and eyed

Theodore suspiciously. “This is sort of like dropping him off and

making him someone else’s problem, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine, Adam,” said Theodore, “Mr Gangfield is a big boy.

He’s his own problem.”

“I am right here, you know,” Gangfield sighed. He was

hunched over on the front seat next to Theodore, an old blanket

draped over his shoulders. “If you wish to speak of me, then

speak to me.” He flinched in pain as he readjusted his makeshift

arm sling.

1 Theodore’s white, speckled horse’s name has been retroactively changed from Bester to Berry, because Bester was too close to Chester. (As in Chester Gangfield. Oh, dear. What was I thinking?) 2 The name of the fictional town in which the story is set has been changed from Harbiville to Harbiford. The town is still situated in the north of Dorset, some forty miles from the coast.

8

“Oh, sorry,” Theodore replied. “We’re just so used to you

being knocked out.”

Gangfield rolled his eyes and let out something resembling

an exhaled snort.

Dennis was sat on his Master’s knee. “Thank you again for

your assistance today, Mr Wythert. Without you, Master

would’ve been hung out to dry in the sun like a cut of meat!”

“We would have managed, Dennis,” Gangfield grumbled.

“We always manage. But thank you all the same, Mr Wythert…

even though you caused the situation which resulted in us

requiring your assistance in the first place.”

Theodore climbed off the cart. “You don’t easily accept help

from strangers, do you?”

Wearily looking down at Theodore, Gangfield replied, “How

cold of you. You and I are friends, not strangers.” Something in

his tone sounded cynical.

“We’re not friends,” Theodore replied resolutely. He left

Adam to get Gangfield down from the cart.

But Gangfield waved Adam away and helped himself down.

“Ah, Mr Wythert. Right there is the problem. I like you a great

deal more than you like me. But then again—” He slid off his seat

9

and landed on the ground with a heave. “What else is to be

expected from someone as straight-and-narrow as yourself?”

Theodore took this as a thinly-veiled insult. “You better

keep to our agreement, Gangfield.”

The magician’s face wrenched in pain as he forced his body

to stand completely upright. He peered at Theodore with smiling

eyes. “Why, sir, you have me in the palm of your hand! How

could I do anything but comply?”

In a low but venomous tone, Theodore replied, “If I so

much as catch a whisper about you hurting Ruth or Adam—or

anyone—I will drag you straight out of this town by your throat.”

“My good man! I count on it.” There was a flutter of

sincerity in Gangfield’s voice before he continued, “Now for all

our sakes, let us hope you can will your words into action if the

time ever comes.”

Clenching his jaw, Theodore took a deep breath to calm

himself. The little magician was far too brave for his own good.

“Just you make sure to stay away from that witch. And any other

occult rubbish. Or you’re out of here. That’s the bargain.”

Gangfield’s mouth briefly twitched at this remark. He

simply nodded at Theodore once, the dark circles under his eyes

appearing more severe.

10

“I’ll go knock on the door,” said Adam as he reached the

ground.

“That is not necessary,” said Gangfield. “I shall walk around

to the servants’ entrance. They will not make a fuss.”

Make a fuss, Theodore thought. Yeah, a fuss would start a

rumour, now wouldn’t it?

Gangfield turned to Theodore with a half-grin that smacked

of insolence. “I wish you an otherwise undisturbed evening, Mr

Wythert. Goodness knows I would appreciate one of those right

about now.”

Adam held out his hand. “I shall see you to a servant, then.”

Theodore stood and watched Adam and Gangfield walk

away. Adam tried to put his arm around Gangfield to support

him, but he was swiftly shoved away.

How content Adam was to be pushed around by Gangfield,

the boy appearing only too happy to be in his friend’s presence.

Adam’s earlier threats were too sharp for Theodore to

comprehend their motivation. The boy was so eager to protect

Gangfield, so willing to condemn a working man and his family to

poverty just to keep Gangfield safe. All this even after Gangfield

had been exposed to Adam as the liar that he was.

11

What kind of hold did Gangfield have on Adam? Did he

have the same hold on Mr Rosewood?

Gangfield had done well to conjure for himself some

powerful friendships. As could be expected from a magician, he

performed a vigilant vanishing act with the truth. It was there

one instant, gone the next. Was Theodore the only spectator to

see the strings? Or perhaps the world was simply too readily

romanced by duality.

Theodore found himself ill-equipped to compete with

Gangfield’s easy confidence. All Theodore had in his little world

was honesty—and truth alone cannot stand against a silver

tongue.

Time was essential. Time to think, to observe—time to

make the right decision. There was no concrete evidence that

Gangfield truly posed a threat to anyone, but if Theodore were

to uncover any such evidence, the chances were slight that

anyone would have believed him anyway.

Perhaps Gangfield knew this. Perhaps it was all just a game

to him. The words he spoke appeared to be some sort of attempt

to merely appease Theodore, pacify him—and worst of all,

Theodore allowed it.

12

Because at the end of the day, Theodore held a single card

that tipped the balance in justice’s favour. For but a moment he

saw past the veil and observed the fear in Gangfield’s eyes.

And once fear grows and becomes impossible to ignore,

that is when a person starts making mistakes.

Adam insisted to ride in the back of the cart as he and

Theodore travelled to Rosewood Ridge. It was probably still a

novel experience for the boy. He was used to shiny carriages,

after all.

Theodore looked over his shoulder and saw Adam holding

the amulet the bird-witch had given him. Panic shot through his

chest. “How do you still have that thing?”

“I slipped it into my pocket,” Adam replied with a passive

shrug.

“Your first instinct wasn’t to leave the damned thing

there?”

“It’s valuable. It belonged to a Duke, you know.” The boy

clicked the amulet open and let out a sigh when he looked

inside. “Empty. Just as I thought.”

Theodore turned in his seat. “Just as you thought? You’ve

already tried to summon the dead with that thing, haven’t you?”

He faced the road again. “God have mercy on this child…”

13

“You wouldn’t happen to keep a lock of hair from a

deceased loved one on your person?”

“Not on my person, no,” Theodore replied indignantly, “but

we should be able to get some off my assortment of shrunken

heads back home.”

Adam’s face lit up for but a second before he let out an

annoyed groan. He crossed his arms across the front seat. “You

wouldn’t give me dead human hair even if you had any.” He

rested his head on his arms and eyed the amulet. “I could get

hair from all the old people in town. One of them is bound to die

soon.”

“Well, you do have the day off tomorrow,” Theodore joked.

“Might as well do something productive.”3

They stopped speaking after that. Adam sleepily rested on

his arms and Theodore, quite close to nodding off as well, kept

Berry on track. They travelled through the upmarket side of town

and when they passed the church, Theodore was relieved to see

the crucifix atop its bell tower. Having been surrounded all day

with magic and symbols he’d never encountered before, he 3 In the original draft of Chapter 6, Mr Dunswick, the curator of the Valiard Mansion, only gave Theodore and Adam that same afternoon off in order to fix the floorboards they had broken through. I figured it would take a little longer to fix than a mere afternoon on such short notice and Mr Dunswick wouldn’t want anyone he doesn’t trust up in the attic until its secret compartment was sealed off again. So now Theodore and Adam have the next day off as well.

14

found comfort in seeing a familiar symbol, albeit equally

superstitious in its own way.

With nothing but green fields ahead and a dirt road below,

Theodore knew it wouldn’t be long until they reached Rosewood

Ridge.

The grounds of the Ridge itself were not vast, but they were

situated amongst rural farmland. Theodore had heard before

that it was a regular pastime of the young men in local society to

venture beyond the fields and into the hills on horseback.

Something about that notion was undeniably romantic, and

Theodore longed to sit atop a flowery hill with his dear old

Florence, breathing in the fresh morning air and painting

whatever was in front of him.

If only he could have found the time for such idleness and

leisure.

It was from an evening stroll in those surrounding fields

that Mr and Mrs Rosewood were returning, arm in arm, as

Theodore’s cart stopped at the end of the main path to the

house. Ruth was nowhere to be seen, but Mr Rosewood instantly

bellowed her name as he walked past the house and towards the

cart.

“Ruth! Your brother has come home!” he called.

15

Mrs Rosewood looked more pleased than Theodore had

ever seen her. He knew her to have exhibited self-restraint at all

times, moving with stiff limbs and a neutral expression.

However, the sight of her son brought a kind smile to her face.

Theodore pulled up the brakes and climbed off the cart

with Adam. The boy stood somewhat aimlessly at the side of one

of the wheels, his black satchel over his shoulder. He pocketed

the witch’s amulet and looked at Theodore with a certain droopy

contentment.

Theodore was left to lead the way to the front door where

Mr and Mrs Rosewood stood.

Walking up the three steps and onto the wrap-around

porch, Theodore heard the wood creak lightly beneath his feet.

It instantly took him back in time, years before, when the

Ridge was still under construction.

He clearly remembered the exhausting task of laying the

porch’s planks in the winter cold, as it was one of the last things

to be completed on the house and one of the few truly laborious

tasks his father forced him to do.

It was rare that William allowed young Theodore to do

large, general jobs, as even he couldn’t deny his son’s artistic

precision. More often than not, Theodore worked on assembling

16

details inside the Rosewoods’ home, particularly decorative

pieces such as the mantelpieces and bannisters, and he also

helped with the placement of lights and archways. In addition,

his remarkably steady hand at painting meant he was regularly

equipped with a large brush, shoved into an empty room and

told, “You don’t eat until you’re done!”

But those were happy times. His father left him alone for

hours on end and he was able to escape into his own thoughts.

On some days, Mr Rosewood would visit the developing house

and bring Ruth, who would dart towards Theodore and convince

him to play in the fields with her.

The beatings Theodore received as a result—well, they

were worth it.

Now the house had been long completed and appeared

very much like an old friend. Three years were spent building it,

and Theodore was sure that much of its blueprints were still in a

drawer back at the workshop.

It was good to actually see Rosewood Ridge lived in. It

suited the place exceedingly well.

Theodore looked towards Mr and Mrs Rosewood and

touched his cap in greeting.

17

Mr Rosewood playfully punched his son on the shoulder.

“Well, Adam, it appears you have completed your first day of

work and lived to tell the tale.”

Adam smiled weakly. “I am not completely useless, Father.”

“No, of course you are not, my boy. How I only ever have

cause to be proud of you!”

Mrs Rosewood squeezed her son’s hands. A silent

happiness resonated from both parents and, unexpectedly, from

Adam as well.

A warm feeling came over Theodore as he observed it, and

then he felt an intense sadness.

So this is what an approving father is like, he thought.

Whatever comfort or sadness Theodore had found in the

moment was washed away by Ruth streaming out of the front

door, her arms swinging wildly and her face glowing bright red.

“Where have you been? It is well past eight o’clock! You should

have had him home hours ago.”

Theodore instinctively looked behind him to check who

Ruth was scolding, since he considered himself quite

undeserving of such a cold, or rather, scorching welcome. A

familiar exasperation set in as he saw her glaring straight at him,

and he realised he had, for the millionth time in his short

18

lifespan, managed to land himself in trouble with this

temperamental girl.

This prompted Mrs Rosewood to speak. Her tone

commanded attention and respect. “You will forgive my

daughter, Mr Wythert. She has been anxious to see her brother

all day.”

“Oh, it’s grand,” Theodore blurted. It was unnerving to

finally make eye contact with Ruth, who didn’t take her sharp

glare off of him for a second.

“We were simply held up,” Adam said, thankfully. He then

peered at Mr Rosewood. “Work cannot always go as scheduled,

can it, Father?”

Mr Rosewood puffed up. “Indeed it cannot!” He then

leaned in towards Ruth. “See, now, Ruth. You are untrained in

the ways of proper business. It is not like your tea parties and

charities, or other delicate engagements. Sometimes a man must

work late to complete his labours.”

It was plain to see Ruth was even more furious at this

remark, but she reined herself in and replied quietly through

gritted teeth, “Yes, Papa.”

19

That was almost the end of it, until Mr Rosewood leaned in

again and said, “Because if you should treat your husband like

that, I doubt he shall ever wish to return home.”

“Yes, thank you, Papa.”

After another short pause, Mr Rosewood chuckled. “Poor

Mr Byron! Eh, Adam?”

Mr Byron—that was an unfamiliar name. No doubt it was

some fancy gentleman. Theodore wondered briefly if—no, it

wasn’t likely. If Ruth had a beau, or some serious attachment,

then Adam or Mr Gangfield would have probably said something

about it.

A bell tinkled from inside.

“Oh, wouldn’t you know,” said Mr Rosewood. “Dinnertime.

Theodore, my boy, you simply must join us.”

Mrs Rosewood and Ruth shared a similar look of

mortification.

Theodore’s mind raced to find a response. He knew he was

in no shape to be received as anyone’s guest. He wore his full

suit, waistcoat and tie and all, which in his mind was sufficient

for the occasion, but because he had been running around and

panicking all day, he probably stank slightly worse than his horse

did. Not to mention he could accept no responsibility for what

20

his long hair looked like when he took his hat off, and he knew

his stubble had come in for the night. His face could never help

but grow a dark beard every chance it got, perhaps in a

misguided attempt to match his vicious eyebrows.

Would it have constituted bad manners to refuse such an

invitation? Was there a polite way of turning it down? He hardly

knew. Normally he would laugh and dismiss himself—and be

completely honest about his reasons for it, even if it involved his

personal appearance—but this was an invitation from Mr

Edward Rosewood, a man “of consequence” as Uncle John had

put it.

So Theodore began his refusal in the politest way he could.

“Ah, thank you, Mr Rosewood, you’re very kind, but—”

That was when Ruth stepped in. “But your mother and

sisters cannot spare you.” A softness in her voice had crept in at

the last syllable. Her face still displayed impatience, but she gave

Theodore a look of understanding, as if she knew of his mental

struggle. “Surely they are wondering where you are.”

All Theodore could manage was a nervous nod.

“Pity!” said Mr Rosewood. “Well, next time, then.” He

patted Theodore on the back. “Oh, you should bring your mother

and sisters here! Wouldn’t that be—”

21

Mid-sentence, Mrs Rosewood deftly used her right elbow

to jab the old man in his side and silence him.

Theodore acted like he didn’t notice it—not that Mrs

Rosewood’s conduct offended him. Since he could remember,

Mrs Rosewood had always been kind to him and his family, but

she was blatantly careful not to create any impression that they

would ever be socially connected. Theodore had always found

himself in complete agreement with Mrs Rosewood on this

matter, as he didn’t wish for such a connection, either.

The middle classes were all politeness, but at times they

spoke a curious language. There were benign phrases that had

been transformed into insults through mere overuse, and there

were certain ways to address people and introduce oneself, and

other times where you shouldn’t introduce yourself, but be

introduced by another. It was a dizzying charade Theodore had

never learned to play. As a result, socialising with middle class

folks led to uncomfortable silences and strange looks both ways.

It was best avoided.

The family expressed their gratitude, bid their good-byes

and went inside.

22

Theodore walked towards his cart, grateful that the

dreaded encounter was over. He did not have to outrightly lie to

anyone and Mr Rosewood appeared happy. All went well.

He got to see Ruth again, too, and even though she was

upset with him, she was at least speaking to him. He missed that.

Theodore was some ways down the path, lost in sweet

memories brought back by seeing the grounds of Rosewood

Ridge, when he heard quick, crunching footsteps behind him. He

turned around.

Ruth stopped in her tracks as soon as he looked at her. She

was much closer than he expected, standing only about five feet

away from him. She crossed her arms and pulled her mouth into

a disappointed arch.

Theodore looked past her, hoping to see someone else with

her, but the other Rosewoods had stayed inside and no servants

were around.

“Why were you late?” Ruth demanded with a raised

eyebrow.

Theodore smiled out of pure bewilderment. “You heard

Adam. We were held up.” He backed away slowly and tipped his

cap to dismiss himself.

23

But Ruth refused to let up. She followed him closely. “By

what?”

He sighed and looked past her again in the hopes of

spotting someone in the open doorway. “By work… things.”

“You’re lying. You never look me in the eye when you’re

lying. Tell me the truth this instant or there shall be hell to pay,

Theodore Wythert!”

Thinking quickly, Theodore retaliated by defiantly locking

eyes with her in the most intense way he could manage. “Oh, no,

we’re found out. You see, the truth is, we went frolicking in the

alps and lost track of time. No? Okay, how about we dove into

the sea and spent the day with the mermaids?” He paused and

held out his arms, but she made no response. “We were

working, Miss Rosewood. I don’t know what else you want me to

say.” He turned his back to her and kept walking towards the

cart.

She swiftly followed. “An apology would be a fine start.”

“Alright, I’m sorry.”

“No, you must mean it.”

Theodore turned around, but kept walking backwards. “I’ll

mean it when you tell me what you’re really angry about.

Because whatever it is, it’s been bothering you since yesterday.”

24

“I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Fine, then. We’ll pretend nothing ever happened.” He

turned around and called back, “That’s the done thing with you

society types, isn’t it?”

Ruth caught up with him enough to walk at his side. “You

cannot keep Adam out of doors for however long you are used

to. You do not know his constitution. If he should develop a

cough or some similar complaint, what then? Who will pay for

the doctor? And if his entire summer is ruined by illness?”

He took bigger strides out of spite. “You know, I preferred

you when you weren’t speaking to me.”

“And I preferred you, sir, when you were in a different

country. But we cannot all have what we prefer, now can we?”

Theodore raised his hands. “Oh, woe is us.”

It was almost disarming to notice the way they argued with

ease. It was a recital well-rehearsed, unaffected by time: he

knew that indifference vexed her, and from her behaviour, she

must have recalled how her persistence could wear him down.

As Theodore stopped just a few feet away from the cart,

Berry beat one of her hooves on the ground and whinnied.

Ruth was momentarily startled. “Terrible creature! Ugly,

speckled thing.”

25

“Still afraid of horses, I see.”

“I do not like things that—”

“That can’t understand what you say. I know.”

Cocking her head to the side, Ruth remarked with apparent

disdain, “And I take it I must applaud your skill in remembering

this one insignificant thing about me?”

He then clapped his hands a few times. “I can applaud

myself, thank you very much.” This excited Berry and Theodore

grinned when he saw Ruth scowling at the horse.

“Oh, yes, of course!” she cried. “You consider yourself quite

the comedian. Don’t you know tired sarcasm is never

entertaining?”

“Ah, you need to be at the right end of it.” Theodore caught

himself enjoying the exchange, if only to see exactly how red

Ruth’s cheeks could become. However, after she uncomfortably

rubbed her arms, he dropped the act, sighed and said, “Ruth, I

didn’t come here for a row. Your brother is home in one piece.

Past that, I have nothing for you.” He approached her and circled

her with one of his arms. “Let’s get you back inside the house

and I’ll be out of your hair before you—”

She slapped his arm away. “Don’t herd me like I’m some

farm animal!”

26

“Well, herd yourself, then! Because I’m not leaving until I

see you to the door.”

She started walking back to the house at her usual frenetic

pace and Theodore followed.

His revived fascination with the woman dwindled as he was

reminded how insufferable her hasty temper was. He wondered

why he had allowed thoughts of her to steal a night of precious

sleep from him, since she clearly wasn’t ever worth the trouble.

They reached the door and she whipped around to look him

up and down. “You better not teach Adam any of your vulgar

manners.”

Theodore lowered his voice and tried to speak kindly. “Oh,

quit testing the waters, Ruth. Every time we’re about to say

good-bye, you just keep on going. If there’s something you want

to say to me, then say it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re on about.” She paused

and rested her hand on her hip. “Only, I remember you having

quite a mouth on you.”

“I have a mouth on me? What about you? You never know

when to stop gabbing.”

Ruth thoughtfully swept her fringe aside. “Hmm,

interesting. It appears you have not gotten over things yet.”

27

“I’m not over things?”

She held her chin high and looked around aimlessly to

signal she had better things to do. “But I am in no mood to

unearth the past, sir. Not tonight.”

“Good,” Theodore replied plainly. “Neither am I.”

“Though I will say this: if Adam comes home one day yelling

obscenities and tossing things about, I’ll know from whom he

learned it.”

Theodore grew more exasperated with every passing

second. “What else was I supposed to do, Ruth?”

“You could have behaved like a gentleman—whatever the

term is worth these days.”

“When you betrayed my trust? Went behind my back and

involved yourself in my business when you had no right?”

“My motives were purely altruistic. The sooner you accept

that, the sooner you’ll be able to move on.” She waved her hand

as if to wipe the past away. “All I am asking is that you restrain

yourself around my little brother.”

Theodore removed his cap and innocently held it to his

chest. “Oh, there goes my dream. I was quite hoping to act like a

complete arse in front of him, actually.”

“This tired sarcasm again. How do you live with yourself?”

28

“Much the same as you, I’d imagine.” He put his cap back

on. “One self-righteous day at a time.”

Ruth took a brief but deep breath, took a single step

backwards and into the house, and took hold of the door. “Good

evening, Mr Wythert.”

“Good—“

She slammed the door shut.

“—Evening.”

The sun had just crept behind the buildings when Theodore

dragged his feet into the workshop. He had already put Berry

away and now only needed to lock the place up before going into

the house for the night.

It was hours past the Wytherts’ regular dinnertime, yet the

faint smell of lamb stew still hung in the air. Mrs Wythert used

the workshop’s kitchen in the summer. It was more modest in its

usability with a small stove and nearly nowhere to keep the pots

and pans, but cooking in the main kitchen heated up the house

something dreadful, which at least served a purpose colder

evenings.

29

All was quiet inside except for the clink of Theodore’s keys.

After locking the front door, he headed up the staircase. The

office door was closed.

He turned the doorknob.

Good. It was still locked.

The mess he’d left in there still needed a hearty scrub—or a

clever cover-up. Such things were best left to a new day and a

clear mind.

Having made sure that no candles were burning in the

workshop and that most things were in their place, Theodore

walked out the back door and locked it behind him.

Little Lynnie was the first to greet him. She sprinted across

the yard and tackled her brother, wrapping her arms around

him. “Theodore! I thought I heard you!” She clutched her

brother’s hand excitedly. “Did you get a lot of work done? How

was the Valiard Mansion? Was it big?”

There was no way Theodore could keep up with his little

sister’s pace or her questions, but he did his best, nonetheless.

“It was pretty big,” he sighed quietly, a smile wearily forming on

his face.

She tugged at his arm and led him inside the house. “I

heard it has a beautiful ball room. Did you see any instruments?

30

You must have seen plenty of paintings, too, I wonder!” She

asked more questions, but they became blurred in Theodore’s

mind.

The Wythert home was a compact, two-story building. On

the ground floor was the large sitting room, which contained the

staircase and both the front and back doors, a dining room and a

kitchen. Upstairs, Mrs Wythert and Theodore each had their own

rooms, while the girls shared a third room.

When Little Lynnie and Theodore reached the sitting room,

Theodore gently put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll answer all

your questions later. I’m famished and quite tired right now.”

“Okay! I’ll help Mam get your food ready, then.” She then

rushed into the kitchen.

Theodore could hear Emily humming a tune from upstairs.

Mrs Wythert walked out of the kitchen as Little Lynnie went

past. Her dishevelled appearance spoke volumes of the task of

raising a busy thirteen-year-old girl. “Oh, finally!” she called. “We

thought we’d lost you to the Valiard Mansion forever!”

“Yes, I know I’m late,” Theodore replied as he took his cap

off.

“Isn’t that the understatement of the century!” said Mrs

Wythert as she approached her son. “To tell the truth, I’m just

31

grateful you have something new to get you out of the workshop

for a change.” She went around and started to remove

Theodore’s coat from his shoulders.

“You don’t need to do that—”

“Nonsense!” She took his coat and hung it on the coat rack

by the door. “You’ve had a long day.” She furiously wiped the

dust from his back. “You can eat in your room if you like.”

Theodore turned around and faced his mother. It had been

a long time since he was that grateful to see her. He gave her a

long, tight hug.

His dear, dear old Mam. He had never dared to ask her

about it—he would never shame her as such—but it wrenched

his gut to simply imagine the possibility that William might have

struck her at some point.

Ruth could never have known the pain Theodore endured

when he had to leave his mother behind with that monster. The

uncertainty he faced, the sleepless nights—Ruth never

understood anything.

“I know you’re troubled, Theo,” said Mrs Wythert as she

hugged him back. “This whole business with Emily has me

frazzled, too.”

32

Theodore released his mother, unfairly disappointed that

she was unable to read his mind despite her seemingly infallible

motherly instinct.

Still, she had hit at least some nail on the head. Emily’s so-

called engagement to Salty was a cause for concern.

“So she told you,” Theodore sighed.

“Told me? She almost started telling the neighbours! Don’t

ask me how, but I managed to convince her it’s bad luck to share

that sort of news on a Tuesday.”

“Any way to extend that deadline?” He scratched his ear

and looked around. “Where is she now?”

“In her room. Trying on my wedding dress, of all things.”

Theodore whipped his head to face his mother and let his

arms loudly drop to his sides. He then held his forehead and

started pacing around the room.

Mrs Wythert rested her fists on her hips. “What on Earth

were you thinking giving your consent to Salty? Without even

speaking to me about it.”

“I didn’t give my consent! The bugger went off on his own

and—” Theodore sat down on one of the couches. “You’re not

going along with this, are you?”

33

“Well, I…” Mrs Wythert stammered and fiddled with her

apron strings. “I wanted to speak to you first and… Oh! I didn’t

have the heart to tell her no. I just couldn’t do it! You should

have seen her eyes sparkle. She’s so happy in love!”

“She’s so happy out of love, I’m surprised you can tell the

difference.” He wiped his hair from his eyes. “It’s all right. I’ll fix

this, too.”

“Too? Oh, no. What else have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, Mam. Just a little mishap with some floorboards at

work.”

She stood over him, that familiar disciplinarian expression

on her face. “Is it serious?”

“Not half as serious as my sister marrying a Cockney

mongrel bastard.”

“Theo! Don’t be so ignorant.” She wiped away a loose

thread from her son’s shoulder. “Salty is not a Cockney.”

Theodore shrugged and got up. “Is it still legal to have

gentleman’s duels?”

34

Mrs Wythert slapped Theodore’s arm, but only because she

couldn’t reach his head. “You’re not killing anyone. Not in my

house!”

“I don’t want to kill him. I just want to legally inflict pain on

him.” He rubbed his arm and silently laughed at his own remark.

Mrs Wythert appeared tense, as if she were searching her

memory to no avail. “I’m flabbergasted, Theo, absolutely

flabbergasted. Salty, of all people! Did you know she loved him?”

Theodore shook his head. “No. How about you, Little

Lynnie?”

Lynnie walked into the sitting room and plunged down into

the armchair, her booted feet hovering over the ground. “Well, I

know she fancied him when she first met him. But I thought that

was over with a long time ago.”

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Mrs Wythert sighed. “At least

someone had an inkling. It’s far better than her accepting Salty

simply because he asked.”

“I like Salty…” Little Lynnie mumbled sadly.

Theodore knelt down by his sister. “Oh, Lynnie. We all like

Salty, but trust me. We don’t want him as a brother-in-law.”

35

Mrs Wythert pulled a disgusted face. “Emily can’t live with

Salty in a public house. Salty will naturally have to move in with

us.”

“And Lynnie, they’ll probably take your room from you.”

Then a thought dawned on Theodore that was so terrifying, he

couldn’t help but blurt it out. “Oh, no. The walls here—they’re so

thin!” He jumped up. “No! No, no, no! There is no way Emily is

marrying that slobbering, useless husk of a man-child. Not if

they’re goin’ to live here!”

“What is wrong with you?” Emily’s voice cried out.

Everyone spun around to see Emily standing halfway down

the staircase. The loose-fitting wedding dress she wore barely

clung on to her shoulders, even though she had it on over her

regular clothes.

Her eyes were wide, her face bright red. “How could you

give Salty your blessing if you don’t want him to marry me? In

what bizarre world would that make any sense?”

Thoroughly ashamed that he had been caught out being

nasty, Theodore was at a loss for intelligent speech. “I never

gave him any blessing,” he managed to confess.

Emily’s eyes began to glisten. “But Salty said—”

36

“Salty lied, Emily.” Theodore took a brief breath. “I’m sorry

to tell you, but he lied. And I’m even more sorry to tell you that

you’re not marrying him. I won’t allow it.”

“No, Theodore…” Tears neatly fell from each of Emily’s

eyes, but her expression was unchanged. “You’re not taking this

away from me. Mam, tell him!”

Mrs Wythert appeared genuinely surprised that she was

being addressed. She looked down innocently before hopelessly

letting her shoulders drop. “My darling girl… I’m so sorry. But

you must admit. Salty—” She stifled a smile. “It’s a bit silly, isn’t

it?”

Emily shook her head, her face straining and the tears

falling more rapidly. “I don’t understand you,” she barely

whispered. “I don’t understand either of you!” She then burst

out into tears and noisily stomped upstairs.

Her bedroom door slammed shut and her violent bawling

was painfully audible downstairs.

Theodore let out a groan. “I’ll go talk to her.”

His mother held him back. “Leave her. She needs to cry it

out.”

37

The three of them stood in silence, listening to Emily. She

sounded so absolutely devastated, it brought a lump to

Theodore’s throat.

He looked at his baby sister. “Never fall in love, Lynnie. I

don’t want to lose you, too.”

Mrs Wythert tutted. “Give it time. She’ll come ‘round.”

Lynnie smiled and got up. “Don’t worry. Emily always talks

to me. I could at least help her out of that dress.” She made her

way upstairs.

“Come on, Theo,” said Mrs Wythert. “Let’s get you fed,

hm?”

Theodore harboured too much nervous energy to sit down.

He stood with his back against the kitchen sink, holding a bowl of

cold stew in his hand. He stuffed his mouth until his cheeks filled

up and chewed gratefully. Every bite was a blessing. The last

thing he’d eaten was half an apple before he went to the Valiard

Mansion that morning.

“In a hurry?” his mother jokingly asked as she saw the huge

spoonfuls he was wolfing down.

He just shook his head and kept chewing.

Mrs Wythert made herself some tea and slid her cup onto

the counter next to Theodore. She bit one of her fingers, lost in

38

thought. It was a while before she spoke again. “Is there

absolutely no way Emily and Salty could… work things out?”

Theodore froze, his full mouth hanging open. “You’re not

serious,” he garbled.

She sniffed a few times. “Don’t judge me, Theo. I am a

mother—and I can’t stand seeing my children suffer.” She took

out her handkerchief and daintily dabbed her nose. “If only Salty

were an upstanding sort.”

After swallowing his last mouthful, Theodore replied,

“That’s not fair. Salty’s upstanding in his own way. But he’s

nothing without his job here. He even sleeps in my shed on

nights he can’t afford anything else. The fact is, I already support

him completely. If he were to start a family with my sister, I’d

have to support them all, too. I just… I can’t manage that.”

“So, it’s about the money.”

“Of course it’s about the money.” He noisily dropped his

bowl into the sink in hopeless vexation and stared out of the

window. “It’s always about the money.”

Mrs Wythert remained silent.

Theodore’s mind drifted back to Rosewood Ridge—and to

the Valiard Mansion.

39

Do the inhabitants of such lavish houses realise how very

blessed they are? Could they know that sturdy buildings with

bolted doors provide more freedom than the prison of a tiny

living? Or do they actively search for reasons to trudge through

life? How hard must they look before they discover their own

brand of misery?

When William died, he had left his wife and children with

an insolvent business and the hungry creditors that followed in

its wake. Theodore used all his own savings and the previous two

years’ earnings to pay his father’s debts, but it merely got the

family back to a balance of zero. Luck and mercy alone allowed

Theodore to put food on the table. He wasn’t entirely sure how

he managed it most days.

Theodore wished he could promise he would not make the

same mistakes as William did—he wished he could swear to

never leave his family—and yet the monster of his father’s

condition stalked his human delusions of immortality.

Disease of the heart, it was called.

A condition known in some instances to be hereditary, but

with no way to tell for sure until the symptoms appeared.

The sink tap monotonously dripped water into the bowl

under it. Theodore reached out and turned the knob tightly

40

closed, and the pipes rumbled deeply with a sound that

resonated through the entire house.

Mrs Wythert took a sip of her tea. “We should really fix that

tap. Do you suppose we could have Salty do it, or would that be

too awkward now?”

“How did William die?” Theodore uttered without warning.

He hardly realised the words escaped his mouth.

“Oh.” Mrs Wythert was probably more surprised than

Theodore was. She set her cup down and it trembled in the

saucer. “You know it was his heart.”

Theodore’s voice lowered and he spoke just above a

whisper. “There must have been symptoms. Some kind of sign.”

“Well, yes, but…” Mrs Wythert paused and held her own

chest. Her voice elevated into a panic. “You don’t think you’re

sick, do you?”

Theodore calmly shook his head. “No.”

“Don’t you keep secrets from me. What’s going on? You’ve

never asked about your father before. Not in the two years

since—”

“I’m fine, Mam!”

41

“Billy Theodore Wythert! You tell me immediately if you

think you’ve got what he had!” Her voice trembled and her eyes

welled up.

Theodore turned and held his mother by her shoulders. He

bent down and spoke softly to her. “I promise I’m fine.”

“Then why are you asking me these questions? With that

look on your face?”

“Because…” He paused to find some truth in his

concealment. “Mr Rosewood was curious about it, and…” He

stood upright to feign confidence in his lie. “I’m ashamed to say

it, but I couldn’t fill him in on the details. I just don’t know how it

happened.” He looked out the window and whispered again. “I

wasn’t even at the funeral.”

Mrs Wythert was clutching her son’s arm. She pulled out

the chair by the small kitchen table and sat down. “Goodness,

Theo. Don’t scare me like that. My whole body is weak from the

shock.”

He sat across from her. “I need to know how it happened. I

can’t go on not knowing. Not anymore.”

At first, Mrs Wythert hesitated. “Well…”

“I need to know. Please.”

42

“First… first there were the heart palpitations,” Mrs

Wythert sighed, taking out her handkerchief again, “and so many

people have that. But the breathlessness—”

“Breathlessness?” Theodore jolted upright.

“There were times your father couldn’t even make it to the

other side of the room without sitting down to catch up with

himself.”

Theodore could swear he felt the ground beneath his feet

had disappeared. He shuffled his shoes to make sure the floor

was still there.

The incident in Uncle John’s greenhouse the day before—

Theodore couldn’t even handle carrying two chairs across a small

yard.4

Mrs Wythert sniffled and continued, “That wasn’t the worst

of it, though. It started with dizzy spells, but then they became

fainting spells… it was quite frightening.”

At last, some relief—a symptom Theodore hadn’t

experienced. “How old was he when the symptoms first

started?”

“Forty-four, dear.” 4 In a newer draft of Chapter 2, a scene has been added where Theodore becomes inexplicably breathless after helping his Uncle John carry some chairs. I was originally going to have something like that happen in the second book, but after some deliberation, I decided it would be best to introduce it sooner.

43

“And how old was he when he…” Theodore couldn’t finish

the sentence for fear of the answer.

“When he died? He was forty-five.”

“One year?” Theodore choked. He vigorously wiped his

forehead to keep himself from losing his composure.

His mother wasn’t paying attention to him anyway. She

stared into her tea cup, miles away. “An employee heard him

collapse in his office. When I got to him, it was too late…” She

dabbed her eyes and then her nose again. “Your father was fine,

completely fine. He was still walking and talking, perfectly

himself. And then he was gone.”

More for his own sake, Theodore reached across the table

and took his mother’s hand. He desperately needed to hold onto

something loving and kind.

Mrs Wythert slowly recovered as she gently patted her

son’s hand. “Thank God for you, Theo. You remind me so much

of our dear William.”

This remark caused Theodore to pull his hand away in

indignation. He scratched his other arm as an excuse for letting

go of his mother.

44

She wouldn’t have said something like that if she knew the

pain it caused him, but that fact didn’t help much in the

moment. She still said it, and it was said with searing sincerity.

Theodore carefully ran his fingernail into a dent on the

table. “But the fits of unconsciousness—they were noticeable?

William knew they were happening?”

“Oh, yes, he’d flutter in and out any time he would get

excited.” Mrs Wythert’s eyes were hazily caught in her

memories. “He learned to become so calm by the end. You

wouldn’t have known him, Theo. He hardly ever lost his temper

anymore.”

“Well, that’s something good, then,” Theodore mumbled.

Finally, something good.

45

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