Page 9 of House of Furies
My quarters? I hadn’t imagined I would get a room to myself. That hadn’t been the case for so many years, I wondered if it would be lonely to fall asleep to just the sound of my own breathing.
“I’ll send someone to wake you in a few hours,” the crone added, waving me away.
“Thank you,” I said reflexively, but in truth I probably did owe her a great deal.
“Don’t thank me yet, child; the day is young.”
I refused to indulge in such cynicism. The house was a bit shabby, certainly, and those monstrous topiaries did not make me feel welcome as I passed beneath them, but for now I had a place to rest my head and earn money. That was more than most runaways could hope to have. I shuddered as I stepped gingerly over the threshold, the massive doors opening just at the middle, enough for me to slip inside. There were darker alternatives to scullery work... I might have easily ended up in a women’s prison or working in a brothel, which was precisely what my father had foreseen for me just before my mother ripped me from the house.
Prospects were low, very low, for a lone Irish girl with no connections, no money, and no means to fabricate those things.
The foyer of Coldthistle House was blazingly hot. A sitting room through an open arch to the left glowed with rosy color, a fire crackling away and heating this ground floor. There was no trace of Lee or his uncle—they must have been settled already. Yet I saw nobody about, and the place was unnaturally silent.
It’s just after dawn, you idiot girl, of course it’s still.
I crossed a tattered carpet to the staircase on the right of the foyer. It was grand but austere, and the walls around it were clustered with paintings of birds. Ornithological studies and sketches, though the painter did not have much of an eye forartistry. Those odd, stringy creatures glowered down at me from every angle. It was almost enough to make me miss the oddest feature of the room—a large green door directly opposite the main entrance of the house. There was no way it was original to the mansion; no wealthy family would have wanted such an awkwardly placed door. Perhaps it was an addition; added storage or a pantry of some kind.
My exhaustion lifted for a moment, almost as if new life had gusted into me. And the green door called to me.
Itsang.
Not a song anyone else could hear, I’ll wager, but it was as if thin tendrils leaked out from under it, speeding toward me, entering through my ears and coaxing me through whispered melody. Even the words to this song were completely unknowable, some odd, guttural language that sounded like nonsense, nonsense that resolved into guidance. It filled my head with thunder, like a headache but thicker, crowding out any of my own thoughts that might seep in and bring reason.
And like a fool, I listened, drifting toward the glossy green paint of the door, reaching out for the ornate, golden knob...
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
A high, tiny voice came from behind me. I froze, turning to find a girl of perhaps eleven years staring at me from an open doorway. The kitchens were visible behind her. She wore a simple, white frock that was starkly clean, almost glowing. Her hair was parted at the middle, severely braided into two plaitsthat dangled over her shoulders. Half of her face was covered in a purplish port-wine stain, a hideous mark on an otherwise lovely child.
A dog wagged his tail next to her. It was a little brown dog composed mostly of ears and wrinkles. He made a softboofsound at me, either a warning or a greeting, I couldn’t tell.
“Nobody goes through the green door unless they’re invited,” she added. Her matter-of-fact manner had cut through the song in my head and I felt, thankfully, like myself again. But also, again, tired. “I’m Poppy. This is Bartholomew. Who are you? You’re not a guest.”
“How do you know?” I bit back impertinently.
“I just do,” she said. “Did Granny find you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “She brought me from Malton. I’m to work here now. My name is Louisa.”
“Hello, Louisa,” she said, kneeling and taking the pup’s paw, waving it at me in greeting. “Bartholomew says hello, too. He likes you. He doesn’t just like anybody.”
“That’s very generous of him.”And very premature. “Do you work here, too?”
Poppy nodded, her pigtails bouncing off her shoulders. “I help Granny with whatever she needs. Some days it’s cooking, and sometimes I sweep or clean the chimneys or bring food ’round to the guests. My favorite days are when I get to help Chijioke.”
“And he works here also?”
“In the barn, he tends to all the animals and the grounds. You look so tired, you should sleep. Granny will want you to work as soon as you’re able. And we don’t call her Granny in front of the guests; it’s Mrs. Haylam instead.”
She had a point. My eyes were drooping and I’m sure I looked dreadful. “Mrs. Haylam it is then. Could you show me the way?”
Poppy sprang forward, obviously pleased to do so, and came to take my hand, tugging me away from the door and toward the stairs. The dog followed at her heels, wagging his slender tail and looking up at me with huge black eyes. He was an attractive creature, if perhaps of indistinguishable breeding.A bit like me, then.
The girl’s hand was cold and soft, and she tugged harder when I gave a single glance back toward the door. “Not unless you’re invited,” she reminded me. “And youdon’twant to be invited. I hate going to see Mr. Morningside. He’s just a cross old man with too many birds.”
I chuckled and followed her obediently up to the landing. “Then I will hope to be spared an introduction.”
We stopped on the second floor and turned right, but I felt a cold prickle on the back of my neck. Having lived under the vigilant gaze of the teachers at Pitney, I knew the feeling well—someone was watching us. I dropped my chin and slid my eyes to the side, trying to find the source without letting them know I was keen to their presence. A shadow flitted across the cornerof my vision, tall, too tall. Inhumanly tall.
