《The DreamWalker: Book 1 of the Seven Seals of the Labyrinth》 The Wish The master of the house was dead. The ¡®how,¡¯ was not of great import. Young Rose Cible trudged the cobbled path through the back garden balancing a cherry pie, made with cherries pilfered from the bushes that bordered the late Master Dross¡¯s house and their own, trying not to trip as she bore the conciliatory gift for the surviving servants and cook. ¡°Take this straight to Mrs. Kettleburn. She¡¯ll know what to do with it,¡± Rose¡¯s mother had said, whilst doing the myriad unnamed things that mothers do to keep houses standing. Rose remembered her mother¡¯s anxiousness over something, because she¡¯d been shooed out the door with dishrags biting at her ankles forthwith. Dross manor wasn¡¯t much bigger than the large houses in the wealthy neighborhoods across town, but in its time, it had been quite stately. Three stories high¡ªwell, if one counted dark attics as a story¡ªthe old Victorian home stood, paint peeling, against a dreary sky. Its pointed black turrets might have been striking against thunderclouds or frenzied pipe organs, but as weathered as the vine-covered exterior was, it seemed suitable that on a day like this, all that could be managed was a few gray clouds, and a heavy dusk that seemed late in coming. Rose picked her way through the prickly lilac bushes, overcrown with creeping roses this season. The thorns pulled at her hair and threatened to send her and the pie tumbling to the ground. In an act of great irony, Rose hated roses. Their scent, their clawing prickliness, their brevity, and the way they always seemed to reach for her as she passed. She circled around the sprawling porch, which as usual, was guarded by still more roses; white, red, and even some green ones whose names she couldn¡¯t recall. At last she reached the side of the house, its large bay windows twinkling dustily as she knocked on the back kitchen door. Rap! Rap-rap! A bustling murmuring, the sounds of pots and pans clanging, and familiar footsteps clomped across the hardwood kitchen before the door slammed open. Ruddy-cheeked and hair pinned tightly into submission, the cook of Dross manor, Mrs. Kettleburn, was a cheery sight even when she was flustered¡ªwhich was most times. ¡°Rose, dearie! What¡¯s this? What¡ªGeorge! Come and light the lanterns! The garden¡¯s fading already!¡± Mrs. Kettleburn shrieked over one shoulder. ¡°Come in, Rose! Come in! Don¡¯t just dawdle on the step!¡± Rose hardly had time to comply before George grumbled into the walkway, fumbling with his threadbare cuffs, and grumbling under his breath. ¡°Don¡¯t know why I should still be doing this. It¡¯s not as if the old man will put up a fuss,¡± the old butler tutted as he hobbled past Rose, narrowly missing her and her heavy dish. Mrs. Kettleburn scooped the oversized pie from her hands before she could fall back completely, and the kitchen door slammed closed on George who left a scent of mothballs and lighter fluid behind him. ¡°Don¡¯t mind George, Rosie,¡± Mrs. Kettleburn said soothingly, already bustling about to find the pie a home on the counter where it would be seen by the staff. ¡°He¡¯s in a mood. It¡¯ll do him good to spend some time among the roses. Old Georgie has been on the phone with cemeteries and graveyards and even the mausoleums all across the state! Nowhere between Shreveport and Houma will have the Master. I never! It¡¯s just petty, is what it is!¡± Rose tucked herself in a corner between the ancient stove and a rack of copper pans as maid Louise came hurtling in. ¡°Another call¡¯s in, Mz. Kettle,¡± she said, dark curls mussed. ¡°It¡¯s another ¡®no.¡¯ That¡¯s the last one in the state that¡¯s not slated for removal.¡± Mrs. Kettleburn said a word that made Rose blush, but she didn¡¯t look surprised. ¡°I thought that might be the case. We¡¯ll have to go north, unless you think he¡¯ll let us set him in the old Mayan grounds.¡± Louise laughed, though Rose couldn¡¯t see what was funny. ¡°He¡¯d be back up and after us after one night if we put him there.¡± Mrs. Kettleburn sunk a fist into one generous hip and sighed, at about the time that Louise noticed that Rose was in the kitchen. ¡°Oh, hallo, Rosie!¡± Louise¡¯ smile was forced, the kind that adults wear when they think that children don¡¯t understand what¡¯s happening, which, to be fair, Rose didn¡¯t. ¡°Dear me, that is a gorgeous pie. Your mamma send it to us?¡± ¡°She did, Miss Louise. Um¡ªhow are you doing?¡± Rose ventured from her corner to stand more properly in front of the maid. Louise¡¯ tension melted a little at her question, but she clearly wasn¡¯t ready to divulge much more than she already had. ¡°I¡¯m doing just fine, Miss Rosie, just fine,¡± she said, her smile a little more real. ¡°And goodness knows we could all use the sugar. Funerals are just tricky sometimes, that¡¯s all. We want to give the old master a proper send off, see.¡± Rose nodded. ¡°The cemeteries are giving you trouble?¡± she asked politely. Mrs. Kettleburn coughed, and she and Louise shared a quick look. ¡°Well, everything is going alright, sort of,¡± Louise said carefully, checking with Kettleburn as she did. ¡°We¡¯re just having complications with the funeral planning. Everything¡¯s set except for finding him a plot of land.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t bury him here?¡± Rose asked, confused. She¡¯s seen graveyards and cemeteries before, but had never put any thought about how people actually got into them. It seemed to her that really anyplace was as good as any other as long as it was out of the way, and the manor had plenty of land¡­ It would be a better use of land than the roses, she thought piquishly. ¡°Well, there are laws and things like that over where we can put graves, sweet thing. Although at this point, I¡¯m halfway tempted to just do the deed myself and leave it unmarked! It would serve him right!¡± ¡°Mrs. Kettleburn, you don¡¯t mean that,¡± Louise said firmly. ¡°Yes, but I¡¯m starting to!¡± The cook produced a ladle from her apron, and waved it about as she was wont to do when matters in the old house were pushing her ¡®to jitters.¡¯ ¡°Here I¡¯d thought there was at least one place in the state that didn¡¯t know the master¡¯s name, and here I thought wrong! That naughty boy¡¯s gone and put all of us in this mess. ¡®Won¡¯t let him be buried in consecrated ground,¡¯ my hat! I¡ªoh, sorry, Rosie dear.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Rose shook her head, eager to distract them before they got the idea that her being there was a nuisance and asked her to leave. ¡°It sounds nonsensical to me. And stressful. Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Kettleburn? Miss Louise?¡± The two servants chuckled, sharing another of those ''looks.'' ¡°Where¡¯d you go and learn a word like that? You¡¯re hardly past ten, Miss Rosie,¡± Louise laughed. Rose tried not to scowl. ¡°Fourteen, Miss Louise. But even if I was ten, l¡¯d be old enough to help you sweep the side rooms.¡± ¡°You must really want to see what¡¯s going on up here, if you¡¯re offering to go through those dusty old corners, Miss Rose,¡± the cook leaned on the counter, eyeing Rose like she could see right through her. ¡°So, you want to sweep them yourself?¡± Rose asked innocently. Louise rolled her eyes. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s fourteen alright. Got some ginger in her tea, too.¡± The doorbell saved them all from what any of them would have said next. ¡°Oh, that¡¯ll be the local minister,¡± Mrs. Kettleburn straightened her hair, and gave her already-ruddy cheeks a good pinch. ¡°I¡¯ll talk to him, Louise, thank you. I might be able to at least convince him to let us have a backyard plot. A familiar face, and such¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, Mrs. Kettleburn,¡± Louise backed out of the cook¡¯s path, giving her chest a pointed sort of smirk. ¡°Familiar faces indeed.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you mean!¡± Kettleburn tutted, already making for the swinging kitchen door. ¡°Rosie, dear, if you want to stay, you¡¯re welcome to go and pay your last respects to the old master. He¡¯s in the drawing room. Once I¡¯m done chatting with Reverend Collins, it¡¯ll be a done deal for us all, and we¡¯ll have Master Dross in the ground before day¡¯s out tomorrow.¡± Kettleburn was gone in a flurry of skirts and hairpins before either of them could utter another word. Louise pulled the apron from her head where Kettleburn had tossed it. ¡°Hope this works,¡± she sighed. ¡°If it doesn¡¯t we really will have to go upstate to some big city where they don¡¯t believe in any of this anymore. Go on, Rose. I know you didn¡¯t know the master well, but, if you have anything to say, here¡¯s your chance. Wait around a bit and ole Kettle will fix you up a slice of pie when she¡¯s done, too¡ªalthough¡ª¡± and then there was that pointed smirk again, ¡°¡ªshe might take her time, the old fox.¡± Rose waited a few more seconds to leave through the swinging door after Mrs. Kettleburn, until the sounds of her boisterous laughter and Reverend Collins¡¯ answering snivels could be heard down the hall. The inner foyer boasted an empty sweeping staircase with dark green carpet, which led to a labyrinth of rooms filled with antique furniture, lace curtains, and the faint scent of old books. Dimly lit electric candles that replaced their original wax versions lit the walls and hallways every few feet. Rose picked her way down the hall, nodding to the other two maids, who avoided her, gossiping under their stacks of laundry, until she reached the drawing room door. It was the only door in the house that wasn¡¯t in need of a good repaint or polishing, because Master Dross had never let it fall into disrepair. It was also the only room which Rose had never been allowed into. She felt a thrill of other-ness as she pushed it open, and walked in, alone. If she had been expecting the old master to be dead in some elaborate coffin in the middle of the room, she would have been drastically disappointed. The room was still lived-in as it likely had always been when Master Dross was alive, and there wasn¡¯t a coffin, or eerie piles of funeral flowers anywhere. Instead, the same plush green carpet and faded cherry wood as decorated the stairs covered the floors, giving the room a warm, homey feeling. A faded, plush settee had been arranged around a marble fireplace, in the room¡¯s center, but other than that, every single wall was lined with shelves for books, dusty knick-knacks, and portraits¡ªnot printed canvas, or photos, or even old film shots, but actual painted portraits that could have been at home in a castle, if that castle had dwellers that looked like faeries, and giant lizards. One wall had a shelf somehow less crowded than the others, with nothing but glass water-globes full of scenes from different landscapes and terrains. One contained an underwater palace. Another, a desert plain whose dunes looked as though they would fall any moment if the glass were knocked. Still another contained a maze, tiny and detailed, with levels and turns that spanned all the way around the globe so that she couldn¡¯t see into its center. ¡°Beautiful¡­¡± Rose whispered, reaching out to touch a sphere that contained a perfect copy of a Babylonian garden, but thought better of it, snatching her fingers back before they could make contact. These were not her things, and they had been so obviously treasured. She paced the room, reading a title or two from the books on Master Dross¡¯ shelves. How to Prevent Explosions, Dueling for the Drastically Dunderheaded, Jared¡¯s List of Things that are Inedible, How Not to Die at Dinner, and on one particularly worn tome that looked handwritten: Dreams of Her. Another shelf contained a row of mirrors, all too scratched to be properly reflective anymore. In a glass case in the corner, a pristine bow and quiver of at least twenty types of arrows was on display. Tucked between books there were fish scales, and placards with award in languages she couldn¡¯t read, a stack of wires with teeth marks in the steel, and a jar of dried pumpkin seeds displayed like a trophy. Odd¡­ ¡°So many things. So many memories,¡± Rose found herself saying out loud as she reached the sooty fireplace. On the mantle itself, sat an old crystal ring, side by side with a pearl box, a clamshell so monstrous it could have been used as a coffee table, an arrow with a red ribbon on its tail, and an opaque glass mask, in a box of snapped piano keys. None of the items fit together. It was as though Master Dross had selected them out of attachment rather than for actual decor. Then, unable to stare any longer, Rose found the old Master Dross. The old gentleman sat peacefully, in an ornate, antique chair, his posture relaxed and dignified. Dressed in his best tailored suit, his lap was draped with rabbit furs and sable. His posture was sunken, but calm, as though he had just taken his last breath. Curiosity pulled Rose forward. She had never seen a corpse, and it was so much different than she¡¯d imagined. So ordinary. So very¡­ other. Master Dross was perfectly still. No breath escaped his lips. His eyelids were pale and glistened with slight condensation. His white hair had been combed to sit how it should, but had obviously been done by someone other than himself. Most of all, his skin was waxy and lifeless. It was very clear to Rose that this person¡ªthis shell¡ªin front of her, was a man no longer. The soul that had been here, that had filled this room with such wonderful stories, was completely and irrevocably gone. A ticking sound reached her ears, though she couldn¡¯t say from where, and each second passing was carrying her further away from the time that she could have asked him her questions, and perhaps, he might have answered. ¡°I wish¡­¡± she breathed, sitting across from the corpse on a faded antique divan, and paused. The air was heavy, and stagnant, and oh, how she hated that sound. Tick, tick, tick. But she didn¡¯t have any last regrets or emotions to express to the old master, because they had hardly ever met. She had no final words for him, or parting sentiments¡­ ¡°I wish I could have known you,¡± she said to the shell in the chair, and to her surprise, she found that she meant it. The sound of the ticking stopped, and the room descended into true quiet. Rose stood to leave, but the man in the chair held up a hand to stop her. ¡°I thought you would never ask,¡± he said. The Master of the House Wiser women would scream and run. Probably. Rose thought distantly. Fortunately, Rose was fourteen, and wisdom is a symptom that rarely sets in so early. So, instead of running, she sat down again on the faded green divan across from Master Dross, arrested by the sight of the unblinking, mismatched eyes across from her. ¡°Did you¡­did you just speak?¡± Rose squeaked, staring. Staring, staring, staring at Master Dross¡¯s body, which watched her peacefully in return, from his chair. Dross took in a breath, as though the motion was more for necessity of speaking than drawing life from the air around him. ¡°You¡¯re cold¡­¡± Dross said with great difficulty, and then motioned to the fire with his pointer finger, and snapped. ¡°Would you mind?¡± he said to it. The fire roared to life on command. She flinched. ¡°So jumpy¡­¡± he gave a ghostly chuckle. ¡°Tea?¡± ¡°Tea?¡± she asked, flabbergasted. ¡°I¡­ you can drink tea? If that¡¯s true then¡­. Then Master Dross, why is everyone trying to bury you?¡± ¡°Because I am dead,¡± he said simply. ¡°Ah, and how I long for peace¡­So. Tea?¡± She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. ¡°You¡¯re not, though. Not yet. Right now, you are¡ªAre you alright? Should I¡ªshould I go for help?¡± It occurred to Rose that if Master Dross was this coherent, that he should perhaps be in a doctor¡¯s office, or maybe in bed, or¡­or¡­well, she didn¡¯t know. The master¡¯s lips cracked upwards into a thin, waxy grin, apparently enjoying her deliberation. ¡°Playing the heroine for me? Oh, how long has it been¡­¡± The ghost of a smile stayed pasted along his stiff lips, but he at least realized that she had not been joking. Indeed, any minute, Rose was ready to launch herself from the window and run straight back to her mother¡¯s purse where she could call the police, an ambulance, and whoever else was necessary from her second generation cell. ¡°Forgive an old man his rambling. No, no.¡± Mr. Dross reassured with a practiced wave. ¡°My staff is quite devoted. There¡¯s no need for¡­calling for more intruders. Again, tea?¡± Rose glanced to the table, where a steaming teapot, kettle, and two pristine little cups had appeared, as innocuous and warm as though they had always been there. On autopilot, she poured two cups for them both¡ªclumsily and with a lot of clanking. But he did not reach for his, and neither did she for hers. ¡°Not drinking?¡± he asked? Still eerily unmoving. His legs had not shifted once, though his blood flow to them must have long stopped, and his movements were heavy, deliberate, and born more of habit than of someone who wanted to move. No, he was stiff and nearly frozen, and he still had not blinked. ¡°I¡¯ve never cared for tea,¡± Rose said honestly. ¡°No?¡± he murmured. ¡°You really are her¡­ a rare trait, that. Did you know?¡± ¡°Not as rare as you might think,¡± Rose defended, despite herself. ¡°Excuse me. Mr. Dross, but¡­ but you weren¡¯t breathing before. I can call someone for you, I can¡ª¡± ¡°I was not breathing before, young Rose,¡± Mr. Dross said regally. ¡°And I am not breathing now. Nevertheless, I have accepted your wish.¡± There was a sense of finality in that statement. The air seemed to ring with it, shivering in the force of his words. ¡®Who are you?¡¯ seemed a useless question, so she settled for something sharper. ¡°How are you here?¡± she asked, gripping the arm of her seat. ¡°You made a wish,¡± said Dross matter-of-factly, and quite animatedly for someone who wasn¡¯t breathing. ¡°In the future, it might be wise not to use the words ¡®I wish,¡¯ unless you really intend for the consequences to happen, and even then, it is unwise. If a part of you really means it, other things can take that intent and¡­use it.¡± ¡°What kind of things?¡± she breathed. His lips shook as he lifted them again. ¡°Things far worse than me, my dear.¡± ¡°And you are¡­¡± Rose tried, despite herself. ¡°The master of this house,¡± he said firmly. ¡°The master of this house, and nothing more. Not¡­anymore. But that was not your wish, young Rose.¡± ¡°I wished to know you¡ª¡± ¡°You wished that you could have known me,¡± he corrected, and if his eyes hadn¡¯t been so dead, she was sure they would have been twinkling. ¡°I did,¡± she confessed, the words sounding incredulous to herself as she added: ¡°You heard me.¡± ¡°Clearly,¡± he echoed. ¡°However, I believe you are not ready for that wish to be granted. Not ready¡­. You are young, and I¡­ I¡­.¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. He trailed off, lost in his own head. When it became clear that he wasn¡¯t planning on saying more, she cleared her throat softly, hoping to bring his attention back to her. ¡°Master Dross¡ª¡± The old master actually laughed. No, he cackled. The sound of it was so jarring, she was sure that it would send the maids rushing into the room, but it didn¡¯t. In fact, now that she paid it any note, the entire house, always full of footsteps and laughter, and Mrs. Kettleburn¡¯s shameless flirting with the Reverend, had gone completely still. The clocks did not tick, the boards, always moaning about something in the house, didn¡¯t creak. It was as though the whole world had paused before a breath, to give them this quiet pocket of time. ¡°Ah¡ªah forgive me, Young Rose,¡± Dross spluttered, when he¡¯d gotten control of his body once more. ¡°When you¡¯ve seen as much of the past as I, irony is everywhere. Ah, I have missed that scowl. Hah!¡± ¡°I see,¡± said Rose, scowling. ¡°Will you tell me about the things in your study, then? About the things in this room?¡± He gave her an odd sort of look¡ªwhich really should have been no surprise. All of his looks were odd. ¡°I will give you your wish. However, young Rose, simply telling you would not fulfill it, and I fear my time in this form is already gone.¡± Rose found herself swallowing a surprising amount of pity for this strange old decrepit. ¡°Cook says they won¡¯t let you be buried in hallowed ground.¡± Dross tsked, elegantly. ¡°Afraid I¡¯ve earned that. Oh, but it would be nice to rest in peace for once.¡± She tilted her head, confused. ¡°Was this house not peaceful?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t always lived in this house. Quite a recent development, actually. Only these last eighty years. But no, I would not call my time here restful.¡± She blinked. ¡°Why not?¡± The corpse groaned¡ªa forced breathy sound, that was entirely unnecessary except for the drama. ¡°Too many wandering souls,¡± he emphasized. ¡°Even here, I¡¯ve a king¡¯s-load of duties I can¡¯t fulfill. Banished to this little dark corner of my old realm. I fear I am in need of help, Young Rose, and am no longer in a position to ask for it.¡± There was such longing in the old man¡¯s gone gaze, that Rose could hardly stop the words from slipping out. ¡°Is there anything that I could do to help you?¡± she asked carefully. The old Master smirked, as though recognizing her caution. ¡°So she does learn¡­¡± he mused. ¡°No more wishing. Very good. I thank you for your proffered assistance, Young Rose¡± he said graciously, ¡°however¡­.¡± and he paused, for what seemed like another very long time. ¡°However?¡± she prompted. She didn¡¯t understand this absurd, surreal tea time with the late Master Dross, but though the ticking clock had stopped, she didn¡¯t have to be holding a tea cup to know that it had started to cool, and she didn¡¯t have to be watching closely to know that the fuelless fire in the hearth, had burned down to half its roaring height. ¡°Perhaps in my years of living, I have finally learned. What will help me, Young Rose, is a promise, and I do want you to mean it. Just this one. Just once.¡± ¡°Why do you keep calling me ¡®Young Rose?¡¯¡± she interjected, before he could ask his favor. He peered at her, his eyelids dropping as he examined her, as though doing so from behind several dirty panes of glass, distant and wandering. ¡°Are you not?¡± he said, more than asked. ¡°I¡ªwell. Yes,¡± she admitted uncomfortably. ¡°Hm,¡± he mumbled, once more with great effort. Rose shifted in her chair, peering at him long enough to wonder if he had lost his train of thought again, but no. The dead man cleared his stiff, nearly unserviceable throat, and demanded with the authority of a king; ¡°A boon, Young Rose. If you could,¡± he said, labored. She nodded. ¡°Promise me, Young Rose,¡± he nearly whispered, ¡°that you will not venture into the house past sunset after I¡¯m gone.¡± ¡°I promise,¡± she said quickly. It was so simple. So easy to agree, but the look of utter dissatisfaction that slashed across Master Dross¡¯ expression immediately after told her that he staunchly contested that thought. ¡°No, Young Rose,¡± Dross shifted for the first time, and though his legs didn¡¯t move, though it appeared to cost him something dear to do so, he angled his head toward Rose, and bit through the words he spoke. ¡°I am not the man I was in life. I cannot do this unless you mean it with all of the stubbornness of your namesake.¡± ¡°And I won¡¯t,¡± she said, a little defensively. Appearing to deliberate, and then promptly decided that he didn¡¯t have the energy for deliberation, Master Dross gave her a jerky little nod. ¡°You never do choose the easy path¡­.Perhaps¡­perhaps for this, I¡¯ll turn the stars upside-down one last time¡­¡± Of all the times to trail off. She could have yelled in frustration. ¡°I do promise,¡± she said instead. ¡°I¡¯ll never go into the house after dark.¡± He sighed as though his very ghost was leaving his body, and leaned back into his chair. ¡°Not until it¡¯s ready. Then you can¡­Then off you go to change the world, as the young do,¡± he breathed, his eyes losing the luster of focus. ¡°I never did say it, Rose¡­¡± Rose, now? she thought. Not Young Rose? Somehow, she got the feeling that he was speaking to someone else. ¡°Master Dross?¡± The tea was no longer steaming, the fire suddenly embers. ¡°Master Dross,¡± she prompted again. He spoke again, his voice sounding distant. ¡°How odd it is, that I hate the words, still. Though I have died. Though I am gone. Though I may at last find my peace. How I despise that I must say goodbye¡­Rose.¡± The Master¡¯s eyes closed once again, and this time, they did not reopen. Rose looked down, the teapot and cups had vanished. The fire had gone out, but she still had questions for him. He¡¯d said he¡¯d fulfill her wish! She could never get to know him if he was gone! What did that mean? What about these windows into other worlds? He was spouting poetry one moment, and back to dead the next? Frantically, she shook him. He was stiff and unmoving. No pulse. No breath. Dead for far longer than a few moments. ¡°No!¡± The distinct feeling of loss bloomed like a blood spot in her chest, and she clutched at her heart, willing it to slow down. She could still stop this, though. She could still bring him back. With that irrational, absurd thought, she seized up the poker, added a log or two to the fireplace, and raked the ashes over¡­ but there was nothing left. In fact, they were stone-cold. As if they¡¯d never burned at all! And then, in the futility of the moment, that panging bleeding loss seeped through her chest, and at last, reached her eyes. It was ridiculous. It was unreasonable. Rose sobbed. She shuddered. She cried. She cried for the loss of a man she did not even know. A Ghosts Warning The passenger door on the hearse popped open for Mrs. Kettleburn, who stood with the rest of the staff on the Dross manor driveway, dressed in black netting and over-pressed flannel. Rose stood at her mother¡¯s side, watching with the others as the real black coffin¡ªdesigned in dramatic glossy black, and topped with mountains of roses, per the old master¡¯s request¡ªwas loaded into the back. ¡°Not many request coffins over caskets these days,¡± Reverend Collins had remarked, when the box was first brought to the house. ¡°Expensive, impractical¡­¡± were some of the reasons he¡¯d listed. He¡¯d tactfully left out creepy, and melodramatic, and generally vaudeville. Rose had followed him, silently, through the house, when he went to assist with placing the body into its final receptacle. ¡°You¡¯re sure he¡¯s dead. He¡¯s really¡­ gone?¡± she had asked, at least a dozen times. Not sleeping, or drugged, or just maybe got too cold? She wanted to ask. Since the evening before, she¡¯d been reading. Was there any way he could still be alive? Could dead people talk? But every source agreed¡ªno pulse+no breath=no life. Kindly, the reverend had checked for her, each time, probably attributing her persistence to something less suspicious, like ¡®grief.¡¯ He really was gone. Master Dross was gone, and the seconds were slipping through her fingers faster than they ever had, as though they were impatient to be getting on. As though they were ready to leave. ¡°Wait,¡± she said, before the rest of the car doors closed. She stepped forward and tossed the lily she¡¯d been carrying on the top of the pile of flowers, where it was immediately swallowed by a mound of thorns and petals. It was such a small offering. It made no difference in what was there, and yet, the reverend accepted her action as the others did¡ªwith nods, and dry eyes, and calm expectancy. ¡°Where are they burying him?¡± she whispered to Louise, when Reverend Collins began his final remarks. ¡°Someplace up North. Reverend¡¯s got connections.¡± Louise shrugged. ¡°The man wouldn¡¯t take him himself, but they¡¯ll put him somewhere public when it¡¯s all said and done. Dontcha worry.¡± The staff and neighbors stood til the reverend was done, and Mrs. Kettleburn stepped up to say her final farewells, but it wasn¡¯t the old Master she approached. ¡°Well, Rosie-child. I suppose this is goodbye unless we run into you up north someday.¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡ªit¡¯s what?¡± Rose spluttered as Louise and Kettleburn shared another of those ¡®looks.¡¯ ¡°You¡¯re leaving, too?¡± ¡°All the staff is,¡± Louise explained. ¡°Hired off. New assignments. We were all just waiting until the Master¡¯s farewell was settled anyways. Most of us are gone already, actually.¡± Rose¡¯s mother said something in response that passed through her ears like a blur. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. All leaving? All gone? Suddenly, Rose¡¯s eyes were swimming, and she dove into the cook¡¯s already reaching arms. ¡°You¡¯re sure? You can¡¯t stay?¡± Even as she said it, Rose knew it was as futile as stoking a long dead fire. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t get all water-eyed on us now!¡± Louise scolded, joining the embrace. ¡°If you do, we¡¯ll get runny eyeliner, and we were doing so well, too! Made it through a whole funeral and everything!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t leave,¡± Rose begged, feeling the emptiness in her plea as she said it. She tried something better, feeling the weight of her pleas change. ¡°Or if you do, then promise me you¡¯ll write.¡± ¡°Of course we¡¯ll write, dearie!¡± Kettleburn promised, but she was already eying the empty passenger seat next to the reverend. ¡°Leave me with an address at least.¡± Rose refused to pull away from the embrace until she¡¯d at least been promised that much. ¡°She really is grown,¡± Louise chuckled, pulling out a pen. ¡°Here you go, Miss Rose. Best keep us accountable while you can, hm?¡± Rose¡¯s mother said something else, and then left to mingle with the rest of the staff as they filed away. ¡°Yes,¡± Rose agreed. ¡°You two¡­ I know you have your own lives to chase, but for me¡­ I don¡¯t know how to tell you how much you mean to me.¡± ¡°Well now,¡± Louise wiped one eye. ¡°I never,¡± agreed Kettleburn, misty-eyed, but still stalwartly refusing to ruin her makeup in front of the reverend. ¡°With an ask like that, we can¡¯t forget, now can we?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll tell me when you¡¯ve gotten settled? Where the burial ends up being? If you two are alright?¡± ¡°Hah!¡± Mrs. Kettleburn laughed at that. ¡°Worried we¡¯ll find ourselves a home? Don¡¯t fuss so, little Rosie. We¡¯ve done this all before. It will take more than a little transplant to make these old ladies wilt.¡± ¡°But we can¡¯t dally in the driveway all day, girlie!¡± Louise said smartly. ¡°No indeed, we can¡¯t!¡± Mrs. Kettleburn said distractedly, as George loaded her valise into the back seat next to the coffin. ¡°Careful with that, George!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll miss you,¡± Rose said simply, holding tighter to them both. ¡°You might see us sooner than you think,¡± Louise smiled, and with that smile, Rose¡¯s heart broke a little. She saw the lie in that smile again. ¡°Be a good girl now,¡± said Louise, detaching herself, she turned to go. ¡°Oh, and before I forget now, Rosie, this is for you.¡± Mrs. Kettleburn held out a package. Rose took the crinkled brown paper hesitantly. ¡°For me?¡± ¡°Yes, dear!¡± the cook said brightly. Waving off Louise, she bent down to whisper: ¡°I know you¡¯ll want to come back to the old house someday, but try your best to stay away as long as you can, and when you do come¡­ well, this will protect you during the daylight hours, but remember your promise, dear.¡± Rose looked up, confused. ¡°My promise?¡± ¡°Never go into the house past dark,¡± Kettleburn said sternly. Rose gaped, her mouth fell open. ¡°You know. You know! Is he really gone? He can¡¯t be! I promised him, and no one else heard! What¡¯s happening Mrs. Kettleburn?¡± She demanded it more angrily than she should. ¡°Hush, hush child. Yes. He¡¯s gone. He truly is¡ª¡± The words dashed at Rose¡¯s heart, but she was too angry to cry. She was too angry for reason. ¡°You knew. Was he really dead, then? Did you all kill him?¡± She was breathing heavily, voice raised, and she didn¡¯t care who heard. Miraculously, no heads turned, not even her mother¡¯s. They faded to gray in her vision, Mrs. Kettleburn the only face able to keep her attention for more than a heartbeat. They all acted like they couldn¡¯t hear her. So she yelled louder. ¡°Tell me! Did he even have to go when he did? You couldn¡¯t let him have a few more days? A month? A year?¡± ¡°Heavens, child!¡± Mrs. Kettleburn put an affronted hand over her chest. ¡°Of course not! The doctor was there when he¡ªwhen¡ª¡± she cleared her throat. ¡°He deserves this rest more than you know. But he keeps his promises, Rosie child. He keeps them. So you just remember yours.¡± With that cold goodbye, Mrs. Kettleburn sat down in the hearse and slammed the door, leaving Rose with a promise from a man long dead, and a wrinkled parcel. Kneepatch Serenades Three years later¡­ Rose sprinted along the carnival rafters in the morning air, laughing. ¡°The Rose descends from above! The flower of Shreveport! The jewel of the rooftops! Come to me, my flower! See here, ladies and gentlemen; will she lose a few petals in her fall? Or will she¡ªmmph!¡± Connor Wright in shakespearean hose serenaded her badly, hand over his chest, and gesticulating in the air, up until Rose plunged off the carousel roof, performed a neat flip in the air, and landed in his arms. ¡°Have you perhaps¡­.gotten heavier?¡± Connor gasped as the wind came back into his lungs. ¡°I traded my sense of self-preservation for ten pounds when I met you.¡± She grinned tapping him on the nose. ¡°Ah-huh,¡± he said, doing his best to scoop her up in his arms as he switched directions to the main tent. He jostled his arms up and down thoughtfully. ¡°Only ten?¡± She rolled her eyes, and then her whole head at him. ¡°I¡¯m charmed. I¡¯m swept off my feet. I feel like a prized pig you¡¯re taking to market,¡± she deadpanned. ¡°Aye, I am charming,¡± he said, the dimple in his cheek flexing. ¡°And while we¡¯re at it, let¡¯s not ignore the simple but undeniable fact that my prized pig is late for her audition.¡± ¡°You said three. I¡¯m here at three.¡± ¡°I said stage call is at three,¡± he grumbled, oofing as one of the apparatus engineers passed them with a ladder, and narrowly ducking its rungs. ¡°Sorry, I saw a Shakespeare and thought to myself, ¡®Why, Rose, look! He¡¯s got the stage all to himself! Best make an entrance.¡¯¡± It was his turn to roll his eyes. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s good. We should switch your audition to the clown act.¡± ¡°Did I mention how charming you are?¡± she shot back with an eyeroll. Seeing his huffing, she took pity on Connor and swung her legs to the ground. ¡°Ah, so she does have some respect for punctuality,¡± he puffed behind her as she broke into a run. She jogged backwards a pace or two to grin at him. ¡°I¡¯m just excited.¡± Two years had passed since she¡¯d first seen the acrobatic troupe pull through town. The troupe had done acts at the opera house, the circus, and then her own gymnastic studio, where they were looking to recruit. Rose already loved climbing the concrete jungle of Shreveport¡¯s inner city. Most evenings would find her on a rooftop somewhere, penning letters to old friends who would never respond, or reading about places she would never see. However, since the arrival of the Kneepatch Troupe, Rose had felt that there was nothing she couldn¡¯t climb¡ªor jump off of¡ªor run along, much to the dismay of anyone who liked her being alive. She admired the brown-eyed circus boy as he tried to keep up with her through the winding people, equipment, and tools on the half-prepared grounds. ¡°You can do more than most of the students who have been at this for half the time. You might get selected if they think they can count on you,¡± he panted, when he caught her staring. ¡°And I¡¯ll perform with y¡ªwith all of you?¡± ¡°If you can keep up on the training,¡± he snorted. She dodged around the support ropes and reached the tent flap first, holding it ajar for him. ¡°After you, oh one who can keep up.¡± She smiled. ¡°Right,¡± he said, stepping past her with a swish of Elizabethan hosiery, and a toss of pretty brown curls. ¡°Clown act it is.¡± * ¡°Harnesses on, and step up to the practice bars! I want to see twenty wiper crunches, and a three minute straddle hang before I let you people onto the audition apparatus,¡± Heather, director of Kneepatch Acrobatics, was finishing her speech just as Rose slipped onto the last practice swing. Connor tipped her a wink, and a thumbs up as he threw an arm around Heather, effectively distracting her long enough not to see her late arrival¡ªprobably. Today, I¡¯m with the professionals. she resolved. Today, these lessons are going to start paying for themselves. It was that resolve that had Heather putting her on the bars first, the platform for the professional swing. ¡°Alright, I don¡¯t want you to worry about catching the next bar, just fall and test the net. Trust me, the first fall¡¯s the worst. If you show promise, we¡¯ll take you on the backup team, and get you ready for traveling shows, if not, then better luck next year. For now, no rush. Swing. Turn. Into the net, yes?¡± Heather instructed. ¡°Yes,¡± Rose answered, but she barely heard her own voice over the rushing in her ears. In the dark tent, the lights for the trapeze nets were all shining from below, aimed at the performance area. The audience seats were empty now, but in a few days, they would be overflowing with locals and tourists from all over the world. With the cool bar under her fingers, the weight of the ropes were already pulling her forward. Hips back. Shoulders down. She jumped, leaving her heart on the platform, but this wasn¡¯t her first time on the double swing. Weeks of sneaking in with Connor had seen to that, and she was ready to impress. Moments after her body seemed heaviest, she let go, and let that weight carry her to the next bar. Her landing wasn¡¯t neat. Her wrists slapped the metal before her fingers caught it, but it was enough. Then, according to Heather¡¯s instructions, she rode the bar back to the middle, and let go. The net jangled beneath her, and she heard Connor¡¯s whoops of pride somewhere above her head. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Not what I asked for, but not bad!¡± Heather was yelling down from the platform. ¡°Next up! Can anyone copy what Flowerhead just did?¡± One by one, her classmates tried for the second bar, and half succeeded. ¡°Alright, next up, a back layout. Nothing fancy from you, Flowerhead!¡± Heather directed that instruction at Rose, who blushed lightly. ¡°That¡¯s all I want to see. Can we follow instructions, and can we land the tricks.¡± Rose stepped up to the platform again, and did the layout. The rest of the students clapped politely, most still looking hungrily at the bar, and Rose couldn¡¯t blame them. A few more tries, and most would probably have it¡­but not today. ¡°Okay!¡± Heather snapped them all back to attention. ¡°Next up, let¡¯s see which of you works well with others. I¡¯m going to have you do a single back layout with Connor. I¡¯m looking for technique. If you miss, or hurt my performer, you¡¯re gone.¡± This time, Rose let the others go first, waiting to see what they would do. Anita did a neat, clean layout, and caught Connor''s hands. Then, she dropped into the net. Therese missed one of Connor¡¯s hands, but her aim was right. She¡¯d definitely be able to, soon. Jean-Claude flew too high, nearly knocking Connor off the bar. She could hear Heather groan. Rose didn¡¯t give herself time to worry, and ran straight off the platform. She let go earlier than before, enough time for the layout, and a double twist. She wished she could say that she caught Connor¡¯s hands, but really her own hands were just in the right place at the right time. Connor caught her, tipping her another carefree wink as he did. ¡°I¡¯m not going to say anything about that catch, Connor,¡± Heather said, as she ran up to her, beaming. ¡°But that was perfect arial control. Do you eat steel for breakfast, Flowerhead?¡± Heather mussed Rose¡¯s already half-mussed ponytail. ¡°It was great, Rose!¡± Therese encouraged. ¡°I want to see yours again, Therese.¡± Rose hugged her. ¡°You could do it, I think.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think I need to say who¡¯s just won a spot with the backup troupe,¡± Heather said, glowing. ¡°But there are a few others of you who are close. I want to see the rest of you up here next year. You especially, Jean. I need more catchers!¡± Connor stepped into the circle of remaining students with a lofty grin. ¡°We¡¯ll have to put in some practice time, too! And the scheduling! What do you think, Heather? Is the rose destined for the stage?¡± Heather shook her head at him. ¡°She¡¯s destined for more practice, yes. You¡¯re not subtle, Connor.¡± ¡°What, I?¡± Connor said in a bad imitation of a Shakespearean lilt. The girls were already giggling, and Rose was with them. ¡°I am the soul of subtlety! The master of my art! The Great and Terrible Connor of¡ª¡± Heather smacked him with her clipboard. ¡°You¡¯re going to be the great and terrible janitor at this rate.¡± * "The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem. For that sweet odor which doth in it live!¡± To escort her home, Connor had replaced his performers¡¯ tights with respectable jeans, but the sonnets, it seemed, were there to stay. ¡°Comments on my odor after a long practice. You¡¯ve done it again, Connor! My heart is nice and mushy soft,¡± Rose ribbed, but even she was smiling. Today was the first of many small victories¡ªthe kind that brought her closer to a dream. The winding streets at dusk had a warm glowy quality that nothing but a Louisiana summer could match. Rose could still hardly keep the whole day inside of her. She¡¯d won a spot on the professional backup troupe. She would have another thing of note to put in her letters to Louise and Mrs. Kettleburn¡­ perhaps something extraordinary enough that they would even answer her; however, that thought didn¡¯t merit dwelling on a day like this. The cobbles were lit with sunny fire. Her street was decorated with hung laundry and summer leaves. Her phone screen, though broken, was newly loaded with pictures of the inner cirque. The smells of biscuits and chicken pie filled the air, and the curly heartthrob of the entertainment world was spouting sonnets to her at sunset¡ªalbeit very badly. They turned the corner, Connor saying something about comparing her, and the streets, and his favorite prized pig to this summer¡¯s day, when the familiar black spires of the abandoned Dross Manor came into sight, marking the fence where her own, much-smaller home waited. ¡°¡ªAnd weep afresh love''s long-since-canceled woe¡­For precious friends hid in death''s dateless night." She froze. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a sonnet,¡± Connor explained quickly, clearing his throat with more dramme than necessary. ¡°Are you not charmed, yet?¡± ¡°It just sounded like¡­ like it suited this place,¡± she said, eying the manor¡¯s towers. It had been years since she¡¯d gone inside; years since there had been anyone there to visit, and the very idea of going back, only to find the halls she once wandered with Louise empty, and the kitchen whose breath and soul had been Mrs. Kettleburn, and George, and so many others¡­ it filled her with a sadness she preferred to ignore. There was a part of her, the part that still thought it saw things in shadows at night, and believed that the sounds that still creaked from its ancient attic were its old denizens left behind, that hoped what she thought she remembered of her last day had been true. Or even if it wasn¡¯t, that perhaps if she never saw it empty, that it was somehow just as lively as it had been, and that she could step back in at any time through the back door, and everything would still be the same. ¡°Connor¡­¡± she mumbled, watching the empty tower. ¡°Hm?¡± he said, pausing mid-sonnet. His button nose was all aglow in the sunlight, and the freckles disting his cheeks were downright cheery, so when she asked her question, he was more than a little taken aback: ¡°Do you believe in ghosts?¡± she asked, as nonchalantly as possible. Connor snorted. ¡°You break my heart, Beautiful Rose. I thought you were finally going to confess to me. It has been a pretty perfect day.¡± He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed. ¡°I¡¯m serious. There¡¯s something about living next to this old place that¡¯s just¡­¡± she trailed off. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not sure how to put it.¡± ¡°I think that this place would make anyone believe in ghosts,¡± he snorted again, throwing an arm around her shoulders. ¡°But, there¡¯s one surefire way to check!¡± She peered up at him under his shoulders, but didn¡¯t brush him off. The extra warmth was actually¡­ nice. Very nice, if she was being honest. ¡°How is that?¡± she asked slowly. ¡°Allow me to demonstrate!¡± he said, ever cavalier. Scooping up a pebble from the asphalt he marched her over to the cobbled section of street where the planners hadn¡¯t yet had the heart, or the funds, to redo the old pavement. Connor pulled his arm back, and launched an impressive throw, sending the stone crashing right through the upper window. Rose was enraged. ¡°Connor, why¡ªwhy would you¡ª?¡± She punched his arm, words failing. ¡°That place belonged to a friend of mine. Who knows what could get in through that window now?¡± ¡°Will you just listen?¡± Connor was unfettered, putting his arm back around her, lower this time. He bent his head to hers, and grinned. ¡°Listen.¡± Well, when he put it like that¡­. Reluctantly, she listened. A soft breezy moaning echoed through the house, rattling the old rafters. In the warm, breezy evening, it send chills up her arms, and an actual shiver down Connor¡¯s wirey frame. ¡°Well, I¡­¡± he cleared his throat stiffly. ¡°I wasn¡¯t actually expecting¡­ You have your answer, then?¡± She stepped back, slowly, a wary eye on Connor. ¡°I suppose I do¡­¡± she lied. ¡°I¡¯ll get you home then,¡± he said, cavalier grin back in force. ¡°When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies. That she might think me some untutored youth¡ª" ¡°At least that one¡¯s accurate,¡± Rose nodded emphatically, turning away from her beloved manor. Pianos in All the Wrong Places Heather and her trusty clipboard paced like twin tigers below the safety net. ¡°I¡ª¡± Rose adjusted her harness sheepishly on the platform. She''d been working with the troupe for weeks, but every time she thought her eyes had adjusted to the lights, one would catch her head on in flight and leave her blinded. ¡°I¡ªI think I need some advice. I can never land this one, Heather.¡± ¡°Connor isn¡¯t catching you?¡± Heather barked sharply. ¡°It¡¯s not Connor!¡± Rose defended quickly. ¡°I just don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing wrong. Could you point me?¡± Heather sighed. ¡°Do it again.¡± Hours of that each day, and Rose was the strongest of the female students. She flew well, but Anita was swift on her heels with the aerobatic awareness. It was wonderful, in a way, to have teeth at her heels close enough that she had to keep running. It took months, but eventually, Rose got to where she was performing as well as the top star on the upper troupe, but Connor had been distracted that week. ¡°Your head¡¯s in the clouds, Connor!¡± Heather snapped. He blew her a kiss from the bar, which she returned with a rude gesture. Tired and drenched, Heather ended their practice early before taking Rose aside. ¡°Rose, I know you¡¯re still new to the backup, but I¡¯ve had one of my performers call in sick. She was supposed to be on tonight, so if you¡¯re not too tired to stay, you can take point on tonight¡¯s show. If not, I¡¯m gonna have to cancel the act¡ª¡± It was the chance Rose had been dreaming of for months. ¡°I¡¯ll do it!¡± she said brightly. ¡°I¡¯d be crazy not to!¡± Heather nodded slowly, looking her up and down. ¡°You have two hours. Head back for hair and makeup at six, yeah?¡± ¡°I will!¡± An hour later, the heat of a Louisiana summer had descended on the tent, and Heather had taken it upon herself to menace anyone who went in or out of the tent flap without a critical reason. Rose stretched with the other performers, not having to try to stay warm. ¡°Got enough chalk there? Or is a storm rolling in?¡± Anna, one of the contortionists watching Rose joked. ¡°I¡¯m sweating enough to fill a rainpipe.¡± Rose grimaced as the chalk cloud settled around the back of her knees, pushing herself up from the practice mats. Chalk stuck to the plastic along the line of sweat where her legs had been. It was a familiar scent. A calming scent. And, today, it wasn¡¯t working. ¡°Don¡¯t be nervous, girl,¡± chuckled Slim, a hulking rigger who failed entirely at living up to his name. ¡°Remember, it¡¯s just like practice¡ªexcept with way more screaming people and fewer chances to mess up." Anna swiped a kick at him, which he knocked back with a finger. ¡°Flies in the tent? Oh-oh! Aggressive flies,¡± he stuttered when Anna threw a chalk bar at his head. ¡°Hey, hey, save it for the show! I don¡¯t want you two going in tired,¡± Heather remarked, stomping past. ¡°She¡¯s got a point, Anna-bee,¡± Slim said, failing to dodge a sweat towel that Anna lobbed at his chest. ¡°Let¡¯s be real, if either of us falls out of a pose, we¡¯re gonna tangle up like pricey spaghetti, and this is going to look like a very different kind of show.¡± ¡°Should¡¯ve upcharged the tickets, then,¡± said Connor, appearing from the back rooms. He strode out, flashy and confident as usual, his curls gelled to implausible shapes, and his face and bare chest painted like a shooting star. ¡°What do you think?¡± He grinned, catching Rose staring at his costume, and struck an open-armed pose. ¡°Do these sequins make me look faster? Taller? Implausibly attractive? Asking for the audience." ¡°Hot as they come, Connor.¡± Brian, the head juggler wandered out of the back after Connor, dressed in leaves and ash for his act. "But I bet your act would look a lot hotter¡­ if it was also on fire." He sparked one of his torches for effect. Anna groaned. ¡°Put that out, Brian. We¡¯re already melted to the mat. Look¡ª¡± she pointed to the body-shaped sweat impression that Rose had left. ¡°We¡¯ve already lost one for good.¡± Brian shot a look at Connor, gesturing to where Anna pointed. ¡°See my power? Remember that next time you wanna get cheeky with the fliers.¡± Connor rolled his eyes. ¡°Alright, team patchwork, listen up!¡± Heather returned like a shark tuned to sense idleness. ¡°Yes Ma¡¯am!¡± chanted everyone but Rose, who stood at attention anyway. Heather prowled in front of the mats, waving the dreaded clipboard. ¡°One hour til start, and we¡¯re as ready as we¡¯re as ready as we¡¯re going to get. Kneepatch Troupe¡¯s opening night for the season, and we¡¯re on a skeleton crew. I¡¯m just lucky it¡¯s a weekday. You¡¯ve all met Rose¡ª¡± Rose waved sheepishly to the crew that was gathering around them. A dozen lightmen, stagehands, the the makeup artist, and a few more performers showed up. Heather was right, it wasn¡¯t many at all. ¡°¡ªThanks to Rose being here, we don¡¯t have to cancel the act completely. There are three hundred tickets sold for preshow, and that¡¯s not counting latecomers.¡± That many? Rose jittered as the crew around her smiled approvingly. ¡°Look,¡± Heather tapped the clipboard, flipping her hair over one shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m not going to curse us by saying too much, just¡ªLet¡¯s not set anything on fire today, except for what¡¯s supposed to be on fire. That okay with you, Brian?" Stolen novel; please report. ¡°Here here!¡± Slim pumped a fist, to the scattered chuckles of the crewmen. ¡°Don¡¯t make me regret this¡­¡± Heather groaned. ¡°And, Rose,¡± she added, turning down the volume for just her. ¡°You deserve to be here. I¡¯m truly grateful. You¡¯re ready?¡± Three hundred people. Heather was counting on her. She could do these stunts. She¡¯d done them hundreds of times. And not done them hundreds of times! And never for a crowd! A panicked, disparate voice hissed in her head. Teeth clenched, Rose dismissed the worry, and nodded. ¡°Right!¡± Heather was back to managerial mode as soon as she had the go ahead. ¡°Remember, we¡¯re not aiming for perfection¡­ we¡¯re aiming for applause. Possibly even survival.¡± The troupe chuckled, but as Rose watched Slim unhook the safety net beneath the swings, she couldn¡¯t manage much more than a tippy false smile. Six o clock approached like the slow crawl of a hoard of escaped slugs. Then, as instructed, she headed for makeup. Rose hadn¡¯t worn so much paint since she was three and tried to drink a can of it during a home renovation project, but the makeup artist was so thrilled to be doing something new, that she couldn¡¯t find it in her heart to argue. ¡°Sugar, you¡¯re shinin¡¯ brighter than a firefly at dusk! This look could stop traffic on Bourbon street!¡± Mellie squealed when she¡¯d finished. ¡°How do you feel?¡± ¡°Ready to stop traffic,¡± Rose smiled grimly, though the action made her feel more like an iced cupcake than an acrobatic belle. ¡°And you will! You will!¡± Mellie scooped the palates of blue and white face paint, and a whole bucket of rhinestones into a makeup bag the size of a beer barrel with a clattering flourish. ¡°I¡¯m just amazed. Heather¡¯s never let someone so young on the performance floor before. You¡¯ve really gone above the cut earning her trust.¡± Or her desperation, that niggling worry pawed at the back of her mind, demanding to be heard. Once more, Rose dismissed it, clinging to Mellie¡¯s encouragement like a safety harness. ¡°When does the first act come up?¡± Rose asked, not for the first time, because Mellie tapped her bifocals on the counter with a concerned little rap before returning them to the front of her blouse. ¡°You mean your act? Connor will come for you if he knows what¡¯s good for him, but you¡¯re not up til about fifteen minutes in. Relax, girl. I¡¯ve seen you on those ropes, on the bars, on the swings. Never seen a performer more ready for a debut. So enjoy it! And let me go find that layabout. He¡¯s probably smeared his face already¡ª¡± she shot a last smile over her shoulder as she left the makeup room. ¡°¡ªNot that it matters at all! Oh! You¡¯re just a picture in a frame, if I do say so!¡± She left, still jabbering, and moments later, Rose heard the telltale piano notes of the starting sequence. Soft French jazz galloped into bayou folk band, and the show was underway with cheering and lively drums, and from the sounds of things, fire in all the right places. Connor didn¡¯t come for her until the minute before the lights turned on the trapeze swing. ¡°The swings are ready for the Rose!¡± he singsonged into the dressing room unconcerned as anyone would be who didn¡¯t have to do several twisting flys with no safety net. ¡°Is that you, my shooting star?¡± ¡°Somewhere under all these layers, yes,¡± Rose said, letting him jog her behind the floor stage. He had to shout to be heard over the rising number before them. ¡°I¡¯m nervous,¡± she said, squeezing his hand. Connor laughed, wheeling her into a spin, and planting a kiss on her cheek¡ªa little closer to her mouth than he¡¯d ever done before. Something in her sputtered, and she willfully ignored it. ¡°Did it work?¡± he asked cheekily. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The distraction?¡± She sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to be distracted, I¡¯m trying to focus on not dying.¡± ¡°You have your harness on, right? Worst that can happen, you miss my hands, and swing to the ground. It¡¯ll hurt, but it won¡¯t be bad.¡± She breathed. He was right. Her harness was still on, and if she was still hooked in, she would be fine¡­ just fine¡­. However, she couldn¡¯t shake this feeling that something was about to change. It wasn¡¯t just worry, or concern, or even fear. What made her jitter was something she couldn¡¯t put into words. A feeling of ozone and pressure change, of hot and cold all around her that had nothing to do with the evening chill shifting outside. ¡°Listen, Rosie,¡± he said, making her flinch. ¡°Don¡¯t call me Rosie,¡± she sighed, but she didn¡¯t let go of him, all the same. ¡°Rose, then,¡± he smiled good naturedly. ¡°Just don¡¯t get blinded by the lights, and jump the platform when you hear the buzzer. Then, you grab me. The rest will take care of itself. We¡¯ve done this before. You¡¯re the best we¡¯ve got!¡± He leaned down to speak in her ear. ¡°Even better than Aida.¡± He might have said more, or done more¡ªhe definitely looked like he wanted to¡ªbut right then, the music ended, and the lights on their apparatus slammed on, blinding them both. ¡°Oops! See you on the other end!¡± Connor left her standing there, to the sounds of laughter and jeers from the audience as their obviously close silhouette was broadcasted in shadow to the entire arena. ¡°What an entrance,¡± Rose grumbled, as she clambered up to the upper platform, squinting away the stinging tears as her eyes struggled to adjust. Slim cut the tightrope down just as she reached the top, the audience screaming and cheering with the fervor of Shreveport after drinking hours. She tried to make eye contact with Connor on the other side, but the lights were too bright. Their song started. The buzzer went off, and she jumped on time, and for once, the worry melted away. With a swift motion, she let go of the bar, feeling the rush of free fall as she arced through the air. Time slowed, and for just a moment, it was just her and the sky? The sky? Above them, the slits in the tent had been undone for airflow, and Heather had apparently left them that way. It was wonderful. Back bent over the open ground, Rose felt as though she was really flying. She caught Connor a few times, and she caught the bar. The stunts weren¡¯t just well-timed, they were perfect. Easy. She returned to the platform with a final kick after two minutes of music and flying that seemed miles away. The buzzer went off again, and she hurtled toward the last stunt, but when she finished the swing¡­ Connor wasn¡¯t there. Panic set in, cold and icy, drenching the exhilaration of the minutes before. She hadn¡¯t let go of the bar yet, so there was still time to fix this, but Connor¡¯s bar was swinging toward her, and he wasn¡¯t in position. He was sitting on the bar, legs hanging down, waving to the crowd. Had she missed something? Yes! She realized. She was early. Or he was late. Or¡­something! Just as planned, Connor flipped over his bar and made to catch her, and Rose made a hairpin decision. Panicked and hearing the end of their music, she let go of her bar, and reached for his hands¡ªand missed. Afterwards, she couldn¡¯t remember Connor¡¯s face, or where he had been looking, she only knew that it had not been at her. What she would never forget, however, was the sound. The crowd, a mob of spirit-soaked southerners, turned the sort of quiet that wasn¡¯t natural anywhere indecent. Then, there was the sucking sound of hundreds of gasps as she seemed to float below Connor¡¯s bar, falling. Rose was no stranger to falls. She tucked tight, ready for the harness to catch her, and it did, with a horrid shaking spring that slowed her fall, and wrenched her backward from her flight. Unfortunately, she was still turning from the flips, and the tuck only made her go faster. She spread herself backward, willing the harness to catch, but just as it began to slow her fall, her mother¡¯s scream filled her ears, her head, all the way down to her toes. Her mother was here? Why didn¡¯t she remember that? Where were the rest of them? Why hadn¡¯t they come to see her before? But those thoughts were drowned by a gutting snapping of wood and strings. The wailing sound the open piano made when she thundered into its insides would haunt her dreams like the ghosts of Dickens himself until the day she died. The levers crunched, the shell splintered, the legs cracked, and the resonating moan the instrument let out tumbled through the night air. It was deafening up close, but at least the shattering key sticks covered the sound of her snapping bones. Voices in the Dark This should hurt¡­ shouldn¡¯t it hurt? Rose wondered, dazed in the wreckage. It was perfectly quiet, time stretching above her somewhere far away, until, entirely unwelcome, a heartbeat thudded through her stupor, resonating like the tolling of a distant bell. Then, slowly, it was followed by a second,, a reminder that she was alive, that she was still moving, and with that next beat, the hurt found her. Pain started in her side and radiated outward, paralyzing her more with every heartbeat. Sharp, and unrelenting, it was like a rail of hot steel had been shoved between her ribs, making her shudder. The air caught in her throat as her body instinctively recoiled from itself. She tried to groan. Then, she tried to scream, but nothing would come out but a rasp, and a hot wet trickle. She took in another breath, and it stuck in her throat. Rose felt as though she was drowning. ¡°Call someone!¡± Anna¡¯s voice cut through the haze. ¡°I am. I am!¡± Heather was somewhere close by. Then, there was just screaming. Her mother¡¯s voice. A surging crowd. Slim, and perhaps even Connor and the other hands, yelling at everyone to stay in their seats. Trembling, Rose put a hand to her mouth, gasping. Her fingers came away red and sticky. That¡¯s not the color of air, she thought, confused. Air¡¯s less¡­ less something. The pain was getting worse, immediate and searing, a stabbing sensation that spread over her ribcage, and into her throat, and into her hands. She was shaking. Shaking harder and harder. Her arms were beginning to burn. ¡°Let¡¯s untangle her from the strings!¡± someone said. ¡°Are you crazy? They¡¯re done! Just cut them!¡± ¡°She¡¯s not breathing!¡± Then, mercifully, the garish, overlit, screaming world faded from Rose¡¯s view, and went gray. There were voices around her head, most of them shouting somewhere in the distance. Red lights flashed in her eyes, then white ones glared down at her. Rose heard nonsensical words like ¡°fractured ribs,¡¯ and ¡°punctured lung¡± and of course, more screaming. She wished, more than anything, that the screaming would stop. ¡°I wish it were quiet¡­. I wish I could sleep¡­¡± she mumbled, unheard. A rich chuckle echoed somewhere through the fog of her being. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°So many wishes, so little time, Young Rose,¡± it said. ¡°One task at a time, love. One task at a time.¡± ¡°Tasks? I have¡­ have to close the show. It¡¯s my fault, you know.¡± The voice tutted. ¡°Is it? Well, either way, we can¡¯t have you like this. You¡¯re in no fit state for wish-fulfillment, and I am used to scraping the bottom of both proverbial and literal barrels, I¡¯ll have you know.¡± That voice. It echoed around her mind like a singer in a chasm, louder than anything else. It heard her response, though there was no way she could say anything out loud. ¡°Well, of course you can hear me. I find the traditional methods taxing,¡± the voice chatted. It was annoying. ¡°Now, that¡¯s just rude,¡± he said. ¡°Get me that IV, now!¡± someone was yelling. ¡°Oh dear¡­ and now you¡¯re dying,¡± he tutted again. The voice left her, then, and she was surrounded by people and lights and incessant beeping machines. I want to sleep, she wished. Just sleep¡­ Don¡¯t you dare! Oh no, my dear. It¡¯s not yet time for you to leave us. You have a wish to fulfill, and we don¡¯t need another wandering soul¡­ He¡¯s right dear, you still have a few years left. If she chooses them¡ª She¡¯ll choose them! Why wouldn¡¯t she choose them? To escape your yammering, that¡¯s why! I know you¡¯re tired dear, but this isn¡¯t the time for sleep. Not yet. Not until they get you back with us. She is with us, you nincompoop! It¡¯ll be different if her heart stops beating! Insufferable. Indeed! Indeed! Fight, Rose! The old bitty¡¯s right this time. Show us some fight, girl. We know you¡¯ve got it in you. Fight! The word rippled through Rose like a jolt, burning through her chest as sensation trickled back into her, sharp and cruel. This time, she didn¡¯t run from the feeling. She let it in. She faced it. She let it get worse. She took a breath, and coughed; a spasm that sent lightning down her legs. Wet stickiness coated her lips, and she hissed at the feeling, cleared her throat badly, and tried again. The air in her lungs was agony with every breath, but it was breath. There, see? I told you she¡¯d do it. Distantly, someone harrumphed. I still think we shouldn¡¯t have waited. We have orders. Insufferable. Indeed. Rose couldn¡¯t make sense of the voices. They were both familiar and foreign, and she didn¡¯t have the strength to try and place them. Every ounce of her focus was on the next breath. She was proud of each, and dreaded each one. ¡°Did you see that?¡± someone was saying. ¡°She¡¯s doing it on her own.¡± ¡°Put her under. If she wakes up like this, it¡¯ll be torture.¡± ¡°Get the anesthetist. I¡¯m not messing with this one.¡± And then, no more voices pulled at Rose¡¯s attention, and she drifted into an artificial sleep. The Butler and the Manservant Rose¡¯s bedroom window sat crooked in its frame, with panes of old, wavy glass that distorted the dreary view. Lying on her bed, Dross Manor¡¯s high arched windows and decorative turrets rose in her view through the drizzling fog, though they seemed hazy, almost dreamlike, through the worn glass. Once more, the proper thunder and lightning that usually went with that sort of architecture was absent, although at least the fog was appropriate. Hooks set in her gray walls bore their usual loads: canvas straps, wrist braces, a chalk bag, and a dozen colors of ropes and bands¡ªthings she may never use again. Pictures on the walls of family and friends faded to gray in the corners of her vision, just like the contents of the hooks. A pile of discharge instructions, recommendations for recovery, and pain medication dosages loomed over her head on the nightstand, sterile and white, and covered in signatures. Her wicker bed frame groaned and creaked as she tried to sit up on her own¡ªand promptly gave up. Rose reached for her phone. It would be easier than trying to yell for help. Yelling hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt worst of all. The phone was dead. Rose swallowed as gently as she could manage, and glared at the equipment on her wall. Only weeks ago, those straps had meant freedom. The chalk and ropes meant climbing. Anywhere. She had collected them from all over town¡ªbuying rope was expensive, but it was incredible what people were just willing to leave on the side of the road. If she could get someone to put one above her bed, maybe she could lift herself up? She dismissed that thought quickly. Even the thought of tensing her back around the stitches made her cringe, and¡­ cringing hurt as well. Crying was off the table completely. She¡¯d tried that once, for a few seconds, and sent herself into shock. A haze descended over her room as more rainclouds blew in from the south. Her heartbeat pounded stray and strong in her ears, reminding her with each lively beat that the pain medication had faded. The light dimmed, and Rose realized something important. She was alone, and couldn¡¯t make enough noise to get help, but the only thing keeping her from help, from food, from a bathroom, from more lovely ibuprofen, was getting up. A tiny spark of fight lit in her, and she grit her teeth around the effort. Carefully, she levied herself upright, and kept herself from letting out a victorious whoop. That would most certainly hurt. Gingerly, she made her way through the bare essentials, and made it to the bathroom, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror. Her long hair was unbrushed. She was probably still pale. Her bruises probably still matched the green marks everywhere else, but she knew that if she looked too long at the bandage on her face, that she would be tempted to look under it. It had been weeks. At least three. It might be ready to be off entirely¡­.she simply wasn¡¯t ready for that one, yet. Glass of water in hand, she waddled awkwardly through the quiet hallway back to her room, and plugged in the phone, grateful that at least her legs had escaped any damage from the dreaded piano. Rose turned to sink into bed¡ªand tripped when her toe caught on something. She didn¡¯t fall, but she sat down hard on the mattress edge, and had to wait a full minute before the pain spots bubbled out of her eyes. ¡°What¡­?¡± she rasped, tapping a toe on the crinkling papery hazard. The paperwork for after-care was still stacked neatly on her nightstand, instructing her to ¡°go on walks daily,¡± and ¡°drink plenty of water,¡± and ¡°clean sutures with the provided peri-bottle and soap once daily.¡± So far, she¡¯d only followed the last two. The idea of going on walks in this heavy, humid cold, let alone the ordeal of putting on a coat, frankly scared her. She kicked at the crinkly thing again, nudging it out from under the bed with her toe. It was another matter entirely to kick it up onto the bed. ¡°Ah,¡± she said in recognition. ¡°It¡¯s you.¡± The package was wrapped in a rough, crinkly brown paper¡ªthe old fashioned kind¡ªand tied with a yellow ribbon that looked fresh from the Vietnam war. Over the last two years, it should have collected a layer of dust, but it was as crisp and tidy as the day Mrs. Kettleburn had gifted it to her. Rose gently lifted the soft package to her chest. The faint, earthy scent of leaves, and spices, and baked bread still clung to the paper. Rose couldn¡¯t say for certain what had really happened the last day she saw Mrs. Kettleburn and Louise, but what she did know for certain was that those two women had been part of the warmest parts of her childhood, and that right now, she would give quite a lot to have that warmth again. Careful not to tear the paper more than necessary, she pulled the ribbon loose. Out tumbled the practical folds of a blue day dress, though Rose had no idea if the size would still suit. It was ordinary and sensible in every way, from the plain, timeless tea-cut to the handmade buttons on the front. ¡°Why this?¡± Rose wondered aloud, and immediately regretted it. Forming words made her lungs and throat ache. After so much time, an irrational part of her had hoped what everyone hopes when receiving a mysterious gift: that it would be the answer to a question she couldn¡¯t answer, or the solution to something impossible, or that it would solve the aching, wishing need in her to find direction through all of this pain. But no. It was a dress, nothing more. Something to make a little girl feel a little better about the goodbyes, and the lack of responses to her letters. At least its scent still had memory. Dejected, she gave the package¡¯s paper another feeble shake, not hoping for much, when a crisp folding card tumbled out, tied with the same-color ribbon. Ignoring the stabbing sensation that shot up her arm when she moved too quickly, Rose snatched it up, drinking in the familiar old fashioned way Mrs. Kettleburn looped the letters in her name. Rosie Dear, I know your tricks. Steamed at us as you might be after these last few days, you won¡¯t stay away forever. Don¡¯t be a stranger. It¡¯s what the master would have wanted. Wear the dress when you decide to visit the house. Fabric like this will keep you from what roams beyond sight, and carry that pocketknife George thinks you don¡¯t use to get into the sugar larder when he isn¡¯t looking¡ªyou never know when someone will try to take you somewhere you don''t mean to go. Rose stopped then, and glanced at the dress. As far as she could tell, it was ordinary starched cotton. Just how young had Mrs. Kettleburn thought she was to believe that sort of thing? And her tiny little two inch knife? She hadn¡¯t seen it in ages. Annoyed but desperate for comfort, she kept reading. Remember your promise to the master: you are never to linger past dark, not for curiosity, not for anything at all. Wear the dress. Stay in the light. Shadows are always full of the dickens anyway. Don¡¯t waste tears on us old ladies. In this life or another, you¡¯ll see us again. Mind your manners, and keep your corners tidy, Aggie Kettleburn Tears pricked the corners of Rose¡¯s eyes, but for some reason, even in the privacy of her own room, she didn¡¯t let them fall. It was so short, so unsatisfactory, so very¡­. her. For a handful of moments, however brief, it had felt like Mrs. Kettleburn was there in the room with her once more, and had gone again. ¡°You can handle pain,¡± Rose muttered to herself sternly. ¡°This is just¡­more of it. You¡¯re not dead. You¡¯re not dying. Even if you were, it might not stick, so breathe¡ª¡± That was as many words as she could get out before needing to reach again for water. But, even as she sipped, she could feel the lie washing away. Part of her had died, and it was yet to be discovered just how much. Would her muscles ever heal enough to be competitive again on a stage, let alone above one? Could she ever regain the trust of her colleagues after a mistake like that? Could she even look them in the eyes? And her face¡­. She didn¡¯t even know what she looked like anymore, and¡ª ¡°That¡¯s enough of that,¡± she said aloud, the memory of Kettleburn¡¯s sensibility fresh in her head. ¡°You won¡¯t go there¡ªnot unless you have to. I¡¯m¡ªI¡¯m going on a walk.¡± Feet still on the floor, it was easier this time to pry herself away from the blankets. She seized the closest piece of clothing¡ªthe dress, and put it on over the bandages. It buttoned in the front, so she could actually get the thing on without too much trouble, and instead of being too small, it was a size or two too big, warm, and smelled of starch, practicality, and memories. Perfect. Putting her feet into her slippers¡ªbecause bending over to tie her shoes sounded like agony¡ªshe rummaged in her desk for some plastic sheets and tape. There was more to fix than just herself, and it was time¡ªshe should have done this ages ago. Slowly, gingerly, and praying she wouldn¡¯t have to talk to anyone on the way, she tottered down the stairs, out the door, and across the lawn¡ªfarther than she had since the incident¡ªand only stopped a minute when the rusty latch at the back gate to Dross Manor refused to be pried open by anything short of a rock. Paul, George, and Clinton would have had a fit over the state the realtors had let the back garden fall into. The ivy had taken the absence of the gardener¡¯s shears as permission to take over the porch, the windows, and several of the flower bushes like some great choking, creeping monster. Wild grasses and morning glory sprouted between the cobbles and dotted untended flower beds. The old fountain had grown a crack or two, and was inhabited by a pile of birds¡¯ nests. An oozy green puddle formed in its base from the drizzly rain that smelled like rose leaves, brambles, and swamp. ¡°Nngh, so uneven¡­¡± Rose groaned, stepping heavily on the knobbled cobblestone path. It was incredible how many things used core muscles and lungs: things like walking, balancing, and staying warm. A few weeks ago, even years ago if she thought she wouldn¡¯t get caught, Rose would have climbed the wall, and run along the backs of the statues to get to the house. She could have gone in through the side windows, the porch dumbwaiter, the roof, if she¡¯d pleased. Now, even taking the main path was a struggle, with nothing but the overgrown, flowerless rose bushes for company. She glared at the bushes. ¡°You lot are the only ones I didn¡¯t miss,¡± she scolded them. ¡°Thorny jerks.¡± As if in response, the rain suddenly began to pick up. Bitter wind rolled in in force, stinging at her bandages. She tucked the tape and plastic paper protectors into a fold of her dress and tried to hobble faster. ¡°Come on; come on!¡± She hustled to the back door to the kitchen, a place so familiar it hurt, and turned the knob. Stuck. Frustrated, she shoved her frozen hands into the dress pockets, where she found something small and hard waiting for her. She pulled the little thing out, and blinked at her old knife. ¡°So that¡¯s where you went,¡± she muttered. ¡°Thieving old cook¡­¡± Her fingers fumbled at first, stumbling over the old motions, but once she had the little saw implement in the keyhole, the latch popped like it always had, and the door swung in. Rose stumbled in with it, pushed by another icy gust. ¡°Brutal,¡± she grumped at it, closing the door tight behind her. Mrs. Kettleburn¡¯s kitchen was¡­ well, it looked the same. The antique stove sat sterile and clean in the corner by the pot rack with its copper pots and pans. The slatted wooden ceiling had been dusted and wiped down by someone who didn¡¯t know how to do it, probably in an effort to sell the old place. The smell of Kettleburn¡¯s baking and the sound of her scolding was gone, making the room somehow a different one altogether. It¡¯s like seeing that body, she thought morbidly. The shell was there, but the soul was simply gone. Already tired, and starting to shiver¡ªwhich she absolutely did not want to do¡ªRose tipped her way forward and left the room behind, heading for the upper parlor. As long as the servants hadn¡¯t packed the hook with them, she could pull down the attic stairway and fix the window Connor had broken before the elements did too much damage. Plastic and tape weren¡¯t a long-term solution, but it would be enough until she could report it to the realtors¡­.if they even cared about that sort of thing anymore. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. When the house had first been vacated, there had been a stream of wealthy buyers who paraded across the driveways and through the home, and nearly every single one had made an offer. However, to the realtors¡¯ great puzzlement¡ªfor there had been several¡ªevery single one of the buyers pulled their offers out at the last minute, or suddenly had massive financial, or went missing entirely, if the police reports were to be believed. Eventually, the ¡®for sale¡¯ signs had blown over, and had simply never been replaced. Even so, Rose couldn¡¯t bear watching the old place fall into even more disrepair. If the rain didn¡¯t do it, then mice or bats certainly would. She passed over the faded hallway carpet¡ªold, but oddly clean, through the front foyer, and up the windy stairs, leaning heavily on her good side to get herself up. The green carpeted stairs had been replaced with red in an attempt to make the place more marketable, but had only succeeded in making the manor less homey, and more abandoned-castle-of-Dracula. Master Dross¡¯s pictures had been taken off the walls, making the hallways at the top of the stair seem longer and draftier. The drafts seemed to catch at Rose¡¯s ankles, pushing her forward down the way, past the large sitting room, past the old Master¡¯s office, where she paused, but did not stop, and finally into the informal sitting room, where the square cutout in the ceiling marked the attic staircase. ¡°Now if I could just find that hook¡­¡¯ ¡®Wonder if the lighting still works.¡± Rose muttered, holding her hands against her ribs as she marched slowly around the sheet-draped furniture. ¡°Where did Louise leave it?¡± ¡°You¡¯re¡­not supposed to be here.¡± Rose froze where she had been reaching behind a couch, and turned as quickly as she could without pulling something. If there were intruders in the house, she¡¯d never been in worse condition to defend herself¡­but the man in the sitting room doorway didn¡¯t look like a threat. He was a portly, balding man with a twitchy mustache, and, of all things, a monocle. He wore a middle-class suit, and old but well-polished shoes, the expensive kind that last for decades if you care for them right. A worn notebook and capped fountain pen peeked from his vest pocket, covered in worry marks that matched the deep-set wrinkles in his forehead. ¡°I¡ªGeorge?¡± she gasped, knowing, almost as she said it, that she was wrong. Master Dross¡¯ butler, George, had hardly been able to move, let alone stride sternly into a room and make all of his 5 feet seven inches as imposing as the man before her. ¡°I don¡¯t recall us being introduced,¡± not-George snapped. ¡°As I said. You are not supposed to be here.¡± ¡°What is it, Gearson, what¡¯s the fuss? Is it an intruder? An attacker? Another of those wonderfully skittish purveyors of estate¡ªAH!¡± Into the room leapt a second elderly gentleman, around the same age as the first, though they were nothing at all alike excepting the choice of suit jacket. He wore a much older style of pants, and boots that would have been at home in the middle ages. His mustache was far longer, and accompanied by a goatee reminiscent of an actual goat. He came to a full stop beside Gearson when he saw Rose, jaw agape. Beside Gearson, the newcomer was somehow hazy, which was the best word Rose could come up with to describe him. He had less color than anything else in the room, which was saying a considerable amount, considering that everything in the room not bolted to the walls was covered in sheets. ¡°You most certainly are not supposed to be here, young lady. You are early,¡± he exclaimed with equal vigor. ¡°Yes, Didymus, we¡¯ve established that already. Miss Rose here has trespassed before her time,¡± Gearson snapped. It was Rose¡¯s turn to balk. ¡°How do you know my name?¡± ¡°Why, it¡¯s all in the instructions, my dear!¡± Didymus flashed her an enormous mile, and bowed. ¡°However, Gearson is correct, we didn¡¯t expect you for another year at least! I say it¡¯s fate!¡± She shook her head, rattled. Her breathing had already been coming in short, but the surprise was too much. She sank into one of the sheet-covered chairs, staying perched on the very edge in case she needed to run, and by some miracle was able to. ¡°No one was supposed to be living here,¡± she said as calmly as possible. ¡°I¡¯m very sorry for trespassing, I actually only came to fix the broken window upstairs.¡± ¡°Technically, no one is living here.¡± Gearson rolled his eyes. ¡°You were heading for the attic?¡± Didymus cried. ¡°Oh, do pipe down, you old fuss. Look at her. You really think she¡¯d have made it up those rungs?¡± ¡°It is impolite to remark on the state of a lady come to render a service to the house!¡± Didymus replied, placid a hand over his breast pocket in dramatic offense. ¡°Regardless¡­¡± Gearson remarked, turning the conversation back to Rose. ¡°You said that no one is living here. Are you guests? I had no idea the house had sold.¡± ¡°We should simply be transparent with her,¡± Didymus said firmly. ¡°Oh, speak for yourself, you wastrel shade,¡± Gearson groaned. ¡°No, Miss Rose. No one has truly ¡®lived¡¯ here for a century. At least, not in the traditional sense.¡± Rose twitched in her seat, and winced. ¡°I think you¡¯re mistaken. There were tennants only three years ago, and you¡ª¡± ¡°What my fussy colleague means to say is that the living rarely have a place in this home,¡± said Didymus grandly. Rose gasped. Was that a threat? Her legs tensed, not ready to run, but¡­ready to try. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t put it like that!¡± Gearson snapped curtly. ¡°And don¡¯t interrupt! It¡¯s rude.¡± ¡°Oh alright,¡± Didymus waved him off. ¡°We¡¯re dead, dear. Don¡¯t worry, not like a poltergeist or a mean specter. Honestly, eternity is far too long to spend unsettled.¡± She would have laughed had she the breath. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ dead. You?¡± ¡°As daffodils in fall!¡± Didymus declared. ¡°As in¡­ deceased?¡± she clarified unnecessarily. ¡°Yes, yes,¡± Gearson said wearily, and to prove his point, lifted a hand and passed it right through Didymus¡¯ skull. Rose shrieked and leapt to her feet, and promptly fell right back down, heart beating a painful rhythm in her chest. If she hadn¡¯t taken her meds before she¡¯d left, she might have blacked out entirely from the pain. As it was, she was seeing spots again, and was no longer sure it was just ibuprofen in those pills. Gearson remained unimpressed. ¡°We¡¯re dead. I am a ghast. He is a ghost¡ªand you¡¯re not supposed to be here.¡± ¡°He is always aghast, you¡¯ll come to see,¡± Didymus snickered, unfazed by Gearson¡¯s ire, and his hand having passed through his brains. ¡°As I said,¡± Rose gasped, pointing at the door weakly. ¡°I was just going to fix the broken pane in the attic, and then¡ª¡± ¡°And you¡¯re especially not supposed to be THERE,¡± Gearson interrupted, despite it being ¡®rude.¡¯ ¡°Don¡¯t be hasty, Gearson,¡± Didymus mumbled in a stage whisper, leaning to Gearson¡¯s side as though she couldn¡¯t hear them. ¡°The seals are already leaking. Perhaps her being here is a notice to move up the timeline.¡± Gearson shook his head, his wrinkles furrowing. ¡°Absolutely not. It doesn¡¯t change the plan. It doesn¡¯t change our instructions.¡± ¡°And what instructions did the master give for an escalation in the timeline? None. It seems self-evident.¡± ¡°I said no! The complications that could have! The ramifications! The ripples! Certainly no guarantee of success!¡± Rose cleared her throat, a difficult thing to do, but her attempts to interject went unheard. She had questions. Oh, so many questions, but if these men weren¡¯t truly here, or were the result of some ibuprofen-induced hallucinations, then they couldn¡¯t answer them. At least they couldn¡¯t hurt her¡­right? One thing that was for sure, was that she no longer felt up to climbing into the attic and fixing that pane. ¡°Right now, she could never hold up to the rigors.¡± Didymus shot her a furtive look that¡­saw more than it should. ¡°Perhaps she is slightly the worse for wear.¡± ¡°Slightly? Poor thing looks like they dropped a piano on her!¡± ¡°Tosh. That¡¯s an insult to pianos everywhere.¡± ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said. ¡°Well she knows now. So what do we do?¡± ¡°There¡¯s only one decent thing TO do¡ª¡± ¡°Excuse me,¡± she repeated as loudly as her bruised lungs would allow. The sutures on her ribcage tugged nastily at the effort, and she willfully ignored them. ¡°I¡¯m just going to leave, and you can carry on your merry haunting undisturbed. I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve noticed, but I won¡¯t be solving any unfinished business, or going on any quests to settle the souls of the damned. I¡¯m¡­. broken. So, inform your master that I can¡¯t do¡­whatever it was that your instructions were for.¡± Gearson gave her an appraising look as she pushed herself very slowly to her feet. ¡°Are you saying that you are not Miss Rosalie Clara Cible?¡± She winced. Even the circus staff didn¡¯t know her full name. ¡°Well, I am, but, I¡¯m also¡­not. I can¡¯t do anything anymore. Even mending the window was a bit of a stretch if I¡¯m being honest.¡± ¡°Yes, you seem somewhat bent out of shape, but that can be mended,¡± Didymus announced with a wide grin, ¡°Mended?¡± She rasped out a laugh. ¡°I died.¡± ¡°Us too! You don¡¯t have to get all melodramatic about it,¡± Gearson huffed. ¡°Of the three of us, you¡¯re the only one who¡¯s managed to come back, my dear!¡± ¡°Yes, well. It didn¡¯t stick,¡± she said. ¡°A marvelous quality! Truly admirable,¡± Didymus regarded her with open respect. It was a look that she was unused to receiving. ¡°You can¡¯t fix this,¡± she said quietly. Gearson blinked. ¡°You sure that¡¯s your name? And given up already?¡± ¡°All things can be mended for the right price, dearie,¡± said Didymus, his mustache dipping jauntily with every word. ¡°When your time comes, it is simply here! You need to have something to wager if you want to be able to afford a permanent solution. Gearson, what would you say to a spot of preparation, hm? We cannot meddle, but we can surely assist? Seize the day! For life is never guaranteed, as they say!¡± ¡°Oh, do they?¡± Gearson asked dryly, dusting his monocle it disdainfully on one shoulder. ¡°Forgive me if I¡¯m a century or two out of touch with life.¡± ¡°Then it¡¯s settled!¡± Didymus clapped his hands with such fervor that the sheets on the chairs to either side of the entryway ruffled in a non-existent breeze. ¡°You¡¯ll take practical lessons with me, and¡ª¡± Rose didn¡¯t like the sound of that. ¡°What did you mean when my time comes?¡± ¡°Didymus, you morbid nincompoop,¡± Gearson growled. ¡°He means until time comes for you to be healed completely, and begin your journey¡ªnot run off to a premature demise. Really!¡± He sniffed. ¡°But of course!¡± Didymus cried, as though nothing was wrong. ¡°And you will take singing with Gearson here. Quite the tutor, he is! Outdid all the governesses in his day.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡­If you¡¯d caught me a few weeks ago, I¡¯d have loved that idea, but¡­I¡¯m just not in any shape for that anymore¡­¡± Without further goodbyes, she walked for the doorway, right for Didymus. If a ¡®ghast¡¯ could put a hand through him, then surely he didn¡¯t stand much chance of blocking her exit. Before she could test that theory; however, Didymus reached out and took her arm in a show of support. It wasn¡¯t cold, or even solid, as she expected, rather a faint warmth, a fraction of what a living being might have had, radiated from his hand. More importantly, the moment his ghostly flesh touched her arm, the pain in her arms, her chest, and even her head vanished as though flung behind a fog. She gasped¡ªthe first free breath she had that month. It wasn¡¯t just the physical pain that was gone. The regret, the unsurety, the painful ache of missing the old staff of this place, all of it fled. ¡°Oh¡­¡± she said clearly, taking another breath of sweet, untainted air. ¡°Oh, wow.¡± ¡°I promise you, Miss Cible,¡± Didymus said brightly, gaze adrip with a sincerity that gripped her soul. ¡°I promise. It can get better.¡± ¡°How did you do that?¡± she breathed, as deeply as she could. ¡°Thank you.¡± Didymus shook his head, the prongs of his mustache drooping with regret. ¡°I am no magus. I am a lowly vassal of the house. This effect will only last until you step foot from this place. Although I cannot fix you permanently, I can prepare you to be so if you can manage to trust us. After all, the Master did leave you in our care¡­we have failed you already, so it seems.¡± Rose glanced from Gearson to Didymus. This could all be a dream, but even her dreams had not been so wonderfully pain-free, or so intimately, poignantly real. ¡°Who are you?¡± Didymus smiled, lifting his moustache to new heights. ¡°Why, I am Thaddeus Bertrum Dorain Didymus, butler to the manor, head of guest entertainment, supervisor of household events, and descended from a steep line of nobility! At your service, my lady!¡± He actually bowed. ¡°Steep, meaning inbred,¡± Gearson muttered, then said louder: ¡°I¡¯m George Gearson. House steward. Either name will suffice. We¡¯re servants of the master of the house. Bound to his will, and all that. You¡¯ll be seeing us more often, then. I suppose.¡± He glared at Didymus, apparently succumbing to the idea that the ¡®schedule¡¯ was going to be interrupted whether he liked it or not. ¡°Sing, and you¡¯ll regain your capacity. Walk and you will run,¡± Didymus said, stepping back with a flourish. ¡°Return to us at this time tomorrow, and we can hardly fail!¡± ¡°Mr. Didymus. Mr. Gearson,¡± Rose greeted hesitantly. ¡°Then, I¡¯m in your care. If you¡¯ll have me. Only¡­ I really can¡¯t sing.¡± ¡°Hah!¡± Didymus clapped his hands together¡ªtoo loud. ¡°Then there is only upwards to go!¡± Promises, Promises... ¡°We¡¯ll start with tea, as all the best things begin!¡± Mr. Didymus the butler announced, when Rose arrived the next day. Rose had been highly skeptical of coming again, not unconvinced that the whole interaction had been a bread-scented dress and ibuprofen-overdose-induced dream. At last, the curiosity, and the promise of progress and relief that doctor¡¯s couldn¡¯t guarantee got her out of bed, and re-buttoned in her blue dress. Three weeks and the so-called two-week dissolvable sutures were still going strong in some places. So, though she managed to put her hair up in a low ponytail¡ªa new record for range-of-motion. The rain of the blustery Fall season still hadn¡¯t let up. She hustled a little faster than yesterday through the back gate, over the garden weeds and cobbles, until she reached the front door. It seemed rude to go through the kitchen now that she knew there were people not-living here. That is, if they¡¯d been real. Hesitantly, she knocked, and then entered to wait in the foyer as she¡¯d seen other guests do when weather was this bitter, and then yelped. ¡°Ach!¡± she cried at a sharp pain in her ankle. ¡°What was¡ª¡± By the time she brushed her skirt away to look, something had skittered out of sight and into the shadows under the flamingo umbrella stand. Four tiny teeth marks imprinted in her skin, not deep enough to draw blood, but very, very close. ¡°Rats? This time of year?¡± she puffed. Something in the shadows snickered. She was about to throw the umbrella stand to the ground to have a better look at the thing when Mr. Didymus pranced into the room. ¡°Welcome, welcome, Miss Rosalie! Do come in! We have anxiously awaited your return!¡± He greeted her with a gallant bow befitting a noble lady come to call, not a word about her lateness, and not a word about the bandages still covering her face. ¡°Thanks,¡± she said, rushed. ¡°Mr. Didymus, I think you might have rats. I just heard something behind here.¡± She indicated the umbrella stand, and moved toward it, but her pace was still far too slow to beat Didymus. He reached it first, and threw the piece aside to reveal¡ªnothing. No scurrying, no footprints in the corner dust, no glimpse of vanishing tail or feet. ¡°We shall of course keep a wary eye, Miss Rosalie!¡± he declared steadfastly, without a hint of doubt for her claim, which she appreciated. She was already doubting her own senses. ¡°For now,¡± Didymus beckoned her further inside. ¡°For now, I fear that Gearson is fretting fit to burst his suspenders at today¡¯s schedule. Forward march, and all that!¡± Didymus walked her to the formal parlor¡ªthe one Master Dross and Mrs. Kettleburn reserved for upper echelon guests. Some of the furniture had been uncovered for her visit. Green velvet-upholstered armchairs and fainting couches that used to match the carpet sat arranged around a glossy, dark wood baby grand, whose lid was mercifully closed. Odd as it was, Rose knew she would be content never to hear or look at the innards of a piano as long as she lived. The dark gloss of the piano, and subtle detailing on the emerald-green wallpaper glittered in the warm light of the old-fashioned candle sconces on the walls. Twisting gold patterns veined across the paper that Rose had never noticed before, reminding her of wild foliage, and labyrinthine paths. Heavy velvet curtains protected the room against the cold view of outside, the primary lights coming from the sconces, and modest chandelier, covered in round glass baubles shaped like pomegranates and peaches, and other fruits of temptation in the dusty old fashion. A cozy fire burned in the gargoyle¡¯s-head fireplace, and a kettle hung already over the tiny flames in its little decorative wrought-iron claws. Ghosts can light fires, then? Rose wondered inwardly. ¡°We¡¯ll start with tea, as all the best things begin!¡± Didymus announced, when Rose had taken her seat, as far away from the piano as possible. ¡°We absolutely will not, you dolt!¡± Making that proclamation, Mr. Gearson strode through the far wall without so much as a greeting, tapping his pocketbook, and looking generally fussed.¡°Tea is for after singing. I want to get a grasp on where Miss Rosalie¡¯s skill really is without the aid of tea.¡± ¡°Afternoon, Mr. Gearson,¡± Rose said with a petulant, shallow smile. She was still somewhat winded from the stairs, and being winded, like most of everything, hurt. Gearson huffed unsympathetically, and gestured to the piano. ¡°Come along, come along. We have a schedule to keep.¡± Rose did as she was bid, and edged toward the glossy grand, though no closer than was absolutely polite. She doubted very much she¡¯d ever want to touch one of these things again. An annoyed tick of Gearson¡¯s mustache told her that he¡¯d noticed, but he did not comment. Instead, he began barking orders. ¡°We¡¯ll begin in the key of C major, as everyone does. Give me a nice clear tone to match each note. I want to see exactly how far we¡¯ve got to go.¡± It was over quickly, which was the only good thing to be said about the vocal paces Gearson put her through. ¡°Can you not put more power into that note?¡± ¡°I can barely breathe enough to hit that note at all,¡± she said breathlessly. ¡°If you can produce sentences like that, then that¡¯s clearly not true. Try harder,¡± Gearson barked. ¡°Again.¡± The second try through was even shorter. Rose was winded in just a few, very long minutes. Seeming to sense her discomfort, Didymus came to her aid before Gearson could order a third round of torture. "Oh, pish, Gearson! She¡¯s a bit out of practice, that¡¯s all.¡± Gearson scoffed. ¡°OUT of practice? More like never in practice! Again!¡± Before Rose could give it another weak attempt, Didymus did a little flourishing kick, and began to sing her notes, terribly out of tune. If possible, worse than she had. He bellowed. He hollered. He howled. ¡°Shut your trap, Didymus!¡± Gearson snapped at last, slamming the key cover down with an angry crunch of notes. ¡°We¡¯d like to avoid scaring the birds¡ªin Switzerland.¡± Didymus sighed, and draped himself over the back of a piano like a winded damsel. ¡°The voice is the spirit''s herald¡ªone must let it soar! In days of yore, knights would sing from the heart, even when wounded!" Gearson badly disguised his ire by adjusting his monocle, his elbows resting heavily on the piano key cover for a ghost. ¡°Yes, well, those same knights likely had no formal understanding of pacing oneself after a terrible injury, did they now, Sir Didymus? Remind me, how did you die?¡± Didymus¡¯ head popped back up. ¡°Pacing is for tortoises. I do not pace. I peruse! I step! I prowl! I strut!¡± ¡°All the way to a young grave. Tragic.¡± Rose took the time they spent bickering to catch her breath, sinking into one of the green velvet armchairs. ¡°Am I as bad as he was?¡± she whispered to Gearson when Didymus was at the furthest point of his pace. Gearson rose slowly from the piano bench, cleaning his monocle for the dozenth time in a fit of post-mortem agitation. ¡°No. Congratulations. Day one and you¡¯ve managed to become better than a dark-age fog-horn simply by merit of not being able to breathe properly¡­ugh.¡± ¡°You seem stressed, George,¡± Didymus preened, strutting his way back behind the piano an giving the kettle over the clawed fireplace a jaunty poke. He grinned as he gestured to the vessel with an air of victory. ¡°Tea?¡± Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Gearson sighed. ¡°Tea.¡± Didymus made a show of producing a pot and cups from a covered cabinet, and even more of a show of steeping, shredding of leaves and accouterments, and spooning the perfect amount of sugar into a ceremonial bowl. ¡°Help yourself to sugar and the like, Miss Rosalie! Pardon, but we¡¯re fresh out of the fresh ingredients.¡± Didymus announced, handing a delicate shell-blue cup to Rose. ¡°Thank you, but I¡­¡± Rose swallowed, knowing that if she didn¡¯t voice it now, it would be much worse later on. ¡°I despise tea,¡± she said, a little hoarsely. She hadn¡¯t had to sing more than a few minutes at most, but her lungs felt as though she¡¯d asked them to run a marathon. Gearson only snorted at that proclamation, and went about preparing his own cup. ¡°Oh, I¡¯d be very careful with whom you share that information. You¡¯d lose your head in certain circles, and your face in others.¡± ¡°Horrifying,¡± she said politely, knowing full well that¡­she may have already accomplished one of those things. ¡°Quite!¡± Didymus agreed with a smile. ¡°So do try to enjoy it. Most do. Ah to be alive again to drink the refreshment of the home!¡± ¡°Most are¡­. Well, I am not most,¡± Rose said awkwardly, letting the hot cup warm her hands. ¡°No, indeed. Most have learned more self-control,¡± Gearson scolded. ¡°Really girl. Does medicine have to taste good? From the looks of you, do you always go after taste before nutrition? Absolutely not. You¡¯re young. You probably eat those disgusting faux meals, and supplements, and the like.¡± She paused. It was difficult to reconcile the idea of the middle-aged gentlemen, who, now that she considered it, was far older even than that, being aware of vitamin regimens and protein supplements. ¡°I see I¡¯ve struck a chord,¡± Gearson said, producing a packet of berries from within his jacket. ¡°He is a musician,¡± Didymus snickered. Gearson ignored him. ¡°So drink up. None of this will hurt you, and it will do you a world of good¡ªas long as you don¡¯t touch these, but I hadn¡¯t planned on offering.¡± He gestured to a small sachet of dried berries. Rose blanched. ¡°You¡¯re putting nightshade in your tea? That could¡ªcould¡ª¡± ¡°Kill me?¡± Gearson finished dryly. ¡°A truly marvelous garden we cultivate here at the manor,¡± said Didymus, taking a cordial seat across from Rose. He held his cup, wafting gently in the air, not drinking. ¡°That¡¯s not the issue here!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°Wasn¡¯t it?¡± Gearson asked dryly. ¡°We¡¯ll really have to work on your conversational direction. So many lessons¡­ perhaps you were right, Didymus. Oh, do drink while it¡¯s warm. If you¡¯re going to survive a stroll in the elements with Didymus, you¡¯ll need it. Don¡¯t worry. Your cup isn¡¯t poisoned. ¡± ¡°And yours could kill a horse,¡± she shot back. ¡°Several, actually!¡± Didymus added cheerfully. Gearson downed the cup like a monarch taking brandy, and moved to pour himself another. ¡°Drink,¡± he ordered with the same sternness he had ordered her to sing. Slowly, tentatively, she sipped at the cup. A hot, flowery taste filled her mouth, and trickled down her torso as she swallowed. It felt marvelous, and tasted like lightly-purified swamp. She shuddered as it went down her throat, wincing all the while. ¡°So very dramatic.¡± Gearson rolled his eyes, an elegant tipping gesture he made with his head more than his monocled eyes. ¡°But since you¡¯ve obliged I will answer your poorly phrased question. Poison is a spice only lightly tolerated by the living. For the somewhat-less living, it makes things far easier to taste.¡± ¡°Perks of being a ghast.¡± Didymus sighed, swirling his cup. ¡°One can still taste.¡± ¡°I¡­see¡­.¡± she said, forcing another sip. ¡°And you¡¯re feeling alright?¡± ¡°Worried? How kind. We¡¯ll have to cure you of that¡­¡± Gearson said, downing a third cup of tea. ¡°Indeed, it seems we¡¯ll have to cure you of many things. ¡°Slowly but surely!¡± Didymus agreed, then at last, after some silent permission from Gearson, he tapped her shoulder once again, and the relief from the pain settled over her like a warm blanket. ¡°It is easier to do when you¡¯ve had tea,¡± Didymus explained. ¡°I had wanted to start with tea, but¡­ well, you recall.¡± With a sigh of relief, still careful not to disturb the sutures, Rose sank into chair, breathing freely at last. ¡°Thank you,¡± were the first words from her mouth. ¡°Both of you. I understand you¡¯re trying to fix me, but if you don¡¯t mind¡­and I¡¯m certainly not complaining, but why?¡± ¡°Why help you heal? Because it is the only noble course of action to assist a lady in need!¡± Didymus declared. ¡°Because we have instructions, and you¡¯re in no fit state to live through them.¡± ¡°...Right,¡± she said. ¡°You keep saying ¡®instructions.¡¯ What does that mean? Instructions from who?¡± ¡°From whom,¡± Gearson corrected. ¡°And, from the master, of course.¡± ¡°Master Dross?¡± she asked. ¡°Then is he still¡­around? Like you?¡± Hope welled in her, and she couldn¡¯t believe it hadn¡¯t occurred to her immediately upon meeting two real, and semi-tangible ghosts. ¡°I believe Master Dross truly is gone.¡± She didn¡¯t think her heart could ache like that again, but somehow, it did. The only good thing that could be said of the moment was that it had been long enough now, that it was a hollow ache, dispelled quickly by the warmth of the tea. Ignoring the taste, she drank deeply, finishing the cup. ¡°Alright,¡± she accepted at last. ¡°Then why follow the instructions? Why stay here and not go somewhere where ghosts tend to enjoy like¡­like a graveyard, or a battlefield for you, Mr. Didymus, or¡­ or Japan?¡± Gearson snorted. ¡°We¡¯re dead, not insane. We¡¯re not poltergeists, or specters, or shades, or shadows, or any other uncultured, undomesticated thing. Eternity is far too long to spend it unsettled.¡± ¡°Here here!¡± Didymus toasted with his teacup. ¡°Wrist down, you uncultured thing!¡± Gearson scolded. Rose swallowed, unsure if her question would be offensive. ¡°If you¡¯re not unsettled about anything, then why are you¡­ here?¡± ¡°By ¡®here,¡¯ I presume you mean in this drafty old manor, and not traveling the world to the destinations of the very unsettled such as, as you said, Japan.¡± She nodded. Gearson sighed. ¡°I suppose this a conversation you¡¯ll need to have eventually. Another cup?¡± The say he asked wasn¡¯t a question. She accepted, and sipped again, slowly. Her mouth was already full of the flowery, swampy taste. More wouldn¡¯t hurt much. ¡°Unsettled isn¡¯t the same is unbound,¡± Gearson said, as though that should explain everything. Didymus nodded unhelpfully. ¡°Unbound,¡± she prompted. ¡°Ever seen a man without purpose, Miss Rosalie?¡± Didymus sighed over his steaming cup. ¡°Ruffians, vagabonds, vagrants, curs! Quite frankly useless to themselves and society. There is no honor without purpose! It¡¯s no different for ghosts. We are human after all. We make oaths and promises that must be kept! Otherwise all would fall to ruin. Doubtless your past has been rife with stories of just such ghosts.¡± ¡°It has,¡± she admitted. ¡°That is because such specters never last. Most are up and puffed away with the wind, having no tether¡ªno meaning,¡± said Gearson. Didymus moustache twitched over his cup. ¡°Life doesn¡¯t stop simply because you stop breathing, my dear!¡± ¡°For a lot of people it seems to.¡± Gearson waved that notion away. ¡°Yes yes, vagabonds. We¡¯ve discussed this. Some of us seek gainful employment. Oaths and positions¡ªas we have to the master of the house.¡± ¡°People work to get paid. Do ghosts and ghasts even use money? Or is there something else that you need?¡± she asked. Didymus was the one to answer that question, as Gearson had gone oddly focused on his next cup of tea. ¡°Pay,¡± Didymus scoffed. ¡°Such a modern concept! You don¡¯t have careers anymore. You have jobs. Hours in exchange for currency. In my time of breath, we had more than that! We had positions! We in the manor are not employees, we are VASSALS. It¡¯s a different thing.¡± He and Gearson exchanged a look, for once, without squabbling. Gearson gave a subtle nod, and then something shifted in the atmosphere in the room¡ªliterally. Rose¡¯s ears popped with the pressure change, as Gearson downed the last of his tea like a boiling shot, and both of them got to their feet. ¡°What we receive, we have received from the master of time himself,¡± Gearson said, his mustache tilting in a motion of absolute dismissal. ¡°And here we are wasting time, when you could be up and working toward something meaningful. There there, up you get!¡± With that, they ushered her up, and out of the house for the first of many, many walks through the property with Didymus. Of Age ¡°Is this a different path from yesterday?¡± Rose asked, winding arm-in-arm with Didymus, as much as she could be with an old man who kept phazing through her arm. ¡°Quite so, my lady! The hedge maze is¡­ how shall I say? Unpredictable.¡± ¡°You are, how shall I say, bad with directions,¡± she laughed. Her ribcage tensed with the motion, and she waited for the telltale ache that used to follow any hard contraction in her middle, but the pangs came lighter than ever, almost unnoticeable compared to the early Fall weeks after¡­the piano. Now that Winter had fully set in, she managed to avoid the pain completely most days, as long as she kept her breathing shallow enough¡ªa habit that was slowly driving Gearson insane. ¡°Ah, that fresh evening air! Wisteria! Bloodroot! Jessamine! All quite lovely if you¡¯ll take a moment to scent them,¡± Didymus remarked with a sly quirk of his long mustache. Caught. ¡°It¡¯s March. Isn¡¯t it early for all of those? Everywhere else is still dead.¡± Rose deflected, taking a purposeful turn toward the center of the hedge maze. ¡°Death and the manor have a different sort of arrangement than the typical dwelling. However!¡± He announced, turning the conversation as quickly as she had. ¡°¡ªThis is the perfect opportunity to review your lessons on the efficacies of these specimens! Why, here, a PRIME example of conium maculatum¡ªa delicious tea additive if one is dead, or very shortly wishes to be! And here, we have prunus serotina!¡± ¡°Hemlock and wild cherry?¡± ¡°Indeed! The fruit of the serotina can make for a fine preserve, however, the bark, seeds, and leaves all contain cyanogenic compounds which cause respiratory distress!¡± ¡°Delicious jams, or death. What a plant,¡± she said dryly, pulling Didymus away from the flowering tree. ¡°I didn¡¯t know there were trees in the maze¡­ we haven¡¯t come across them before.¡± ¡°They were not in season before!¡± he cried. ¡°Onward! Adventure around every corner, as they say!¡± ¡°Do they?¡± she mused, wandering deeper into the twisting hedges. ¡°Mr. Didymus, I know that the hedge maze looks different in the winter, but I could have sworn that the path was different last week. It¡¯s like there¡¯s more of this maze every time we step in. The property should have run to the end by now. I mean, the manor¡¯s garden is big, but¡­we¡¯ve gone at least a mile north, and then another south.¡± ¡°With all of the winding turns, one can walk for miles, whilst walking nowhere at all!¡± She examined his distant expression. ¡°I¡¯ve accounted for that, actually,¡± she said, eyes narrowing. ¡°Ah, belladonna!¡± Didymus greeted the purple-berried wall of shrubs with a fondness that one might greet an old lover¡ªvery distractible one. ¡°A relaxant, sedative, anti-inflammatory, antihistamine!¡± ¡°Hard to sneeze if you¡¯re dead,¡± Rose agreed. ¡°Mr. Didymus, how many of the plants out here are poisonous?¡± ¡°Why, all of them, if used correctly! Shall we collect some for Gearson¡¯s tea? The man certainly can burn through a stash, if you know what I mean.¡± That brought to mind the memory of Gearson¡¯s mustache on fire the last time he¡¯d tried to roast his own coffee blend. The man could keep a flawless schedule, but cook, he could not. ¡°I thought you told me not to touch nightshade, Didymus.¡± ¡°Ah-HAH! So she does listen!¡± Rose sighed. ¡°I do listen. Which is why I¡¯d love to know why you¡¯re dodging my questions about the maze.¡± Didymus was quiet a moment¡ªfor him, quite the feat. She waited, knowing that he would pounce on any chance for a distraction. Stubbornly, she wandered next to him in silence. The green leaves of the hedges sprawled in twisting paths under the drippy layers of the last snow. Oleander bushes, heavy with early buds lined some pathways, already fragrant enough to mask the swampy bayou scent that blew in every spring. Under the pattering of her footsteps on the cobbles, the sounds of the bayou drifted through the hedges¡ªthe buzz of insects woken too early, and the low croak of frogs. She steered them farther into the maze, letting her curiosity guide them as far away from the manor as they¡¯d ever gone. Against all reason, the hedges were getting taller, the shadows longer, and shiftier. Faint whispers and scurrying could be heard just beyond the darkest part of where the brush met the ground. Without noticing, she began to walk faster, her feet carrying her toward the voices, pulled by something she couldn¡¯t understand, until the telltale warmth of Didymus¡¯ hand clamped down on her shoulder. ¡°The shadows grow long, and my ears already hurt from the lecture we will have from Gearson when we come back late.¡± Rose sighed, moving again toward the voices, but Didymus¡¯ hand was firm¡ªnot corporeal, but firm. ¡°The maze¡ªno, the Labyrinth, is a place of in-betweens, where the rules of this world and the next¡­ bend.¡± He brushed the other hand over his mustache in a familiar motion. She recognized his answer for what it was, and accepted the offer. She turned around and let Didymus point her back toward the manor¡ªas well as he could with his sense of direction. She slowed her steps until he continued talking. ¡°There are creatures in it that love to be followed, but do take caution, Miss Rosalie. The master used to say the labyrinth knows the steps of those who tread its paths, and even enjoys toying with those who run it¡ªnot that this is the true labyrinth, but wander in it long enough, and even I don¡¯t know where it will lead.¡± Rose snorted. ¡°You don¡¯t know where it will lead, now. This is a left, by the way.¡± ¡°You¡¯re quite¡­.sure¡­¡± They took a left, a right, and then two more lefts. The spire towers of Dross manor were already close. ¡°You have a gift, Miss Rosalie,¡± Didymus said sincerely. ¡°Thank you,¡± she sighed, deciding that nothing she asked Didymus would give her a straight answer¡ªapparently even when he was trying. Once trimmed and trained, the overgrown garden was still beautiful in its ruin, pulsing with the lush, intrusive life of the bayou. Spring had coaxed every vine, flower, and leaf into full, riotous bloom, transforming the garden into a lush cornucopia of poison against the icy backdrop of the rest of the stree. Towering oaks draped with thick, silvery Spanish moss loomed over the garden, twisting above nightshade bushes and yellow angel trumpet. Monkshood had taken the lack of a formal gardener as permission to bloom beneath the wisteria and aconite flowers. Didymus had regaled her on multiple occasions about their uses in tinctures, healing, and, most disturbing of all, tea. The old fountain waited before the back porch, filled thawing ice and scum. Dark lilies floated on its surface, deep burgundy petals like velvet, and in bloom months too early in the chilled evening air. Without the hedges¡¯ protection from the wind, the gusts caught the hem of her blue dress and peacoat. She huddled into the coat, missing, not for the first time, the manor in days when she¡¯d known it. However, even then, it hadn¡¯t been in its prime. ¡°What was the manor like, back when it wasn¡¯t so¡­ quiet?¡± she asked as they meandered through the last of the shrubbery. That, at least, Didymus had no qualms answering. ¡°There were grand dinners, exquisite musicians, and chatter at all hours from every room,¡± he said wistfully. ¡°The master had guests from all corners of the world¡ªscholars, performers, even the occasional priest!¡± That pricked something in her memory. ¡°I think I remember the cook saying that he wasn¡¯t allowed to be buried in hallowed ground. Where was Master Dross buried?¡± ¡°AHAHAHAHA!¡± Didymus barked a laugh that shook his mustache and rattled the leaves of the chokecherry trees as they passed beneath them. ¡°Nay, he was not, indeed! Entirely his fault, of course. As to his precise location, Miss Rosalie¡ªdrag your feet, or threaten me with a brand of fire, that is one tidbit that I cannot tell.¡± ¡°Fire hurts ghosts?¡± Rose asked, curious. Gearson threw open the back kitchen door with prejudice just as they reached the house. ¡°Of course it does! Wouldn¡¯t it hurt you? You two are late! Late!¡± ¡°Come come, you old fuss. There¡¯s two hours til sunset at least!¡± Gearson snarled. ¡°You are a century and a half older than I. One would think that you¡¯d have had ample opportunity to come to grasps with the concept of time!¡± Rose snickered quietly at them. ¡°And you, young lady!¡± She hid her smile behind the collar of her peacoat as Gearson turned the force of his wrath on her. ¡°Don¡¯t think I don¡¯t know who¡¯s at fault for Didymus¡¯ late arrival! The man couldn¡¯t steer a hay cart down a twenty-inch road!¡± ¡°As if anyone would need to steer a hay cart,¡± Didymus muttered. ¡°I heard that!¡± Gearson snapped. ¡°Well?¡± Rose tapped a foot behind her sheepishly. ¡°And no fidgeting! I thought we¡¯d broken you of that months ago!¡± She straightened. ¡°Apologies, Mr. Gearson. But we did set a new record for distance. And, no pain outside the manor this time. It felt¡­ free.¡± She smiled. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed the sight of that¡­softened Gearson a degree. ¡°I see. Well, since you seem to be so completely recovered, you can give me the upper register exercises twice over this evening¡ªnot that we have much time left for them before sunset!¡± Didymus cleared his throat. ¡°Aren¡¯t you forgetting something, George?¡± Mr. Gearson harrumphed. ¡°I¡¯m forgetting nothing! Hurry up!¡± Neither of them chastised, Rose shared a grin with Didymus behind Gearson¡¯s back, and followed him along the familiar route to the upper formal sitting room. Gearson stomped over to the piano¡ªor, he would have, had his footsteps made any noise, and began putting Rose through her paces before she¡¯d even reached her position at the side of the instrument. ¡°There is a difference between strength and strain, girl! If you force that note from your neck one more time, I¡¯ll throw this metronome through your gullet to remind it of its job!¡± Rose adjusted her breathing, against her instincts, to lower in her lungs and stomach. The places of the most pain in the early days, she still winced when she used them, even if most of the discomfort was gone when she was warm. ¡°Higher, Rose! Such tone! Such expression! Let your voice pierce the veil between this world and the next!¡± ¡°Didymus, when I want an idiot¡¯s opinion on music I¡¯ll spend a night at the symposion for town fools and at least bother to drum up more than one.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have you know, my internal resonance is as finely tuned¡ª¡± ¡°Didymus, you couldn¡¯t carry a tune if it came with a handle and instructions. Go and get the sazerac, would you? And bourbon.¡± To Rose¡¯s surprise, Didymus went, but if Gearson thought he could get her to drink tea, and bourbon, he had another thing coming. ¡°Rose!¡± She snapped to attention. ¡°Take it from the third bar again, and this time, precision! Every tone must be as exact as the ticking of a clock. From here on, you are banned from vibrato of any sort. I want your tone perfect before you start hiding under bad habits.¡± Rose didn¡¯t waste breath arguing, and did the segment again. And again. And again, until at last the fussy man decided that they¡¯d both had enough. ¡°That was¡­ acceptable,¡± he said eventually. Rose could have glowed. It was the highest praise he¡¯d ever given. Didymus chose that moment to enter the room, the usual tea tray clattering with cups and pot, and an assortment of glass bottles. ¡°Ah! Our girl never fails to bring joy to my heart and a tear to my eye! Lovely! Simply lovely!¡± he cried. Gearson immediately retreated from his praise, closing the piano cover with a snap. ¡°Well, she certainly brings tears to my eyes. That might have been passable in a barn.¡± ¡°Find me a barn!¡± Rose spun around and crowed, fist in the air. ¡°Gearson says I¡¯m passable!¡± ¡°Among livestock! Not¡ªoh, fine! I suppose Didymus counts.¡± She and Didymus both had a good chortle as Gearson harrumphed his way into his preferred sitting chair, right in front of the gargoyle-headed fireplace. Didymus made his usual show of fetching the kettle from the goblin claws over the fire, and filling the kettle¡ªthis time with livestock impersonations behind Gearson¡¯s back. Rose clamped her jaw shut trying not to give him away, and failed. ¡°Is my mustache crooked, girl? Or is Didymus as a chicken really that surprising to you?¡± Rose finally let the snickering come through in force. ¡°You can see without looking?¡± she asked, breathless. ¡°I simply know my colleague,¡± Gearson retorted. ¡°Didymus, this isn¡¯t bourbon, this is brandy.¡± He picked up a molded glass bottle and shook it at the man as he took his own seat, across from himself, and next to Rose. ¡°It is a butler¡¯s duty to anticipate needs before they arise!¡± Didymus declared as he plucked the bottle from Gearson¡¯s hands and poured it, not into a glass, but right into his teacup. ¡°This is not how one serves brandy,¡± Gearson growled. ¡°And yet, there¡¯s no getting it back into the bottle,¡± Didymus sighed tragically. ¡°So you were planning on irritating me from the start. At least its reassuring that some forethought goes into this household¡­¡± ¡°For you, Miss Rosalie?¡± Didymus offered the brandy bottle while Gearson¡¯s mouth was full, which, she suspected, was also on purpose. ¡°Oh, I jest!¡± he chortled when Gearson choked. ¡°But surely a little wouldn¡¯t hurt! After all! Today our lady is of age!¡± ¡°Eighteen isn¡¯t quite old enough for that, here,¡± Rose smiled, grateful for the excuse. It didn¡¯t matter how expensive the drink was¡ªit still smelled like old dog to her. ¡°And how did you know?¡± In place of brandy or tea, Didymus produced a bottle of corner-store apple juice, pouring her a full cup. Rose sighed with relief. Not forced to drink tea or anything that had been fermented in a barrel for a decade was the sort of birthday offering she could appreciate from these two. ¡°But of course we knew! That lovely light that shifts in a young woman of age is tell enough!¡± Gearson rolled his eyes, and poured himself another teacup of strong-smelling liquor. ¡°It was on your hospital paperwork,¡± he gruffed, although with less ire than before. ¡°Eighteen¡­¡± Rose leaned back into the velvet chair¡¯s stuffed backing, enjoying every moment. ¡°Not where I thought I¡¯d be right now¡­¡± ¡°Where did you think you¡¯d be?¡± On a stage. Flying. Learning. Competing. Free, she thought, before stamping down the bitterness. ¡°Nowhere as magical as here,¡± she said instead. ¡°I never asked¡­You know my age, but how old are you two?¡± It seemed as appropriate a time as any. ¡°Been dead about 300 years. Didymus here, 450,¡± Gearson supplied curtly. ¡°It¡¯s a dead-end job!" Didymus chuckled, eliciting an easily-earned groan from Gearson. ¡°If I didn¡¯t know better from many hard years of experience, I¡¯d say you¡¯d finally managed to go and get drunk, Didymus. Did you pull that comment from a horse¡¯s arse?¡± ¡°From my own, since I am livestock,¡± Didymus said wryly. ¡°And come back to bite me,¡± Gearson groaned. ¡°Back to what¡¯s important,¡± he addressed Rose. ¡°We don¡¯t have as much time to celebrate as we had planned¡ª¡± there, he shot a disdainful glare at Didymus, who toasted in place of a response, ¡°¡ªhowever, we may still manage, and have you out the door by sundown.¡± ¡°Thank you Mr. Gearson,¡± and as the warmth of the chair and fireplace seeped into her, Rose found that she had rarely meant so few words so sincerely. ¡°And Mr. Didymus. Without you both, this last year would have been hellish,¡± ¡°Ironic choice of words¡ª¡± She laughed. ¡°No. no, wait¡ªwhat I mean is, the week of the incident¡ªmy injuries¡ªI didn¡¯t think I¡¯d ever be able to move again. Not really. This is faster than anyone¡¯s ever bounced back from death, I think, and it was thanks to a couple of ghosts¡ª¡± ¡°Technically a ghast¡­¡± ¡°Death is our specialty!¡± ¡°A ghast, and a ghost,¡± she corrected. ¡°But you¡¯re both plenty substantial to me. Thank you for everything. For making me move. For making me whole again¡ªwell, almost,¡± she touched the scar running down her face with a small smile. It could have been worse, she supposed, but now that she was healed enough not to need the bandage, the line running from her brow down to her chin was still an angry red. Gearson sniffed, never one for sentiment. ¡°You talk as if we¡¯ll disappear any moment. The absurdity. And did I not say we have a schedule to keep?¡± Setting down his cup with a decisively smark ¡®clink,¡¯ he snapped his fingers unnecessarily at Didymus, who was already rising to lower the curtains over the chilly sinking sun. ¡°There, now we won¡¯t be blinded. Or worse, transparent,¡± Gearson said, shuddering. ¡°Now. The gifts we give you won¡¯t be material, that would go against our very being, but¡­. Taps her forehead. There.¡± ¡°Oh my! Such thought! Such a gift, indeed!¡± Didymus clapped his hands, and began pacing a happy circle around Rose, wearing an expression of mustachioed delight. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Rose neither felt any different, nor could see any difference in herself when she looked at her reflection in her juice. ¡°Thank you, Mr. Gearson, but¡­ I feel the same?¡± ¡°Always the questions,¡± Gearson sighed, a bit dramatically for him, blowing a gust of bourbon scented air her direction. She cringed at the scent. ¡°My gift is an exercise in patience. You will have to wait and see.¡± She nodded, not caring if it was something, or nothing. They¡¯d remembered. They were there. They had cared for her over the course of months. She wouldn¡¯t ask for more. ¡°And from me!¡± Didymus proclaimed, setting a glass bottle in front of her. ¡°Fear not! ¡®Tis simply another bottle of cider! Far better stuff than the shabby corner shop can provide, I assure you,¡± he said with a wink that she didn¡¯t trust. Rose smiled, and set it next to her cup politely. ¡°Now, surely, well, it would be rude to pry, however¡­¡± Didymus said, back to his restless, jumpy pacing. Gearson rolled his eyes. ¡°Didymus, the day you learn not to pry, I can give up the ghost and finally leave affairs in good hands.¡± Rose laughed. ¡°Just ask, Mr. Didymus. I thought we were friends?¡± Didymus actually clicked his heels in excitement. ¡°Well, in that case,¡± he toasted his teacup to her. ¡°As friends, in honor of the occasion, regale us with tales of your suitors! Their names! Birthplaces! Family names! Offers! Was there poetry? Song? Perhaps an instrumental serenade?¡± She stopped, apple juice halfway to her mouth. Then, she set it down so that her laughter couldn¡¯t send the liquid flying. ¡°Suitors? I¡¯m eighteen¡ªI¡¯m not actually¡ªSorry, Didymus, but there really aren¡¯t any. Well, I thought there might have been one, once, but¡ª¡± Rose quickly stuffed those memories down, before the pain could start again. She refused to remember the cirque, and she refused to remember what had happened after. The ¡®friends¡¯ who had never come. ¡°AHAHAHAHAHAHA!¡± Didymus laughed himself to tears. ¡°A lovely jest, my lady. But I do understand if I pry too far¡ª¡± She held up a hand. ¡°You really aren¡¯t prying. I just don¡¯t have any. And I think it¡¯s too early to be thinking about that. And my face¡­¡± ¡°What about your face?¡± Gearson interjected for the first time. Rose gestured to the scar. ¡°Women with scarred faces aren¡¯t really sought after in this century, either.¡± ¡°Preposterous! It¡¯s hardly there!¡± Didymus cried, stopping stock still, and sending his empty hot water splashing onto the rug. ¡°Oh, sit down!¡± Gearson scolded fruitlessly. ¡°Think of the furnishings!¡± ¡°It¡¯s still dark red in the cold,¡± Rose said, before they could get too distracted. ¡°And it¡¯s almost always cold this time of year.¡± It was easy to forget how different she looked when she walked with Didymus in the garden, or when Gearson spent his afternoons trying to mold her lungs back into what they once had been. However, when she wasn¡¯t in the manor, when she was anywhere else, the stares and turning heads still followed her, and never in a good way. ¡°Preposterous! Prep¡ª¡± ¡°If you spout the word ¡®preposterous¡¯ one more time, I¡¯m going to eject you through the window and into the fountain. You¡¯ll smell of swamp and be finding frogs in your pockets for the next month,¡± Gearson promised, grinding nightshade now, not into his tea, but into his bourbon. Didymus, however, was still unwilling to come to terms with what Rose thought was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He stood up, and began his usual agitated pacing, forgetting even to put his glass down. ¡°I am appalled! I am¡­ this is¡ªthis is not to be born! Do the young gentlemen of this generation lack eyes? Are they somehow addled in the head? Is the modern generation plagued with a defect of the skull?¡± ¡°You are addled in the head. Sit down,¡± Gearson snapped, with no real vinegar. He was beginning to look very relaxed sipping his liquor, and the bottle was nearly half-gone. ¡°It¡¯s alright, really, Mr. Didymus,¡± Rose tried to calm him. ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone these days is¡­um¡­as trained as they used to be. There are lots of nice kids my age, but calling them ¡®refined gentlemen¡¯ right now would be¡­very inaccurate.¡± ¡°Surely a squirehood would sort them all out! An apprenticeship, perhaps?¡± Didymus suggested. ¡°I¡¯ll write the school board on your behalf,¡± Rose promised. ¡°More highschool boys should be trying for knighthood, etc. For now, I¡¯m really alright. I¡¯m not interested.¡± ¡°It is not a maiden¡¯s duty to give first interest! It must be sought after! Hunted! WON!¡± Didymus declared. ¡°Oh, how courtship has changed¡­¡± Rose mused, going back to her juice, but Didymus wasn¡¯t done. He began to actively weep into his hands, his sobbing filling the room with a cold, ghostly wail. ¡°Of age! And not a suitor in sight! I simply never imagined things would be so drastic.¡± Rose shot Gearson a pleading look, but he was already glowering at Didymus¡¯ display. ¡°Of age? Maybe for the fourteenth century. ¡°In the here and now, you dolt, she isn¡¯t even of age to drink brandy.¡± Didymus lifted his face from his hands, his mustache soaked with ghostly tears and¡­ other excretions that like to make an appearance when sobbing. ¡°But of course not!¡± he cried, affronted. ¡°It is terrible for the skin, and at her age, she must have every advantage against younger foes in this most perilous of battles!¡± Gearson sighed. ¡°I am going to regret this, but which battle exactly, are you referencing?¡± ¡°Why, the battle to capture a suitor!¡± ¡°Ah, the bitterness of having been right," Gearson rolled his eyes. ¡°We have instructions, Didymus. No meddling.¡± ¡°No meddling? The situation is dire.¡± ¡°It really isn¡¯t,¡± said Rose quickly. Hopping to her feet, she put herself in the path of Didymus¡¯ pacing to ensure she had his full attention. ¡°Sir Didymus, I appreciate the concern, but please please never try to arrange anything like that for me. Ever.¡± ¡°Perhaps it is for the best¡­¡± Didymus stopped his pacing, slopping the rest of the contents of his cup onto the floor. ¡°Oh, please, Didymus, have you no¡ª¡± ¡°She heard the call of the labyrinth again, today,¡± Didymus said, staring at Gearson with what Rose could only describe as a wealth of information. Gearson committed the ultimate teatime sin. He dropped his full teacup on the rug. Quite suddenly, all of his brandy-induced relaxation vanished, replaced with anxiety, and what looked like fear. ¡°You should have told me that before I let you in the house!¡± he explained, throwing himself to his feet. ¡°It is time to fulfill the wish,¡± Didymus insisted. ¡°It is not time, and you know it. We have instructions, Didymus. Does that mean nothing to you? Allow me to elucidate¡ª¡± Before Gearson could begin to recite every encyclopedic reference ever written about the word ¡®instructions,¡¯ Rose committed the second gravest sin of tea time, and interrupted him. "Mr. Gearson, what do you mean about the wish?¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t remember girl, then there¡¯s nothing I could ever do to make anything stick in your head! This close to sunset, and you saw¡ªyou heard¡ªit is no longer enough to get her out of the house before sundown, Didymus, you know that! She needs to be off the property! Out of the gate! Gone! Where they can¡¯t reach her!¡± ¡°What I remember¡­ I¡¯m not sure it was real,¡± she said to Gearson evenly. ¡°And you¡¯re not sure we¡¯re real, either, is that it?¡± he snapped, rounding back on her. Rose stood gingerly, though that much care was no longer needed. She could move well. It had been long enough. Old habits¡­ It was time to switch tactics. ¡°Are these instructions¡­ is that why you¡¯re still tethered here, isn¡¯t it? It¡¯s my fault. I¡¯m keeping you from finding eternal peace? But I am happy. I am satis¡ª" If Gearson had still been holding his cup, he likely would have dropped it again. ¡°How absolutely absurd,¡± he snapped, sharper than usual. ¡°No, don¡¯t you look away from me! Eye contact!¡± he reminded, then added in a more gentle tone. ¡°Miss Rosalie, I would strongly advise ever saying aloud, even by insinuation, that you are satisfied with the terms of the wish of the master, or your own, until it is not only true, but perfectly and absolutely necessary.¡± ¡°But what about you¡ª¡± ¡°Didymus and I, fool-brained as he is, are both completely capable of maintaining an honorable contract, thank-you-very-much! Our continued existence, and ¡®eternal peace¡¯ as you put it, is in our hands, and ours alone. The very notion! Putting our fates in the hands of a fourteen¡ªnow eighteen¡ªyear old girl? The idea!¡± ¡°What are the instructions, then? The contract?¡± Rose asked frustratedly, presenting the question that she asked most often of the two¡ªthat neither were ever willing to explain beyond¡ª ¡°Why, to fulfill the wishes of the master! And your own!¡± Didymus said, cheerily over his undrunk cup. ¡°For you to know him!¡± Gearson shot him a dirty look, but that was at least more information than they usually provided. ¡°You knew Master Dross. Is telling me¡­not enough.¡± ¡°Oh, we knew him alright. Though not by that name, exactly,¡± Didymus supplied. Gearson snorted. ¡°Knew him? The Master was¡­ he was¡­.¡± A pensive, sad look crossed his face ever so briefly, but was quickly replaced by annoyance. Didymus came to Gearson¡¯s rescue, and her own, before he could change the topic. "Ah, but what does it mean to truly ¡®know¡¯ someone, my lady? Perhaps there is more to the wish than you thought? The master had a way of setting things in motion that often made sense only much later.¡± ¡°He also had a penchant for impulsive wastes of magic,¡± Gearson huffed. ¡°His wish granting was often self-serving as well. Which is why, we cannot give him the satisfaction of letting things go off-kilter. We obey. We succeed. We¡¯re done. That¡¯s enough stalling! Both of you, out! I want you off the doorstep an hour ago!¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t here an hour ago,¡± she muttered under her breath. ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°Yes, Mr. Gearson!¡± Rose smiled winsomely, putting every bit of sweetness she could into a formal performer¡¯s bow. ¡°Thank you very much for the celebration, and the company, it was absolutely lovely! It was¡ª¡± ¡°What did I say about stalling?¡± Gearson snapped. ¡°You made a promise, girl. Out before dark. Sun¡¯s on the horizon already, I¡ªdamn! Sun¡¯s on the horizon already! Didymus! Make sure she goes.¡± Didymus snapped to a smart salute that Rose suspected was as much mocking-respect as her gaudy bow, and ushered her from the room. The butler, standing tall and formally dressed, moved with a quiet precision as he guided the way from the upper sitting room, his gloved hand poised a respectful distance from her elbow as always, though she hadn¡¯t stumbled in months. In contrast to Gearson¡¯s frenzied rush, his steps were silent against the grand staircase¡¯s plush runner, and he paused at each turn, allowing her to descend with unhurried elegance. As they neared the front door, he pressed an age-worn hand to his mouth, and coughed, catching the sound before it could escape fully. He wanted to say something, she could tell, but what, or why he wouldn¡¯t was beyond her. There had been something different about today¡ªperhaps it was the new season coming in, but there was the scent of change in the air, and Rose was worried¡ªworried that despite Gearson¡¯s assurances that her concerns were ¡®absurd,¡¯ that one day, she would wake up and everything would be empty. ¡°Do you want to come with me to the gate?¡± Rose didn¡¯t want to end this night alone so soon. Didymus gave her a gentle look. ¡°I fear I cannot, my lady! For, just as you cannot be caught inside the manor past dark, I cannot be caught out.¡± She blinked. ¡°Wait, really? Why?¡± Didymus smiled, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. ¡°A secret for another day.¡± She sighed. ¡°Is everything a secret for another day?¡± ¡°Alas, Gearson is right on one count. We don¡¯t make the rules. We are but humble servants to the master. We cannot¡­tell you anything.¡± The way he said it, the way he looked at her, and the way his mustache and goatee twitched when he said it, made her sure that he was trying to tell her something very important. Unfortunately, she didn¡¯t understand. It wasn¡¯t a riddle he was asking. He was asking her to read between the lines of a text she hardly understood in the first place. ¡°Indeed,¡± Didymus sighed dramatically as he unlatched the front door for her, and held out her coat¡ªmiraculously transported while they were upstairs from the kitchen to the front foyer. ¡°Indeed, we cannot tell you anything. We can only dodder about, talking to¡­ each other.¡± ¡°Mr. Didymus¡ª¡± ¡°Well! That¡¯s that! A happy annual completion to you, my lady! I trust you know the way out the door on your own. I do hope you haven¡¯t forgotten anything in the up and up! Ho!¡± With that suspicious farewell, he nodded to her, his head bobbing in the tiniest of bows. Then, he was back up the foyer stairs, marching around the corner to the upper formal sitting room with the unnatural speed of one to whom gravity was no longer of import, so quickly that a draft followed in his wake, wafting the scent of aged wood and wax through the foyer. Rose stared. Didymus had unlatched the door for her, as he usually did, but he was usually there as she walked out as well, to lock her out¡ªto ensure that there could be no opportunity for her to renege on her promise of three years ago. Behind her, the sinking light of the sun promised that twilight was short on its heels, in the chilly spring air that blew through the cracked doorway, but here she was, still inside¡ªand there was still time. They couldn¡¯t tell her anything, but they could tell each other. There was something that Didymus clearly wanted her to know. And¡­ and she wouldn¡¯t be breaking her promise. She¡¯d promised to never go into the house after dark¡­but she was already here. Leaving the door ajar, Rose turned her feet back up the staircase, careful not to touch anything she didn¡¯t absolutely have to. The last thing she needed was to knock one of the old-framed oil portraits, or dozens of porcelain vases that still decorated every side table in the main hallway. Grateful for the plush carpeting that muffled her footsteps, Rose reached the hall just as Didymus slammed the door on his way in. The sound of clattering tea ups, the covering of furniture, and frustrated drawing of drapes met her ears, until Gearson spoke at last. ¡°Well, Didymus? You have something to say.¡± ¡°Whatever would make you say that, George?¡± There were sounds of him collecting the tea tray. ¡°We¡¯ve only just rudely booted our guest out of home on the eve of a critical milestone in her young life. And why not? We¡¯ve important things to do! Couches whereon to lie about! Chandeliers to dust for the thousandth day in a row!¡± ¡°Oh, stop that!¡± The clattering of tea cups stopped. ¡°You¡¯ve been at this all day, Didymus! Delaying celebrations, foot-dragging, stalling, neglecting to tell me that she heard the call of the labyrinth while wandering through a back-garden hedge maze! You have something to say, Didymus, so spit it out!¡± There was a long pause before Didymus spoke, more serious, albeit just as impassioned, as she had ever heard him. ¡°The first seal is opening. Clearly things are ahead of schedule, and so must we be.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not how things work!¡± ¡°Have you not read them? Have you not seen the dates? ¡°That was years ago! It has no correlation. ¡°The changes started on the day of Miss Rolaie¡¯s alleged incident. You really believe a young woman of her focus would get into such trouble by happenstance? That all of it was an accident?¡± ¡°This is conjecture! She refused to focus for us until you dangled the prospect of fixing her injuries for her right in front of her nose, as the liar you are! You could never fix her permanently. How does that fit into your so-called unimpeachable moral code?¡± ¡°She does not need fixing.¡± Didymus said stubbornly. ¡°She has mended herself!¡± ¡°Have you looked at her? She needs a miracle!¡± Rose flinched. ¡°I am not the one in discussion, Gearson! You¡¯ve seen it, too. The master¡¯s letters are changing. The changes began the day Young miss Rose died. Does that tell you nothing? Something else is at work.¡± ¡°That is conjecture! We have instructions¡ª!¡± ¡°The instructions are changing! We can¡¯t count on anything anymore, especially when we don¡¯t know what¡¯s forcing the changes! ¡°And your grand solution is to rush in blind? We don¡¯t have the paperwork ready. We don¡¯t have the arrangements. We don¡¯t have her letter!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you care about the girl? About what she¡¯s become? She is miserable! Broken, Suitorless!¡± ¡°You and the damnable suitors. What is paperwork and food and shelter to the damnable suitors? And did you not only just say that she has fixed herself?¡± Gearson¡¯s tone was mocking. Rose had heard him scold before. She was nearly always on the receiving end of it, but never before had she heard him so cold. Unaffected, Didymus scoffed. ¡°Have you been dead so long you¡¯ve forgotten what it is to be young?¡± ¡°I have an example of idiocy at my beck and torment daily! How can I forget?¡± Didymus snorted. ¡°Well, you question dodgering cad?¡± ¡°Well, what? ¡°Do you not care?¡± ¡°I care about our contract! Do you know what we lose if we break it? We lose all guarantee of success¡ªpart of which, I might remind you, is our young protege surviving this mess! We both know she won¡¯t choose this path! She would never go the route of eternal lingering, even if you do think you have her charmed by your walks, and your stories, and your prattling which ALL are perilously close to breaking contract, if I might remind!¡± ¡°The girl needs instruction!¡± ¡°Then provide it! Give her something useful, and give her the time to absorb it! Good god, the girl only just started moving well again. You really think she¡¯s ready for the academy¡¯s seals?¡± ¡°We are out of time!¡± Didymus argued again. ¡°That is not your call to make!¡± There was a very long pause on the other side of the door. Rose could practically hear the seconds tick, tick, ticking away. It was nearly dark. She should go¡­ And then Didymus spoke at last: ¡°Indeed it is not. It is hers.¡± ¡°It is¡­ It is what?¡± There was a sound of something very heavy hitting the floor, and then silence. ¡°What have you done, Didymus? Where is she? Did she leave? Oh good god. She hasn¡¯t, has she? You didn¡¯t¡­¡± There were no footsteps to indicate Gearson was close to the door, but Rose heard his voice carrying him through the furniture at a frantic pace, right toward where she crouched at the keyhole. Quietly as she could, she turned and ran. Back down the stairs. Past the lower foyer. A sidestep around the umbrella stand. She didn¡¯t look back to see if Gearson had caught her spying, focused only on Gearson¡¯s betrayal, and on Didymus'' lie. Door still ajar, the dim light of the outside garden beckoning, she wrenched it open the rest of the way, when a skittering, muttering, sound behind the door met her ears. ¡°Stay,¡± she could have sworn she heard the shadows whisper. ¡°Yesss, ssstay¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t hesitate! Go! Just step¡ª¡± Gearson¡¯s cries behind her came too late. Inches from the threshold, she had only reached the door in time to see the last rays of sunlight on the horizon die. And then, with unnatural, blanketing speed, the sky was no longer the one she knew. Instead of the soft glow of a Shreveport spring twilight, the early stars that had begun to peek through the clouds went out like an extinguished lamp. The moon disappeared. Everything above the horizon went suddenly and absolutely black. Wrong! This was wrong! She tried to step out, to step over the threshold, but her shoes were plastered to the floor, stuck as though the polished hardwood boards beneath her feet had turned to tar. She pulled. She yanked. She wrenched. She struggled. Nothing. Something in the corner shadow laughed at her attempts. ¡°Didymus, get down here! NOW!¡± Gearson bellowed behind her, just as something with long, scraping, clawed fingers grabbed at Rose¡¯s angles, and dragged her to the floor. Rose screamed as whatever had her started to drag her back toward the staircase. ¡°DIDYMUS! NOW!¡± All around them, the shadows laughed. ¡°She said the words,¡± they said. ¡°She said them oh, so long ago¡­¡± Rose scrambled for purchase on the ground, finding nothing but the umbrella stand. She knocked it over as she was dragged past, faster and faster, sending umbrellas and bats and a shoe horn smattering across the floor. The moment the thing had her on the stairs, her dress dragged over her head, the buttons scraping painfully on the ledges. She couldn¡¯t see. ¡°It¡¯sss been waiting. We¡¯ve waited ssso long¡­¡± ¡°Not now! Not tonight!¡± Gearson yelled, but the things that had her, had already dragged her past him, and were nearly strangling her as they pulled her up the stairs. ¡°Yesss, tonight. Yesss, now¡­She controls. She gave permission¡­¡± ¡°I absolutely did not give you permission!¡± Rose yelled, swiping at her feet. She grabbed blindly. Catching the legs of a side table a table she sent three vases crashing to the floor. They shattered near the things around her feet, and earned herself a snarling hiss from whatever it was, but the creeping fingers only dragged her faster. ¡°What is this? Is this any way to treat your quarry? Stand you, and face the occasion with honor!¡± Didymus had joined them, far too late. She was already down the hall, and knew by the direction she was being dragged that she was in the informal sitting room, a room that she hadn¡¯t entered since the day she¡¯d met Didymus and Gearson. The day she had been trying to fix a broken window pane with tape and plastic, and misguided good intentions. She heard the slam of the attic stairs hit the floor, and then she felt herself dragged upside down as they vaulted her up them. ¡°DON¡¯T!¡± Gearson was yelling. ¡°It¡¯s still too soon!¡± She screamed, and promptly had the breath knocked out of her when she slammed into a wooden rafter-board floor so coated in dust and droppings and remnants of broken decor that it may well not have been cleaned since the house was built. ¡°It¡¯s time! It¡¯s time! It¡¯s time!¡± The dragging paused just long enough for Rose to whip her skirt off from over her head, and get a brief glance around the room. Dust hung in the air, dancing in the few beams of light that dared to pierce the grime-coated window from the garden lanterns outside. The wooden beams overhead, swollen and warped with age, stretched across the ceiling like moldering ribs, choked in filth and cobwebs and the threads of moth-eaten sheets from the various covered furniture and caved-in crates lining the outside walls. A broken trunk or two lie in a far-corner, much too far to reach. The smell of mildew, aged wood, and the faint trace of something sweetly rotted filled the air. Rose jumped when she spied an actual suit of armor looming over her, thinking it was another attacker at first, and then realizing¡ªit had a sword. Hastily, she snatched the weapon from the empty gauntlets, and swung down at her ankles¡ªonly for the clawed fingers to disappear before she could hit anything¡ªbut she was still being dragged! Gearson and Dydimus were close behind, but the skittering, clawing things were still laughing, writhing in the shadows just out of sight. ¡°When this is done, I¡¯m filling this place so full of rat traps, you¡¯ll never see the light of day again!¡± Rose threatened, swing the sword down hard, at nothing. The laughing got louder. ¡°But why, pretty thing, would we want to see the light of day?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± she declared, leveling the sword at the shadows. Then, the attic was flooded with light, as many clawed hands¡ªshe could never make out what the things really were, such as they hid, and such as she was blinded as they all dragged a yellowed sheet off of a massive ornate mirror on the far wall. The things had her again, this time tearing at her dress, clawing at her sleeves and skirts, and trying to force her down again. She swung blindly, ignoring the exclamations from Gearson and Didymus, ignoring the hissing and the biting at her legs. She couldn¡¯t hit them. She couldn¡¯t even see them, but that didn¡¯t stop her from slashing at the floor where she saw movement, and hacking dangerously close to her ankles when the things tried to grab her again. ¡°Hold still!¡± she grunted furiously. ¡°After you,¡± they hissed. Then, something hard and heavy knocked into her back, sending her back down heavily. Her eye smacked hard against the pommel of her own sword, sending her vision into a flurry of black and purple spots. She was being dragged again. Dragged to the mirror! Faster and faster. They were going to knock her out on the glass. She swung hard at the glass, hoping to stop herself before she hit, but the sword passed right through it¡¯s reflection, and the mirror didn¡¯t break. ¡°NO!¡± Gearson yelled, just as the things cried out in victory. ¡°She said the words¡­¡± they hissed. They gave Rose a final shove, and she tumbled through after her sword, through the mirror frame, and through the mirror. The Other Side of the Mirror There was a pounding in her head like a group of Tasmanian drummers had decided to set up shop behind her left eye. Her head throbbed. Her eye was doing a rhythmic sort of rain dance to the beat of her pulse. A hundred stinging cuts on her legs demanded attention and energy, and possibly a hard round of ibuprofen, but she did not want to give them any of those things. It was quiet. It was peaceful, besides the pain. She wanted to sleep. People did that in beds, yes? They did it in beds when it was dark out. It was dark out. So surely she just needed to move to a bed¡­ She opened her eyes, and blinked. And then blinked again. There was a nasty sense of unfamiliarity in everything she saw. She was in an empty attic with a mirror at her back. She knew that because of the vaulted, angled ceiling beams, and faint moonlight streaming in from small upper windows. The wood was sturdy, if unmaintained, and the air, was cool and dusty, and faintly scented with lavender sachets and rose. She wrinkled her nose. Rose. It was cloying, and insistent, and¡­and why didn¡¯t she like it again? Didn¡¯t everyone like roses? Rose¡­ that¡¯s my name, isn¡¯t it? I should¡­ Her head was buzzing, images and memories flashing, but there were too few, and the bits of information she had were jumbled and limited. It didn¡¯t take a clear head for her to know that that was Not Good. She glanced around the empty room for clues, finding very few. The walls of the attic were entirely bare, with not a piece of furniture or clutter in sight. There should be crates there, she thought fuzzily. And a suit of armor. And¡­ and hissing. But why? She moved her fingers experimentally, and discovered a sword, still gripped tightly in both hands. Panicked, she searched herself quickly, staring back at the large, ornate mirror that took up most of the attic¡¯s back wall. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself, sweaty, in a torn blue dress, hair disheveled and sword in hand, but that image quickly melted away, replaced by one of her in black robes that hung to the floor. Like a great, billowing long-coat, her outermost garment was embroidered with gold at the hems. Her hair was done in a tight, if masculine, up-do, and her head was partially covered by a hood. She reached up with the hand not holding the sword. She was indeed wearing a robe, if they could be called that. The same cloak as in her reflection rested on her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a crisp vest, belt, and straight trousers. On her face, a large purple bruise bloomed, rendering her nearly unrecognizable, and the scar¡ªbut she didn¡¯t see a scar. Why not? Shouldn¡¯t there have been one there? Moving on from her damaged face, she ran her hands down the fabric on her arms and chest, searching, trying to remember putting them on, when her fingers brushed a thick card in the breast pocket. The heavy stationary had been sealed with a wax marker as thick as her finger, a gargoyle¡¯s head staring out at her from the wax. The seal, though hardened, was still warm in the center, as though the letter had only just been penned and placed. Confused, head still pounding, she broke it, and read: My Dearest Miss Rosalie Clara Cible, Would that I could give you this note in person. Alas, I hope to instill in you a healthy skepticism of strangers in this world. Therefore, all in good time. When your memories are returned to you, you will return to your world. I would advise you to practice caution in hunting them, however. Should the seals come undone too quickly, we may all come undone with them. Didymus and Gearson will accompany you. You may rely on them as needed. Do try your best not to give out your true name when possible. Luck and wishes,
  1. Dross
P.S. I would be very careful about whom you tell that you are a young woman, until you have your bearings. Not that it is not a most delightful part of your character, but the consequences of discovery at this point in the plan would be¡­distasteful. Her name was Rosalie Cible. That name tasted right. As for the other names¡­ ¡°Sir Didymus! Mr. Gearson!¡± she exclaimed, almost on instinct, as two semi-corporeal forms stepped through the mirror. Fragments of memory came with the two figures. The day they¡¯d met. Their lessons. Their walks. Her wish¡­. But nothing else. ¡°Are you alright, Miss Rose?¡± Sir Didymus asked gently, surveying both her and the room. ¡°Bump to the head?¡± Rose? She liked that better than Rosalie, somehow, but she still hated the scent of the rose powder on the stationary. ¡°Bump to the head?¡± Gearson spluttered, furious. ¡°Bump to the head? She¡¯ll have magical backlash! She¡¯ll have magically limited memory loss! She¡¯ll have a concussion!¡± Gearson, practical as ever, knelt to examine her face. ¡°Well, at least the concussion is minor. Tell me, girl. Headache?¡± She nodded. ¡°Right. Memories addled?¡± She nodded again. ¡°I know you. I remember you. But I don¡¯t remember¡­ my family. I have them. I know them. But I can¡¯t see their faces. I don¡¯t remember why I¡¯m here, if I ever knew. I don¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t remember my family,¡± she repeated. Her voice broke. ¡°How could I forget something like that?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have retained only memories with magical influence. So, the Master. And us. Sorry,¡± Gearson said bluntly. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. She shook her head. ¡°But I remember the accident. My injuries. Why would I remember those?¡± Didymus and Gearson shared a look. ¡°Don¡¯t blame me!¡± Didymus huffed. ¡°Oh, I blame you.¡± ¡°Guys!¡± she interjected before they could start squabbling again. ¡°What about the memories? Will they come back?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Gearson said, honestly¡ªinsufficiently. ¡°Furthermore, I cannot tell why the campus feels so strange.¡± ¡°Campus?¡± Rose questioned. ¡°Yes, dear,¡± Didymus said quickly. ¡°You are on the campus of the Drakespire Academy of Magic. An academy at which the mirror of Silver Manor recognizes you as having enrolled.¡± ¡°The mirror thinks¡ª¡± But Rose was cut off by Gearson, who was growing more perturbed. ¡°Something is quite wrong. Have they instituted a new policy? The instructions said nothing about this.¡± ¡°About what?¡± Despite her longing for sleep, Rose was becoming agitated. Gearson sighed. ¡°I can sense nearly every magical signature for miles, Miss Cible. And there are no young ladies your age anywhere on this campus. If the academy has transitioned to an all-men¡¯s institution, then clearly the master neglected to inform me!¡± Didymus didn¡¯t seem to find much problem with that, and shrugged. ¡°It was both genders just a few centuries ago. Perhaps we¡¯ve come at the wrong time?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t get the impression we¡¯re off by a few CENTURIES. The master never got timing wrong. This must be the right time. But no supplies. No forewarning! If she is kicked out¡ª¡± Didymus interjected with a passion. ¡°She can''t be kicked out. This is where she belongs! And if not, then where would she go, the streets? The taverns? The docks?¡± ¡°There aren¡¯t any taverns in this era, you dolt.¡± Rose didn¡¯t understand exactly what was going on, but in her memories was the fundamental understanding of ¡®how doors work,¡¯ which spawned an idea. ¡°Mr. Gearson. Sir Didymus. If we came through the mirror, then why can¡¯t we just go back?¡± ¡°If only,¡± Gearson groaned. ¡°Miss Rose, if your memories have been lost on this side of the mirror than you are no longer whole. You cannot return without them. At all. We have to find a way to restore them. Surely the master would have provided for this, and may god help us if they¡¯ve gotten stuck behind the seals on the way!¡± Gearson glared at Didymus. ¡°Is this what you wanted? Is this the great adventure you envisioned? I told you, we need more time. We need the proper paperwork!¡± Didymus threw his hands in the air, and shoved his fists into his ruffle suit vest indignantly. ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t mean to take her now. I thought that we could get her more information. Rearrange somewhat! Prepare! Pack! THIS! This is a disaster! We don¡¯t have bags! We don¡¯t have supplies! No cosmetics! Dresses! A shocking lack of hosiery¡ª¡± ¡°WE DON''T HAVE HER LETTER, you nincompoop!¡± Gearson roared. A shudder rumbled through the rafters, rattling the window. ¡°Oh dear¡­¡± Didymus glanced about the room. ¡°Not alone, then.¡± An eerie, ghostly wailing took the place of the rattling moments before the seeping noise turned into words. ¡°INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS IN THE ATTIC!¡± Together, five ghostly heads, followed by five ghostly bodies, all wearing the same hostile expression rose through the floor, and into the room. There was no pause. They just attacked. A furious victorian woman in kirtle, apron, and nightcap wielded a wooden ladle, and aimed it with lethal accuracy at Sir Didymus¡¯ head. A sandy-haired stablehand with a pitchfork lunged at his middle. A pair of maids made for Gearson, biceps flexed and swinging like street brawlers. A footman with hollow eyes and dressed in moth-eaten livery descended on Rose, brandishing a horsewhip like a garrot. ¡°There¡¯s a live one!¡± the stablehand bellowed. ¡°ALIVE and daring to step foot in our home!¡± A silvery rapier appeared in Didymus¡¯ left hand, casting slivers of light over the room and across the mirror as he dispatched the cook with ease, followed shortly by the stablehand, and one of the maids. Gearson towered over the footman, shimmering in the dim room with a dark energy that almost made the footman retreat¡ªalmost. Unlike the others, Gearson was solid, looming with a menacing strength. His fists clenched, and he leaped forward, his powers of decay casting a chill that seemed to freeze the very air. Rose flinched as Gearson¡¯s hand closed around the footman¡¯s whip, and then his throat. The ghost of the footman shuddered as his ghostly windpipe crunched under the force, and then his body simply disintegrated. His remains crumbled, sinking back through the floor. ¡°You killed them?¡± Rose gasped. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be so dramatic, dear! They¡¯ve been dead for ages.¡± Didymus said, offering her a hand to get to her feet. She accepted it, though Didymus wasn¡¯t much actual support. Gearson dispatched the second maid before she could even touch him. Sending her wailing and crumbling away, missing limbs as she did. Rose shuddered. ¡°Ah, you might want to move,¡± Didymus warned, as seven more heads rose back through the floor. Some were familiar faces, and the maid, cook, and gardener that Didymus had just dealt with had gone from excited annoyance to open, murderous hostility. ¡°Move? Move where?¡± She exclaimed as Didymus lunged in front of her again. ¡°I am a fair hand at a blade, but there are a lot of them, and believe it or not, they won¡¯t die again for long.¡± ¡°Get out of the structure,¡± Gearson barked, his hands already full, now with a valet, a far less well-dressed butler than Didymus, and the same pair of angry maids. ¡°Leave the house however you can. There¡¯s usually a boundary to where unbound ghosts can travel, and do not let yourself be discovered. Not until we can sort this out!¡± There were too many, however, to just sneak past. Five ghosts had turned into twenty, all members of some ghostly staff that had likely once belonged to this odd manor. ¡°You dare attack us in our own home?¡± one hissed. ¡°Intruders!¡± ¡°Sneak-thieves!¡± ¡°Bandits!¡± They all had insults and curses aplenty for Gearson, who outclassed any of them here, but twenty on two wasn¡¯t fair odds in any fight, and the hostile ghosts were closing in on Rose. ¡°Oh, I think that¡¯s enough of that!¡± she hissed, and raised her own sword. If she couldn¡¯t sneak out, then she could fight her way out. Letter in one hand, and sword in the other, she stepped into the fight, just in time for a second blinding light to sweep the room. ¡°Ah!¡± she groaned, raising the letter to shield her bad eye. Then, she charged, sword swinging at the only attacker she could see. It didn¡¯t occur to her that he was now the only figure in the room until the puff of fire he shot caught her squarely in the face. ¡°Ah¡­¡± the stranger huffed, dusting a speck of non-existent lint from his black overcoat. ¡°Is this what passes for a prank these days? If I had been a moment later. If I did not know how to sidestep that frankly appalling sense of balance with a weapon¡­well, you would be facing much more than just a detention for this little incident, shall we say.¡±