
Here's Just a Little About  
Mind Your Manors

Bosworth has concerns: The lord and lady of the manor are absent. Their estate exists in the custody of unsupervised and negligent personnel, an unruly lot, predisposed to all manner of delinquent behaviour. The manor house and grounds are in decline, and yet most staff and servants could not care less. But Bosworth cares—he has to—it's his job. So why, then, would he throw open the doors to a force bent on destruction?

Assuming control comes easy for a man of many talents and considerable influence. Maintaining it, however, is another matter; not everyone has been taken in by the man with the wandering eye. Despite the risk, the beguiling stranger knows his deception need last only as long it takes to get what he wants. Little does he realize, no one, himself included, understands the consequences of obtaining it.

A paradox presents when the butler comes to understand, even if the tramp loses, he could still win by default. If the benevolent forces behind the scenes fail Robert Bosworth, the manor and all who dwell within are doomed. The butler holds the key. The fate of the manor hangs in the balance.

Mind Your Manors

an allegoric farce

By Donovan Brooks

Published by:  
Babbling Books Publishing Ink, Inc.
Copyright © 2018 Babbling Books Publishing Ink, Inc.

eBook Edition

ISBN: 978-1-7751992-0-5

Written by Donovan Brooks

Cover design by Donald Royer Design

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. That said, the author is entirely fine with anyone who may wish to share the book with anyone else.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences.
To my mother, who encouraged me to read beyond my years.  
And for my father, who once told me he did not read fiction.
Table of Contents

About the Book

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Introduction

PART ONE

Chapter 1 – The Management of Change

Chapter 2 – Memo to Self

Chapter 3 – Sentient Affairs

Chapter 4 – Sublime Instigation

Chapter 5 – Stewart's Deception

PART TWO

Chapter 6 – Mind Your Table, Manors

Chapter 7 – The Aftermath and The Prelude

Chapter 8 – Of Friends and Foes

Chapter 9 – A Tacit Tactic

Chapter 10 – Innuendo

Chapter 11 – What Goes Round

Chapter 12 – Decrypting Keys

Chapter 13 – Preliminary Spadework

Chapter 14 – Skulduggery

Chapter 15 – Oboe's Ode: Departing Party's Party

PART THREE

Chapter 16 – Steering Clear

Chapter 17 – Hoodoo vs. Voodoo

Chapter 18 – An Apothecary's Alchemy

Chapter 19 – Gentry's Equine and Canine Paradox

Chapter 20 – A Rose by Any Other

Chapter 21 – The Cook and The Crow

Chapter 22 – Love's Lost and Found

Chapter 23 – Feast or Fodder

Chapter 24 – Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 25 – Nebulous Conclusions

Chapter 26 – Pretty Trinkets

Chapter 27 – Secrets: Revealed and Cached

Chapter 28 – Lavender Delight

Chapter 29 – Teetotalers Anonymous

Chapter 30 – Moon Flower

Chapter 31 – Recipe for Disaster

Chapter 32 – Illusory Intrusions and Retributions

Chapter 33 – Rallying the Troupe

Chapter 34 – Vindicating Vacated Venues

Chapter 35 – Jump, Horst, Jump

Chapter 36 – Think About It

Chapter 37 – A Slippery Slope

Chapter 38 – The Last Supper

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONTACT INFORMATION
Introduction

The eclectic mix of characters in this narration invites a degree of enhanced liberty insofar as dialogue is concerned. To that end, the author has designed a mimetic lexicon for the locution of particular characters. This license is utilized sparingly so as not to detract from the overall comprehensibility. In addition, it should be noted that in an era of excessive ornamentation, such as concerns the period herein, the author has taken pains to render the narrative so as to reflect the times. (Rococo furnishings, frills and lace spring to mind.) Therefore, and in any event, should the reader sustain minor discomfort as a result of certain verbose passages found to be bothersome or problematic in the context of a complete understanding from an initial reading, in part, due to the length of any given statement, or perhaps owing to a proclivity for fanciful expression, you are urged to desist until such time as you are better able to workup the proper frame of mind with which to continue. And continue, you should—it's worth it.

Note: Don't let the preceding bit of bombast deter you from reading this book. It was only added to pad the introduction. It won't happen again.  
Part One

The Troupe

"Who, then, are the actors when players pull the puppets' strings?"

Chapter One

The Management of Change

As night cedes to day, and sinister shadows creep deeper into recesses of darkness, texture and nuance emerge. Together, like children at play, they draw back twilight's cloak of obscurity in a dramatic dance of form and color. Finally a landscape is defined. Aroused, birds begin to preen and call. A rooster crows. Over hilltops to the east, a warm glow, and soon, sunlight spills into the valley, lifting ghostly veils to reveal a dewy meadow—glistening. In still, darkened hollows, marshlands, yet undisturbed, slumber beneath blankets of mist. Stands of maple, elm, and oak, hold silent communion, not a whisper of wind to stir their lofty heights. The cock crows yet another raucous squawk to herald in the new day, though now with waning enthusiasm.

Central to the valley, perched on a rise, stands a grand old manor, presiding over a vast estate. To anyone's recollection, the property has never known a time whereby a properly-titled lord and master held rein over these lands. Misery has taken up residence in the manor. Neglect has settled the land. Once-magnificent gardens are now tortured by gangs of evil weeds; choked orchards gasp, claw, and struggle for life; fields fumble over yields of botched vegetables; fallen fences and fetid dung-heaps scatter the farmyard; and even the pride of the estate—a line of champion purebred horses—is now reduced to a dud stud and a pair of ragged flea-bitten nags. Yes, disarray and decay holds sway over all that once made this a distinguished property. It could be said, even the grand old manor inclines to ruin.

In one of the dilapidated barns, a black mongrel stirs as a ray of sunshine creeps over the threshold of his dreams. He wakes, pulls himself to his feet, and shakes the sleep from his shaggy head. He stretches and yawns before wandering to the entrance where he sniffs at a weathered panel of wood. Positioning himself, he raises a hind leg to refresh the scent. Straw dust, floating on golden shafts of sunlight, causes his muzzle to twitch. A spastic sneeze erupts giving rise to a flurry of commotion. In the aftermath, the dog casts a furtive glance over a shoulder to be certain his gracelessness went unnoticed. Once recomposed, he cocks his head to the side, listening.

The rooster crows.

And the dog growls, disdainful of the repugnant refrain.

Pointing his nose beyond the barn door, he tests the air. Satisfied all is as it should be, the mongrel trots out into the farmyard, a yard filled with a plethora of smells on shifting currents—a veritable doggy delight.

Nero made for the fence nearest the cedars. Once out of the enclosure, the beast picked up the pace, trotting with the lively rhythm of purpose and destination. He climbed through the pines, distancing himself from the slumbering inhabitants of the farm, manor, and grounds. The dog was on the scent of the illusive one, known only as Yuno. Nero knew where Yuno would be, but canine pride and the challenge of tracking proved stronger than the urge to simply take the most direct route.

Under the canopy of the forest, the air sat still and cool. Isolated beams of sunlight penetrated the gloom. The black mongrel moved carefully now, picking his way over a padding of pine needles. Sometimes he would stop, or backtrack, to examine the scent more closely when it mingled or became overpowered by pungent combinations of moist earth and rotting vegetation. Cryptic messages decoded in his cranium, causing his tail to quiver with excitement. The scent was fresh and getting stronger. Nero closed on his quarry.

A wiry old man sat cross-legged, silent, still, his eyes closed and his weathered face turned to the sun. His breathing was slow and measured, as if he were meditating. Faded denim covered his slight frame, and a long white mane of hair lay across his back. Beaded deerskin moccasins adorned his feet. In each hand, resting comfortably on his bony knees, he held a feather. The faintest of smiles flickered across his peaceful visage. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared into the blinding light.

A clearing near the summit provided an unobstructed view to the east. It was here, on a grassy knoll at the edge of a bluff, where he came to watch the sunrise. On fine summer days, just before first light, he would rise and slip into the forest where he filtered through the trees in a varying and circuitous fashion. His senses were honed to an acute level of awareness, an awareness brought about from the many years spent wandering alone, lost in the woods. Living by his wits and surviving off the bounty of the land was once a way of life. It bestowed him with a profound respect for nature and all that is the living mystery of the world. Nowadays, his forays into the timberland were reserved for the preservation of his skills. That, and the desire for solitude, which was intrinsically connected with the need to bring inner peace to his being through unfettered reflection. Thus, the old Paiute sought out this quiet hillock, far from the commotion of the estate. Here, high among the pines, perched on a precipice with the valley stretching out before him and the warmth of the rising sun on his face, he was free to let his spirit soar.

Staring into the sun, its brilliance filling his soul and warming his old bones, he felt moved to sing an ancient song, a song of his people. A low tone warbled up from deep in his throat, changing pitch before exiting motionless lips. The wavering, rhythmic chanting carried on a zephyr into the pines.

Nero crouched along the treeline, no more than a hundred yards away, studying his prey, every muscle, every nerve in his body tensed and at the ready. The Paiute had his back to him. A menacing growl escaped through curled lips and glistening fangs. The cur gathered his hindquarters, readying for the mad rush across the clearing. In a flash, he transformed to a black blur streaking across a green mountain meadow. The dog charged headlong, straining his every fiber for more speed, closing the distance. Then, with only a few short yards to go, Nero ground to a halt and barked. It was the unbearable, wild, unrestrained barking of a crazed animal.

Although he'd relinquished his song, Yuno didn't flinch. He remained calm, relaxed, and contemplative. In no particular hurry, he rose and turned to face the mad dog. Nero ceased immediately. Steel-gray eyes bore into those of the black mongrel-beast. It was a sure, steady gaze, unfocused, and unnerving. Tucking his tail between his legs, Nero whimpered and pressed his belly to the ground. Yuno stepped softly to the cowering mutt, crouched down, and ran a feather the length of the dog's muzzle. Nero's eyes fluttered, then closed. His body relaxed. He was asleep. Yuno stood, dropped the chicken feathers on the black dog, crossed the clearing, and faded into the forest.

A whisper of wind lifted the sheers covering a second-floor window in the west wing—the one with the broken pane. Inside, reposed amid the chaos, a lanky alabaster body stretched across an immense eighteenth century bed. British blue-blood flowed through his veins. He pronounced his name with a French accent. (Such that Robert became Rohbair.) He was partial to coffee, not tea, and yet preferred crumpets to croissants. Bobby—as everyone jokingly called him, much to his chagrin—lay awake, staring at the chipped plaster that was once an ornate ceiling of these luxurious quarters reserved for head butler. His thoughts drifted in a mild dream-like state.

A tap on the door brought him back to the moment. He knew it was Marlyse. No one else would knock at this early hour—or any hour, for that matter.

Rohbair slipped into his robe and called out with the haughty tone he reserved for most everyone who was not of his perceived social standing, "Yes, yes, do come in. And I daresay, you'd best have a spot of Java and a hot buttered crumpet with you." He knew she did, she always did.

The French doors swung open to reveal a vivacious, petite black-woman. She flashed a winning smile full of sparkling white teeth. Young and pretty, the domestic appeared justly proud of her fine features; she wore her maid's uniform, snug, accentuating her curvaceous form.

Arms akimbo, Marlyse shook her head from side to side in mock disbelief. Her gaze swept over the muddle of confusion spreading out before her. Clothing lay where cast or shed, mingling with discarded books and vying for precious floor space among the scattered papers, dinner trays, and variety of other personal effects cluttering every corner of the apartment. Addressing the butler, she said, "You best be thinking bout taking care this mess, mon. And don't be thinking I be coming in here for doing it. Ain't no way, ain't no how."

The delivery and rhythmical lilt of the maid's Creole heritage forever confounded and exasperated Rohbair. "My dear girl," he said, "what in God's name are you going on about? If by chance you are intimating my chambers require a spot of tidying up, I'll have you know, I shall personally strangle the first person who dares disturb the sanctum of my quarters."

"Like I jest got done saying, Mista Bobby-mon, you needs to be taking care a this mess." With a wink, she turned and bent to pick up the tray left on the floor behind her.

Since her back was to him, Rohbair indulged in a sly smile. He liked her for her quick wit, but he liked her even more for bringing his coffee and crumpets each morning.

"Scat mon, shoo!" Marlyse sent a cockroach scurrying from the tray with a flick of her perfectly-manicured middle digit.

Rohbair groaned. His eyes followed the trajectory of the pest as it skittered into his room and disappeared under a limp pair of pants next to the chamber pot. He made a mental note to have a sideboard placed in the hall, next to his quarters.

Marlyse entered, tray held at arms length, picking her way through the rubble of Robert Bosworth's personal domain. Stopping at the foot of the butler's bed, she hesitated. Rohbair drew the covers over the satin sheets, providing a reasonably smooth area on which Marlyse could put his breakfast.

"There you go, Mista Bobby-mon, everything you is hoping for this fine morning."

"Oh do spare me the poppycock," said Rohbair, waving her off.

"What! Not even a little thank you this morning?"

"You are excused, Maid Marliemon."

Marlyse stood for a moment, fixing him with a steady gaze. Her lips parted as if about to say something, but instead, she simply smiled her sweet-smile, curtsied, and turned to leave.

"I say, Miss Marliemon ..."

Marlyse turned, raised brow, waiting.

"Nothing. It's just that I, um ... well, thank you."

"That's okay, Mista Bobby-mon. Now you best be tucking into them grits, 'cause soon they be too cold even for you, mon."

Whatever could this poppet possibly be babbling about now, thought Rohbair. He watched her exit, leaving the doors to his chamber wide open. He thought better of shouting after her to close the bloody doors. He really was quite fond of her. Though it surely wouldn't do to have that become common knowledge. The butler tugged the breakfast tray towards him, spilling his coffee in the process. At the sight of his morning crumpet bathing in the black elixir, he heaved a sigh. He let his eyelids drop and began counting.

At 6:45 a.m., the main kitchen was as quiet as a morgue. Cold tile, steel, and brass reflected the weak light peeking in through small windows set high in the masonry. In dark corners, recesses, and crevices, timid mice twitched their whiskers. A cat lay curled, sleeping on a crude wooden stool. The cook, Marie-Claire, slumped in a chair next to the cat, her head resting on the table with the remnants of a loaf of bread serving as a pillow. A thin wheezing sound escaped through parted lips, as did a dribble of spittle. Littering the stout plank table were platters, plates, and bowls of partially consumed meats, legumes, and fruits. Just beyond her plump fingertips, a silver goblet lay toppled over, leaving a reddish stain on the wood. The empty pitcher of wine perched precariously close to falling from the edge of the table.

Marie-Claire had been oblivious to the presence of Marlyse in the kitchens earlier that morning, even though the maid had made no attempt whatsoever to temper her culinary performance. She hummed, clanged, and banged a breakfast together for Rohbair knowing Marie-Claire would be hours before budging her considerable bulk.

The heavy oak door of the servants' entrance creaked on old cast-iron hinges as it swung open. It was located in a back corner, sheltered from the influence of the morning light. Though ajar, for a long moment no one crossed the threshold. Then, a stealthy figure slipped into the room and pressed against the wall, melding with the obscurity, motionless, watching, waiting. The smallish thin form seemed camouflaged in a shade of gray identical to the stone walls of the kitchens; it was a double-breasted worsted hounds-tooth, a suit impeccably tailored for its discerning master. Silently, he stepped from the shadows. The light revealed a face with sharp features. A hawk-like nose figured prominently as the main attraction. His skin was the soft-brown of the desert, and his cold, calculating eyes were deep-set and fixed on the slumbering cook. He stole across the floor to where Marie-Claire slouched in her drunken rapture. He stood close, staring down at her big red curls splayed out around her head like a flaming halo. Marie-Claire was no angel. He detested her for her shameful, sottish ways.

Picking up a carving knife, he hefted it in his palm, feeling the weight. Then he brought the blade to his thumb, testing the edge. The instrument wasn't exactly sharp, but it would do. Raising his arm, he took aim. A thin smile creased his lips as the sunlight, now peaking through the windows, caught the steel and shimmered. He twitched. Closed his eyes. Then swiftly brought the point down in a deft motion that was followed by a light popping sound. He didn't have to look; he knew he'd pierced the skin and had driven the blade well into the flesh. He drew a deep breath and raised his arm. Opening his eyes again, he let his gaze follow the length of his arm to the hand holding the carving knife. A bright, shiny orange stuck to the end of the blade. A droplet of juice ran out, rolled down the periphery, and fell with a tiny splat near to Marie-Claire's head.

Moments later, the orange had been cut into bite-sized wedges, arranged symmetrically on a plate, and placed within easy reach of the soused redhead. A bronze goblet containing a bubbling concoction accompanied the offering. The Arabian mystery man had vanished. Time came to a standstill. The kitchen table became the perfect composition for a tableau entitled Still Life With Lush.

Chin made his entrance through the portal of the delivery door.

Built into the back wall, the delivery door consisted of a pair of massive gated panels designed to open wide enough to allow a horse-drawn wagon into the bowels of the cavernous kitchen; practical for discharging a wagon-load of victuals, but far too unwieldy for simply coming or going. As such, a man-sized portal was incorporated into one of the much larger doors.

Chin carried a basket. It contained a dozen or so eggs and a bunch of melancholy vegetables. A couple of limp chickens dangled from his other arm. Foraging on the farm for sustenance proved disheartening at times. However, Chin realized despite the poorly aspect of the produce, if it were not for his diligence to procure food for the cook on a daily basis, everyone would be left to fend for themselves. This would surely lead to further the already-strained relations and bitterness commonplace among the servants of the estate. Chin imagined all manner of desperate scenarios whereby certain individuals—those susceptible to hatching dastardly plots—might go so far as to steal food. Others would surely succumb to starvation. Somebody may well get hurt!

He hung the fowl on a hook and placed the basket on a dusty shelf. Relieved of his burden, he turned his attention to the table. For a long moment, he stared at the inert cook. His heart was saddened by what his Asian eyes revealed. He loved Marie-Claire—everyone did, how could they not? She was magnificent! So full of life, so expressive, so ... emotional. He was devoted to her. To see her in this sorry state, as he did most every morning, was a detail he preferred not to contend with. Yet, it played on his heartstrings like a siren song. Chin felt hopelessly entangled in her overwhelming influence. Much as he would have liked, he was powerless to entreat her to stop drinking. Marie-Claire was Chef; Chin was sous-chef, and the lesser of three, at that. Besides, she was too proud. Too belligerent. Too big. As it was, she hardly paid him any mind. Broaching the subject could just as likely get him killed.

Chin absently wiped his hands down the front of his white tunic as he moved to the end of the table. His steps were short and swift, causing his voluminous silk pants to billow like bloomers in the wind. Chin was Oriental—Chinese to be exact. His smooth oval face could switch in the blink of an eye from a serene expressionless facade to a hysterical charade of comical laughter—from Zen to zany in a wink.

Chin's bespectacled eyes surveyed the aftermath of Marie-Claire's late-night hedonism. Boozing was such a waste. It left Marie-Claire in a state not unlike a drunken sailor. Chin was quickly becoming depressed by these thoughts. Noting the plate of oranges and the goblet of seltzer, he rightly surmised the good Dr. Bin had been there before him. He giggled. A thought had come to flash in his mind apropos of the goblet. Acting on that thought, Chin picked up the concoction, wheeled round, and retraced his steps to the shelf. He was eager to contribute to the well-being of Marie-Claire, and so he cracked two raw eggs into the remedial libation. Snickering while blending the mixture, he couldn't help but feel pleased with himself for recalling what he thought was an ad hoc maxim: Two eggs are better than one.

Rohbair tugged thrice, sharply, on the hem of his waistcoat. The effort was futile; creases, wrinkles, and lint remained. Casting a discriminating glance over the rest of his attire, netted a noticeable stain on his neckerchief, but he shook the disturbing image from his mind, dismissing it as a minor issue—a blemish, nothing more. It was imperative he focus on the matter at hand. Maid Marlyse was right, he needed to clean up this mess ... and he would, eventually, probably. But for now, the grander perspective demanded he play a far greater role. He was head butler, after all. It was time! Today would be different. Today he would take charge. He'd had quite enough of the insubordination and lack of application by his staff. He would initiate and chair a general meeting of the entire sorry lot of them, from household to grounds and stables. He felt a surge of power coursing through his long, slender body. Rohbair, well aware he would have to portray an authoritative figure if he was to secure the proper effect, strode to the full-length mirror in his bedchamber. The reflected image gave cause for concern. He frowned. After a moments hesitation, he stretched himself into his full six-foot-two-inch-frame and exited his chambers.

It could be said Rohbair fairly enjoyed a brisk stride down the once-gleaming hardwood corridors. His heels hitting the floor had for effect the resounding staccato-clap of a confident man marching with a sense of purpose. And he really let them have a hammering this fine morning. Coming abreast of a door on third floor of the west wing, he rapped sharply and waited, listening. Not the slightest hint of a response from within. He repeated the gesture, but this time with the flat of his fist. The hollow thumping reverberated the length of the long hallway. Rather enjoying all the hullabaloo, Rohbair was reluctant to desist, and so was caught off guard when the doors suddenly flew back.

A big-boned, big-breasted woman stood in the doorway. She bellowed: "We are having soooo much funny good times, ya?" Her angry eyes glared How dare you! Her stance, squarely set, spoke of an undisciplined brute force. She was furious and breathing hard.

Rohbair stood dumbstruck, his mouth unhinged. He looked for moment as if he might speak. But he didn't.

The woman was seething. "WHAT?"

Rohbair chewed on the words he wanted to express, unable to formulate a cohesive phrase. He felt trapped, unable to tear himself away from the disturbing spectacle: tattered robe, hanging open; a sheer black negligee; scarcely concealed mounds of heaving flesh; violent eyes framed by a tangled mess of black curls ... everything screaming silent obscenities.

The strapping trollop harbored little patience for mute butlers. Still gritting her teeth, Malgreete slammed the doors shut.

The resounding racket faded down the hallway.

Rohbair blinked hard. He'd just been exposed to a sight that so forcibly distracted him from his objective, he didn't know how to react. His mind tried in vain to explain his timid behavior. In the end, all he could do was shake his head as if to negate the shocking experience. He turned and slowly made his way back down the corridor, a bewildered expression reflecting his thoughts.

Marlyse found herself in the kitchens for the second time that morning. She was humming as she hovered over leftovers on the table, foraging for appetizing tidbits. Plucking up a limp carrot, she inspected it for the tell-tale signs of nibbling mice. It had been spared, and so she dropped it onto her plate. She wouldn't eat the meat because that fat cat gave rise to a gnawing suspicion. Pausing to consider the salubrious concoction destined for Marie-Claire, a naughty grin spread across her face. Marlyse brought the goblet to the spice counter and administered a healthy dose of cayenne pepper. It was a hangover remedy that had been used for ages by all the old creole rum-runners.

"Cayenne can fix anything cookie-mon, even you punky head." She spoke aloud, knowing full well the wreckage that was formerly Marie-Claire would remain indifferent. She placed the fortified liquid back on the table and resumed her previous preoccupation.

The portal in the delivery door swung open, startling Marlyse and the cat. Marie-Claire remained comatose. A stout figure stood silhouetted in the opening. It was Zero the Greek, head-farmer. He entered the kitchen leading a small pig tethered by a line around its neck. The cat, perturbed and objecting to the presence of the porker, slipped off the chair and pranced out the door, nose in the air.

"Ahh, Maid Marlyse, a fair good morning to you my dear," said Zero with his patented deep and melodramatic voice, "and let me say, I hope with all my heart, you slept with the pleasant dreams of your desire."

"Well thank you, and same to you and you friend."

"My friend?" Zero looked at the pig. "Oh yes. My friend here, has come to join us for dinner this evening." Turning to the chef, he said, "Ahhh, my sweet Marie-Claire sleeps with the angels."

Marlyse decided to offer the farmer a different perspective. "Truth be, she pickled, mon."

Zero ignored the comment. "Sleeps with the angels," he repeated, as he led the pig to a post to be tied off.

Marlyse took a seat at the end of the table. She was about to commence eating when a fleeting thought gave her pause. She brought her fork back down. "You ain't thinking a gutting you friend here and now, are you?"

Zero raised a brow in a show of profound stupefaction. "Surely, the sweet lady jests! To suggest I would disembowel my friend, here, in the presence of feminine gentility, well,"—giving Marlyse a warm paternal smile—"you fret unnecessarily. Please becalm your disturbed mind my dear maiden. I may be a man of the fields, but I'm no lout, I assure you. I could never put the knife to a friend."

Marlyse grinned and tucked into her breakfast.

Zero strolled to the table to stand next to sweet Marie-Claire. He gazed at her with big, brown, puppy-love eyes.

Marlyse popped an olive into her mouth and smiled.

Zero brought his head low, close to the head-chef's while reaching for a partially consumed chicken leg. With no apparent regard for Marlyse, he inhaled deeply, sampling the fragrance of Marie-Claire's tangle of curls. When he raised his head, his eyes were closed and his fleshy countenance bore an expression of utter bliss.

Marlyse grinned, and for a time, no one spoke.

The farmer contented himself with standing next to the cook and chewing his chicken while admiring her profile. He gently caressed her head with his free hand. The pert maid sat at the end of the table happily munching her salvaged morsels.

Marlyse was first to break the silence. "You sure is in a loving way with that cookie, mon."

"My dear Maid Marlyse, if you could weigh the love I feel for this magnificent woman, you'd not find words to express the measure, so great would be the gross."

As Marlyse mulled over Zero's words, a mental image took form in the theater of her mind: Center stage, a gargantuan balance scale, with the cook on the one platter balanced by the farmer on the other. The impression dissolved just then, interrupted by a snort from Marie-Claire, followed by a wheezy sigh. A moment later, the cook's respiration resumed the steady rhythm of sleep. The maid, the farmer, and the pig had paused to regard her for further signs of life. But as nothing was forthcoming, in turn, they returned to their respective contemplative posture.

A raven-haired beauty glided through the main doors leading to the dining-room. Mystifying green eyes shone with excitement. Full, luscious lips beckoned a perpetual smile. A lovely image to behold, she aroused the admiration of all who cast eyes her way.

Zero was first to greet her: "My god, Lisa! Your radiance this morning has eclipsed the sun. What a splendid apparition. You light up these dark spaces with an enchanted glow."

"Zeroso," she said with a dismissing flick of her wrist, "I dunno what a you talking. You always talking a crazy something or another." Lisa gave Marlyse a mischievous wink and smiled.

Before the ladies could exchange pleasantries, Zero's bruised ego emerged. He stated to no one in particular, "Beauty is a compliment in and of itself. Yet, to spurn a compliment offered as a gift, is to efface the beauty within."

The women turned their eyes from Zero to each other, searching for signs of comprehension. Marlyse wagged her head no. Lisa rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. The combined effect left the two of them giggling. Zero the Greek slumped forward, evidently feeling a tad deflated. He reached for the goblet, not taking notice of the turbid broth.

"NO!" cried Marlyse.

Startled, the farmer froze. And the green-eyed beauty assumed an inquisitive pose. The chef stirred, grunted, then passed out again. The pig simply blinked.

"Cookie's gonna be wanting that tonic," said Marlyse, "just soon as she come to." A wave of culpability washed over her, leaving her ill at ease.

"Ahhh, I see," said Zero, gathering himself for the delivery of yet another profound statement. "A restorative cordial sent from the heavens. No doubt, to ease the pain of this fallen angel. Now if I was to—"

"Zeroso! You gotta some kinda mix up spaghetti-head, you know. How come you don't just talk like a normal people? All a time you gotta be talking a silly holy-moly baloney!"

"Lisa, you must forgive my decorative locution. I toil the long day in the fields with not but an ass for social intercourse. So when the gods grant me a forum for verbal interplay, I verily leap to the occasion. But enough of me, what of you? Could you not see it in your heart to be kinder to us lowly peasants? Are you not aware, your beauty should mirror your soul? For when this is so, oh dear Lisa, you are divine. You are—"

"Zeroso! Shut-up a you face. You make a me crazy already."

The farmer stiffened. "You! With all your vehement spitting of foul words, can you not see your wickedness and cruelty are on display? Shame on you!"

Lisa sneaked another wink at Marlyse. "Zero, wadda you know? You know nothing. Zero!"

Zero drew in a deep breath. He fixed Lisa with a penetrating stare and said in a low, menacing voice, "Young lady, you would hold yourself in good stead to consider your boldness to be a detriment to your character. Now, in the prime of your life, you believe yourself attractive in appearance and in temperament. You allow a certain quarrelsome bent to manifest as a show of spunk. But listen to me now, closely. Think of how you will be perceived should you nurture this despicable quality into your august years. Your admirers will vanish as time sees fit to steal your youthful beauty. You'll be left with nothing but your sour disposition and wrinkled old flesh. You, dear girl, will be a revolting and bitter old hag. And that is how the mirror will reflect your image for all to see."

Lisa and Marlyse were silenced. Zero's words took shape in their respective imagination. When the petite maid blinked and looked to Lisa, she saw a single tear trickle down her fair skin. Just as quickly, Lisa brushed it away and pulled herself upright. Zero had noticed as well but did not let on. Instead, he looked to the skylight windows and shrugged his massive shoulders.

In an attempt to ease the tension, Marlyse said, "You two be slow poking like you do and Marly here is gonna clean up this mess. I might be looking teensy, mon, but I gotta pig belly." Looking to the swine on the line, she added, "No 'fence to our friend here."

"I'll be tending to my chores directly, but I thank you, Marlyse, for your kind invitation." Zero glanced towards Marie-Claire, brightened some, and continued, "You would be granting me a monumental kindness, however, should you impart to our dearly departed chef, that I offer this restorative libation with the blessings of the gods." With that, he smiled at the two ladies, bowed, and took his leave.

Though still smarting from Zero's verbal-tongue lashing, Lisa had nevertheless managed a weak smile in return.  Now that he was gone, she ran her fingers into her silky hair while shaking her head. "Ooooh, Marlysia, sometime I push the people the wrong a way, you know?"

"Hey, now don't be pushing yourself the wrong away, sweet Lise." Though her voice was soothing, the maid's words had little effect.

Lisa moved to Marie-Claire's side. She began inattentively administering a light neck massage. "I don't wanna be a—wadda he say—a old hog?" Marlyse smiled at this, but didn't reply. Lisa continued, "I just having a fun with Zeroso. And he gotta get all worked up. And for what? You know, he always trying to say the big words but he mostly saying nothing." The application of the massage progressively intensified as Lisa's mounting anger struggled to revenge her wounded pride. "Wadda he gotta be proud for? Mister Big Man coming in a here with a pig. Calling me some kinda old fat hog! Zeroso, he gotta be blowing the hot air all a time."

Lisa had worked herself into heated state. Beads of sweat formed above her brow. Chef's neck turned crimson, and her forehead lolled and rolled, kneading the loaf of bread under the aggressive treatment. Alarmed, Maid Marlyse sat still, observing with a wide-eyed consternation bordering on panic.

Lisa continued, "You thing he a sexy man? He too hairy! He too fat! He gotta stupid name—Zeroso!" On that remark, Lisa wound up and smacked the back of Chef's head with a smarting wallop.

Marlyse popped out of her chair.

Marie-Claire surfaced from the depths of her moribund torpor, slowly lifting her head and straining to focus her squinting eyes. "Oooh la la la la laaa," she said, though probably bemoaning the effects of the drink rather than the smack to the head. Breadcrumbs clung to her fleshy pink cheeks. She grimaced and moved her mouth as if she wanted to spit out her tongue. Then she mumbled something in French.

Lisa immediately took hold of the big red head and guided it to her bosom. She smoothed the tossed curls into a semblance of order and cooed words of comfort.

Marlyse sat back down with an air of indecision.

"Ah! Here we are. Good morning."

Rohbair had strutted into the center of the kitchens and was addressing the three servants. With barely a glance at the pig, and not paying the slightest heed to Marie-Claire's state of consciousness, he continued, "I wish to inform you of a general staff meeting to be held this evening at eight o'clock sharp. It will be held in the drawing-room and I shall be conducting the proceedings. Please endeavor to be on time." He was about to turn and leave, but hesitated. Directing his attention to the table, he said, "Surely, between two maids and four kitchen staff, you could manage to clear a table from time to time." Adding with a sarcastic bite, "If it's not too much bother that is." Then, with a sharp tug at his waistcoat, Rohbair spun on his heels and marched out the door, bellowing. "And get the bloody pig out of the bleeding kitchen!" His captive audience dismissed his performance entirely, resuming their earlier attitude as though nothing had happened.

Marie-Claire whined about feeling poorly again and then asked for something to drink.

"Here," said Lisa, reaching for the goblet and guiding it into Chef's trembling hands. "Zeroso, he make a this for you special."

Marie-Claire brought the goblet up to her chubby French lips. She tilted her head back, lifting bloodshot eyes to the ceiling as she drained the contents. Marlyse winced. The chef slapped the goblet back down on the table, hard. Still gripping the stem, she leveled her enormous head. Her eyes bulged and her face flushed. Marie-Claire's great bulk began to tremble. Lisa stepped back. The pig looked on, seemingly amused. Marlyse shrank in horror, shutting her eyes tight and covering her mouth. Lisa stepped back further still.

"AAAAAiiiiieeeeeeeeeaaaaahhh!"

The blood-curdling scream rang off the walls, echoing throughout the great kitchen. By the time the ringing in their ears subsided, Marie-Claire was slumped over, sweat dripping into her lap. Marlyse, still covering her mouth, stared, wide-eyed. Lisa trembled. The pig chortled, emitting little snorts and grunts, while prancing about as if dancing a jig.

Chin's Chinese slippers padded almost soundlessly as he traversed the immense main entrance hall of the manor. Massive, intricately-carved oak doors stood sentry over a silent sea of marble flooring spreading forth in every direction. Vaulted ceilings, with frescoes portraying cherubim archers and trumpeting angels, descended to arched doorways and walls bordered by Baroque frieze. Central to the celestial depiction, a dazzling chandelier grew in concentric circles of diamond-cut crystals. It was suspended over the foot of a grand stairway that swept in a graceful curve to the upper levels of the mansion.

Coming from the opposite direction, Rohbair's staccato heels rose in volume as he approached. Chin paused and bowed his head in greeting as Rohbair came to a stop, towering over him. Rohbair looked down his nose at the enormous eyes, magnified through the lenses of the oriental's spectacles. Good man this little bloke, thought Rohbair, bowing and all—shows respect, what!

"I say, Mr. Cheong, I should very much like for you to inform the overseer of a servants' general meeting. It is to be held this evening ... in the drawing-room. Oh yes, and be sure to stress that he is to inform his grubby crew of subordinates as well. If you don't, he won't—the man is inept. I shall chair the meeting."

"Okay Bob, Chin can do, I start tomolo."

"Mr. Cheong, you will please refer to my person as Mr. Bosworth, or if you must, Rohbair. And do you understand anything I say to you my dear little fellow?"

"Sure Bob, Chin tell Mr. Herr. I say, you share meeting." Chin's speech patterns were often punctuated by intermittent head-bobbing and subservient bows.

Rohbair, exasperated, raised his eyes to the ceiling. When they focused, he noted the chandelier was stitched together with a ghoulish mass of cobwebs. He returned his attention to Chin. "Mr. Cheong, must you always bob to nod?"

"Ahhh, very gooood!" said Chin. "Do not bob to nod. Must remember."

Rohbair gave a tug on his waistcoat and marched off in the direction of the east wing.

Chin watched the butler recede into the gloom at the end of a long corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading with him. Chin smiled the cheeky-smile of a Cheshire cat. "Never judge cook by cover," he murmured.

Adolophles lived mostly in his mind, engaging in all manner of conversation with himself and other imaginary persons. Oft times, he could be seen talking to himself, though the dialogue was barely audible. And so it was that Adolophles mumbled his way into the barn on this fine morning, shrugging his shoulders from time to time, as he was wont to do.

The olfactory sensation associated with barns was as enriching and rewarding to him as the smell of money to a banker or a thief. Animals he understood; they were honest. People, however, were a mystery. Manure was pure, organic, biodegradable. Whereas words were mired in degrees of intent dependent on inflection and nuance, and once uttered, were capable of lasting an eternity.

The farmer reached for a pitchfork and climbed the ladder to the loft, his mind caught in the throes of rehashing the unpleasantness of the morning's episode. The stilted atmosphere produced when clashing personalities chance upon one another stifled Adolophles. And, since neither party was likely to volunteer a concession—at least in the short term—avoiding contact would become paramount. The onus was clearly on Lisa to apologize, and he knew it would be forthcoming. Just as he knew the saucy sous-chef needed time to reflect and rehearse an appropriate response.

His heavy boots clunked on the wooden planks as he made his way to the stack of hay. Something atop stirred, causing a clump of fodder to cascade down the face. Somewhat startled, Adolophles abandoned his ruminations and peered into the dust towards the rafters. Shafts of golden light penetrating the cracks in the barn-board forced him to squint. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out a boyish face peeking over the top, grinning from ear to ear.

"Ernie lad! You give me the fright I might expect from a nightmare in Hades. You're a devil of boy, lad. What do you do atop the harvest this fine day?"

"Sleeping me life away, I expect. What time would ye make it to be if ye cared to know, sir?"

"Time is a fleeting thing, lad. In youth, 'tis forever. In the aged, it is Death knocking at the door. But that I should care? Well, as I'm a simple man who rises with the sun, eats when hungry, and sleeps when tired, I have no use to know. Nor do I care. But I can tell you this lad: Apollo rode o'er the hills but a short time ago, though he has yet to reach the apogee."

"I asked ye for the time, man. I don't give a rat's ass about Paulo, his horse, or a feckin apple tree!"

Adolophles shook his burly head from side to side and thrust his pitchfork into the pile. "You've a coarse mouth, lad. You're uncouth ways will hardly allow you to dine in company, amidst the finery and lavish tables of the gentry. Best you stick to shoveling shit should you care not for a better standing in life."

"Ah, but ye see, I've the luck o' the Irish in me blood. And born a poor laddie too, to be sure. So if I catch me a wee fairy, ye can bet I'll not be going to me grave worried about shyte like that." The stable boy launched himself over the edge, tumbling and rolling in an avalanche of hay. Springing to his feet and brushing himself off, he fixed Adolophles with a mischievous smirk. "I best get to me shit-shoveling, or Horst'll be having me goolies on toast."

Adolophles just shook his head again in dismay. He tossed a great fork-full of hay through the trap in the loft to the floor below.

"WHAT the—"

The startled voice was cut short as the feed hailed down in a great clump. Ernie and Adolophles peered over the edge as the last of the hay settled to the ground.

"—bloody hell!" concluded Rohbair through clenched teeth, blinking up at them, covered head to toe in dust and straw.

The stable boy quickly withdrew, stifling a spasm of giggles. Adolophles stood his ground, pursing his lips to keep from smiling. "Begging your pardon good sir, I'd no way of knowing you were below. Feeding the stock rarely amounts to such folly. But I must admit, your escapade begs a jolly good guffaw, wouldn't you say?"

"Mr. Izzero, my escapade, as you put it, does not in the least appeal to my sense of merriment. Nor is it intended as entertainment for yourself or that scallywag, Mr. O'Boyo." Rohbair shouted up to the loft. "Mr. O'Boyo! I know you're up there. You needn't hide. And I daresay, you'd best cease your bloody giggling lest I come up there and give you a sound thrashing."

The farmer glanced over his shoulder at the stable boy. Ernie, now unrestrained and laughing aloud, merrily kicked up loose hay as he mimicked the stricken butler. Adolophles Izzero turned his attention back to Rohbair. "Would you be so kind as to temper your anger, sir, and perhaps shed light on the reason you've so uncharacteristically graced us with your presence, here, in the humble milieu of the common man and his beast?"

Standing in these undignified surroundings, up to his knees in cattle fodder, forced to look up to his underlings in order to address them, was probably not the effect Rohbair had counted on when he'd entered the barn a few moments earlier. His blood pressure was on the rise and his temples throbbed. The snickering stable boy fueled his anger. Enraged, he turned and stomped out, shouting at the top of his lungs: "There's to be a meeting tonight, and you bloody-well better be there. Both of you!"

"GIT!"

"I heard that, you little bugger!" roared Rohbair. "Blasted, bleeding, sodding Irish ..." His voice trailed off as he crossed the yard.

"Feckin pompous arse, he is," said the lad with a chuckle.

"You'll be smarting from his wrath one day when you least expect it. Mark my words laddie. Bobby-the-butler is not beyond reaching out and striking down that which mocks his illusions of grandeur."

Sprigs of hay sprouting from his mop of ginger hair, and a fresh smirk pasted on his freckled face, Ernie truly looked as if he couldn't care less. He scoffed at the cautionary words. And then, with a twinkly-eyed wink, he bid farewell to the farmer. "Best I scuttle me butt to the stables. Got me shit-shoveling to do. Toodle-oo Zeroo." The lad scrambled down the ladder and dashed away.

Adolophles Izzero—or Zero, as most of the estate's personnel referred to him—shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his work. "Mark my words, Ernie lad. Mark my words."

Alfonso was wading through his morning ablutions when a peculiar, insistent pounding reverberated the length of the east wing. Curious, he put down his razor, wiped his face, and slipped into a robe. He opened the door to his chambers, poked his head into the hallway, and looked up and down the corridor. And there, way down at the end, stood Bob, thumping on a door. Alfonso was at a loss as to why the butler would be knocking with such ardor on a door to an empty room.

He called out. "Hola! Señor Bob!"

Rohbair stopped abruptly, snapping his head in the direction of the voice, his arm suspended mid blow. The expression on his face revealed complete and utter surprise. Bob was speechless, staring in disbelief.

"Señor Bob, I theenk there is nobody in this room."

Baffled, Rohbair slowly lowered his arm and turned towards Alfonso. "But I—I thought you ..." Rohbair didn't finish. Instead, he approached.

The Spaniard greeted him with a warm smile as he came up. "You are fine, yes, Señor Bob?"

"Better then the present circumstance might presume. However, let's not mince words nor waste time. I've called a meeting to be held this very eve at precisely eight o'clock. Your presence will of course be requested, along with every member of the estate."

Alfonso's eyes swept the length of butler from head to toe, noting the dust and straw still clinging to his garments. His mouth parted to ask the obvious, but before he could utter a word, Bob cut him off. "I don't care to discuss it Mr. Corazones. And I'll thank you to please be on time."

Alfonso returned an affirming nod. Then, looking to the end of the corridor, he said, "Señor Bob, you know, there is nobody living in this room down there."

Rohbair blinked but said nothing.

Alfonso wondered if the butler chose to ignore the comment, or whether he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Rohbair became preoccupied with his attire. He brushed a piece of straw from the front of his trousers and, in the process, realized his fly was open. A furtive glance at the grinning Spaniard showed he, too, had noted the gaffe. Rohbair blushed. He clutched at the enclosure and spun round to hide his embarrassment.

"Fine then. Yes, ... well, until this evening. See you—I'll see you then." Bob fumbled with his buttons as he scurried away.

Though the butler was already out of hearing range, Alfonso nevertheless replied. "See you, Señor."

Alfonso closed his door softly, smiling.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo scooted through the entrance to the stables and slid to a stop, confronted by a plump khaki-clad man of obvious Teutonic tendencies, tapping a riding crop against his boot top. He sported riding breeches and he wore an expression of overbearing dominance. This was the very man he least wished to encounter at that particular moment.

"Again, late for za work! Why za same every day?"

"Jest feckin lucky I guess," said Ernie, smirking.

"Yah, so you think you can make zis swears words with za overseer?" Horst made a grab for the lad but missed.

Ernie was adept at sidestepping overzealous prospects eager to land a wallop. Horst was easy—he was short and old and not very fast.

"Beggin yer pardon, sir, jest forgetting me shit-shoveling place is all," said the lad, distancing himself. Safely out of harms way, he took up his pitch fork and sauntered off in the direction of the stalls, whistling a tune.

"Might be you could think a cutting the boy some slack, Herr," said the stable master, stepping out from the tack room. "Does a fair bit a work round here while no one else seems much obliged."

It was the southern drawl that most amused the overseer over that of the man's other attributes. He admired the man's even temperament. Buck was a first-class horseman whose talents were lost on the estate's herd. Horst turned to the tall, big-boned horse trainer. "Herr Buck," he said, "I thank you for za observation, but I must insist zis boy come for za work on time, yah?"

"Sure thing, you're the boss."

Horst held his stocky bulk in limbo, unsure of what to say or do next. He tapped his riding crop against his leg, his ruddy countenance expressing his inner turmoil.

"Herr, is there something you wanna talk about?" asked Buck.

"Yah, ... but now I forget. Zis boy! He make for I forget what I want to say."

"I reckon you came to the stables 'cause you was aiming to talk about horses."

Hearing this, Horst suddenly recalled the reason for his presence in the horse barn. "Yah! Good, now I remember. Za horsies. We need to increase za population of zis horses. Now so many years we try and we try, but we not have luck, yah? And why is zis? Because we have—what you say—za dud stud, yah? Okay, so what we can do?"

Buck tilted his hat back and answered, "Not much we can do. Least not till we get ourselves a stud that ain't shooting blanks."

"Yah, yah, zis I know. But, Herr Buck, I think I have za answer to zis problem. We have za jackass, yah? So, we put za jackass with za mares and soon we have za babies!" Horst indulged in a smug smile, content to have solved the problem with such a simple proposition.

Buck frowned and rubbed his jaw. He appeared to be working out a diplomatic response to an asinine idea. "Herr, I'd like to show you something," he said, motioning for Horst to follow.

Though his gait was easy and unhurried, the horse trainer's long stride forced Horst to step double-time to keep up. Buck led the way to a gate at the back of the stables letting out to the paddocks. A gentle breeze met them, carrying the sweet scent of the countryside. The bouquet was that of pasture lands and wild flowers, mingled with the musky odor of grazing livestock. Three separate enclosures ranged over the hillside. Buck pointed to one and said, "Take a gander at them animals in that corral there. You see how they're kinda stocky looking and they got them big old rabbit-ears?"

"Yah, yah, I see zis, yah." The overseer nodded enthusiastically, thinking he was about to discover a little-known secret of animal husbandry.

"Well, those two mules are just about the ugliest critters on god's green earth."—pointing in the other direction—"Now, look yonder by that big old hemlock. You see that fool animal chomping on that there water trough, he sorta looks like a horse except his dang ears are too long?"

"Yah, yah," said Horst, nodding again, eager for Buck to get to the point.

"That there's your jackass. And he's the orneriest bugger on this farm. I'd just as soon shoot him as look at him." The stable master spat over the fence and directed the overseer's attention to another paddock. "Herr, them there's our mares. They ain't much to look at, I know, but that's real horseflesh."

Horst nodded, waiting for the follow-up, but realized a moment later, none was forthcoming. He looked to Buck who was still staring out at the paddocks. "Yah ... so what?"

Buck turned his gaze until his eyes met Horst's. It was plain to see the overseer still hadn't cottoned on. "Herr, if you take an ass and mix it with a mare, you're gonna wind up with one of them uglier-then-sin mules."

Horst mulled over the revelation for a moment before concluding, "Yah, I see za point." He turned and marched off in the direction of the stable doors.

Buck, watching him leave, shook his head slowly.

Rohbair entered the stables surveying the rafters for signs of a trap door. Assured an ambush from the loft was not tactically feasible, he leveled his gaze. It fell on the overseer, who had stopped short at the sight of him. As their eyes met, so did the mutual disdain they felt for one another become apparent.

"Morning."

It was the stable master coming up behind Horst who broke the silence.

"Indeed," said Rohbair, with a quick glance to Buck.

A few more strained moments elapsed before Bob spoke up. "I say, Mr. Knowles, would you be so kind as to inform the overseer of a meeting scheduled for this evening? Eight o'clock, in the drawing-room. All estate personnel—without exception—are expected." Rohbair had said this without unlocking his eyes from those of his adversary.

"Begging your pardon, Bob, but I reckon the Herr can rightfully hear what you're saying ... seeing as he's standing right where you're looking."

"Herr Buck, please tell za butler, za overseer is occupied for za foreseeable future." Horst slapped his riding crop across his palm to punctuate the remark.

Buck Knowles shifted his weight and studied the two men, looking from one to the other. They continued staring at each other with contempt. It was a standoff. The butler's upper lip lifted and he sniffed sharply in a display of disregard for the overseer. In return, Horst tapped the riding crop across his palm in a stiff, steady beat. The horse trainer shook his head and ambled off in the direction of the stalls. Abruptly, and with a sharp tug at his waistcoat, Rohbair spun on his heels and marched out. The overseer's body relaxed. He lowered himself onto a bale of straw.
Chapter Two

Memo To Self

The sun hung high in the sky. Shimmering heat waves rose from the parched earth in the valley below. The entire estate slumbered in the manner of an old dog on a hot, lazy afternoon. As such, staff and servants were nowhere to be seen, and all creatures great and small had tucked themselves into the shade of whatever provided relief from the naked sun. From time to time, a puff of air would lift a small cloud of dust, ripple through the treetops, or erase the mirage-like effect of radiating heat. Vegetation hung limp, enduring the futility of escape, while solid structures seemed to suffer in silent resignation.

For the second time that day, a long, white body stretched across a Louis XVI bed, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling. Rohbair's ruminations centered on his failure to effectively manage. Try as he might, he could not impose his will upon the motley rabble of subordinates in the manor. Disturbing scenes took form and played out in the theater of his imagination. In every figment of this fanciful and thematic burlesque, it was he, Robert Bosworth, head butler, who suffered humiliating and derisory provocation of exaggerated proportions.

He turned his head, tearing his eyes from the vignettes in his mind. His gaze was now directed on a clump of clothing where he had caught sight of an indistinct movement. And there it was again, the loathsome cockroach from the morning, triumphantly ensconced on top of the pile, like a king on his throne, majestically waving its antennae. It seemed to Rohbair as if the pest were mocking him; he thought he could just make out a smirk. Without taking his eyes from the insect, he felt around on his bed for a suitable projectile, but came up empty handed. Undaunted, he launched himself with all the fury he possessed, directing his rage and bitterness at the disgusting cockroach. In midair, a savage battle cry rose from his chest, but was cut short. Bob plummeted to the floor having caught his foot in the sheets. He hit the parquet with a thud and a groan in time to see the little bugger scurry under another hump of clothing.

Picking himself up from the ground, Rohbair weighed the importance of crushing a cockroach against his desire to bring order to the estate. In the final analysis, he could not allow the morning's setbacks to undermine his resolve—he must complete his mission. He would make another attempt to inform Miss Van Bleake of the meeting. He would track down the chief gardener and the doctor as well. The meeting would go ahead as scheduled.

The butler stooped to retrieve a pair of trousers, which he tossed on the bed before moving to another pile of discarded clothing and selecting a shirt. Before long, he had a reasonably clean, albeit wrinkled, suit of clothes strewn across his bedspread. He dressed and studied the reflection in the mirror as if to appraise the worth of the image. He frowned, realizing he'd quite forgotten to shave that morning. His stubble, peppered with gray whiskers, rendered the overall appearance similar to that of a shabby chap with a penchant for tippling. Rohbair's shoulders slumped. Deflated, he turned from his reflection. He took a few steps in the direction of the door, deciding to press on, at all costs. However, when he found himself grappling with the discrepancy between the image in the mirror and that which he held in his head, he stopped. A bitter reality won the day. Completely demoralized, Rohbair slowly undressed, letting his clothes drop to the floor. He moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, his vacant stare directed towards the blinding light spilling in through the window.

Plink.

Someone had thrown a pebble at the window!

Plink.

There it was again.

Odd, thought Rohbair, who could ... And then his mind flashed on Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo. In the blink of an eye, he was at the window flinging it wide and scouring the ground below. His glare came to rest on the perpetrator, calmly standing below. It was none other than Yuno, the gardener. Rohbair, taken aback, stared down in astonishment, his gaping mouth frozen on the first syllable he was about to shout.

Yuno fixed his steady gaze on the window and smiled serenely.

The butler called out, fumbling over Yuno's surname. "I say, Mr. Anotwh—Anwho—well, you've given me quite a start. What the devil are you doing there?"

The voice came back clear, but with the timbre and unhurried manner of the aged. "You wanted to talk to me."

Rohbair, at a loss as to how Yuno could have known, suspected another servant had tipped him off. Rohbair felt a sudden wave of irritation wash over him. "Well why the blazes wouldn't who ever told you that, not tell you I've called a meeting this evening?"

Yuno shrugged. "You know, chief, maybe they didn't know."

"Nonsense! Who told you I wanted to speak with you?"

"The spirit wind, and it's Anotwhoyoukno."

"What?"

"The name of my ancestors, Anotwhoyoukno."

Clearly confused, Rohbair was not sure how to respond. He thought the old gardener had likely succumbed to a bout of senility.

Yuno stood silently as if waiting for Rohbair to speak. As nothing was immediately forthcoming, he raised his voice and said, "Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno."

The words soared right over Rohbair's head. He assumed Yuno had uttered something or other in his native tongue. "Right! Thank you. I'll see you tonight then."

Yuno smiled and continued looking up at the window. The butler looked down, wondering why the devil the old man just stood there grinning up at him. After a few moments, Yuno, perhaps feeling a slight discomfort in his neck, leveled his gaze. Rohbair became mesmerized by the silvery-white mane reflecting a strange glimmering light. It was as though the old man's head was aglow. It couldn't have been more than a few moments, but when he blinked, the Paiute had disappeared, gone like the wind, vanished. Rohbair rubbed his eyes. He felt tired.

Leaving the window, the butler returned to his massive bed to lay down. Closing his eyes, he saw the same strange play of light he'd seen reflecting in Yuno's silver hair. His body relaxed. He felt the drowsy approach of sleep about to envelop his senses. Seconds later, when the door to his chambers opened ever so cautiously, he was fast asleep.

A gray shadow stole into the room, quickly and quietly filtering through the debris until it stood silently at the bedside. The intruder drew a straight razor from his vest pocket and flipped it open with an accomplished motion. His eyes sparkled as he held the blade to the light, studying the nearly invisible edge. Putting it to Rohbair's bare throat, a thin, wry smile spread across his chiseled features. He had never really liked "Bob-the-snob". But, being a doctor, Bin had pledged to preserve and maintain life without prejudice. That is, unless you happen to be a swine, the likes of which, Bin was apt to dispatch in true clinical fashion—he could dress a pig for dinner in no time. He withdrew the razor blade, folded it, and placed it on the nightstand. Then, picking up a sheet of paper from the floor, he slipped into a chair at the writing desk. Reflecting for a moment, dip pen poised above the inkwell, it suddenly occurred to him what he would compose. He looked askance at the dozing butler and hurriedly scribbled a note. A moment later, he had vanished, leaving Rohbair to snore away the afternoon.

A light tapping summoned Malgreete to her door. At this late hour, she'd still not changed out of her nightdress. She preferred frittering the majority of the day away in trivial self-indulgent activities. Pulling, picking, and poking were among the major themes of Malgreete's daily performances. At this precise point in time, she was working hard to alleviate the discomfort of an ingrown toenail. So it was not without a certain irritation that she flung the doors wide to confront the annoying person who would dare disturb her.

"So! You again. What you want now?"

A freshly-shaved Rohbair stood before her. His voice wavered when he spoke. "My apologies, Miss Van Bleake, but I—I really must inform you,"—closing his eyes—"of a matter at hand."

"SO TELL ME!" The throbbing in Malgreete's big toe inflamed her desire to strangle the butler on the spot.

Rohbair swallowed hard. Looking past her, he delivered his announcement, which tumbled forth with the speed and anxiety of a schoolboy making his first public address. "There is to be a meeting of household and estate servants this evening at eight o'clock sharp in the drawing-room and you are requested to present yourself ..." His voice trailed off as if unsure if there might be anything else to add. Taking a breath and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Bosworth looked to her for a sign of comprehension.

The husky Dutch maid glared at him and then thrust her hand into the pocket of her natty robe. She yanked out a crumpled piece of paper and slammed it with the flat of her hand against Rohbair's chest, knocking him backwards.

The doors banged shut.

Rohbair, shaken, bent to pick up the wad of paper at his feet. He worked it open and read it as he made his way along the corridor. The words caused his steps to falter.

It read:

Dear Miss Malgreete,  
You are required to present yourself at a meeting of all household and estate servants this evening at 8 o'clock sharp in the drawing-room. Don't be late.

It was signed, Bobo, the butler.

In contrast to the morning, the great kitchen buzzed with activity by late afternoon. A jangling chorus of clanging pots and pans accompanied by knives whacking on chopping blocks, and joined by a medley of steaming, sizzling, hissing sounds, formed a symphony that rang round the room like a bizarre orchestral experiment. Vapors released from simmering sauces mingled with delicious whiffs of roasting pork. The entire orgy of mouth-watering aromas wafted on currents of air stirred up by cooks bustling about here and there and everywhere. It was madness—a tantalizing and delightful madness.

Marie-Claire mopped her brow with a cloth. She refilled her goblet with wine and leaned back against the counter, inspecting her underlings. Chin was happily whacking at something green on the chopping block. Lisa was thoughtfully testing, stirring, and sprinkling spices before a line-up of soups and sauces. Alfonso hovered over the pig roasting on the brazier, poking and prying as he tested the meat for tenderness. Satisfied with the progress of the evening meal—the only prepared meal of the day—Marie-Claire helped herself to a copious swallow. Seized by a sudden and vivid recollection of the morning's intended remedial libation, her throat reflexively tightened, which in turn, caused her to choke and sputter. Marie-Claire quickly set the goblet on the counter. The three sous-chefs had paused and were now watching her. Between coughs and clearing her throat, Marie-Claire managed to blurt out that she was fine, it was nothing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, to reassure them, she clapped her hands together smartly, chiding them to keep busy.

As soon as they had resumed their tasks, the chef hefted a large cast iron pan in one arm, picked up her goblet, and went to the servants' table. She cleared the remnants of food left from the previous evening's meal into the pan. With a large ladle, she stirred all the chunks, bits, and pieces together. And, after a hesitant swig, she poured the remainder of her wine into the pan as well. The stew could stand to be heated, she reasoned, so she brought it to the stove and adjusted the flame.

Looking to Lisa, Marie-Claire asked, "Chèrie, you can tell me what Monsieur Bobby come to blah-blah this morning?"

An amused smile came to the saucier's lips. "He say everybody have to come and a see him talk. He saying like a we have no choice!"

"I think Monsieur Bobby ees not so happy this morning, yes?"

Alfonso crossed the room, poured another cup of wine, and offered it to his superior. She acknowledged the gesture with a nod.

"Do you theenk we should go to hear what Señor Bob has to say, Chef?" he asked.

"Me, I'm not so sure. I feel it will maybe not be very amusing."

"I have seen Señor Bob try to make something of nothing many times. But I have never seen him act with such ... such passion. He is very determined today."

Marie-Claire agreed. "Yes, I feel you are right. But to go, or not to go ..." She shrugged. "We can wait, and we can see what this evening can bring."

Chin chimed in with a remark that caused them all to grin. "Have difficult choice: Go or not go. We wait, decide after—very clever. Same like no lemon, no melon, we few stop pots—also very clever."

"Maria, if you make a this choice," said Lisa, "you know we follow—all of us. The chefs must be one, but is a head-chef must decide."

"We can see, chèrie, we can see after. My cup. Where ees my wine?"

Marlyse Marliemon appeared through the doorway leading to the main dining hall. Her bright eyes flashed and her winsome smile caused all to respond in kind. "Something sure do smell fine! Whats cooking, mon?"

Marlyse was a bright spark among the servants and well liked by all. The cooks greeted her warmly, and while Lisa gave her the gist of the preceding topic of discussion, Marie-Claire tested the soups and sauces, and then helped herself to another goblet of wine. Chin continued chopping greens. Alfonso turned back to the pig on the spit. Marlyse had come to load a pushcart with necessary dishware in preparation for dinner. The other maid, Malgreete, did nothing to assist in the evening's meal. In fact, she did nothing at all in the way of help, ever. So too, the aloof butler was loath to lift a finger. The sad truth was, the estate servants pursued a minimal semblance of their vocation merely to keep from being bored to death. In the absence of a lord and master to give direction and purpose to their existence, they succumbed to routines driven by sloth and caprice. Much was said, but nothing was done.

The stew was done. Marie-Claire hoisted the heavy pan with two hands and carried it to the delivery door. She then placed it on the flagstone floor and opened the portal. A black blur bound through the opening. It was Nero and he gamboled around the head-chef seeking her reciprocal affection. In kind, Marie-Claire ruffled his furry head and jostled the big mutt from side to side. She cooed words in French, intimating that if only she were young again and of the same species.

Watching them, Chin thought of a fitting apropos: Cooks are a dog's best friend.

Rich oak panels encircled the grand, rectangular dining hall. Antiquated portrait, landscape, and still-life oils hung within them like a cluster of dusty memories from a forgotten time. Three crystal chandeliers hung over the length of an imposing mahogany table. Twenty-four massive, high-backed chairs ranged round the dull tabletop. An array of tarnished silverware and porcelain terrines containing the evening meal, sat steaming on a sideboard. Marlyse placed the last of the trays on it and returned to the kitchen to join the cooks. She preferred to dine in their company. The rest of the servants, on their own time, would find their way to the dining-room and help themselves. As some of them were creatures of habit, those who wished to avoid certain others, would know when not to present themselves for dinner. Even so, at times, this scenario would occasion an interesting mix; some servants acted purely on impulse.

As usual, at precisely six o'clock, Rohbair made his entrance to find the room empty. He hesitated a moment on the threshold, savoring the aromatic enticements. Eager to indulge, he gave a sharp tug on his waistcoat and stepped smartly to the trolley, where he collected some flatware before helping himself to a sampling of various dishes from the sideboard. Sitting down at the head of the table, he paused to consider the solemn atmosphere of the room. He imagined it filled with animated nobility bent on entertaining one another with wit and charm. As the soiree progressed, along with the flow of wine, some would venture risqué remarks, or raise a boisterous cheer. Thereafter, under the influence of a copious and bibulous indulgence, motives would be examined, reviewed, and critiqued. Sensibilities would be called to question. Eventually, egos would be attacked—and bruised. Finally, only the bellicose drunks and gluttonous idlers would remain.

Rohbair smiled a sardonic smile, and drove his fork into the pork with aberrant gusto.

Adolophles Izzero, unexpectedly, appeared in the doorway. He seemed hesitant but pulled himself into the room nevertheless. Zero was inclined to dine at a later hour in the kitchens with the hope of catching Marie-Claire alone and still somewhat lucid. This evening, however, it appeared he wanted to avoid Lisa, at all costs.

Rohbair allowed a brief pause and a nod in his direction. Zero, in return, smiled at Rohbair and moved to the sideboard buffet.

His plate laden with dinner, Zero looked uncertain of what to do next. He cleared his throat, and when the butler looked up, he asked, "Begging your pardon, but would the kind sir allow the likes of a lowly farmer to dine at this same table?"

"As I see you're not sporting the dung-laden dungarees commonplace amongst your class, I have no objection," answered Bob flatly.

Adolophles diplomatically pulled up a chair midway along the table so as not to give the wrong impression: Too close might suggest a certain familiarity, just as too far may demonstrate an aversion.

"I say, Mr. Izzero, would you perchance keep company with Doctor Dare from time to time?"  Rohbair's question was without prelude and came rather unexpectedly.

Zero looked up from his plate, visibly astounded. His expression turned pensive as he considered a reply. "Keep company, you ask? Well, insomuch as I have not even laid eyes on the good doctor in at least—what is it, maybe two years—no, I must admit, I do not keep company with the man. Nor am I aware of anyone who communes frequently with our esteemed man of medicine. A veritable enigma. And, if the truth be known, I'm not even sure I could tell you where he keeps his own company. Would you happen to know where he is to be found, or where his quarters are located?"

"No. This is precisely why I posed the question. I should like for someone who does, to inform him of my call to meeting,"—glancing at the clock on the mantel—"in one hour and forty-five minutes."

Zero opened wide to accommodate a large morsel of meat on the end of his fork. His mouth closed around it and his eyes shifted to the ceiling as he savored the flavor of the first bite. The butler winced. Zero seemed to be formulating a remark as he chewed. Then he wagged his fork in Bob's direction while struggling to swallow the macerated remains of his meat. Rohbair waited in anticipation of yet another patented Zero revelation.

And then it began.

"As I consider the conundrum 'How to find the man no one knows', I feel a certain logic must apply. What, then, is the logic? To find something, you must know what the something is. To know what something is, you must be, or at least understand, this something. Thus, the principle It Takes One to Know One applies. And what is Bin? He is a doctor. And did you know, Yuno the gardener is a doctor—in a manner of speaking, of course. Oh yes, indeed, he is a native American doctor—a shaman, to his people. So you see Mr. Bosworth, the chief gardener is the man to ask because he is likely the only person able to unearth the elusive doctor."

Rohbair found Zero's conclusion somewhat bulky and slightly erroneous, but after a moment, he gave merit to the concept. "You may have something there Mr. Izzero. Would you know where to find Mister Anwha—Atwon—the gardener?"

"No."

Zero-the-Greek chomped down on another hunk of meat. Rohbair frowned and looked away, glad his dinner was over and that he could now take his leave.

And no sooner had he departed by the main entrance, when the service door burst open admitting an uproarious laughter. Ernie O'Boyo and Buck Knowles entered, still caught up in the merriment originating from the kitchens. Zero smiled at them, an inquisitive expression implying his eagerness to share in the fun.

"Ernie 'Lad' was just now recollecting how Bob got dusted in the barns this morning," said Buck.

Zero grinned, recalling the image of the seething butler, covered head-to-toe in feed.

The stable's hands settled at the table after serving themselves generous helpings. Zero wiped his mouth on his sleeve and allowed a sigh of contentment. He watched his new dining companions tucking into their meal with all the enthusiasm of hungry puppies. Polite conversation and etiquette were not on the menu for this bunch. Zero belched, glad he didn't have to mask or stifle a natural human function.

"May I inquire, good sirs," asked the farmer, "will the directors of our equestrian club be attending the evening's premier event? I speak, of course, of the highly uncharacteristic call to meeting by our much-loathed guardian of moral conduct, none other than that punctilious dilettante butler, Bob."

Buck said, "If you're meaning to ask if we're going to Bob's meeting, well, I reckon I'd have a gander and see what's so dang important."

"And, if ye thinks I'll be wasting me time listening to that git spouting off about god only knows, well then, yer daft as he is."

Zero gave the lad a dismissive glance, turned his attention back to Buck and asked, "Are you perchance aware if our industrious kitchen staff have expressed their eagerness to participate?"

"Don't rightly know."

"Not feckin likely, man. Not but one of them is beholden to that pompous arse." Ernie gave them a look that suggested he was about to reveal a confidence. "And that's the wee one what fixes his morning tea and toast. Jaysus! For the life o' me, I can't figure that one out!"

The two men registered the boy's information, but made no comment. This must have caused Ernie to feel he'd missed his mark; as if his revelation should have garnered more interest than it did. His impetuous response was directed at Zero: "What do ye care, anyway? I don't see as yer much concerned with anything ... except maybe that fat French tart, what's got yer interest."

Zero raised a brow at the lad's sharp tongue and cross eyes. But he smiled generously, having decided to humor the boy. "Ernie lad," he said, "you reveal yourself to be a fountain of secrets. Your keen sense of observation has undoubtedly led you to piece together a series of seemingly unconnected fragments, which, in and of themselves, proffered clues to further develop your supposition. That, or you're a sneaky little bugger who peaks through keyholes."

"Ha!" Buck caught himself and feigned a cough to cover the outburst.

The Irish lad's eyes smoldered. His face turned crimson. Slamming his utensils down, Ernie rose and spat a fiery stream of profanities. His curses fell flat, bouncing off the wily farmhand who winked at the stable master just then. Further enraged, Ernie violently shoved back his chair and stomped out of the room, leaving his grinning dinner companions to themselves.

It was eight o'clock. The sun was low and the room appeared empty. Marlyse entered and stood for a moment, perplexed. Buck's boots clunking into the room caused her to turn. Hot on his heels, was Alfonso. The trio exchanged weak smiles in the uneasy air of unfamiliar circumstance.

"The chief isn't here, anyway."

Three pairs of eyes swept towards the sound of the voice. Yuno sat cross-legged on the corner of a large oak desk, puffing on a pipe. The old Paiute's smile was warm and friendly and his soft gray eyes seemed to look straight through them to some place beyond. An open window nearby admitted the sounds of evening, which included the current chorus of crickets and frogs that floated into the room on a breeze. Yuno dropped to his feet, crossed to the window, placed his hand to his mouth, and, leaning outside, made a series of strange hooting noises. Abruptly, the crickets and the frogs ceased their medley. Yuno turned, raised himself onto the windowsill, and crossed his legs under him.

"Maybe you want to sit down," he said to the audience.

Marlyse, Buck, and Alfonso came to life, each moving to take up a seat in one of the comfortable-but-dusty armchairs arranged round the room. When they were seated, Yuno nodded his wise old head. "Feels much better," he said.

A tired old harp sat before a stand holding yellowed sheet-music, the corners of which were limp and folding over. A spider had made use of the harp strings as structural supports for its web. Collecting dust on a low table, were a tarnished French horn and a dull clarinet. Rounding out the musical ensemble was a battered harpsichord and a cello, the latter, propped up on its stand as if making use of a crutch.

"Does anyone make music?" asked the old Paiute, with a grin.

There was a pause, and then ...

"I play a leedle flamenco guitar," answered Alfonso, "but this is many years ago."

Buck cleared his throat. "I fooled a tad with a harmonica when I was just a young buck. But I don't reckon I'm much good these days. Takes a heap a practice."

Marlyse admitted to being good at shimmy shaking to a Calypso beat, but that making music was not part of her repertoire.

Yuno was amused and content. He smiled a big toothy smile, revealing leaf, berry, and bark-stained teeth. "I'm a singer," he said, and immediately launched into a rousing rendition of one of the ancient songs of his people. The frogs and crickets joined in. His audience sat with polite smiles, listening to the musical interlude while waiting for the evening's star performer.

Rohbair glared at the clock on the mantel. He had entered the room a generous-five-minutes early. As expected, no one appeared beforehand; they'd make him wait. He took up a position at the end of the room, facing the door. Every few minutes, Bosworth would glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes passed. Surely, the entire lot of them would not conspire to snub his meeting. Kunkle wouldn't show, that was a given. But, had he the influence to turn the entire mob against him? Preposterous! Who then? A glance at the clock revealed it to be twenty after the hour. A rush of anger coursed through his tense body and he had to force himself to remain calm. It was imperative he focus on what he wished to say, address the issue clearly, concisely, and above all, maintain control of the meeting. The rabble-rousers must not be permitted to gain the upper hand. Firm and resolute would be his stance. Thirty-five bleeding minutes late! A spasm derived of panic clutched at his chest with the thought of the entire staff huddled around the dining table enjoying a jolly good laugh at his expense. As on cue, the image took form in his imagination. He visibly shook with rage as their jeering faces flashed before his mind's eye. Rohbair drew a deep breath and rubbed his temples. He willed his taut muscles to relax. He blinked hard. He scanned the room, his eyes roving over dark oak panels; oils, portraying scenes of the hunt; overstuffed leather chairs clustered near the hearth; floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with row upon row of finely-bound books—BOOKS! The shock quite nearly knocked him flat. His head reeled. The room began to spin. The butler slapped himself, smartly, cursing his stupidity, and then bolted from the room.

Rohbair ran the length of the corridor, flew down the central stairway, and sprinted the remaining distance to the drawing-room door. He mopped at his brow and tried to catch his breath before reaching for the handle. Pulling himself upright, he composed himself, and swung the door open. On the threshold, looking into the depressingly-vacant room, Rohbair's body slumped.

In the fading light of evening, preoccupied with gloomy thoughts, he failed to notice the patent leather shoes peeking out from under heavy brocade. Rohbair closed the door without entering.
Chapter Three

Sentient Affairs

Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno slipped into the forest. He welcomed the scent of pine and the feel of the cool, moist earth underfoot. His movements exhibited the effortless grace of someone completely at ease and familiar with his environment. He glided silently on a bed of needles, his senses tuned to the spirits still lurking in the darkest shadows of the early morning. He felt no fear. He hummed a tune—a tune his ancestors sang to ward off evil spirits. Itsqwatyoukno knew the ghosts would soon dissipate in the blinding light of the sun. Now and again, he would stop and flair his nostrils, deciphering messages carried on currents of air. Various berries, bark, and bugs provided sustenance and calmed his growly stomach on these predawn jaunts. His direction was seemingly inconsistent in that he meandered in a leisurely fashion under the pines, first this way, then that. Perhaps it was by design, perhaps not; with Itsqwatyoukno, it was hard to know. The man was a walking mystery—an enigma.

Yuno smiled to himself recalling how many times he'd bumped into trees, and how many times he had tripped over everything in his path when he first became lost in the woods. Learning to accurately gauge proximity necessitated raising the sensitivity of his functional senses. His epidermal layer and olfactory apparatus needed to guide his movements. To focus attention on minute differences in tactile sensations became an extreme and arduous form of training, but one in which his very existence depended. As the years passed and the bruises faded, his ability and dexterity progressed. Yuno warmed to the recollection of his first mad dash through the forest. It was exhilarating. Unfortunately, it came to an abrupt stop when he bashed his head on low limb. Still, it was a major step forward.

Yuno, knowing Nero would soon follow his trail, stooped to gather some moss from the base of a tree. He proceeded to vigorously rub the soles of his moccasins with it. From a doeskin pouch tied round his waist, he withdrew a small bit of bark. It was the bark of a dogwood tree. Yuno chewed the bark as he moved deeper into the gloomy forest. When he had macerated and softened the morsel to a juicy pulp, he extracted it, and then spit a gob of juice onto a smooth, round stone taken from his doeskin pouch. His saliva coated the stone with a slick skin of bitter bark-juice. Yuno tossed the stone behind him in the direction from which he'd come. When it had rolled to a stop, he carefully retraced his steps. Upon reaching the stone, he placed one and then the other foot on top of it. As a final gesture, and to add a degree of certainty to the method, he opened his leather pouch and removed a tiny cloth sack containing a fine black powder. Yuno sprinkled the contents in the immediate vicinity. Satisfied the hound would fail to track him, the wily Paiute faded into the gloom.

Marlyse tapped again. No answer. Three days had passed and still the butler refused to admit anyone to his chambers. She was about to take her leave when a passing thought occurred. Raising her voice, she said, "Mista Bobby-mon, I knows you be in there. And I knows you be hungry too,"—pausing to listen for signs of life—"so here's what I gonna do, mon. I gonna leave these here grits on the floor, by the door. Now, you can come and get it, ... or you can jest let them nasty roaches have a feed day with it." After a moment without response, she placed the tray on the floor. Taking a step back, she fixed the door with a frown.

Marlyse stood, hands on hip, thinking of a parting shot that might incite the sulking butler to respond, when the door opened cautiously, but only wide enough for Rohbair to sneak a peak. The maid cracked her famous pearly grin and winked at the startled eyeball on the other side of the door.

The door clapped shut.

"Well, Mista Bobby-mon, I'm glad to see you still with the living.  And don't fret, them grits still gonna be here when I isn't." She wound up and smacked the door for good measure. The muffled sound of stumbling, followed by a stifled curse, had her chuckling as she turned to leave.

Marlyse stepped lively along the corridor, tracing a finger through the thick dust on each windowsill. Between each, she'd examine her forefinger, shake her head, and utter a "tch, tch" as she rubbed the dust away with her thumb. Caught by surprise, Maid Marlyse came to an abrupt stop before a polished wooden sill that gleamed in the early-morning light. Her astonishment doubled as she became aware of sun spilling in through spotless panes of glass. Her jaw unhinged and hung slack as she further remarked that, indeed, the whole encasement was perfectly clean and bright. A shiver crept up her spine. She shuddered as the eerie sensation of being watched took hold of her. Ever so slowly she turned her head, but there was only the long, empty hallway. Apprehensive, Marlyse moved along the corridor, scanning ahead. The next window drew her gaze to the sill. It was covered in dust, but something was wrong; it had been disturbed. Her hand shot to her mouth, covering a silent scream. The words traced in dust, read: A maid is made to aid.

Trembling, Marlyse picked her way unsteadily, inching further along the hallway. She could tell even before reaching the next window, another message awaited. Clutching her arms about herself, she forced her faltering steps forward to where the words traced in the dust took form: Help Bob, mon!

Marlyse Marliemon was beside herself with fright, knowing full-well the messages were aimed at her. Gripped by fear and uncertainty over the intent and author of the cryptic messages, Marlyse hugged the wall and pressed on, dreading the next windowsill.

The text written next, slipped a ripple of confusion into the tense maid's cloak of fear. It read: Relax, it's just a windowsill.

Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones stood alone on the vast terrace at the rear of the manor, overlooking the estate. He had propped his rapier against the low stone wall and was now contemplating the serenity of the early hour. Strong, finely-formed hands rested on the balustrade, enjoying the sensation of the cool granite's rough texture. His eyes took in the gentle tones of color offered by the dawning of another day. Soon, the sun would flood the valley with a warm yellow light. According to Alfonso, this was the best part of the day. He loved the smell of a fresh morning, the air fragrant with jasmine and cedar, with hints of honeysuckle and rose emanating from the grounds below. His eyes wandered over thoughtful bouquets, expertly trimmed shrubbery, and tidy ponds that formed the central garden. Clearly, the gardener had an eye for detail and tended to his passion with a loving hand. Even so, Alfonso found himself puzzling over the motivational aspects of the man: How could Yuno create such beauty here, in this particular garden, and yet allow the rest of the estate to become overrun?

Alfonso spun round at the sound of a utensil clattering on the patio stone. There was no one there. But a fork lay on the ground next to one of the wrought-iron tables. The table was set for breakfast. There were rashers and bangers and eggs, coffee and cream, toast and marmalade, orange juice, and even a sprig of wild flowers in a small, gleaming silver vase. Taken aback, Alfonso glanced round again, in case he had missed someone the first time. He was alone.

He walked to the table.

On the edge of the neatly-pressed, white linen tablecloth was an envelope. Had there been any doubt the breakfast was not intended for him, he would never dare disturb the setting. Sitting down, Alfonso thoughtfully held the envelope in front of him. He studied the single word written by a steady hand practiced in calligraphy. Señor was all that was inked on the face of the envelope. The Spaniard propped it against the vase and poured a coffee. The warm breakfast and the tantalizing aroma had him dining with delight just as the sun peeked over the distant hilltops.

After finishing the delicious and highly-unexpected breakfast, Alfonso sat back in his chair, opened the envelope, and took out the plain white card. There was nothing written on it. However, there was an expertly-rendered drawing of a guitar, with a pink flamingo emblazoned on the body, just above the bridge.

Alfonso's eyebrows went up in genuine astonishment. A rustling in the bushes below the terrace brought them back down again. He crept to the edge and peered over. Ernie O' Boyo was crouched down behind a juniper, unaware of being observed. The lad dashed for another shrub, where he again crouched to conceal his presence. Alfonso felt uneasy just then, as though he himself were being spied upon. When he looked up and scanned the west wing, a motion on the third floor caught his attention. A curtain had moved. Maybe it was the breeze. No, the window is closed. Someone was there.

Not one for beating about the bush, Alfonso called to the lad. "Hola! Ernesto, what is it you are doing in these bushes?"

Ernie popped up, startled by the boisterous greeting. He was blushing and trying to appear nonchalant as he fumbled for a reasonable explanation. "Jaysus! Alfonso, ye scared the beejeezus outta me, ye did. I was jest, ah, ... trying to get to the stables without that ol' geezer, Horst, seeing me, is all."

"But the stables are the other way, amigo."

"I know what way the feckin stables is. I'm jest heading for the kitchens to get me breakfast and what feckin business is it of yers, anyway?"

Alfonso took the lad's sharp tongue in stride as he had so many times before. On this occasion, however, rather then simply dismiss him as usual, he found himself considering how he might better the insignificant relationship that existed between them.

"Ernesto, how would you like to come and have a very nice cup of hot coffee?"

Ernie hesitated, seemingly caught off guard by the sincere and generous offer.

And in that instant, Alfonso recalled that the table was set for one person and that he was one cup short of a couple. The very thought caused him to turn his head to the table as if to verify the summation. But, much to his bewilderment, there on the table was another cup and saucer. Alfonso blinked hard and looked again. He was certain there was only one setting a few moments ago. Now this is very strange, he thought.

Ernie piped up as he ascended the stairway: "A cuppa is preferred, but us wee beggars can't be choosing."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"Tea ... we folks prefer our tea over coffee."

"I see."

"No matter," said Ernie, clearing the last step, "I've a keen thirst for anything warm on a chilly morn such as this."

"Then come, take a seat young man, and let us have a leedle talk."

The two men traversed the terrace to the cluster of weathered tables and chairs. Though ravaged by the elements, they nevertheless presented an opportunity to dine al fresco. No one ever did.

Ernie sat down and poured coffee for himself while Alfonso pondered the mysterious appearance of the other cup and saucer. For a few moments nothing was said. After he'd sampled his beverage and placed it back down on the table, O' Boyo leveled his gaze on the lean Spaniard's intelligent face. "Did ye wish to speak of anything in particular, or is it that ye rather fancy me arse?"

Alfonso snapped out of his ruminations and narrowed his eyes on the young rascal. A mischievous gleam twinkling in the lad's regard softened Alfonso's reprimand. "You know, Ernesto, you have a way of speaking that can make trouble. I theenk maybe you should take a leedle more care with what it is you wish to say. Some people are not so ... how can we say ... forgiving."

"Aye, I'll be sure to put that down on me list of Things to Do." After a quick sip of his coffee, he added, "In me next feckin life!"

"Please, try to calm your fighting spirit and enjoy this magnificent morning. Then maybe we can talk in a pleasant manner."

Obviously, still anxious to get to the heart of the matter, Ernie forged ahead. "What's on yer mind, man? 'Cause me thinks it's not the likes o' me fine mind that interests ye as much as it could possibly be me arse, as I said before."

"Listen to me, Ernesto, you are a fine young man but you really must learn to control yourself. You cannot always just ... shoot first and ask the questions later."

"'Shoot first' ... 'ask questions later'? Where for the love of sweet jaysus did ye ever come up with that one?"

Alfonso felt a twinge of embarrassment, recalling how he had just now used a colloquialism borrowed from Buck Knowles. Not to be undone, he pressed on. "I feel you are angry at the world because you are missing something in your life. Do you theenk maybe you would like to tell me what it is? Maybe I can help you to find this theeng."

The young man rose to leave. "Señor, this wee 'talk' is as pointless as it is annoying because whatever it is ye wish to say, yer not saying it. And I ain't got the time to waste sitting here while ye farts about trying to figure it out. Thanks for the coffee."

Alfonso stared at the table, at a loss for words while Ernie took his leave. Before the lad had reached the bottom of the stairway, Alfonso found his parting shot. He called out, loudly. "Ernesto, you'll not find what it is you are looking for in these bushes."

There was no reply.

Alfonso allowed his eyes to drift back to the window where he had earlier caught sight of a movement. But there was only the stillness of the early morning.

The barns formed a motley cluster of outbuildings below the stables and paddocks. They were linked by a dirt track lined with rusting farm implements, rotting carriages, and forgotten fence posts. This was where horse-drawn plows, hay wagons, and buckboards lay drowning in the surrounding weeds. The daily toil and the joyful jaunts in the countryside had long since faded into a dusty memory. Weathered boards on the big barn hung loose and swung or creaked in any kind of a wind. Roofing shingles were missing here and there. And, perched on the peak, a rusty cock—part of on an old wind vane—leaned to the side as if about to tumble from its roost. The farm was in shambles, the stables, in no better repair.

Adolophles Izzero, lying in a clump of straw next to a box stall, tossed in his sleep. A big toe poked from a hole in his sock, revealing a cracked and yellowed nail. After the copious dinner of the night before, he'd loosened his trousers to allow a degree of comfort, and now, with his shirt riding up, the magnitude of his girth was on full display. The stubble on his fleshy face was peppered with gray whiskers and bits of straw. Zero thrashed from a reflexive muscle spasm.

Chin grinned at the farmer's futile attempt to fend off the demons haunting him in the netherworld.

Chin had come in a few moments earlier, basket in hand. He had suspended his foraging efforts in lieu of observing the farmer's fitful sleep. And now, a cheeky grin spread across his face as an image took form in his mind. He whispered, "I bereave the yolk is on you!" He plucked a fresh egg from his basket and eased it into the farmer's discarded boot.

Chin snickered as he left to continue his quest for the evening's victuals.

Moments later, Nero sauntered into the barn. At the sight of the farmer sprawled on the floor, he growled, then barked. He barked until Zero woke uttering curses for the discourteous provocation. Nero, apparently satisfied, moved to his own clump of loose straw, and, after settling into a comfortable position, glared at the farmer who had begun recomposing himself.

Zero adjusted his shirt, buttoned his trousers, and knocked loose straw from his hair, all the while mumbling to himself. "The cur has evil intentions, it would seem. And yet the day has only just begun. Bugger-all to do. You rest, you wander at will and still you're fed a feast fit for a working beast. You should revel, dog, yes, revel in your good fortune, for if not for our curvaceous and gracious good cook, who—and for the life of me I'll never fathom why—is unfairly fond of you over me ... well, I fear you'd not be so fit for this display of contempt if not for her. But no matter, I'll win her over, and then ... then your fine feasts will cease, for she'll no longer give you much mind."

"The dog licks his wounded pride," said a voice coming from above.

Both farmer and dog looked to the loft, where Yuno, squatting on his haunches, surveyed the scene below. "Anyway, it's nature," he continued. "Like when a farmer sows his fields but can't sow his oats. It's the disappointment that breeds anger."

Zero frowned. Nero growled. Yuno, grinning, dropped to the floor through the trap door, landing ever so lightly on his feet. A feather followed, floating in the dust. Yuno plucked it out of the air with a quick flick of his hand and pointed it in the direction of Nero. The mongrel's growl turned to a whine, and then a whimper. Tucking his head under his fore paws, Nero lay silent and still. Yuno let the chicken feather fall to the floor and turned his attention to Zero.

"We have a chief in Bob," he said. "He is small, but he wants to grow tall—to fit the form. There are some who help, and some who hinder. Some don't care if it's summer or winter." Yuno stood silent, now, as though waiting for Zero to register the information.

"Your discourse is pure, Yuno, and your intent is clear. However, I must inform you—and I do so without prejudice—that I am one who would require a more suitable character to lead us from the deplorable depths of our own doing. The role befits a grander personage and cause than the simple desire of our stiff-necked butler to whip us into shape."

Yuno professed an omen, his voice solemn, deliberate: "I looked into the rising sun, and the great fire-spirit in the sky gave me a vision. A great warrior will come. And he will drive away the fool among us."

"Hmm," said Zero, parsing the figurative from the fanciful. "I look forward to the day. But as I say, I don't believe Bob-the-butler is our man, for he is certainly no great warrior, and, to be frank, it would not surprise me in the least, if he turns out to be the fool among us."

"I see," said Yuno.

"You do?" Zero was unsure if Yuno was speaking literally.

"Enough to understand, anyway."

"I see." Zero wasn't sure what to add; he'd spoken more out of reflex than from a point of comprehension. He had the feeling they were not quite seeing eye to eye.

Yuno turned his back. He looked at Nero and gave one sharp clap of his hands. Whereupon, the animal resumed its natural mien. All signs of aggression had vanished; Nero blinked like a puppy waking to a new day.

Zero, meanwhile, had become transfixed by the play of light in the silver-white mane lying across Yuno's back. After some moments, when he finally became cognizant that he had blinked, the shaman was nowhere to be seen.

"This man and his antics ..." murmured Zero, pulling his boots towards him, "disappearing like that ... it's not natural."

"EEEYACK!"

The farmer yanked his foot from the boot. The sight of a gooey, runny yolk dripping from his sock—the one with the hole in it—had him uttering curses aimed squarely at Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo.

Horst tread the length of the west wing with caution. Though he'd never encountered another living soul on his way to Malgreete Van Bleake's quarters, he nevertheless did not care to be seen by others. There would be talk—a scandal perhaps. Rumors and unsavory stories flourished on the estate. Horst was loath to be the subject of another.

He tapped on the door using the code Malgreete had instructed him to utilize. Some moments passed with no sound coming from within. Horst, filled with anticipation and already breathing heavier, leaned his ear to the door. Muffled sounds of Malgreete moving about within reached him. He began to perspire. She was cursing and grumbling after a fashion that Horst thought of as her most attractive feature.

The door opened, but just a crack, enough to reveal Malgreete's fierce eye peering out.

Her voice was hard and menacing when she said, "Why? You are here two days ago. Go away. I cannot put up with you. Not now. It's too soon."

"Liebchen, you must see me. Your charms, I must have zem."

"Charms! What charms? Don't be so stupid. I know you and I know what you want."

"Yah, and I know you, and you like zis, too." Horst's voice carried a playful conspiratorial tone when he added, "So, let me come in and we get started, yah?"

The door opened wider. A stout arm shot out, grabbed Horst by his vest, and yanked him into the room. The door clapped shut again.

Just then, at the end of the corridor on the third floor of the west wing, another door opened, but without a sound. Dare slipped from his room into the long, empty hallway. Pressing his fine suit against the wall, and with stealth his only ally, he stole along the passageway until he stood before the chamber where the indecent tryst had by now commenced. He listened. A sly smile crept across his visage.

From inside came the sounds of a riding crop switching across a bare rump, accompanied by rude and vulgar oaths. Horst must have been on the verge of emphatic glee, while Malgreete denigrated the entire world and all that it contained with her profanities.

Bin arranged a "special delivery" on the floor just outside the entrance to the apartment. He then thumped hard on the door, thrice, in order to garner the appropriate attention. It was met by an exquisite silence, no doubt brought on by a state of unadulterated astonishment. Assured of a captive audience, he tapped out the secret code that was erroneously known only to the two deviants on the other side.

The confusion that reigned within must have been dispelled by a modicum of composure, as was evidenced some moments later by the door opening enough for a head to poke out. It was Malgreete's mass of savage black curls that violated the peace and tranquility of the hallway. She peeked up and down the corridor, her stock furious expression absent, replaced by a transient timidity. There was no one to be seen, of course. Her eyes came to rest on the objects placed on the floor before her door: An elegant rosewood riding crop and an ornate silver mirror lay on a small tapestry along with an envelope bearing the words Spectemur Agendo. Malgreete cast a furtive glance up and down the length of the hallway. She then gathered the items and whisked them within the privacy of her chambers where they could be examined at leisure.

"Mien Gott, who was zis at za door?" said Horst, peeking out from under a mass of covers. "I almost kacke in za hosen."

Malgreete ignored him. Without looking, she flipped the riding crop towards the bed. It caught him square across the face. Though he yelped, she could see in the mirror he wasn't hurt; Horst crawled to the edge of the bed and picked up the crop that had fallen on the floor. She laid the silver mirror on her vanity. In her other hand, she held the envelope. The tapestry she'd lain across her lap depicted a celestial scene of Cupid frowning down upon two horned lovers. They were committing the very act that had commenced only minutes before in this very room. Unsettled, she opened the envelope and removed the letter. The hand of an expert calligraphist had crafted a note that read:

Dearest Duo,

It may come as no small surprise that your indecent escapades have surfaced from the depths of your secret lair. Your indiscretion behind closed doors is of no concern to anyone but yourselves. However, as it involves a perverse act of aggravated assault causing titillation, you are both to be held accountable for your deplorable participation. Thus, unless you desist, consequences of a very grave nature shall be brought to bear. It is hereby strongly suggested, if at all possible, you learn to become fond of one another for the sake of each other, rather than for the exploitation of your peculiar weaknesses.

Instinctively,  
Your Conscience (aka B. B. the B.)

Postscriptum: Enjoy your gifts, but in a manner for which they are intended, i.e. a riding crop, to incite a steed to speed; a hand mirror, to bring the vision closer, so that one might glimpse the motives reflected in the eyes of the beholder; finally, the tapestry, a reminder to take heed (should the need arise).
Chapter Four

Sublime Instigation

The sun was high in the sky when the fox appeared. Flashes of reddish fur, streaking o'er hill and dale, strained to outdistance a pack of riders led by baying hounds in full chase. Strident rallying sounds of the huntsman's horn, in concert with a thunderous pounding of hooves, alerted the estate's residents of a rare event unfolding on the property. All eyes fell to the vale, where the quarry held the lead, but only by a few furlongs. In a final effort to escape, the fox veered, cutting a line towards the edge of the forest. A few seconds later, it disappeared. When the hunters reached the treeline, the pack of dogs broke into splintered groups, and the riders were effectively slowed by low-slung branches.

Having gained an advantage offered by the dense grove, the fox assumed a more relaxed pace. The sound of the hounds fell behind. Safe for the moment and out of sight, the fox trotted along a shallow creek bed for a time before leaping onto a log that had fallen across the stream. It moved to the nearest extremity, turned, and sat down on its haunches facing the other end. The wily animal pricked up its ears and listened. The hounds were closing in. Rest—if it could be had—would come later. The fox sprinted the length of the trunk, springing into the air and reaching for all the distance it could muster. The jump was good. It was time to flee, and flee it did.

The head butler had been watching from a window, absolutely beside himself with excitement. Visitors to the estate occurred only under the rarest of circumstance. And since these would almost certainly require a recess before returning from whence they came, Bosworth thrilled to the prospect. The elevated state of arousal had Bob's overheated imagination cooking up a pot of scenarios in which he featured as star performer. He could play host—Robert Bosworth, head butler and interim steward, at your service. He'd assemble the staff and servants. They'd be turned out in their best garb. Aligned in an orderly fashion in the main—no, even better—on the front drive.  The gentry and visiting nobility will be most impressed.

Frantic, Bob raced about his apartments gathering his finest attire, and, once suitably adorned, he checked his reflection in the mirror. He frowned, but stood resolute, for he'd decided he would not let a few wrinkles and stains keep him from presiding over this important social function. No time for a shave—must come up with a convincing excuse. Now, get the wretched mob together, post-haste. There's no time to lose. Throttle all and any who would refuse.

The butler dashed from his chambers to the staircase, flew full speed up to the third floor, sprinted down the hallway, and slid to a stop in front of Malgreete Van Bleake's door. He knew she'd be within—wasn't she always? Out of breath, but fueled by the intoxicating rush of taking charge, he thumped on the door with all the arrogance of a commander at arms. "You in there! You will get yourself in proper dress and be prepared to meet the gentry in twenty minutes time. Main entrance. You will be there Miss Van Bleake or I will send you packing ... and I bloody-well mean it!" Rohbair stood back a step, hesitated, and then shouted, "I know you can hear me." He put his ear to the door, listening for sounds of activity. There were none. Robert Bosworth spun on his heels and took off in the direction of the kitchens.

Marie-Claire, Chin, Lisa, and Alfonso sat at the great oak table. They were picking through leftovers and discussing the appearance of the hunting party when Bob burst through the door.

"Good! You're here," said the butler, putting a hand to his heaving chest. "No doubt you're aware"—huffing and puffing—"we are ... we are graced with aristocracy. So ... so you will retire to your chambers"—gulping air— "make yourselves fit ... fit for presentation. Assemble in the foyer. Twenty minutes. No exceptions. Clear?"

A degree of shock registered on each of their faces. The unwavering determination now burning through Bob's eyes dared any to refuse. And, though no one said a word, Alfonso nodded his head in agreement. Bob took that to mean it was unanimous.

"Good," he said, breathing less heavily now, "that's it then." Rohbair strode to the back of the kitchens with a renewed sense of purpose. He left through the portal in the delivery door.

Maid Marliemon, basket on her arm, was in the garden gathering flowers when the butler popped out the back of the manor. The stable master, Buck Knowles, was ambling up the path leading from the barns. Bosworth, realizing he could bag the two of them at the same time, raised his voice and called to them. "I say, Miss Marliemon, and you there,"—waving his arm at Buck—"Mister Knowles. Please come hither. I wish to speak with you. It's rather pressing, so step lively if you will."

Marlyse called back, "Come hither? Where that, mon?"

Bob heaved a sigh and then beckoned the maid with a frantic motion of his arm.

After explaining his desire to assemble everyone so as to properly welcome the visiting nobility to the estate, he quizzed them on the whereabouts of other personnel.

"I reckon Zero's down by the barns," answered Buck. "Had us a new heifer this morning. And seeing as I ain't seen the Herr as yet, can't really say. Ernie 'Lad', well, he was mucking out a stall, last I seen."

"Righto, Mr. Knowles, would you do me the momentous service of rounding up Mr. Izzero and Mr. O'Boyo?"

"Sure enough can try, but you know well as I, ain't guaranteed."

"Yes, well just give it your best shot and we'll see what comes of it, shall we? Oh, and please see that that beastly dog is contained. I'll not have him rioting among the hounds."

Buck nodded and headed back to the stables.

"Right! Miss Marliemon, are you perchance aware of where I might find Mister Anotsqwa—Anawha ... Blast! You know who I mean."

"Yuno?" asked Marlyse.

A rustle of branches in a nearby rosebush caused both maid and butler to shift their gaze in the direction of the sound. Yuno popped up from behind, gracing them with his best bark-and-berry stained smile.

"Anotwhoyoukno," said the wily old Paiute, "but you can call me Itsqwatyoukno if you want, Bob."

"My word! How long have you been squatting there?" asked Rohbair.

Yuno didn't reply. Instead, he held up a pruning shear and stood grinning from ear to ear.

Baffled, Bob turned his attention back to Marlyse and said, "Perhaps you would both, forthwith, prepare for the imminent arrival of the hunting party."

"Fort With?"asked Marlyse, a mischievous smile betraying her contrived curiosity.

"Forthwith, Miss Marliemon. Straightaway. Immediately. Right-bloody-now!"

Marlyse grinned even wider. She handed Rohbair a rose before taking her leave.

"Well then," said Bob, turning back to Yuno, "I'm off to locate that loathsome Kunkle. And, if at all possible, the doctor."

The old gardener looked to the last window on the third floor of the west wing. The butler followed his gaze, but noted nothing unusual. And, as Yuno now began chanting a peculiar song—no doubt from his ancestral roots—Bob shrugged off the gesture as simply another anomaly that was part and parcel of this sun-baked native's persona.

"Right," he said, "well, if you are able to convey my wishes to either of them, so much the better. I'll be off. Good day." He handed the rose to Yuno before marching away.

A curtain fluttered in the window where the shaman had fixed his stare.

Yuno broke from his chanting. "The doctor already knows, anyway."

Bob heard, but paid him no mind; he was on his way, intent on finding the overseer.

Seventy some-odd riders trotted up the carriageway to the estate, their pack of foxhounds scattered among prancing hooves. The Hunt Master, in scarlet, led their approach, aided by the whippers-in keeping the pack in check. Aristocratic ladies and gentlemen, attired in black and navy coats, far outnumbered hunt servants and other followers sporting the traditional pinks. As they neared, the huntsman blew his horn announcing their arrival.

Under the porte-cochère, the grand entrance doors to the manor swept open. Robert Bosworth, with the utmost decorum, descended the marble stairs, followed by the majority of estate personnel. They formed a loose assemblage of order on the edge of the lawn according to rank and vocation. The sloppy implementation could be excused if it were known that it had been practically forever since they last needed to perform a welcoming line for visiting nobility. The only individual not present was Dr. Dare, but that came as no surprise to anyone.

The Master held up his whip-hand, halting the hunting party on the front lawns while he advanced along with several other members to where the staff and servants waited. On arrival he looked down from his magnificent field hunter at the fidgeting gaggle of people standing before him.

"I take it you are in charge here," he said, addressing the butler, who stood a few paces in front of the others.

"You are correct, sir," answered Bob, with a slight and somewhat awkward-looking bow.

A distinguished gentleman in the group of mounted dignitaries spoke up, asking Rohbair why the master of the estate was not present.

"Sir, he has been absent for quiet some time. I am afraid his whereab—"

"It doesn't matter, man," said the Hunt Master, "we need water these horses and rest our hounds. Refreshments for our party would be most welcome."

A woman, possessed of a rare and exquisite beauty, stepped her mount forward. Cool, ice-blue eyes appraised the servants, yet somehow managed to exude a warmth incommensurate with the striking regard. Perhaps it was the kindness, or sense of comfort emanating from the unparalleled calm of her deportment that softened the perception. Whatever it was, not a single servant felt any measure of threat under her intense scrutiny. Her movements were of such a refined grace, that when she lifted her hunt cap allowing golden locks to tumble across slender shoulders, everyone in attendance held their breath. She was angelic. When she spoke, her voice resonated with a lyrical lilt, captivating all who would hear her words.

"Thank you all," she said, "for taking the opportunity to welcome our party to your estate." Looking to Rohbair, she asked, "Dear sir, how shall we address you?"

"I am head butler, currently in charge of this household, Milady," replied Bob, again, with a slight bow. "My name is Rohbair."

"Bobby!" The utterance came from Ernie, snickering at the back of the ranks. A number of muffled snorts and chuckles ensued, causing Rohbair a good deal of embarrassment.

"May I call you Bob then?" asked the Lady, her lips spreading into the sweetest of smiles.

Rohbair coughed to cover his indignation, but managed to say that "Bob" would be fine if she so wished.

"Fine. Now to whom shall I address the matter of our hunters?"

Bosworth knew he should have let the overseer present the stable master, but the opportunity for a subtle snub was overpowering. "I present to you, Milady, Mr. Knowles, our stable master."

"Happy to be of service, ma'am," said Buck.

Not to be outflanked, Horst slapped the crop across his palm. But in his zeal to redirect attention, it smacked rather too hard causing him to wince. Masking whatever pain he might have experienced, he pressed on. "As za overseer, I can ensure za doggies have za drink, as well." Horst bowed deeply.

The Hunt Master smirked. "Doggies?"

"Don't be unkind, Baron, the man is trying to be helpful," said Her Ladyship.

The Master of the Foxhounds bowed his proud head to the Lady and then muttered an insincere apology directed at the overseer. For his part, Horst appeared flustered, unsure of how to respond. He tapped his riding crop against his leg, seemingly desperate for someone to speak up or call attention away from him.

The noblewoman dismounted and handed her reins to Buck. "Mr. Knowles, please take my mount and show the hunt servants to the stables. Baron will inform the hunting party of our intentions. You, dear sir," she said to Horst, "will tend to the foxhounds while Bob and I discuss the reception of our guests."

Those attending to the needs of the visiting gentry dispersed. Estate servants started for the barns and stables to feed and water animals, while the riders set off at a canter to rejoin those waiting on the front lawns. The Lady and remaining household staff watched from the steps. Dignitaries and aristocrats began to dismount, leaving their field hunters in the hands of hunt servants. Before long, a parade of fifty or so fine folk strolled cross the commons, making their way towards the main entrance. It was a regal sight, unseen for longer than anyone could recollect.

Milady turned to the butler, kitchen, and maid staff. "I sense there may be someone missing from our welcoming committee. Now who might that be?"

Marlyse piped up before Bob could reply. "That would be our sneaky doctor, Milady-mon. He like a ghost."

Her Ladyship smiled at the petite maid, who, along with Lisa, had become as bubbly as a couple of schoolgirls after too many sweets.

Irked by the lack of restraint, and in a bid to regain his position as her superior, Bob opted to formally present Marlyse to Her Ladyship. "Maid Marliemon, Milady."

Marlyse curtsied.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Marliemon. Delighted to meet all of you, in fact. And you as well, Doctor," said the Lady, winking at the eyeball peeking out from a crack behind one of the opened doors.

In one unified movement, heads turned to the door, but there was nothing to be seen. The eye was gone.

Chin giggled, which set Lisa and Marie-Claire to tittering. Bob was livid with the lack of propriety on display.

"How amusing," said Her Ladyship, allowing a moment for the giggling to cease. "Now, why don't we get started. Rohbair, you and I will wait for the party to come up. Perhaps you might instruct your staff to begin preparations for refreshments to be served in a suitable venue."

The household staff looked to Rohbair for direction, but it was clear he was at a loss for what to do or say, so unaccustomed to absolute authority was he. Further, he had not envisaged a plan of action beyond the orchestrated lineup to greet the hunting party.

Noting his flagging self-esteem, Milady initiated an impromptu lesson in the skills required for proper butlers. "Like this Bob," she said, clapping her hands smartly in quick succession.

The butler felt awkward and embarrassed by the instruction, but made the effort nonetheless. And, as is usual for the uninitiated, it came off weak and ineffective. Malgreete rolled her eyes. The rest of the staff had understood it was meant to prompt them into action; they mounted the steps and entered the manor.

The pantry's offering was a paltry one, at best. A coveted smoked ham was taken down, as well as a wheel of aged cheddar. A keg of the estate's finest wine would be tapped and served as a choice of beverage along with a fresh lemonade. Marie-Claire set about directing her underlings in the preparations. She had already sent the two housemaids to set tables in the courtyard overlooking the gardens.

"This Lady, she is a sooo beautiful and so—how you say ... magnifico! She make a world standing still. And the people, the people they cannot take a their eyes from her." Lisa, squeezing lemons, turned to the head-chef and asked, "Maria, you are thinking same, yes?"

"Oh yes, chèrie, she ees very much in control. Only the very high nobility ees commanding such presence. Very nice to see." Marie-Claire turned to the pitchers on the counter. "Now, maybe I test this wine. To be sure, yes? We do not wish to be embarrassed."

Alfonso, anticipating the request, handed a half-goblet of wine to his chef. He'd hoped she would restrain her penchant for tippling given the circumstances. If she noticed the cup was light, she did not let on, but then neither did she offer her gratitude.

Chin chimed in with a remark that left them all somewhat perplexed: "Mirady, she same like cupcake on plate of muffin."

Marie-Claire attempted to clarify. "You mean she ees like icing on the cake, no?"

Alfonso put down the knife he was using to carve the ham, and said, "Chef, I am theenking our sous-chef is trying to say this noble lady is even more noble that the nobles she surrounds herself with. Am I not wrong, Chin?"

Chin, behind the chopping block, cutting slices of cheddar, bobbed his head in agreement.

"Maria," said Lisa, "this people coming is a good for us. We have a something to be proud, no? Doing what we suppose to do. Is good for us."

Marie-Claire reached for the pitcher of wine before responding. "You are correct, chèrie, it ees very nice and very good we are all doing somesing a little special. But it cannot last. They will all go away and we will be back to our normal way. It ees a pity, mais c'est la vie."

"This estate, one day it will fall in the ground," declared Alfonso, "and we are going to fall down with it. We need a higher purpose. One which comes with serving a noble cause. This common sense, the one we have now, it is ruining everything. Everyone theenks they can do what they want and that there will be no consequence. This is decline. This is the path to ruin."

Marlyse looked up from the rusted wrought-iron table she'd covered with white linen. The gentry had collected in small groups at the back of the manor. Some meandered through Yuno's immaculate flower garden while others strolled along the dusty bridle-path between barns and stables. Still more, gathered on the terrace, waiting for refreshments to be served. All these fine folks milling about, dressed in pink and blue and navy, accentuated with splashes of color from scarves and flashing medal buttons and pins and shiny black boots, gave cause for Marlyse to smile. To her, it was as though a flock of exotic birds dropped from the sky. After a short rest, they would once again take flight, and their color and gaiety would fade into the distance along with them.

Malgreete came clattering over the flagstone with a push-cart. It was laden with tarnished silver and chipped porcelain, destined to be set on the tables. "These fancy-pants ninnies," she whispered, in passing, "they do nothing. But we, ya, we must make so nice so they can eat and drink what is ours."

Ignoring the disgruntled maid, Marlyse hummed a tune as she wiped dust from the stemware she was about to place on the table.

Malgreete stopped to set a table next to her. She leaned towards Marlyse, and, keeping her voice in check, said, "Marlyse ... do you like being tell what to do? Why you listen to this butler? He is nobody."

"He be the boss, sweet Malgreete, and we be the maids that's got to obey the boss, even if he be a nobody-butler. And that's the truth a the matter, mon, plain and simple."

"Bobby's a booby! You don't have to do what he tell you. That is plain and simple."

"That so? So tell me, why you go and fall into Bobby-da-booby's trap when he tells you to get fancy and get down to the front hall so we can all do a song and dance for meeting some fine folk who's come?"

"This ... this is another story," answered Malgreete, displaying a certain reluctance to elaborate.

Maid Marlyse considered the possibility that her counterpart had also received notes prompting her to aid the butler. (She had no way of knowing Malgreete and Horst had surmised that the note from Bin, signed "B.B. the B.", suggested the author as being "Bob Bosworth, the Butler".

Marlyse placed the last glass on the table. "Lemme ask you, sweet Malgreete, d'you ever get a spooky kinda message in the past while or so?"

Malgreete went white.

"You okay there, mon? You looks like you seen a ghost."

High above the terrace, in the furthest window on the third floor of the west wing, a curtain fluttered. A certain someone had been observing the handmaid comedy playing out on the terrace below.

Herr Horst Kunkle strutted ahead of the huntsman and whippers-in as they led the hounds to a pond beyond the barns. Horst tapped his riding crop across his thigh as he walked along, unaware that to the others, a mature man dressed in khakis, whacking himself with a whip, of sorts, might well have appeared amusing, if not downright laughable. But as fantasy knows no bounds, Horst often imagined himself posed on a steed, rising up on its hindquarters, as if about to lead a charge into battle. Although, in reality, Horst was afraid of horses.

The overseer called back over his shoulder, saying, "So, Herr Huntsman, tell me, how many of zis doggies you have here?"

The huntsman smiled and winked to one his hunt followers. "Well sir, on today's hunt we have a hundred and twenty-three. Our entire pack is comprised of close to two hundred. Why do you ask?"

"Well, zis is a lot of doggies! So you have many handlers to take care of zem, yah?"

"We have adequate staff to manage our foxhounds. Do you have hounds?"

"We have just za one."

"One foxhound?"

"One doggie." Horst paused to allow the huntsman to come up alongside. "And zis horsies, how many?"

The huntsman looked to the overseer as if wondering where all this was going. He answered, "All that you see here, plus many more that are not. You?"

"Yah, we have, but not so nice like zis ones."

"You seem to be lacking in many aspects on this property, sir."

"Zis is za problem, we have not so many what can work, and what we have, not want."

"You need more people serving the needs of this estate. And for that, you need the strong hand of a steward." The huntsman hesitated. "Excuse me if I'm overstepping the bounds of convivial conversation, sir, but it is not hard to imagine why the lord and lady of this manor are not in residence."

The overseer shrugged, resigned to acknowledging the fairness of the comment. "Yah, we are—how you say—like za chickens with za head cut off, yah?"

"Yes, exactly."

Zero had Nero tied to a post near the barn. The dog stood, hackles raised, eyes fixed on the pack of hounds quenching their thirst at the pond. A low growl rumbled deep in its throat. Adolophles Izzero leaned against the door frame, surveying the scene below, a blade of straw twitching between his lips. He was enjoying the uncharacteristic buzz of activity presently underway throughout the estate. Most days, mid afternoon was a time for loafing about—and avoiding each other. Today, out of the blue, an inspiring individual arrives with a hunting party of aristocratic ladies and gentlemen, and in the blink of an eye, has the entire place back on its heels. How was it this woman could command such a powerful presence if she were not akin to royalty?

"Her spirit is strong."

The sound of the voice startled Zero, and caused Nero to cease growling. They both looked up the face of the barn to the loft door. It was opened, and there sat Yuno on a hump of straw, wearing his best bark-and-berry stained grin.

"Yuno, your sudden apparitions leave me anything but calm," said Zero, "and as for your sudden disappearances, I find myself bewildered. I fear you disturb both my heart and my sanity."

Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno responded as only a shaman could: "I can help you with your fear. You need to harvest a plant. Smoke it. Then you can sing a song. Keep your fears in the dark. This is the way of the farmer."

Zero was not sure what to make of the Paiute's comments. Looking back to the group gathered at the pond, he asked, "So what can you conjure, with your mysterious ways, to keep our fair lady from leaving us?"

"Good question."

Zero continued, "With Milady in residence, this splendid estate could return to its former glory. She possesses a strength of character that blends a soothing softness into her desires. Such that—as they say—each of her wishes becomes our commands. This is a rare quality, Yuno."

"I know," said Yuno. "Bob needs her help."

"That he needs help, is all too clear. It does not help, however, that the overseer and he are forever at odds. The petty squabbling among them is untenable. And I fear, one day there shall be bloodshed. You see, Yuno, in life, it always comes down to who's authority carries greater weight. Since their dominion, and thus, the division of labor, is split, you would be right to conclude there should never exist a problem." The farmer shrugged. "It is simply the unreasonable clash of their egos that is at the center of it, nothing more."

"I can help you with your fears," said Yuno.

"What?"

"Your fears, you have many."

Zero thought for moment before replying. "I fear you are right, Yuno. There is, indeed, much to fear."

Without prelude, Yuno, the old Paiute, launched into a rousing rendition from the repertoire of ancient songs of his people. On cue, Nero began to howl, which prompted the foxhounds to join in. The concert carried into the next county, where the chorus was picked up by other canines eager to participate.

Up the rise a ways, equidistant from the farm and manor, stood the stables. The hunting party's mounts had been turned loose in a pasture through which a brook flowed. It fed into a pond, offering water. Buck and Baron were behind the horse barn, hunched over a rail, watching a group of men mending a fallen fence. Nearby, Ernie forked hay. A number of hunt followers strolled about the stables engaged in idle chatter. The mood was convivial.

"I see you have a Thoroughbred over there," said Baron.

"Yup, that there's some fine horseflesh," said Buck. "Just too bad he's shooting blanks."

"I don't follow—I mean, I can see he is fine animal, but I'm not acquainted with the parlance of your reference to blanks."

Buck looked to Baron, wondering if he was being played by this fine gentleman, and decided he wasn't. "Dud stud. That make it any more clear for ya, mister?"

The Hunt Master grinned. "Yes. Yes it does. I take it, as stable master, this is a matter of great concern. Your breeding program is effectively on hold."

"Our mares—we got a couple of 'em—they ain't worth a pinch, so I reckon we ain't got much of a program anyhow."

Baron, pointing his whip, said, "You speak of the those two nags in yonder field."

"Yep, that's them. And like I said, they ain't real pretty." Buck spat in the dust and looked down at his boots.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, who was close enough to overhear, spoke up. "Seems to me, squire, ye got yer self a fair feckin herd over by yon pond. So, I'm thinking to me self, why not jest leave a few behind? That way, we can get a right good start on a breeding program."

The Hunt Master, evidently unaccustomed to rash requests from foul-mouthed rascals, readied his whip, thinking the lad could use a lesson in manners.

Buck, sensing what was coming next, put his hand on Baron's arm and said, "Easy now, mister, I know the boy's a tad forward and not particular polite, but he ain't all bad. Might be, we could look at the lad like a two-year old that ain't been broke yet."

The equine reference was not lost on the Hunt Master. He softened his regard and allowed a fleeting smile before saying, "Despite the insolent delivery of this petition, I am considering a word with Her Ladyship. The idea is sound."

Ernie winked at Buck before slipping away, into the barns.

Buck Knowles, elated at the prospect of acquiring breeding stock, tipped his hat to the Hunt Master in an understated gesture of appreciation. In turn, Baron bowed, but only within the barest sense of acknowledging reciprocity. Then he departed.

Once out of ear shot, the stable master slapped his thigh. "Well, hot damn, if that don't just beat all!"

There was a grand piano nestled in the tranquil confines of the conservatory, amid the lush foliage. The noblewoman sat before it, her fine fingers floating effortlessly over the keys while performing an intricate arabesque. Rohbair stood nearby, enveloped by the enchanting melody. Never had he heard such strains expressed to a degree of eloquence and majesty suggestive of something more than that of a consummate gift. The execution was beyond genius—it was divine. He was rapt. And when the last note resonated and faded to silence, Rohbair clapped.

He clapped with such enthusiasm, Milady turned to to the butler and, with a demure smile, said, "Calm yourself, dear man, you'll give me cause to carry on."

Rohbair regained his composure. And despite a slight but lingering embarrassment, managed to remark in a more serious tone, "Wonderful, Milady. Absolutely brilliant."

"Thank you, Rohbair." The noble directed her gaze beyond the panes of glass to the courtyard. "Your maids have nearly completed their task. Are you satisfied?"

"Milady, I'm afraid I'm at a loss as to the intent of your query. Do you, perchance, mean to ask if I am satisfied with the performance of their duties, or rather, with the general aspect and suitability of the terrace?"

"Does it matter?"

Rohbair swallowed hard.

"Never mind," she said, "you mustn't put too much thought into the form of these things. The importance of subordinates carrying out their assigned task to the best of their abilities will ultimately reflect upon the end result. Your role, as head butler, is to see that they are prepared to enlist their full capacity. The end result, Rohbair, will take care of itself."

"The absence of nobility has greatly affected the hierarchy of our estate, Milady. Without consequence, the common man pays no heed to his superiors. I daresay, sloth and negligence is rife on this property."

"True, as is evident ... and also to be expected. Expected, since authority is split between manor and grounds, with you, dear sir, attempting to keep your house in order and our dear overworked overseer, working to oversee the rest."

The butler grumbled something about Horst being an incompetent buffoon.

Ignoring the disparaging comment, Milady pressed on. "The missing element, of course, is a steward; someone capable of providing the necessary leadership to unite both, exterior and interior, domains. Do you see the merit in this train of thought, Rohbair?"

Bosworth nodded, even though the thought of relinquishing any degree of command was appalling. His sense of superiority dictated he should rule all of the estate's personnel. But with the current clash for control at an impasse, he could see no way forward.

"Good," said Her Ladyship. "On my return, I shall dispatch a suitable candidate. There is much work to be done here if you are to be saved from yourselves."

When the manor's contented guests had finished with their marginal offerings, they milled about the courtyard or sat in clusters, chatting over events of the hunt. Mainly, the dialogue revolved around how the quarry had been flushed from a covert; how it had been chased a good long way before taking refuge in the woodlands of this estate; and how the hounds had lost and picked up the trail a number of times before the fox finally went to ground. It had been a fine day for an early-season hunt, and most everyone was pleased.

Her Ladyship sat with the Master of the Hounds, as well as a few distinguished guests. Rohbair tended to their needs while keeping a watchful eye on the remaining tables, ensuring his maids were kept busy in like manner with other guests. The manor's remaining household servants, now idle, peeked from behind windows, whispering words of admiration for the gentry in all their finery. Down by the stables and barns, grounds staff and hunt servants tended to the hunters and hounds in preparation for the party's imminent departure.

High up, at the far end of the third floor in the west wing, a sheer curtain was held aside. The window opened, but only just far enough to allow a bit of paper, folded into a streamline shape, to sail out over the courtyard. It went unnoticed, catching an up-draft and lifting for a moment, before beginning a series of lazy twists and turns in its descent. When it touched down, on its final gentle arc, it came to rest on the tablecloth exactly in front of the Lady. She smiled, picked it up, unfolded it, and read the script. She laughed softly.

"It's for you Bob," she said, handing the note to the attending butler.

Rohbair took the piece of paper, his eyes darting back and forth along the upper regions of the manor. There was nothing out of the ordinary and nobody to be seen. He stood erect, officious, and quietly read the note.

Bob,  
Do not hover.  
Do not smother.  
She is not your lover, nor your mother.  
But, dear Bob, what butlers truly ought not do, is to:  
Forget to be brave, forget to behave, or—like a knave—forget to shave!  
Now, don't be misled by what you've read. Instead, consider the following text when next you're vexed, or dismissive concerning my missive: We, who support you, are truly on your side, and we wish you only the best.

Cordially,  
We, Who Support You

Bob felt faint. The dreadful message at stake here, was not so much the one he held in his hand, but rather, that Milady had been informed in no uncertain terms, that the shabby chap who neglected to shave today was, in fact, acting head butler. Further, that his explicit actions, whilst attending to Her Ladyship, might easily be misconstrued as being sentimental. He felt disgraced.

"Rohbair," said Milady, "you're swooning. Why not sit and let us discuss matters at hand?" She patted the chair next to her. Turning to her companions, she asked that they be excused and to please let everyone know they'd be departing soon.

Deflated, Rohbair slid down onto the chair, still clutching the note in his fist. He couldn't bring himself to look up from his knees. Who would conspire to ruin him, yet claim to be supportive of his success?

Once the others had left, Milady placed her cool palm over the butler's clenched fist. In a quiet, soothing voice, she said, "Come now, at the very least, it is a message you'll not soon forget. You must know, I'll not now fault you in your actions nor in your appearance. For these are matters that can always be improved upon ... with diligence and support."

Rohbair looked to her then, seeking clarification. "Support? How so, Milady?"

"If our results are to be gauged, we must have the support of those around us. You see, it follows that their valuation plays a vital role in the degree of success we are able to measure."

"Forgive me, Milady, but I fail to see how disrespect can exist within a supportive environment."

"Sometimes, life's most valuable lessons come in the form of a hurtful event. If we grow from the experience, then we have benefited, and this is what should be remembered."

Rohbair balled up the note in his fist and stuffed it into his wrinkled waistcoat pocket. His weak smile met with a soft reassuring gaze. He felt better.

By late afternoon, the hunting party had assembled on the front lawns, mounted and waiting to depart. The animals were restless and eager to get underway. The breeze sweeping up from the glen, carried the scent of horse and hound to the front of the manor where the estate's personnel gathered once again. They stood in loose formation on the pea gravel drive, surveyed by Her Ladyship and the Master of the Foxhounds from atop their field hunters.

Milady was first to speak. "You have all managed a monumental feat today. By coming together to serve a higher purpose, you have demonstrated a potential. A potential we are grateful for, and which shall not go without reward."

A number of the more emotionally-driven servants exchanged excited sidelong glances, sly smiles, and nudges.

Baron cleared his throat, and spoke. "We will leave you with two of our Thoroughbred mares, as well as ..."—winking at Buck—"a fully loaded stallion. I am confident, Mr. Knowles will know what to do with them."

Buck smiled at hearing the announcement. A muffled murmur of approval rippled through the rest of the servants.

Baron's staid features broke into a comical grin as he continued, "The estate will receive a dozen of our hounds—Mr. Kunkle will have some doggies to play with." The mockery in his regard vanished with one admonishing look from Milady. It was replaced by a fierce, brooding aspect that cut short the servants' snickering.

It all came too late for Horst, of course—the damage was done. Worsened by embarrassment, his ruddy complexion turned crimson, and he squirmed under the exaggerated scrutiny of his peers, his crop twitching nervously against his thigh.

Milady deflected the attention from the overseer by looking up and waving. By the time everyone redirected their eyes to the top floor of the manor, there was nothing but a sheer curtain fluttering in an open window.

With the attention refocused on herself, Milady continued with her proclamation. "If you wish to better your circumstance in this lifetime, you must work to improve yourselves. From my short visit here, I can see you lack a common goal. And thus the initiative to unite in a collective effort so that you might attain something more than what a haphazard life may throw your way." She paused, allowing her words to resonate with the audience. "You each have a duty and function to perform, yet you see fit to ignore much of what needs be done. I am certain you all desire harmony and a sense of purpose in your existence. To that end, I shall dispatch a worthy steward able to provide aid and direction in your efforts. Your estate may complete once an appropriate reception is prepared for your nobles. You have much work to be done. I wish you all the very best. Farewell."

Her Ladyship and her Hunt Master, Baron, turned their mounts and trotted off to join the rest of their party. It was a solemn group of servants that watched as they rode away.

Lisa was first to break the silence when she said, "Now I am a sad."

"Ya, not me," said Malgreete. She turned on her heels, gathered up her frock, and marched up the steps of the manor.

Buck clapped the stable boy on the shoulder, saying, "I reckon we'd best get on down there and collect them horses." Ernie nodded and they set off.

"Yah," said Horst, pulling free from his thoughts, "and we must take zis doggies, but where we can put zem?"

Zero answered, "Have no fear, Herr Horst, we have some pens at the back of the barn. They will serve until we can build a proper kennel for our newly acquired charges. I wonder though, does our esteemed overseer see himself as a huntsman?"

"We will see." Horst slapped his crop across his palm. "Come, let's go. You can help, yah?" Zero nodded and they left to tend to the hounds.

Dejected over the departure of Her Ladyship, Rohbair brought his hand to his chin, giving thought to what should be done next. The stubble he felt under his finger tips caused him further dismay. He turned to see who was still in attendance. Marlyse and the cooks continued to observe the hunting party preparing to get underway. There was a forlorn look in their eyes. Yuno had vanished. As for the elusive Dr. Dare, who could truly know if he was even there?

"Right," said the butler, "we'll not just stand here lollygagging like a bunch of twits. Off we go, then."—clapping hands vigorously—"Let's go, let's go. We've a terrace to clear, dishes to wash, dinner preparations to contend with. No time for loitering." Rohbair followed everyone up the steps, smug in the knowledge he'd performed a reasonable job of ushering the servants back to the manor. He puffed his chest, a passionate sense of duty running amok through every fiber of his being.
Chapter Five

A Cloak of Deception

Autumn fell with a presence that precluded any thought of an Indian Summer. It brought a killing frost that ravaged what was left of the estate's harvest. Stocks of feed and nourishment for the household, inclusive of preserves, would need to be rationed in the coming winter. The idleness of staff and servants was also to blame, of course. With the nonappearance of a steward in the weeks following the departure of Her Ladyship, their best intentions had been laid to rest. Life resumed its chaotic flow, where all concerned did as they pleased, with little or no thought to a concerted effort.

Rohbair had practiced his butler's clap in a most ardent fashion, yet still, the staff remained largely uninterested in his instruction. It's true, there were those few who sympathized with Rohbair and did entertain his desires, but only in a limited manner. Life lacked direction and purpose. Although Rohbair sensed there was still a way forward, he also realized it would require the influence and guidance of a stronger will than what he, himself, possessed.

It was Nero's incessant barking that brought the butler to his window.

Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, Rohbair pulled back the heavy brocade and peeked out through the only pane not covered in frost—the broken one. He squinted into a bright, white light refracted from a dusting of snow on the ground. There was nothing to be seen from this angle. Nero must be around the front of the manor.

Muttering and cursing to himself, the butler collected an assortment of clothing from the clutter in his chambers and dressed. He then put on a thick wool coat and exited his apartments making for the main entrance hall.

Nero was still barking out there beyond the manor's grand oak doors.

"Blast! Is there no way to stifle that bloody, barking-mad hound?" The butler pulled open the door.

On the stoop stood a plump little man wearing a crooked smile and several layers of clothing. He had a lute strung across his back. His gaze was unsettling, due to a wandering eye. His worldly possessions were contained in a grip at his feet. On the frozen drive behind, Nero kept up the insane barking.

The man had a twinkle in his eye when he said, "Not to be rude, dear sir, but hearing your vociferous oath, I believe if you were to blast a hole in the hounds head with a musket, you'd surely stifle it. Although, indeed, it would be a tad bloody."

Rohbair looked down his nose at the traveler standing before him. How odd, he thought, now where could this queer individual have come from? And what could he possibly want?

Before Rohbair could vocalize his thoughts, however, the stranger bowed to the butler and said, "I've traveled a good long way, sir, and I would like to warm my bones by the fires of your hearth."

The butler was considering the polite plea versus the politics of inviting potential threats into the household when Marlyse came up from behind.

"I'm thinking that dog never gonna let up, if you two don't gets in here and close the damn door."

"Precisely, Miss Marliemon. Do come in, sir."

The stranger hefted his clutch and entered the grand hall. Boots dripping puddles of filth on the floor, he gave Marlyse a nod, a wink, and a smile.

Rohbair shut the door, and Nero's clamorous barking ceased.

"How might we address you, sir?" asked Bob.

"Oboe, I go by the name of Oboe," answered the stranger, this time with a wink to the butler.

"Oboe? That's it, mon? Don't got no other?" Marlyse might have quizzed the man further if not for Bob's admonishing remark.

"Mr. Oboe does not require a formal inquisition at this time, Miss Marliemon. Now, we shall show our guest to a spare room, where he will have a chance to reconcile his attire and make himself comfortable. In the meantime, we shall prepare a fire in the library. Mr. Oboe, you are invited to, ah, 'warm your bones' as it were, in the library. And then perhaps we shall have a chance to hear your story."

"My gracious good sir, you exceed my humble expectations. For that, I am grateful. Might I add, if it's a story you wish to hear, I will regale your audience with one that is dear to your ear."

"Yes, well that would be fine, but it is rather more your story that is of interest."

"Then, as it is expected, my story shall come first."

Rohbair instructed Marlyse to ready the library for the reception of their guest. He then led the way to one of the many unoccupied chambers within the grand old manor.

Along the way, Rohbair fully engaged his mind with thoughts of how he might mitigate the stranger's fiendish intentions, should he turn out to be a thief or a scoundrel. It was known Alfonso was handy with a sword; he'd been seen on many occasions, in the early morning out on the courtyard, shadow-fencing. Rohbair calculated that if something untoward were to occur, Alfonso, being somewhat of a fencing aficionado and sympathetic to the general well-being of the estate, might well intervene. Yet, the more he thought about it, he had to admit, there was something becoming about the visitor, something that suggested a certain refinement—a worldliness, even—brought about, perhaps, by wandering the lands as a scholar, or a tutor.

For his part, the man called Oboe kept up a running commentary on the fine artwork and rococo furnishing gracing the manor. Because, although the one eye wobbled with apparent disregard, the other was fully capable of a discerning appreciation for the intrinsic value hidden below layers of dust and neglect.

Rohbair left Oboe to himself in a chamber adjacent to Alfonso's, in the east wing apartments. He'd still not made up his mind about the stranger with the wandering eye.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo stacked firewood in a damp storeroom off the side of the kitchens. The lumber-room was a capacious dungeon-like space with a dirt floor and weak light coming from high-set windows. His exhaled breath formed vapors in the cold air. Stacking wood was a loathsome task, and his sole consolation was that he was warmed by the exertion demanded of it. He muttered a continuous stream of obscenities as he chucked chunks of wood. The lad's wobbly stack was far from forming even the clumsiest semblance of a proper cord—more of a discord in his case. In fact, the stack that was apt to fall over merely by looking at it too hard. Did he care? No, not in the least.

Marlyse entered, bundled in her warmest sweater, and declared, "Well mon, this must be my lucky day!"

Ernie stopped. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief he'd yanked from a rear pocket of his dungarees. He grinned at the pert maid. "And why's that, then?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you know, I'm s'posed to fetch wood on account this visitor—and I'll tell you about that—but anyhow, I'm thinking, wouldn't it be fine for me to have a strong gentry-mon right bout now. You know, to help heft the load and all. And here you are!"

"Visitor, eh? Now there's a feckin oddity."

"Too true. But as I stand here, there's a stranger in the house, mon. A stranger with a googly eye. And he set to tell his tale in the library soon as we gets it warmed up some in there."

"And ye'd like for me to pack a faggot of wood all the way up there for ye, that right?"

Marlyse batted her lashes and smiled her sweetest of sweet-smiles.

"Well, Miss Marly, what's in it for me then? I does all the feckin grunt-work and ye jest stands there looking all pretty and sweet-like."

Cocking her head to one side, feigning a pout, Marlyse pleaded. "Ernie mon, don't you wanna be a fine-mon? Like the one in my dreams?"

The coquettish overtones caught the lad off-guard. He blushed and turned his back, pretending to adjust a few logs.

Marlyse sashayed up behind. She squeezed his biceps, saying, "There, see? I can feel you is strong ... but can you be a fine gentry-mon, too?"

The stable boy stiffened under the housemaid's palpation. His pinkish hue deepened to crimson. A nervous quiver rippled through him. His head spun, threatening to come undone.

Marlyse leaned close to his ear. She breathed hot air on his neck as she slipped her arms around his torso. Pressing her body up against his, she whispered, "You got to stop being Mr. Sneaky, mon ... out n' bout in the bushes and peeking at me through keyholes." She had him trembling now, and so she pressed on. "If you wanna be friends—good friends—you need to show me you can be a gentry-mon. Can you be a gentry-mon, Ernie-mon?"

Although Ernie couldn't find a voice to the utter words, the spontaneous and excited nodding of his head said all there was to say.

Oboe held a silver candelabra in his hand, turning it over, examining it. Although tarnished, it was well-crafted and its weight spoke to its worth. Before placing it back on the mantel, he glanced at his modest traveling bag. Next, a gilded letter-opener caught his eye, and he picked that up for inspection. Oboe was a connoisseur of fine trinkets. And though his stock and trade, more or less, was as a raconteur and musician, he nonetheless entertained a certain inclination for commerce, reasoning that one should always maintain a sideline to fall back on in times of strife. He huffed a breath of hot air on the blade and then proceeded to buff the implement with the hem of his coat. As he did so, he whistled softly, scrutinizing the room for other items worthy of appraisal.

A shuffle of footsteps in the corridor swept past his doorway, accompanied by hushed voices.

Curious, Oboe peeked out to see a diminutive fellow, wearing what looked like billowing bloomers, swishing down the hall alongside a raven-haired beauty. Her curvaceous form was smothered in warm garments after a fashion that belied the seductive, undulating motion suggestive of her persona. But even so, Oboe—keen observer that he was—was able to see through the corseted potential. And with his wobbly eye, no less.

Lisa and Chin were in the midst of savoring the gossip on the latest hot topic—the visitor.

Oboe smiled. He had overheard enough to pique his interest. Waiting for just the right moment—when the pair of gossiping cooks started down the stairway—he slipped into the hall in his stocking-feet and rushed to a vantage point where he could eavesdrop without being seen.

Lisa was speaking: "Marlysia tell me he kinda talk like he been around, you know? Chin, it could be him!"

"Risa, eloquent man not always gentleman. If he stewart, he announce on doorstep. Maybe have letter."

"Maybe ... but maybe Milady tell him to make a surprise! You know, like ah ... when a we all at the same place, in the same a time." Lisa, evidently excited at the prospect of a joyous declaration, gleefully clapped her hands.

Chin giggled and then said, "Risa think with heart over head."

Oboe waited until the voices faded down the staircase before returning to his room. He had heard enough to know his presence was anticipated—he would be welcomed.

The skies had become dark and overcast by late afternoon. Heavy drapes in the library were drawn against the cold, gray autumn day. Inside, the room was aglow with a crackling fire. Hints of wood smoke in the air and dancing flickers of light added a coziness to the library that had long been forgotten. In front of the hearth, on a fine carpet, a cluster of armchairs huddled beside one another, each paired with an exquisite side table, upon which, one might lay down a book, a pipe, or a cup of tea. And if not contemplating the deeper meaning of a particularly dense passage, one might simply choose to lose one's self in the flames, unencumbered, casting thoughts adrift.

Rohbair sat in a chair, gazing at the dusty spines of leather-bound books lining the walls. A great number of them lay stacked on the floor, like coffins of fallen soldiers awaiting a proper burial. Sliding ladders, stretching from floor to ceiling, were stationed at the face of each bank of books, ready to transport scholars searching out lofty tomes near the top. How long, mused Rohbair, has it been since a book was opened in this library? And when was the last time a lord and lady shared the glow of embers from a fire such as this? His reverie was cut short, interrupted by the sound of a long, forlorn howl.

It was Nero.

The door to the library opened to admit Oboe, accompanied by Marlyse and Alfonso. Their mood was convivial and animated. As they came forward, Oboe offered his hand, saying, "Ah, Sir Robert, thank you so much for this marvelous welcome."

Standing to take his hand, the butler corrected the faux-pas with what he deemed a statement of fact. "Rohbair. The name is Rohbair ... or if you please, Mr. Bosworth."

"My apologies," said Oboe, pumping Rohbair's hand in earnest. "Sir Rohbair it is and Sir Rohbair it shall henceforth be." His smile was warm and sincere.

Rohbair decided the comportment of the man carried the mark of a cultured chap with just the right degree of respect and decorum. But if truth be known, he was rather delighted with the prefix Sir, formed as an entitlement. "Yes, well, shall we sit then and, ah—Oh! I say, would you please be so kind as to bring tea?" asked the butler of the maid.

"What! And miss the Oboe-mon's story?"

The visitor turned to the maiden and took hold of her hand. Bowing, he said, "Dear Miss Marliemon, rest assured, I shall grant a full account of all that transpires at your earliest convenience." He brushed his lips across the back of her hand, straightened, and smiled, still holding her hand in his. "But at this time, a warm tea would be entirely welcome."

Marlyse snapped her free hand to her mouth, stifling a reflexive tittering sound. When Oboe finally let go her hand, Maid Marlyse curtsied, smiled, and left the men to settle into the comfort of their overstuffed leather chairs.

Rohbair resumed, "Right. Mr. Oboe, I hope you don't mind indulging us with your tale?"

"Señor Bob," said Alfonso, "don't you theenk Mr. Oboe would be more comfortable with a leedle small-talk before we ..." Alfonso's voice trailed off.

Oboe was patting the Spaniard on his shoulder. "That's quite all right, Señor Alfonso," he said. "But thank you for taking my concern to heart. You're a kind and thoughtful gentleman."

"You're entirely right," admitted Rohbair. "Mr. Oboe, my apologies. I am being rather forward, I'm afraid."

Oboe dismissed the butler's remark with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense. Don't for a moment think I'm the least bit perturbed. Naturally, everyone is curious. After all, it's not often a man of repute appears on one's stoop bearing a letter of introduction." Oboe watched the butler with an intensity that caused his wobbly eye to quiver.

"Letter of introduction?" Rohbair's face clouded over in confusion.

"Milady?" ventured Oboe.

"Milady! My lord, you—you have a letter from Milady?"

Oboe terminated a lingering pause with a heavy sigh. The theatrical flourish put Rohbair and Alfonso on the edge of their seats, anticipating the next few words with bated breath.

Oboe's explanation followed. "The letter, I'm afraid, was stolen along with my purse ... bandits. I was caught off-guard, you see, overwhelmed and robbed. Unfortunate, yes, and yet ... well, fortunate, as I'm still among the living. And here I am, at long last."

Rohbair and Alfonso blinked.

"I'm Stewart!"

Oboe's declaration caused the butler and sous-chef to turn to one another searching for a sign of comprehension. There was none. An awkward silence surrounded the three men, until something began to register in Rohbair's subconscious.

"Steward!" blurted Bob. "You're the steward."

"YES! The steward! I'm the steward. I wasn't sure how I was going to tell you because the letter and Milady and getting robbed and, well, it's all just so complicated, you know? Anyway, I'm so glad we have that sorted because it was all starting to get a little messy there for bit. My lord! Don't you feel better? I know I do. Phew." Oboe's wonky eye wobbled with spastic glee.

The tension in the room melted away as the stranger's story took form and settled on the shelf of plausibility. The three men sat back in their chairs, relishing the comfortable ambiance offered by the manor's library that late afternoon in October. They waited for tea, each indulging in thoughts of what was to come.

The steward had finally arrived. Everything was about to change.
Part Two

Farce

"The stuff of clever capers doomed to fail  
whilst blundering escapades stumble on success."

Chapter Six

Mind Your Table, Manors

Oboe entered his quarters. His keen eye took note of a letter prominently displayed on the mantel. The envelope had been stabbed through its center using the letter opener he'd admired earlier that day, with the rest of blade driven deep into a large candle. The impression was alarming to Oboe, and made all the more so as he approached, further noting red drops of blood inked onto the envelope just below the blade's point of entry. No other markings were present on the face of the letter. As Oboe's trembling hand reached for it, so too, did his wobbly eye begin to jiggle in its socket.

The letter read:

Dear Tramp,  
Nothing has changed.

Sincerely,

Oboe let the letter fall into the smoldering embers of the hearth. He watched it ignite and burn. Staring into the glow, his thoughts turned on options: Slip away in the middle of the night, or, stay and play and see what comes of it. The first option would limit the gain to whatever is easily plundered—a booby prize of sorts. The second, could potentially land a much grander prize. But in order to succeed, a level of risk would have to be assumed. The risk being that someone, here, in this household, had not been duped. Which begs the question: Is this "someone" dangerous in the corporal sense, or perhaps, in some other way? A way that would not necessarily cause bodily harm, should be manageable. On the other hand, a knife in the back would hardly be worth the prize. In the final analysis, yes, the presentation of the letter is disconcerting, but the content does not overtly reflect a malicious intent—the words are nonthreatening. Oboe decided he would stay. Someone was expected to take charge of this estate. And, so long as the opportunity was ripe, it might has well be he.

A cursory orientation of the manor ensued as Oboe found his way to the kitchens, led by the savory smells of the evening meal. He entered to find the cooks hovering over pots and pans, thoughtfully stirring and sampling to adjust for taste. Marlyse busied herself loading dishware and cutlery onto a cart. No one had noticed him come in.

Alfonso was first to catch his eye and offer a hearty greeting. "Hola, Señor Oboe!" The Spaniard put down his knife and beckoned him over. "Welcome, señor, welcome to our place of work. Please, let me introduce you. Everybody, this is our new steward, Señor Oboe."

"Good evening. Hello everyone," said Oboe, approaching. "Now then, the enchanting Maid Marliemon, I've met already,"—winking at Marlyse—"as well as this perfect gentleman,"—nodding to Alfonso—"so, that leaves you three industrious individuals."

The saucier, bubbling with excitement, hardly able to contain herself, stepped forward and said, "I am a sous-chef, Lisa. I make a gravy, the sauce and a soup and all these kinda things and I am a so happy to meet you! Sorry I—I ..."

Oboe grinned and took her hand in his, saying, "Dear Lisa, never apologize for exuberant displays of happiness. If it rubs off on those around you, so much the better. I, too, am very delighted to make your acquaintance." Letting go her hand, Oboe turned to Chin and inquired, "And to whom do I have the pleasure of meeting next?"

"Sous-chef number three, Chin," said Chin. His eyes, magnified through the thick lenses of his spectacles, studied Oboe's wobbly orb.

"Well, Mr. Sous-Chef-Number-Three-Chin, pleasure to meet you." Noting Chin was continuing to scrutinize his wonky eyeball, Oboe asked, "Does my wandering eye upset you?"

Chin snapped out of his preoccupation with the odd eyeball. He had a cheeky smirk on his face when he said, "No, but maybe we not see eye to eye."

"Chin, my man, before too long, we shall have many opportunities to see eye to eye. You'll see."

"Señor Oboe," said Alfonso, "I wish to present to you our head-chef, Chef Marie-Claire."

Marie-Claire lifted her goblet in salutation.

Oboe thought the gesture insouciant, lacking in enthusiasm, a clear sign the rotund chef was not going to be a pushover. "Chef Marie-Claire, I must say, I'm looking forward to dining in this manse, sampling your exquisite cuisine, but where I am most keen, is to share secret recipes over cups of fine wine. May I?" Oboe plucked an empty goblet from the counter and handed it to Chin.

The servants all looked to Marie-Claire. She shrugged, and then nodded to her sous-chef.

Oboe smiled. Yes, indeed, the mighty Marie-Claire could prove difficult to win over, that much is certain. Getting past her guarded comportment and then, somehow, dispelling—or at least alleviating—the suspicion she seems predisposed to, will not come easy.

Taking the goblet from Chin, Oboe said, "Cooks, I don't wish to keep you from your duties, so allow me to take my leave. We'll have time in the coming days, I'm sure, to get to know each other better. Before long, we'll all be fast friends. In fact, as I think about it,"—glancing at Lisa—"we'll need to celebrate this new beginning—a party, perhaps?" Lisa's eyes lit up. "Yes, a party! Festivities to mark the occasion. Improvements are on the horizon people!" Oboe smiled, looking to each of them, measuring their reactions. "Yes, well, must give it some thought. But for now, I believe it's time to get back to work. Adieu, good people of the kitchen." Oboe turned towards the dining-room, cup of wine in hand.

Lisa emitted a small but enthusiastic squeal of delight. "A party! Oh, this is a so wonderful!"

Short before exiting, Oboe stopped. He turned to address the staff. Having followed his movements, they were now anticipating a final remark.

"The troubling thing about change," he said, lingering on the emphasis, "is that one cannot always anticipate beforehand if the result will necessarily be for the better." Oboe's good eye flicked back and forth among the servants, scanning for clues that might reveal who the letter-writing culprit could be. But since his wobbly eye was completely out of sync, it left those observing him with the impression he might suddenly fall down. Aside from the quizzical and amused expressions, nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention.

Rohbair was seated at the head of the table when Oboe entered the dining-room.

"Ah, Sir Robert."

"Rohbair."

"Yes, of course, Rohbair. You must think me rather dim for forgetting. Please forgive me."

"Mister Ob—oh, I say! This is most uncomfortable. What I mean is, well, shall I refer to you as Mr. Oboe or is there perhaps a proper surname that I might apply?"

"Oh no, Oboe is just fine. Or Mister Oboe if you wish ... either will do."

"Fine," said Rohbair. "Mr. Oboe, will you join me for dinner this evening? It seems to be running a bit late. However, perhaps we might commence discussions on a plan of action."

"Thank you, I'd be delighted." Oboe took the seat at the opposite end of the table. Looking across the great expanse that separated the two of them, he smiled and said, "It's not often I have the opportunity to sup with a butler." Rohbair was caught off guard by the statement, his confusion apparent. Oboe continued, "Normally, you see, the steward of an estate would be served by household staff. But let's not quibble over that—at least not for now—for it is by the good graces of Milady that I have been sent here to help. And as such, I welcome your offer to weigh in on deliberations." Oboe saw the butler's inner turmoil intensifying with every word uttered. "I feel I must point out, however—and please don't take this badly, Rohbair—as the de facto majordomo, the final word rests with myself. So, as for 'a plan of action', by all means, let us explore the possibilities."

Rohbair fidgeted in his chair, leading Oboe to surmise the butler was uncomfortable and struggling with his depleting sense of control over the estate.

Marlyse pushed through the door just then with a steaming cart of tantalizing dishes to place on the sideboard. Her superb smile faltered for a brief instant when she saw the state of Bob, but refreshed splendidly when she announced dinner was at hand. "Here you gents is already, and grits is only jest now coming out the kitchen. Must be you is truly hungry."

"Ravenous, my dear," said Oboe. "But please, if you will, I would ask that you bring a pitcher of wine. Our head butler is very much in need of a corrective measure to counter the ill-effects of a displaced ego."

Marlyse's eyebrows went up. She looked from Oboe to Rohbair, who responded by saying, "Miss Marliemon, you know very well I won't have wine. Please carry on." When she turned back to her cart, Rohbair glared at the new steward.

Oboe ignored the peeved butler, content to observe Marlyse carrying out her task. Before she left the dining hall, he reiterated his request for a pitcher of wine, even though the butler was not inclined to partake.

"You know, Rohbair, hierarchy is what allows each and everyone to know their place and to respond within their capacity, according to expectations. Now I sense you are angered somewhat by the deliberate mention of authority, insofar as you feel I've usurped your position of dominance in this household. Well, ... I have. And rightfully so. Further, that I made an insensitive remark with Maid Marlyse in attendance. Well, yes, I did. And I must first apologize for both of these necessary attacks—please forgive me.

"Beyond that, when I say they were necessary, I mean for you to understand that without a clear line of command, all and sundry will attempt to influence the decision-making process. And that would lead to chaos. Simply put: I'm in charge now. And I'm counting on you because ... well, because you're a man of substance, so you'll adhere to my decisions and see they are carried out.

"I wounded your pride. And yes, I did so in front of the maid. But only because I want you to understand the double-edged nature of my character. Which is to say, as much as I may appear unassuming and inviting of collaboration, I am wickedly opposed to anyone attempting to undermine my control. I hope I've made myself clear." Oboe studied the butler for moment before concluding. "Come now, let's be friends. You know I need your cooperation—even your advice ... from time to time." Oboe could see Rohbair was not enamored with his new appointment, nor with the vote of confidence.

Rohbair cleared his throat as if he wished to speak, but then patently changed his mind. His gaze fell to the table. He remained mute, dejected.

Marlyse popped through the door, pitcher in hand, grinning from ear to ear. "Cookie's not all too happy with peoples dipping into her wine stores. But I says Mr. Oboe-mon is doing the requesting and he be the steward so what's a maid to do? Well mon, Marie-Claire, she seemed to see no ways out, so she let it be. But she not happy, mon, like I said."

"Stupendous, Maid Marlyse, you're a gem! Now pour a cup for our dear butler and we'll raise a toast to new beginnings." Oboe looked down the table. "Oh yes, Rohbair, you needn't sit there shaking your head, no. I insist."

Marlyse poured wine into a cup for the sullen butler. When she looked to Oboe for further direction, he winked and tapped the table indicating she could leave the pitcher next to him. Upon doing so, Oboe thanked her and dismissed her. Marlyse curtsied before taking leave.

"You see, Rohbair, Maid Marlyse has immediately recognized her place in the scheme of things. Now, I've been wondering about the others. If you would be so kind, I would like for you to please summarize the personnel in residence for my benefit. Would you? Wait! First a toast. Come now, raise your cup ... That's it. That's the spirit!"

Rohbair held up his goblet, his features betraying a lack of enthusiasm.

"To, ah—oh, I know—let us drink to our budding friendship." Oboe winked at the butler and downed a goodly portion of his wine. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Noting the disapproving glare of the butler, he leaned forward on his elbows and said, "Oh don't be such a posh-puppy, Bobby. Drink up. Trust me, you'll feel better after a few swallows. Can't be too dignified and proper at every given moment. There are times—certainly among colleagues—where we must doff our coat of propriety and give in to that rebellious urge lurking within each of us ... to piss in the stream,"—a flicker of a smile from Rohbair—"heedless of who may be bathing down the river."

Rohbair sipped from his cup.

In a voice loud and exuberant, the new steward said, "Let's eat, shall we? Summon our maids, Rohbair. Let us commence!"

"We have but two," said Rohbair, a sharp tug on his waistcoat as he stood, "Maid Marliemon and another. The other is predisposed to shutting herself in her room." He made his way to the sideboard and began helping himself to a selection of foods. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, "I'm afraid our domestic help is rather lacking when it comes to serving dinner. Miss Marliemon sees fit to bring and clear the dishes, but the dining buffet is a self-serve affair."

"Nonsense, this won't do. We'll have to make changes." The steward got up to follow Rohbair's lead.

When they'd both taken their seats again, Oboe raised his goblet and proposed another toast: "To our health and good fortune."

Rohbair needed no further urging; he drank a healthy draft of wine from his cup. His cheeks flushed when he caught the steward's eye. Oboe observed his every move in a subtle but studied manner.

"Now then, I've met some of the household staff—the cooks and Maid Marlyse. They seem a nice bunch." Oboe paused. "The head-chef appears a bit stand-offish, wouldn't you say?"

Rohbair looked up from his plate, a frown creasing his brow. He seemed to be deliberating how he might respond. "The head-chef has—to put it delicately—her moods."

"Is she unhappy?"

"Oh, I daresay, most evenings she is very happy. It's the mornings that provoke her surly disposition."

"I suspected as much. I've known sailors with a similar malady. She does seem to know her way around a kitchen. This mutton is divine! Rohbair, is there anyone among the other servants and staff who might take offense to my being here?"

"Kunkle, for sure! The overseer. A despicable man with a lust for absolute control and power. That said, he's rather ineffective ... despite his stupid whip."

"His whip?"

"Riding crop—the man carries a bloody riding crop wherever he goes. He can't even ride! He's a boob." Rohbair was clearly disgusted with the mere mention of his nemesis.

"Well let's not discuss the overseer then, shall we?" Oboe raised his glass. The butler did likewise, evidently enjoying the libation, or at least, the effects it produced.

"More wine?" asked Oboe, lifting the pitcher.

"I don't usually imbibe. Rather not proper, you know. But as you say, can't always be the perfect gentleman. Rather wears on one, wot? Ha ha."

Oboe grinned. "Indeed. Here then, allow me to act as you yourself should be acting." The steward stood, draped a serviette over a forearm, and picked up the pitcher of wine. With one hand supporting the base, he carried it the length of the dining table to where Rohbair sat. Oboe's movements were brisk and efficient. Adopting an air of British snobbery, the likes of which only Bob-the-butler could match, he poured the wine, saying, "Sir, I do hope the vintage is to your liking."

"Ha, ha, jolly good, Mr. Oboe. Well played." Bob swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of wine. "Leave the pitcher if you would, my good man, ha, ha."

The steward-come-butler left the vessel of wine next to Rohbair and turned back towards his seat, smirking. He stopped to poke his head through the doors leading to the kitchens. "Maid! We are in need of a maid! Urgent matters are being tabled and we are lacking in service. Maid Marliemon, please make haste."

Oboe returned to his chair. "There, you see Rohbair, with the right tone of voice, a wish becomes a command. Now then, is there anyone else that could prove problematic to the estate's change in direction?"

The butler refilled his cup to the brim, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "What? Oh! Yes, of course, hmm ... there's a young rascal—a stable boy—Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo. Sodding Irish ..." Rohbair's voice trailed off. He looked as if he'd been swept along with a recollection of some past annoyance.

Marlyse reappeared at the door, asking, "Someone holler for a maid? I was jest about to tuck into some grits, mon."

"Maid Marliemon," said Oboe, "or should I say, dear Marlyse, ... I have a grand idea. Sup with us. Yes, please, and gather the cooks as well. Come and dine. Bring wine. We shall feast. All together. Let everyone who will, join this table and have their fill. 'Tis time to meet! 'Tis time to eat! And why bloody not, right Bob?"

The silly grin on the butler's face cracked into a full-fledged guffaw. "Ha! Righto, Mr. Oboe, why-bloody-not? Ha!"

Marlyse stood gobsmacked. Rohbair had never been one to trifle with alcohol; she had never seen him inebriated. An uncharacteristic display of exuberance was one thing, but that he seemed inclined to continue with this foolishness promised an unprecedented spectacle. One she was not about to miss.

"Lemme go see if the cookies wants to join, mon," she said, backing out the door.

Rohbair shouted after her to bring more wine, which brought a small crooked smile to Oboe's lips.

The main entrance to the dining hall opened. Buck and Ernie sauntered through, a look of genuine surprise on their faces. It was not often they found anyone lingering over a meal, and certainly not Bob.

"Our esteemed equestrian club!" Rohbair's announcement came out a little louder than necessary.

"Gentlemen, please join us," said Oboe, inviting them in with a smile that was both warm and sincere. "We welcome your company, your companionship. Perhaps, Mister ..." Oboe looked to Rohbair, prompting him to provide a surname. A blank stare—Bob had missed the cue.

Ernie leaned toward Buck, whispering, "Bob's in his feckin cups!"

The stable master ignored the lad. He strode to the table and offered his hand to Oboe. "I reckon you must be the new steward. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Name's Buck Knowles, stable master. The lad here's Ernie, Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo. He's our hand."

Oboe stood, shook hands, and bid the newcomers to help themselves at the buffet.

The cooks bustled into the room led by Marlyse pushing another dining cart. Furtive glances, smirks, and winks ensued as the personnel took stock of the butler's current state of inebriation. A silly, crooked smile now formed a permanent fixture pasted on his visage. The slight waver of his body, even while seated, indicated he'd not last more than a couple of hours before collapse.

Bob's tipsy disposition did not, however, deter him from blurting out another proclamation: "And now"—slight pause—"our steamed cooking club, complete with a lovely tart ... pushing a cart. Ha!" Rohbair must have thought his announcement deserved more than the modest round of grins that it was met with, because he went on, adding, "What? No one likes a bit of fun? You're all so bloody prissy." He snatched up his cup and slurped at his wine, spilling a few drops on his cravat.

"Oh la la, I think this evening can become very amusing," said Marie-Claire. She took a seat at the center of the table and refilled her goblet from the pitcher of wine she'd brought. Next, she fixed Oboe with a stare that seemed to invite him to comment.

"Indeed, Chef, as you can see, we have all the makings for a fun-filled evening. One of frivolous indulgence. A jovial fete! And why not? Can't be too proper at all times,"—looking down the table—"isn't that right, Rohbair?"

"Oh, right-bloody-oh!" answered Rohbair, again, a little too loudly. However, no one paid him much mind, as most everyone was now busy serving themselves or collecting plates, flatware, and such. Bob wobbled a bit before mumbling, "Piss in the stream and all that rot, wot—ha!"

Before long, everyone was seated and content to dine. The cooks, along with Marlyse, were seated opposite Buck and Ernie. Friendly banter and wine accompanied the meal. Rohbair, at the far end of the table, continued lapping from his goblet, oblivious to the snickering and hushed comments mocking his behavior. Oboe was less inclined to pick up his cup now, preferring to savor the smallest of sips. He could see some servants clearly enjoyed having the butler serve as the butt of their jokes, while others—the more reserved—kept their merriment in check, preferring expressions of amusement that could not possibly be construed as a personal attack aimed squarely at Bob.

Adolophles Izzero peeked in from the kitchens, his bushy brows raised in astonishment at the sight of most everyone gathered in the dining hall, seemingly enjoying a meal together.

Rohbair piped up at the sight of him. "Iss Zero ... Mishter Izzero!" Beyond that, the butler did not possess the wherewithal to say anything further. He did, however, mumble something unintelligible, but by then, everyone was looking to the door.

Oboe swiveled round to get a better look at the newcomer. His wobbly eye—funnily enough, settled after a few cups of wine—did not appear particularly odd, save for the fact that it was aimed in a different direction from the one sizing up Zero-the-Greek, head-farmer. "Come in, please," he said. "Join us. Dine with us, and enjoy this fine evening of friendship and lighthearted discussion."

Zero pushed through to the dining-room. "I had heard our new steward had finally arrived in residence. I expect that must be you then, gracious sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance." Zero bowed his burly head in greeting.

Oboe stood and gave the farmer a friendly pat on the shoulder, saying, "Here then, let's not have none of this formal posturing. No need for bows and curtsies. We're all more or less equal here. Help yourself to food and drink, my good man. Tonight we celebrate."

Zero needed no further prompting. He beamed and nodded greetings to fellow servants on his way to collect a plate. The sight of Bob, lolling over his cup at the end of the table, gave cause for a quizzical look back to the cooks. Marie-Claire wagged an upraised forefinger at him, indicating it wasn't worth the trouble to ask. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling for good measure. Zero shrugged and then focused his attention on the buffet.

A lively discussion had sprung up between Ernie and Marlyse concerning Yuno.

"I tells ye, he's blind. Have ye not seen that he ain't bothered by the harsh light o' the sun? He never shields his eyes, and they ain't never really focused anyway ... it's like he's looking straight through ye."

"That's jest his way, mon. Must be he can see something, else he be tripping and bumping into everything."

"The man's a spook. He's here. Then there. Then gone. And ye ain't never seen him go. How'd ye explain that then?"

Oboe had been listening in on various conversations around the table, and this one had caught his interest. He interjected. "Is there a chance the mystery man will join us this evening?"

"I theenk he will not, Señor Oboe," said Alfonso. "He is not one for joining. That is unless there is an element of necessity that requires his presence."

"I see, and would there be any other unlikely candidates for our evening of frivolous excess?"

"Don't reckon you'll be seeing the doc, neither," answered Buck. "He's right hard to pin down, but you'll know he's around on account the way he likes to leave tonics and remedies and such for what's ailing you."

There was a unanimous nodding of heads from all who had paid attention to what was being discussed. Bob's head was bobbing as well, but it was more from the effects of alcohol than from any form of agreement.

"The doctor, the man you call Yuno, which leaves us with?" Oboe was looking to anyone who might answer.

"Kunnnkkle," said Bob with uninhibited contempt. Apparently, he had been lucid enough to follow the gist of the conversation. "And that wench! That bah-luddy wretched ..." His voice trailed off again before he could finish.

"He speaking bout the other maid—Maid Malgreete," said Marlyse. "She's not one for having a chuckle. And she likes eating late, after we all finished up."

"So," Oboe stated, "we have the maid, the doctor, the overseer, and Yuno." After a moment, he added, "You know ... I would like to know what function Yuno performs on behalf of the estate."

Zero answered: "Yuno is many things—a medicine-man, a gardener—a mystery. But I think we all agree, the wise and wonderful shaman confounds more than he elucidates." Zero briefly reflected before concluding, "Yuno's unique, there's no question."

Oboe sat back in his chair, contemplating the personalities that made up the estate's personnel. With the possible exception of the head-chef, it was hard for him to imagine a threat coming from anyone seated at this table. There had to be a more likely perpetrator.

Horst marched through the door just then, but came to an abrupt stop, visibly shocked by the ensemble of characters gathered in the dining hall. His crop twitched at his side.

Ernie muttered an oath under his breath, which earned him an admonishing bump from Buck's elbow. Buck invited Horst to join them: "Come on in, Herr. Take a seat. We're kicking off a shindig to welcome Mr. Oboe, our new steward."

The overseer's gaze settled on Oboe. "I not intruding?" he asked.

"Not in the least. Perish the thought, man, for we were all, just now, hoping the rest of the personnel would make a showing this eve." Oboe smiled and patted the chair next to him, inviting Horst to sit.

The overseer hesitated while he searched out Bob's regard. By now the tippling butler sat near to toppling over. Horst smirked. With a smart snap of the whip on his boot-top, he advanced to the table.

Conversations resumed.

If Marie-Claire harbored any worries over her private cache of wine, she cast them aside when she asked Chin to tap into a new cask. At the behest of Marlyse, Ernie stoked the fire. The sly smile she'd managed to bestow, unbeknownst to the others, convinced him to attend to the task. Meanwhile, Bob weaved, seemingly content to manage the occasional swig without spilling more wine on himself. The mood was jovial, the atmosphere festive, and then Malgreete arrived.

Like a dark cloud, she appeared at the entrance, her brooding disposition, unconcealed. She glared at the people gathered. "Ya, so I can see the silly-time will not finish soon enough. I will take my plate and will go."

Rohbair struggled to focus on the black blur, standing at the far end of the room. Most of the others had turned back to their meals, discussions, and preoccupations. Horst feigned indifference. All the same, Oboe was not fooled by the overseer's pretense; his perceptive powers of observation were far too keen. This was an interesting development. To a lesser degree, but also significant, was the ease with which the petite maid prompted Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo to put more logs on the fire. The discovery of concealed sentiments always benefited the likes of the wandering minstrel.

Oboe joined Malgreete at the buffet. He picked at a few morsels from the various dishes, giving the impression he was looking for another helping. Malgreete ignored him. She was busy heaping her plate with food.

Oboe quietly asked, "Do you know who I am?"

Malgreete did not look at him. "Ya, I hear something, but I don't care."

Oboe lowered his voice to a whisper. "You should care."

Malgreete gave him a sidelong glance. "Why?"

"You are not well-liked—but you already know that. With the exception of the overseer, you have no allies. You need someone like me. Someone with the power to ease the pain of transition. I speak, of course, of the many changes that are forthcoming."

He had her full attention. She glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the people in the room. They'd heard nothing. And, with the exception of Horst, they were not particularly interested in what was going on at the buffet. Nevertheless, she seemed tense, which pleased Oboe because he now knew mentioning the overseer had produced the desired effect.

"What you want from me?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much, dear maiden, only that you consider me a friend."

"Friend?"

"No strings attached. We all need friends." Oboe smiled, and his wonky eye twitched before settling again. "I think you should join the table. Sit at my side. The effort will serve you well, you'll see."

Malgreete glanced back to the table, noting that would place her directly opposite Horst; a detail that caused her to frown, and served to intensify the worried expression already evident in her features.

"Don't fret, Maid Malgreete, I shan't give away any secrets." Oboe winked at her and took her elbow with his free hand to escort her back to the table.

Aside from a few furtive glances, no one seemed keen to display any objection.

Horst nodded to Malgreete as she sat down, but the severity of her look, wiped the gushing smile on his face away in an instant.

At the far end of the table, Bob's wobbling head struggled for steadiness, ostensibly so that he might identify the newcomer. But his eyes refused to focus. "Who ish zat?" His voice boomed over everyone else.

Oboe responded, loud enough to carry over the others. "Maid Malgreete. She has graciously decided to join us."

Bob belched and his faced soured at the mention of Malgreete. A disturbing image or thought must have followed, because it caused a momentary shiver in his body as he attempted to shake it off. Though Oboe noted the effects the maid had aroused in the butler, it was the discussion taking place midway along the table that stole his attention.

Marie-Claire seemed positively thrilled to be surrounded by a bevy of merrymakers with whom she could fritter away the evening hours. Her bubbly disposition overflowed. The jolliest of laughs resounding round the room was hers. Spurred on by Lisa and Chin, she was in the midst of recounting the episode during the past summer when she'd downed the spiced cocktail disguised as a tonic: "And I am sure somesing in my head must explode. After, I feel very much to keel someone ..." She jabbed the air with a pudgy digit, pointing it at the farmer. "You! You should have to drink this drink. But this time, I make!"

"Marie-Claire, come now, we have deliberated this unfortunate incident on numerous occasions, and I have maintained my innocence, despite your accusations. I simply asked Lisa to convey my best intentions with regards the restorative qualities of the concoction. I didn't make it. I had no way of knowing it had been laced with ... well, with whatever it was laced with."

"Cayenne."

All eyes swept to Marlyse.

The sudden realization that she had just implicated herself in the affair dawned on her. The petite maid attempted to deflect culpability. "Could be, is all I'm saying, mon." Too late, the damage was done. She began to fidget. Her fork pushed at a leftover morsel of meat on her plate.

"Marlysia!" Lisa was shocked by the revelation. "How could—"

Marie-Claire had risen to her feet glaring at Marlyse. Her hand went to her plate in a slow and deliberate motion. In what seemed a surreal vignette, she gathered a fist full of gravy-laden mashed potatoes and hurled it, full force, at Marlyse. Chin and Lisa, sitting between, managed to receive a fair share of splatter. Some of the fallout that had overshot Marlyse caught Malgreete. In retaliation, the scowling maid fired a handful of peas back towards Marie-Claire. They scattered midair, catching everyone in line. Not to be undone, Marlyse launched her own assault, flinging her wayward morsel of meat at Malgreete. Lisa joined the fray, jumping to her feet and splashing the glowering maid with the contents of her cup. Chin ducked under the table as more food and drink began to fly overhead. Alfonso hastily pushed his seat back and retreated to where Bob swayed in a drunken rapture, oblivious to the mounting confrontation.

Excited by the impromptu food-fight and eager to be of assistance, Ernie O'Boyo shoved his plate across the table towards Marlyse, shouting, "Jaysus, Marly, take me plate, ye need more feckin ammunition!"

By then, Marlyse had already grabbed a cutlet from Chin's plate, but was undecided as to who should receive it. Her eyes sparkled. And then a wide grin spread across her face and she lobbed it at the stable boy's unsuspecting visage. "You best be keeping your munitions, mon, 'cause this is bout to get nasty."

Buck could see the escalation in progress and decided a hasty retreat was also in his best interest. He joined Alfonso. Oboe, grinning, opted to slip out of range, as well. Horst followed hot on his heels. Zero was about to leave when a mess of mixed vegetables rained down on his head. The assailant was none other than his beloved head-chef. She was laughing now, evidently thrilled with the turn of events unfolding in the dining hall. Food was flying every which way.

"I'll get you," said Zero with a playful growl, "you'll see." He rushed to the buffet, where he began throwing all manner of mushy foods in the general direction of the cooks.

Meanwhile, Ernie had retrieved his plate and was taking aim at Bob. Alfonso and Buck backed away even further. The butler was oblivious to the debauchery taking place until a limp carrot landed on his nose with a fwaap. It slid onto his plate.

"Wot, the bleeding ..." The butler leveled his head as best he could. He tried blocking one eye, as one does to reduce blurred double-vision. A lump of mashed potato plopped onto his chest, but he took no notice.

Oboe could see a thin veneer of enjoyment creep over Malgreete's normally irascible demeanor. She had just managed to bounce a chicken bone off Chin's head when he popped up to sneak a peek at the show. And now she was taking aim on a long-shot towards Bob. Fun was fun, thought Oboe, but before someone gets hurt ...

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone froze, shocked by the steward's blatant outburst.

"Dear friends," said Oboe, his voice moderated now that he had their attention, "please, let us sit and refrain from further frivolous behavior, lest we take up forks and knives. Come now, I believe it's time to raise a cup."

Everyone obliged, settling back down in their chairs. Bits of food clung to their clothes and stuck in their hair. The dining hall was a mess. Unabashed, their faces reflected the childish fun that had caused a ruckus the likes of which had never been seen in the manor. The smiles lingered as they now picked and wiped from themselves what remained of their meal. No one had been spared. Only Bob, the butler, appeared unmoved by the event; he drooped forward, his head in his plate, passed out, snoring.
Chapter Seven

The Aftermath and The Prelude

The dusting of snow on the ground persisted into the next day. The cold snap that was the cause of it kept man and beast at bay, huddled indoors for whatever warmth could be found. There was, however, one solitary figure bundled in warm clothing, standing in the snow along the track. The lone figure stood before an old abandoned buckboard, motionless, as if frozen in time.

It was Oboe, and he was steeped in thought.

At length, he pulled the collar of his woolen coat closer and stepped forward. He bent and brushed snow away from the wheel-hub using his sleeve. After a close examination of the axle and wheel, he walked around the buckboard wiping off various components for inspection. Satisfied with his initial appraisal of the rig, Oboe turned and made for the stables.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo was mucking out a stall when the wandering minstrel traipsed through the door and stomped his feet, shedding the snow that caked his boots.

"Top o' the morning to ye, Mr. Oboe! Feckin great party last night, if ye don't mind me saying."

Oboe caught a glimpse of the lad's tousled locks just before they dipped below the topmost board. A clump of dung and straw, flung from the stall door, preceded Ernie's smirking-face as he stepped into the alleyway. Oboe smiled. "Good morning, laddie. And yes, 'twas a grand evening, truly was. But how is it you find the strength to rise to the drudgery of chores after a night such as we had? I am, I have to say, rather impressed."

"Keeping me self busy—sweating and all—well, helps beat back the chilblains, don't it. Not that I mind being a bit tardy for me chores and such, but every once in a while getting a feckin early start never kilt anybody neither."

"How true," said Oboe, though only half listening, his distraction made obvious in the way he kept shifting his gaze and turning his head, as if looking for something.

"Might ye be looking for something in particular, Mr. Oboe?" asked the stable boy.

"No ... no, nothing in particular, Ernie. Just looking around, getting a feel for what's at hand. You know, familiarizing myself with operations and such." Oboe redirected his gaze to the lad and pursed his lips as if to gauge how he might pose a delicate question.

Ernie leaned on his pitchfork in the alleyway, waiting. Clearly, the steward had something on his mind, something he wished to say. Even so, the impetuous lad was not one for standing about idly for longer than a moment or two. "Jaysus," he said, "are ye thinking of saying anything anytime soon there Mr. Oboe? Not to be rude, but I do have me feckin chores to attend to."

Oboe considered Ernie a rash young rascal who did not appreciate diplomacy, so he changed tack, taking a stronger more direct approach, one designed to surprise and disarm. He came straight to the point: "Ernie, are you engaged in a romantic affair with Maid Marlyse?"

Ernie flushed, stammering through a denial that probably sounded as false to his own ears as it did to the person he was attempting to convince.

Oboe nodded his head, content to have had unsettled the lad. "There's no need to feel you must conceal the fact that she's smitten with your youthful vigor. As a man who's well-traveled and educated in the ways of women, I can plainly see that she harbors a fondness for your proximity. What could possibly be wrong with that?" Oboe studied the lad, seeking further signs of emotional turmoil, anything that might push through the residual embarrassment and offer clues to Ernie's weakness. He saw confusion.

"Yer saying she's the one what fancies me?"

The wonky eye flicked about while Oboe nodded his affirmation. The next thread in his web of deceit, having already been spun, only needed to be woven into the fabrication. "I'll be blunt," he said. "She has the urge to merge." Oboe paused, ensuring Ernie caught on before continuing, "And you, dear lad, have the incontrovertible distinction of being the chosen one."

"Me! But I ..."

"Yes, Ernie, I know it may come as somewhat of a shock, but let me assure you, the maiden displays all the signs."

"Signs? What feckin signs is that, then?"

The steward could see the boy's ego struggling to resume a less vulnerable stance, something akin to the cocksure lad he usually portrayed. When Oboe answered, it was with a wink, as if about to reveal a little-known truth. "Oh, you know, small signs. Things that may seem insignificant at first glance. But, taken together, they form a very strong case to support my supposition. For instance, have you not noticed how she chose to sit directly opposite you at the dining table? And it was she who engaged you in an animated discussion concerning Yuno. Then there was the sultry smile—remember? The one given on the sly? Oh Ernie, come now, don't be so surprised; I notice things. She asked you to stoke the fire ... And tossing food at you—a playful invitation to join the fun."

Ernie smiled at the recollection.

"Now these observations are strictly from my vantage point. Surly, Ernie, surely Marlyse has dropped a few not-so-subtle hints? Perhaps while the two of you were quite alone ... undistur—"

"Jaysus! So what if she did? What's yer feckin interest in these affairs?"

"Calm yourself, lad, no need for hot-tempered words when it comes to the art of courtship."

"And jest what makes ye think I'm courting our wee maid, anyway?"

"Because you are of age and you are attract—" Oboe stopped short. Another thought crossed his mind. "No! No, that's not quite it, is it? You lust after her. Yeesss, thaaat's it ... you're not so much interested in courting her as you are in bedding her." Oboe saw Ernie caught off-guard, unable to refute the intuitive assessment. Oboe continued, "I broach the subject, because I see you are in a quandary. You suspect she may be susceptible to your advances but you lack the wherewithal and experience to pursue your interests. This is, of course, entirely understandable. You're young. You have no peers, no mentor to guide you. Nor, I suspect, is there anyone on this estate you trust enough to confide in."

Ernie's face filled with suspicion. He stared hard at the steward. "What's yer feckin point, then?"

"Ernest, I would like to place my wisdom and discretion at your disposal. I would do this, so that you might achieve your goals. In return, you will owe me a favor." Oboe fixed his good eye on the boy.

"A favor, ye say. Favors have a way of becoming a feckin burden."

"This is true, Ernie. And very astute of you, I might add. But let me reassure you, I would not ask anything of you that you would not ordinarily do in the service of a friendship. You see, my instincts tell me—and they're rarely wrong—that there will be dissension among the staff and servants; not all will comply with my ambitions for this estate. To that end, I may need a trustworthy agent. Someone capable of reporting inconspicuous behavior. Behavior or talk that might be deemed ... well, I think you can—"

"Spy! Jaysus, yer asking me to be yer feckin spy!"

"I prefer to look upon it as a strategic alliance."

"Strategic feckin alliance?"

"Yes. You see, you would report on conspiratorial attempts to disrupt or overthrow the powers that be—that being me—and I would endeavor to collude, on your behalf, of course, to get a certain petite miss between the sheets, so that you might mutually consecrate whatever sensual pleasures might be derived from finding yourselves together under such like circumstance ... skin to skin, so to speak. What say you, Ernest? Do you accept my aid in this venture? Would you like your fantasy to evolve beyond a dream? To become a reality?"

"Skin to skin," said Ernie, repeating the words that caused him to grin. "Aye, I like the sounds of that, then! I'd have to be saying ye got yer self a deal there Mr. Oboe."

"Grand. I'm glad we could see eye to eye. Well, I'm off. Carry on."

Ernie turned back to his task, evidently tickled at the thought of slipping between the sheets with the fair maiden. He whistled and attacked his chores with a new-found vigor.

With Oboe gone and Ernie once again busy mucking out stalls, Buck Knowles shifted uneasily on a bale of straw. He sat overhead, in the loft, and he'd overheard everything.

Bob woke. He was in his chambers, lying in his bed. He had no idea how he got there, nor did he care. His only concern at the moment revolved around how he was to access the chamber pot. Every time he opened his eyes, the ceiling would begin to spin. Then the room joined in. Soon the whole bloody world twirled about, spinning ever-faster. Woozy and nauseous, he would be forced to clench his eyelids until the sensation passed. His head felt as though it was stuffed with wool. His guts churned. He tried rolling onto his stomach. A protracted, woeful moan followed, echoing a promise of more to come. It would be a long and painful day for Rohbair.

Dr. Bin Dare had been there and had left a curative concoction on the nightstand, beckoning. If only the butler could manage the minimal effort required to reach out for the bubbling libation. He stared at it through one opened eye. Try as he might, he could not will his arm to move. It was as though his body had disassociated itself from his mind. The pressure in his bladder, however, was quite another matter; it had a mind of its own and was asserting itself in no uncertain terms. Rohbair summoned all the power left to him in his diminished state and forced himself to sit up. The exertion prompted another drawn-out moan imbued with self-pity. Hunched over, head in hands, he welcomed the sobering effects of the glacial parquet under his bare feet. The chilled air in the room also offered much in the way of relief.

After a few moments, Bob pulled himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, waiting for the wobbly sensation to leave his limbs. Shivering, he made his way unsteadily to the chamber pot where he relieved himself. The exercise did not complete without mishap. Using a discarded item of clothing—a white shirt—he mopped at the splatter with his foot.

But then the better part of his butler's conscience took charge, berating the drunkard's gall. Bloody-hell, man! Can you not even manage a tinkle without bloody pissing all over the floor? Wiping up with your shirt! Are you daft? Quite simply inexcusable. Inexcusable. Complete lack of propriety. Bleeding insufferable bloody state this. If I wasn't impaired ... Sodding steward! It's his fault. 'Drink up, trust me, you'll feel better.' Right-bloody-oh, now look at me! Rest. I need rest. Back to bed. Warm bed and rest. Steady now, steaaady ... stea—BLAST! ... AH! ... aahh ... just lie here ... lie here till I die ... Too bloody cold. Right! Crawl. Yes, that's it then. Clean this mess one day, all this clutter ...

When Bob, on hands and knees, reached the nightstand, he found his face level with the medicinal cocktail left by the good doctor. Rolling back on his haunches and steadying himself as best he could, he took hold of the goblet with one shaky hand and pinched his nose with the other. Eyes closed, Rohbair tilted his head back and drained the contents.

In the distance, Nero unleashed a long and mournful howl. His virtuoso performance concluded in a chorus, joined by the rest of estate's hounds.

Rohbair clambered up onto his bed, pulled up the covers, and dragged a pillow over his head.

On this unseasonably cold, winter-like morning, the menagerie of animals in the big barn filled the air with streams of exhaled vapor. The collective warmth generated from their breath, their bodies, and even their excrement, provided adequate comfort from the chill. A profusion of noisome smells and musky odors blended to become an aroma that was not entirely unpleasant. And so it was, animals—young and old, big and small—huffed and munched and chewed on grains and hay and feed. And they did so, content as any farmyard dweller insulated from the harsh outdoors.

Zero tossed a forkful of fodder through the trap in the loft. Most of the clump thumped to the floor below. Only the lightest particles of sweet-smelling grass and alfalfa floated in the air, drifting downward. Zero paused to mop his brow with the worn handkerchief he kept in a pocket of his old dungarees. He was about to resume his chores when he heard hinges creaking. The barn door was being pulled open. He stooped to get a look at who entered.

Oboe let himself in. He stood at the entrance, stomping the snow from his feet. The enormity of the interior kept his head jerking about every which way as he tried to take it all in.

Zero's voice boomed from the rafters. "Good morning to you, sir."

Oboe looked up but did not immediately see the opening to the loft.

"Up here." Zero crouched and waved. "I'm coming down."

Oboe caught sight of the burly farmer and raised his voice in reply. "And good morning to you, my good man. Please, don't feel you need cease your activity to join me. I'm not here to disrupt your work. I've only come ..."

The farmer had already begun his descent.

Once on the ground, the two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries concerning the impromptu party that took place the previous evening. They chuckled and nodded, each, in turn, trading repartee. It was the polite thing to do. But as soon as it was apparent the subject had run its course, was fully exhausted, and there was no other handy topic of discussion readily available, a nervous air of uncertainty settled over the two men.

Zero attempted to fill the gap. "So, ..." he said, but was unable to link an appropriate thought.

Oboe seized the opportunity to advance a proposition he had given some thought to earlier that morning. "Zero, would you be keen to cook up a little hot-sauce with our head-chef?"

Zero looked to be at a loss.

"Clearly, I can see you're baffled by the question posed, so allow me to rephrase."

Zero blinked. "Please do."

"I'll back up some as well, so as to provide a context. Can't have you thinking I'd parade around posing cockamamie queries at the drop of hat, now, could I?" Oboe winked at the farmer.

Zero shrugged.

"So," continued Oboe, "the instigation for our infamous food fight last night came with the revelation that Maid Marliemon was somehow implicated in the affair. The affair I refer to being the one that shook the very foundations of the manor. The one in which you, dear fellow, were hitherto held accountable as primary suspect. In any event, you will recall, it was unanimously construed that the maiden's specific knowledge of a certain, shall we say, 'extreme measure' of spice introduced to the restorative mixture, ended up pointing directly back to her as the culprit. In effect, her proffered expertise backfired.

"Now, you are no doubt wondering what any of this has to do with you and Marie-Claire making hot-sauce together. And I'm coming to that, so please bear with me." Oboe's odd eye wiggled with glee. The other—the good one—locked on Zero's, flitting between one and then the other. "You see, it strikes me that a friendly competition between Marie-Claire and yourself to determine which of you is capable of producing the tastiest hot-sauce, could make for some great fun. We'll make an evening of it! And, it goes without saying, our dear Maid Marlyse must presume to acquiesce as one of a select panel of judges. Now, to be sure, we'll need to workout a ploy—to turn the tables, as it were. But think of it. Oh, what fun! What say you, Zero? Warm up these cold, dark nights. A joyful romp in the kitchens ... concocting hot-sauce ... head-farmer, head-chef, starring in lead roles."

Bushy brows raised, his head nodding, Zero needed no further convincing—he was sold.

The two men concluded their discussion over the course of a brief guided tour of the barns. It was understood Oboe would proposition Marie-Claire and, upon securing her agreement, would advance the program to its final stage: the competition.

Oboe allowed a sly smile as he stepped outside, content to have engaged the farmer in a scheme to further his nefarious ambitions. He hugged his arms about himself against the cold seeping in from all sides, and watched as his breath formed vapors in the air. He shivered. A fleeting motion, caught from the corner of his eye, dropped and splatted on his shoulder. He looked up.

A beam, used to hoist sheaves to the loft, jutted out from the face of the barn. Perched atop, a crow, craning its neck, peered down at the wobbly orb staring up. The beady black eyes flashed mockingly at the frumpy little fellow below. The man's lips moved. And at once, the crow spread its wings and lifted into the air, unleashing a triumphant caw.

Oboe glared at the vile creature that had fouled his overcoat. He watched as it grew smaller and smaller and finally became nothing more than a speck of black against a cold, gray sky.

Far too far for Oboe to observe, but somewhere, way out there on the barren snow-covered fields, a feather, blacker than coal, floated to earth, alighting on the delicate whiteness.

Uppermost and at the furthest extremity of the west wing, where a frosted pane had been wiped clear, a curtain dropped. Dare turned his thin form from the window. As usual, he was impeccably attired. And, as was also usual, he was concerned; concerned over the welfare of the estate and all those who chose to dwell in the manor.

Conflict would always exist among the ranks. According to the doctor, this was the "ordinary" human condition. Bin also knew that in the absence of a lord and master, sloth and dereliction of duty was to be expected. The doctor's main focus lay in the distinction between therapeutic and degenerative trends: So long as there existed a perception among the majority of estate personnel that conditions required continuous improvement, he was content. Content that is, to attend to and mend minor ailments on an individual basis, such as he'd done earlier that day responding to Bob's sickly disposition. On the other hand, if ever a lapse of conscience pervaded the general psyche, causing a chronic condition of decline, Dr. Dare deemed it absolutely necessary to intervene. And his prescriptive measures were ofttimes profound.

Of gravest concern, was that of disease. Whenever an unknown entity visited the estate, the potential for infectious maladies exacerbated. As a doctor, he could not help but regard Oboe as an onerous threat. That he maintained a proclivity to remain within the household for the foreseeable future, proved all the more worrying.

Bin had not been taken in by the carpetbagger posing as the much-anticipated steward. He was far too perceptive. He saw Oboe for what he was, an odious impostor. But there was something else, something about Oboe that struck a chord—a dissonant chord—one that resounded in the doctor's cranium like a deformed gong.

A wandering minstrel, a tramp with a knack for deception, insinuates himself into a position of authority. From there, like a pathogen spreading infection throughout an organism, he preys on the weak. Before long, the whole sickening affair threatens to turn septic. Dr. Dare had a contagion on his hands. It needed to be contained. Bin sat down at his writing desk, a stack of blank pages before him.
Chapter Eight

Of Friends and Foes

Herr Horst stood. Then sat. Then stood again. He fidgeted with his riding crop, twitching and twirling it, first one way and then the other. Malgreete was still asleep under a mountain of covers. The rise and fall of her breathing matched the muffled snores coming from under the blankets. The overseer faced the great lump she formed on the bed. Beyond, a full-length mirror, positioned at just the right angle, allowed him to see his reflection. He saw himself standing over the hump—his Sleeping Beauty. He wanted to wake her. But one glimpse at the man in the mirror, confirmed he didn't have the nerve. He looked afraid. He was afraid. Afraid of the reaction she'd have when she awoke to find him still in her chambers. This was unprecedented, he'd never spent the entire night; their secret trysts never lasted more than an hour or two. After which, Malgreete wasted no time putting him out like one puts out a dog for the night. Not that any of that mattered now. The note had already served to sever their relationship—it was over.

Horst was saddened by the turn of events, because he knew his feelings for her could never be reciprocated. He was enamored. She was only in it for the spanking—the only reason she put up with him. Malgreete had deemed the cautionary note's suggestion they entertain and foster a genuine affection for each other as being fatuous. She as much as said so. However, the demand to abstain from lewd behavior, or bear the brunt of grave consequences, would be followed to the letter. Malgreete was adamant, she would not risk being exposed and run off the estate—especially by likes of B.B. the B.

Then came last night ... and the wine flowed.

Horst Kunkle strolled past the bed to the window. On his way, and without actually making contact, he playfully whipped at the mound of covers where he imagined Malgreete's rump to be. This gave rise to a chuckle, quickly suppressed in the sleeve of his coat. At the window, he used his riding crop to hold back the curtain. Leaning close, the overseer breathed warm air onto the frosted pane, then wiped it clear with the palm of his hand. He peered out. The new steward was coming up from the stables.

Horst understood only too well, the final say in quarrels between Rohbair and himself rested with the steward. He needed to somehow gain the upper-hand. If he could convince Oboe that the butler was ineffective and unworthy of consideration, then, perhaps, there was a way to undermine Rohbair's authority. Horst imagined himself taking over the manor. It was a nice thought.

Malgreete stirred. Her snoring stopped.

Horst let the curtain drop and turned to face the bed. He found the silence and the stillness under the heap of blankets unsettling. Without warning, a loud grunt erupted from the bed. Covers flew back. Legs and arms flailed, and a tangled mass of jet-black curls shot up into view. Eyes, savage and mean, glared back at him.

She snarled and began hurling insults. "You idiot! What you are doing here? You stupid, stu—"

"Sssh!" Horst stabbed the air with his crop, pointing it towards the door—someone might be in a position to overhear. She was volatile and so he approached with caution, telling her again to shush.

Malgreete yanked at the blankets, attempting to wrap one around herself for warmth. She stole a glance at the entrance. In a loud whispering sort of hiss, she began to spit even more abuse. "Stupid man, stu—get out! Stupid man. You mor—"

Horst, wanting to silence her further, reached to put a timid index finger on her lips. But Malgreete was too fast; she smacked his hand away with a brutish swipe of her forearm, quite nearly breaking his. Horst, wincing in pain, dropped his crop and clutched his smarting wrist against his chest. Malgreete wasn't done. She snatched up the crop, jumped to her feet, and began whipping him—lashing and slashing, landing blow after blow, driving him back. Horst, ducking, weaving, tried to protect his face from the wicked and merciless onslaught. Malgreete no longer paid heed to the need for hushed voices. She unleashed a blaring stream of insults laced with vulgar profanities. Horst shrank, mewling like a kitten kicked into a corner by a cruel and deranged witch. Mid motion, everything froze, the only sound coming from the hollow thumping on the door. Then, even it stopped.

Malgreete's eyes bulged in their sockets, and her hand—the one holding the whip—remained poised for another strike. Horst, still cowering, peeked from one eye. All three eyeballs were riveted to the chamber door. Nothing happened for what seemed an eternity. Then a plain white envelop appeared through the crack beneath the door. The maid and the overseer dared not move, but their eyes swung from the letter to each other. Malgreete shook her head, no. Horst straightened but did not advance towards the envelope. The whip descended, slowly, until it rested by the maid's ample thigh. Malgreete shivered. The chill in the air began to seep in. She handed the whip to Horst and returned to the warmth of her bed, leaving him all alone in the middle of the big, cold, quiet room.

There was no sound coming from the corridor. Nobody walking away. Only silence.

A few more anxious seconds ticked by, the two of them staring at the envelope. When Horst next looked to Malgreete, she was glaring at him. She thrust her head in the direction of the door, indicating he should retrieve the letter. Tiptoeing to the door, he leaned his ear to the panel. Nothing. Horst took hold of the handle and looked over his shoulder to Malgreete. She nodded. He yanked the door open. Nobody. He popped his head out, looking up and down the hallway. Empty. The messenger was nowhere to be seen.

"What you wait for? Close the door. Bring the note."

Horst obeyed his sweetheart's terse commands and did as he was bid.

Malgreete examined the envelope. There was nothing written on the face. She hesitated a moment before breaking the wax seal.

"You think can be again zis butler?" asked Horst, looking over her shoulder.

"Why you all time ask stupid questions? How I should know?" Jabbing her long nail under the fold, Malgreete Van Bleake opened the note.

It read:

Dear Duo,

Despite despicable acts hitherto enacted within the confines of your bedchamber and previously commented upon with a strong warning to resist such abhorrent behavior, I note: As a result of intoxicating effects derived from a particular libation (liberally dispensed during last eve's supper), your ability to exercise restraint has been entirely displaced by a desire to resume your perverse penchant for mutual pleasure; a pleasure devoid of significant and sincere emotions based on what should be, above all, a true and loving tenderness for one another. This is unacceptable.

Therefore, I herewith, feel compelled to further caution you both regarding the use and abuse of intoxicants in this household. Do not allow this to happen again.

Or what? (As I'm sure you must be asking yourselves.) I will shut you down—the both of you.

Sincerely,  
No, I'm not the butler.

The perplexity of who might have authored the note consumed the duo on this occasion. Malgreete offered no comment. And Horst, who'd read the note over her shoulder, was mum as well.

"What this means 'shut you down'?" muttered Malgreete.

"Yah, zis is ... I have no idea."

Malgreete looked up from the note. "I wasn't talking to you, you imbecile."

Horst, demoralized and standing next to the bed, slumped. Then, when what he thought was a clever rebuttal crossed his mind, and in an effort to boost his flagging self-esteem, he expressed the obvious. "So, if not za butler—who? Who is it what cares what we are doing? When we know zis, we know who is making za letters. We must think for who zis can be." His crop twitched and he gave his riding boot a little tap, as if to punctuate the point.

Malgreete looked at him, stunned.

A smug smile spread across Horst's face. His summary report, delivered with all the candor of a seasoned constable, was, to his mind, succinct and to the point. Clearly, he'd hit the proverbial nail on the head. He thought she thought his observation so astute, she was on the verge of formulating a gushing compliment.

When she finally spoke, her words tumbled forth with the crushing weight of an avalanche. "Listen to me very careful, ya? We are doing nothing, because we are not a we, ya? You are a you, and I am a me. We are never going to be a we. We are finished." Malgreete paused, looking away. "I say this before—the last time. And still you follow me to here in the night. Ya, so now look, now there is more problem. Somebody—and I don't care who—is making problems. I don't want problems. You are a problem. You will not come again. This is clear, ya?"

The light in Horst's eyes dimmed. He nodded, slowly shifting his gaze to the floor. He saw his unspoken desire, dashed, scattered at his feet on cold, hard parquet. If only she would reveal some small amount of tenderness in return for his undying love. Horst shuffled to the door and opened it. He stood a moment on the threshold. His crop hung limp.

"Oh, just go. Don't be such a ninny."

Horst pulled the door closed behind him and left.

Malgreete heaved a sigh and flopped back on her bed, glad to be rid of the overseer. Her mind began to wander between last night's escapade and the intent of the letter. Who was behind the threat? And why? The question hung in her mind like a smeared painting, an indiscernible portrait of somebody she should know—somebody evil.

There was a knock on the door.

The maid raised her voice, hollering towards the entrance. "Already I tell you to go, ya? Just stay away. I don't want to hear what you want to say. Go!"

Another knock.

Malgreete cursed, flung the covers back, stomped to the door, and jerked it open with a force that nearly tore the hinges from the frame. Her bluster evaporated, her face flushed, and her mouth got stuck on the first syllable she was about to utter.

There stood Oboe, serene and smiling, his wandering eye flitting in its socket. "I don't wish to disturb you unduly, Maid Malgreete, but I believe you have me confused with another."

"I—I think maybe somebody different," said the maid, whisking the door in front of her to conceal her scanty dress. The flimsy, tattered negligee she habitually wore to bed was nothing short of embarrassing, even to her. "What you want?" she asked, peeking her head past the partially-opened door.

"Maid Malgreete, please, why don't you take a minute. Make yourself more comfortable. Slip into something a little more modest. And then perhaps we can discuss why I've come knocking."

Malgreete's eyes narrowed. She ordered him to wait before shutting the door in his face.

Malgreete crossed the antechamber to her boudoir where she pulled a ratty housecoat around herself. Next, she smoothed her frowzled mop of hair and made several attempts at replacing the scowl in the mirror with one less severe. It was in vain; she couldn't help but think she either resembled a half-witted harlot with too many years under her belt, or a wretched hag bent on bashing someone's skull to smithereens. She spat at the image of herself, wishing circumstances could be other than what they were.

Tapping on the door again.

Malgreete tore herself away from the mirror and went to let Oboe in.

"Come," she said, leading the way to a couple of dusty armchairs huddled near the fireplace, "we sit here, ya."

Embers still glowed under a thin layer of ash. Oboe took to setting them alight with kindling found next to the hearth. Soon, a pleasing fire snapped and popped, spitting tiny sparkles that lifted into the chimney. Oboe doffed his topcoat and settled into an armchair facing Malgreete. His good eye studied her shifting pattern of expression. His wandering eye, as always, did as it pleased.

Malgreete's thoughts and emotions were in flux. They manifested and transformed in a flow predicated by recent events: Irritation at Oboe's presence ceded to apparent concern over his motives; and then mutated to fearful anxiety over the uncertainty of any given scenario's possible outcome. Her gaze only met his for a split second at a time. Her discomfort was made obvious in the constant fidgeting.

"Maid Malgreete, I spoke last night of the need for friendship. I did so because where there exists a veiled hostility, and, possibly, even intimidation or threats, one must have allies. You will recall, I touched on the subject of being in a position to ease your burdens whilst occupied on the estate. So now I ask you, what can I do for you? Is there some nuisance you'd like to be rid of? A person who is bothering you, perhaps? A situation that has become intolerable?"

Malgreete's troubled mind ran the gamut, from people who posed as obstacles to conditions she found annoying. Yet, nothing exceeded the distress brought about as much as the recent blackmails. That she should harness her self-expression or face being 'shut down', was an infringement on her liberty. Something with which she could not abide.

"How I can know to trust you?" she asked.

"What choice do you have?"

"Why you think you can fix my problem?"

"Who has more authority than I, at present?"

Malgreete's eyes drifted to the note resting on her nightstand. She contemplated the implications of sharing it with the steward and decided against it. When she turned back to him, she could see Oboe had followed her gaze; he was looking to the nightstand. But with the clutter, Malgreete thought it doubtful he'd picked up on the focus of her attention. "If I tell you somebody is telling me I must do something—something I don't want—and if I not listen, I can be ... ya, I can be shut down. What you can do?"

Oboe folded his hands and brought his index fingers to his lips. After a moment, he said, "Do you want to tell me who this person is, what you must do, or what you mean by 'shut down'?"

"No." Malgreete twisted a length of thread that had come loose from her robe. "I mean, no, I don't know who is telling me to do this thing—this thing what I don't want to tell you. And no, I don't know what means 'shut down'."

Oboe stole a glance at the nightstand while Malgreete's attention was diverted to her lap. "Dear Maid Malgreete, how can I possibly be of aid with so little information with which to act upon?"

"I get letters."

"I see. So the letter spells out what you are to do but you don't know who is sending them. Does any of this have to do with Herr Kunkle?"

"NO!" Malgreete, infuriated by the inference, demanded to know why the steward thought Horst had anything do with it.

"Calm yourself, dear maid. It is not my wish to upset you. You don't have to admit to anything you're not comfortable with." Oboe paused, holding Malgreete's stare until she looked away. He got up to place another log on the fire. With his back to the maid, he continued, "It's just that I bumped into Horst on my way up the stairs. He was sobbing. Clearly distraught, poor man. I attempted to console him and asked what the trouble was. Seems he's heartbroken."

Malgreete bit at a hangnail. She responded to the steward's revelation by saying she didn't care. But her attempt to sound apathetic was missing a note of authenticity.

Oboe leaned on the mantel, gazing into the fire. For a time, no one spoke. When Oboe broke the silence, he did so as if he was talking to himself and unaware of Malgreete's presence. "I am going to investigate this anonymous letter-writer," he said. "I'll finish by flushing the weasel out. Mark my words!" Malgreete cleared her throat, recalling the steward to the present moment. Oboe turned to her, saying, "I'd like for you to engage in an undertaking that will require the utmost discretion."

"Ya, now come the strings."

"Consider this a part of your new duties. You shall make an inventory of the manor's finest objets d'art, paintings, and furnishings. And you will do this discreetly. Now, since a large part of a maid's daily toil is to clean, you should not find this too difficult. Apart from that inconspicuous task, I would ask that you report any incongruous behavior by staff and servants directly to me. Doing this will ensure your duties remain light, and that I—as your only remaining friend and ally—have your best interests in mind as I govern this estate."

"You want this for what?"

"A register," said Oboe as he moved past the maid towards the window. "Quite in keeping with the normal management of estates these days."

"Ya, so why so secret? No one can know."

"Again, Maid Malgreete," answered Oboe, pulling back the curtain, "common practice." Oboe scratched at the thin newly-formed frost on the pane—the one Horst had cleared earlier. "It ensures no one is aware of what is listed, and thus, it acts as a deterrent to theft."

"If you can find this—this blackmail man, the one who is writing letters—what you can do?"

"First, we must determine who it is, then we will decide how to deal with the scoundrel."

Malgreete Van Bleake stared into the flames. They flared, orange and yellow, flicking every which way, contorting, wavering, moving fast then slow, as if dancing to an arrhythmic tribal beat. Her mind was dark, agitated, consumed with imagination. She hatched plots and devised evil tortures to be inflicted upon the blackmailer, the person responsible for her current angst. Someone needed to pay.

Malgreete snapped out of her reverie when the steward approached, picked up his coat, and said, "I believe we have covered a good deal of ground here today, so let us part and bid each other farewell. Please take my offer to heart, Malgreete. It will hold you in good stead, you'll see."

Malgreete nodded and Oboe left.

Yes, someone will pay, thought Malgreete. Nobody—not even booby-Bob—can push Malgreete Van Bleake to the ground. Her gaze drifted back to the nightstand. She tensed. Something was very wrong.

The letter was gone.
Chapter Nine

A Tacit Tactic

After a few days of discreet observation, Oboe had come to learn the rhythm of staff and servants, a task which was not without reward—or purpose. By sallying forth under the guise of acquainting himself with the daily routines of estate personnel, he was able to poke about the manor and grounds indiscriminately. Though some doors were locked, most were not, and as such, he gleaned a good deal of information concerning which rooms were occupied. What is more, he was also able to snoop about in some of the private quarters and thereby determine who resided within. Thus, each sortie provided some amount of useful reconnaissance. It was on one such scouting mission, in the middle of the afternoon, that he happen to cross paths with the head-chef, Marie-Claire.

The would-be steward stepped from the vast, dungeon-like storeroom into the kitchens to find Marie-Claire alone, and enjoying a cup. She was seated next to the chopping block, on a stout wooden stool, a pitcher of wine before her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes sparkled and she smiled, fully and fabulously, lifting her goblet in salutation.

Oboe closed the small wooden portal adjoining the two cavernous rooms and approached. "My, oh my, what a lovely vision," he said. "Your glorious smile and welcoming gesture—truly inviting. May I join you?"

Marie-Claire swished her head, sending a tumble of loose locks away from her face. Then, in an obvious and pretentious manner, she batted her lashes, replying, "But of course, you are monsieur steward, you can do what you wish, no?"

Oboe dismissed the coquettish charade; he wouldn't let a sarcastic stab at his authority sway him from his course. He plucked a goblet from a shelf and dragged a stool to the chopping block to sit across from Marie-Claire. "That being the case, my dear head-chef," he said, taking the pitcher, "I will, most assuredly, join you in a cup of wine. And even bow to more of your theatrics should you persist." Oboe topped up Marie-Claire's cup before filling his own. "I must warn you, however, I have urgent and important business to attend to, so I may not be able to remain for the entire performance."

"Oooh la la, urgent business! And important, too ... can I be so lucky for you tell me what this can be, monsieur?" Marie-Claire leaned over and dragged the bronze pitcher back to her side. She winked to show no malice was intended.

Oboe smiled. "Can I trust you to keep a secret?"

"But of course, I am a grand chef, a specialist for the secrets. If you tell me somesing and tell me to keep secret, you can be very sure, I never say this to anybodies." Marie-Claire mimed turning a key in front of her mouth and tossing it away.

"Very well, I will hold you to your word. Here it is then: Mr. Izzero has let me in on a little secret, and I have agreed to help him with it. Because ... well, because it's going to be just so much fun." Oboe's wiggly eye jiggled with glee. Marie-Claire leaned closer. "You see, ever since he found out Maid Marliemon concocted the spiced cocktail you drank, and for which he was blamed, he's been obsessed with getting even. He wants to trick Marlyse into tasting a sauce or drink that is so spicy-hot, she will think she has died and gone to hell. This 'special' offering will be one of his own making, of course."

The excitement proved too much. Marie-Claire was all a-bubble, near to toppling off her chair. She slapped her palm on the wood surface, a mighty smack, and said, "I must make this! Zero ees nothing, he ees a farm man. I am chef. I have recipes—many. I am the one who drinks this drink. I must be the one who make this—this very spicy hot one for Marlyse." Marie-Claire clutched Oboe's wrist. She begged to be included. "Please monsieur steward, you must allow me."

Oboe feigned concern. He frowned and pursed his lips, as though mulling it over.

Marie-Claire's voice, pleading: "Pleeease."

Oboe's features melted into an effortless smile. "On one condition. You must help me devise a way to entrap Maid Marliemon and still include Zero in the caper."

Marie-Claire beamed. She poured each of them another cup and said, "You have some ideas, yes? Somesing you have been thinking?"

"Marie-Claire, we have the two of you, and you both want to play a trick on a certain someone. This someone—let's call her Sweet Maid Marlyse—is suppose to swallow a very, very hot hot-sauce. And not only once, but twice! Now, since you both desire the sweet taste of revenge and, in effect, you are both competing for the same result ... maybe—"

"Contest! We make a contest. I cook. Zero cooks. We cook somesing so hot, so spicy and—and Marlyse must be eating ... But how?"

"Marie-Claire, that's brilliant! But yes, how to entice Sweet Maid Marlyse to sample the delectable offerings? To presume she'd voluntarily test one tidbit is easy enough, but if the fire is extreme, as it should be, it will be nearly impossible to convince her to bite into a similar enticement. We'll need a trick, some way to fool her."

"But she loves everysing hot and spicy. She has many years eating this way. It will take a lot to give a reaction."

"Everyone has their limits, my dear—everyone. But what about this: What if she sees someone else sample the same thing, and this someone doesn't succumb to any adverse effects? What if the sample were switched for something much less shocking to the system? She might then doubt the intensity of her experience, and, if her pride were called into question, I believe the impetus to push for another bite would be hers. Is there anyone else we can employ in this ruse? Someone persuasive, someone capable of coax—"

"Lisa! There ees no question, she ees perfect. My sous-chef, the saucier from Italy, she ees adorable and she loves to play the games."

"Perfect, Lisa it is then."

The chef raised her cup and offered a toast. "To the drink, and to pleasure, and to laughter!"

They shared another cup of wine while stitching together the rest of the plan. Marie-Claire would ensure Lisa was amenable to playing a role in the lopsided contest; she'd persuade Marlyse to act as judge, but with a strategy incorporating an underlying element, one that when called for, placed the petite maid's pride at risk; and finally, she would need to devise a slight-of-hand technique for swapping the hellishly hot dish for it's harmless twin. Meantime, Oboe was to lay the ground work for a joyous soiree featuring a spectacular show of culinary skill. The evening would commence with a monumental feast, and there would be music, dance, merrymaking, and so on and so forth. Everyone was invited.

The weather broke. The unseasonable cold snap was over. With the milder temperatures, the snow began to melt, leaving the terrace at the rear of the manor a patchwork of puddles and slush. There was a small chapel tucked into a corner where the west wing joined the center-block. It was modest in size and comportment compared to the conservatory, which nestled in the opposite corner, across the slushy expanse of grime-covered flagstone.

Horst sat in a pew, his head hung low in silent prayer. In the fading light of that late afternoon, a single flame flickered on the altar. Above and beyond, the lord Jesus, nailed to the cross, looked down, weeping. Mother Mary stood off to the side, her lovely face pitying all who would stand before her. Horst was in good company, and felt warmed by the sincere expressions of concern for his well-being. He'd been praying for relief from his broken heart. The deep, dark sorrow that clutched his soul was gradually consuming his spirit, threatening his will to live. At times, he wished he were dead.

"Yoohoooo ... Horst ... are you in here?" The irreverent call came from none other than the man with the wobbly eye.

Horst's head popped up at the first startling sound, and now, he was peering back through the gloom at a silhouette in the entrance. He thought about ducking down, hopeful Oboe would leave so that he might continue to wallow in the misery and self-pity he felt he was entitled to. After a moment's hesitation, he decided against it. He cleared his throat and called out, saying, "Yah, I am here inside."

Oboe stepped down the aisle as though taking a stroll in the park. He stopped to admire statues of saints, paintings of religious significance, and depictions in stain-glass of Mary and baby Jesus and God in heaven. He whistled a tune—a lullaby. When he came abreast of Horst, he slipped into the pew directly behind, sat down, and whispered, "It's very quiet in here, isn't it?"

Horst did not much appreciate the steward's apparent lack of respect for the church. However, being charitable, he reasoned not every man is acquainted with the propriety expected of supplicants. To condemn him for his ignorance would go against the basic tenets of his faith. He sided with the Lord on this one and decided not to take issue. Horst kept his voice low when he replied. "Zis is za house of God, ... so yah, peaceful."

Oboe leaned forward. Putting his hand on Horst's shoulder, he asked, "Tell me, does our overseer pray for forgiveness? Absolution? So that the good Lord may watch over him, deliver him from temptation?"

Horst turned his head to the altar and answered, his voice gruff, "I pray. But for what? Zis is for God to know."

"Oh, my dear man, please forgive me, I didn't mean for this to be an inquisition. I'm merely curious—and yes, sometimes overly so." As Horst did not respond, Oboe sat back and folded his hands in his lap. He continued, "Perhaps it is fitting that we are here, in this sanctuary, a place where one can openly confess sins and ask for forgiveness. I must avow, Horst, I believe I have committed a sin ... I lied to Maid Malgreete. I lied about you."

Horst's head whipped round, his face flashing through signs of shock, distress, then anger as thoughts of betrayal seeped in and took hold. In a low voice, almost menacing, he asked, "What you tell to za maiden?"

"Whoa, easy now, no need for aggression. It was just a fib really, nothing to get worked-up about. This is what I said: I said that I'd met you in the stairwell—which was true, as you'll recall. Anyway, I told her that you'd confessed your heartbreak to me ... so I lied, but that's it. I didn't enter into detail. I simply allowed her to believe whatever she wanted to beyond that. Is that so bad?"

"Yah, and so why you want to say zis to za maid?"

"Well it's true, is it not?"

Horst hesitated. There was no denying the steward was onto something—he was crafty. "Even so, zer is nothing to be done about zis."

"Oh, I don't know," said Oboe, looking up to the crucifix. "I believe with a little faith, insurmountable odds can sometimes be turned in your favor."

"Zis is why I pray."

"And maybe your prayers have been answered."

Horst leveled his gaze on the steward. "How?"

"I am here am I not? Perhaps it is by divine providence that the good Lord chose to direct me here ... here to this chapel, where you were to be found, in need."

The overseer struggled with the likelihood of that particular outcome in answer to his prayers. "You? Zer is nothing what anybody can do."

"I am the steward. I have the power to influence circumstances in my favor. And if my favor extends to certain privileged individuals, and you are one of them, well ..."

Horst, agitated, defied him to answer when he spelled out his troubles in a blunt statement of fact: "You think you can help, yah? You can make zis maiden loving me? You can get za butler—zis dummkopf butler—out from my hair? You can do zis?"

Oboe settled himself more comfortably on the church bench. He sized up Herr Kunkle with his good eye. His wandering eye—the right one—appeared to be looking up to the cross. "I can do this," he said.

Any amount of relief the overseer might have felt at that moment was overshadowed by suspicion. His brow knitted itself into a frown. "Why you are doing zis for me?" he asked.

Oboe grinned like a goblin on Halloween. "It's the Lord's work, Horst. Come now, have faith. Your prayers have been answered!" Oboe reached over and patted the overseer on the back as if congratulating him for winning some obscure ecclesiastic award of merit in the Lord's lottery.

"So, now zer is something I must do for you, yah?"

"Horst, I am going to help you because the good Lord asked me to. So don't believe you must now grovel at my feet, begging I bid you to allow a kindness in return. No, perish the thought, my good man. You are free, unencumbered. You owe me nothing."

"But ..."

"But nothing."

"Yaaah, still, I like to make something for say thank you."

"Horst, my good man, you are a saint. Thank you for your sincere token of appreciation. However, there really is noth—" Oboe appeared interrupted by a thought.

"What? What you are thinking?"

"You know? It just occurred to me, you might be able to do me a favor after all. I hasten to add, Herr Horst, you must not think I'm asking for this service in return for my generous offer to resolve your plight. It's just that I think you are the only man capable of the task."

"Yah, and?" Horst nodded, eager to hear more.

"I need a team of horses and the buckboard ready for a late-night jaunt."

Horst's brow creased at the blunt and unusual request. He worried because he didn't know first thing about harnessing a team of horses to a wagon. But then a crush of nagging questions and concerns crowded to the forefront, jockeying for position, the most pressing of which was: Why a team of horses and wagon for a late-night jaunt?

Oboe must have guessed what Horst was thinking, though his face showed no hint of emotion, and his voice was matter-of-fact when he said, "You want me to get rid of the butler. I'll need some way to carry the casket."

The flagrant implication horrified Horst. "You ... I mean I—I don't want za butler dead. Zis is too much. Out from my hair, yah, but not dead!"

Oboe winked his left eye and chuckled, saying, "Dear Horst, I jest! Of course I'd not kill Rohbair just to get him out of your hair. But I still need a team of horses and the wagon."

Horst relaxed, relieved the request did not entail removing a dead butler from the estate. "Okay, yah, very good ... ha ha. So, still I can ask, why za horsies and za wagon?"

"This is to be a surprise, Horst. You must trust me. All I can say is"—looking up to Jesus— "the Lord works in mysterious ways ... and so do I." Oboe bowed his head and made the sign of the holy trinity. "Let us pray."

"When?"

"Now, Horst, now."

"No, I mean za horsies ... and za wagon, when?"

"Soon, I'll let you know. Let us pray."

The overseer put his hands together in prayer.

Some minutes later, after they had left and all was again quiet and still in the little chapel, a puff of smoke rose up from behind the altar. It was a thick, herbal-smelling kind of smoke. A few more puffs and before long, there was a billowy cloud hanging in the air. Jesus, with his arms outstretched, looked to be soaring into the heavens. From behind the skirted table, a low warbling chant sounded; quiet at first, but rising in volume until it filled the chapel with a resonance that was not only passionate, but soulful and reverent.

Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno sang an ancient hymn, descended through the ages and passed on to him from his grandfather—also medicine-man.
Chapter Ten

Innuendo

"I wish to open this meeting with—Mr. Anokqwa ... Anot ... BLAST, man! What the bloody blazes are you doing here?"

"Sorry chief, I think I need to be here," said Yuno, "even if maybe you don't." He closed the library door behind him and entered the room.

"Very well, squat, or sit, or do whatever it is you people do, but please, let me get on with this meeting."

The old medicine-man sat cross-legged on the floor, next to the fire. Alfonso and Buck Knowles were already comfortably settled in armchairs facing Rohbair, who stood at the mantelpiece, annoyed by the untimely intrusion.

Yuno nodded as if granting permission to carry on. When Rohbair closed his eyes for a few moments to gather his thoughts, Yuno winked at Buck and Alfonso, a sly smile appearing on his leathery old face. The two men silently acknowledged the old Paiute's greeting.

"Now then, if there are no further interruptions, I will attempt to get straight to the point." The butler looked from one to the other before continuing, "I have asked you here specifically, because I have a matter of concern I wish to discuss. My concern has repercussions that affect the entire estate. I have asked that you, Mr. Corazones and Mr. Knowles, convene to hear what it is I have to say."—looking to Yuno—"But as you seem to think you need to be here as well, ... well, so be it." Yuno grinned. "I have asked you gentlemen to be here because I trust in your judgment, and I know if I ask, you will guard whatever is said between us for yourselves.

"As you are all well aware by now, the steward is in the midst of organizing a grand soiree, set to take place at week's end. As I have been privy to some of the preparations over the course of the past few days, I can say this about that: The man is barking mad!" Rohbair looked to each of them, measuring their reactions.

Alfonso was first to reply. "Señor Bob, these words are perhaps a leedle strong. I can say that, yes, I theenk something is not entirely right with this man, but—"

Buck interrupted before the sous-chef could finish. "Dang straight, there's something ain't right with this here steward fella. I heard it myself. There's some snake-oil wheeling and dealing going on with this here huckster ..."

Yuno had raised his hand, and now that he had everyone's attention, he spoke. "Me too, I heard the snake speak with forked tongue ..."

"Gentlemen, please," said Rohbair, "you'll all have an opportunity to voice your opinions before we conclude, but for now, allow me to elaborate on my findings." With their attention refocused, Rohbair continued, "Since the arrival of the steward some weeks ago, our stores—of which we have precious bloody little this year—have been quite nearly decimated by over consumption and abuse. And still, plans for lavish parties are in the works. Where will it end? Something must be done."

"Señor Bob, I would like to speak, if I may."

"You have the floor, Mr. Corazones."

"Señor Oboe is lodging next to my chambers. Sometimes, very late at night, I hear the door. He is going out but where he is going is a mystery. What is sure, my friends, is that he is keeping hours that cannot be considered normal. There are other things—peculiar things—taking place: This maid, Maid Malgreete, is now cleaning and dusting ... and not only that, but—and I have seen this with my own eyes—Señor Oboe and this maid are many times speaking quietly and sometimes she will give the steward a note. Then there are other people who speak in quiet voices with this man. And if I am seen, they seem to act as if nothing is going on. This behavior, it is very unnatural. I theenk something is going on."

"Mr. Corazones, whom have you observed speaking in hushed tones with our steward?"

Alfonso appeared hesitant to name names. "The farmer, and the overseer." After a sidelong glance at Buck, he added, "Also, Ernesto,"—letting his gaze fall to the floor—"and then ... there is my head-chef."

A knock on the door brought the discussion to a standstill. Marlyse entered with a tray and a friendly smile.

"Ah, jolly good. Miss Marliemon, just please set it down. We'll serve ourselves. Thank you."

"Must be you gents is talking some serious business," said the maid. "Servin' you selves and all ... def'nitly not like you Mista Bobby-mon!"

"At stake here, Miss Marliemon, are matters of estate. Serious matters indeed, but as they are not your concern, please—"

"I know, mon, I know, I'll jest get on back to someplace else."

The petite maid curtsied and left, leaving the men to serve themselves.

As the others poured coffee, Yuno packed his pipe. Once everyone was settled and content to sip or puff their substance of choice, Rohbair took a seat, and said, "Now then, what else is there to add? Mr. Knowles?"

"Well, like I said, I reckon something ain't right, neither. I was up the loft, day after that first big shindig, and I overheard the steward and Ernie having a bit of a chinwag down below. Now, I wanna say straight off, Ernie's not a bad lad. I know 'cause I pretty much taught him most everything he knows ... about stables and livestock and tack and such like. Anyways, from what I was able to make out, it seems they got themselves a deal. It's a dirty deal. But even so, I reckon the lad's not to blame for his part; he's being played by that wily dude, Oboe." Buck appeared reluctant to elaborate. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Mr. Knowles, perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to the particulars of this 'dirty deal'?"

"No sirree, Bob, I don't. But I will say this much: This here steward is one low-down, sneaky polecat and I don't trust him—not one bit."

"Fine." Bob turned to Yuno. "Mister ..."

"Anotwhoyoukno," said Yuno.

"Yes, thank you. Do you have anything to contribute, or are you here merely because you feel you need be?"

"Think, not feel."

"What?"

"Before, I said 'I think I need to be here'... I didn't say 'I feel I need to be here'."

Buck and Alfonso exchange looks and chuckled.

"What bloody difference does it make? You're here—whether you felt or thought you should be, amounts to the same bloody thing!"

"Sorry chief, but I think you'd feel differently if you thought you were me." Yuno grinned and tapped the ashes from his pipe on the hearth.

"Look, if you have something to add, please do, otherwise stop mucking about. Bloody innuendo ..."

"In your what?"

"Bloody mumbo-jumbo—stop it!"

"Okay chief. Guess I don't have anything to add, anyway."

Rohbair was exasperated. He got up and marched across the room to a window. Holding back the brocade, he looked out. Beyond the smudged pane of glass, an oppressive mass hung over the estate. It was another dismal day in November.

Buck Knowles reminded Yuno of mentioning something earlier, something about what Oboe had said. He urged Yuno to divulge whatever it was by saying, "If we all put our cards on the table, I reckon we'll be in a better position to figure out how we're going to deal with this situation. There's no telling what's on his mind, but what's sure is, we need to stand together. You got something to say Yuno, you should say it."

Rohbair looked back over his shoulder. Alfonso leaned forward, eager to hear what Yuno had to say.

"I heard the little chief speaking words to Overseer Horst. They couldn't see me because the white-man's great spirit wouldn't let them. The little chief's words became a promise. But it's an empty promise. The overseer can't see this. He is blind ... blinded by desire. The crooked chief trades lies for horses and a wagon. Anyway, it's a bad trade."

Rohbair threw up his arms. "Would someone please explain what the bloody hell is go—"

"Now just hold your horses there, Bob, no need for getting all uppity. What Yuno is saying is, the steward is promising Horst something if in return he gets a team of horses and wagon."

"I wonder what Señor Oboe wants with this horses and this wagon."

"Nothing, Mr. Corazones. It is utterly preposterous to expect that bumbling half-wit could secretly collude with the steward and get away with it. It won't bloody happen. And so it doesn't matter why, because I simply won't stand for it!"

Alfonso and Buck exchanged looks of apparent concern for Rohbair's mounting level of aggression. Yuno had just finished reloading his pipe. "You should smoke, chief," he said. "It will bring you some peace."

Bosworth ignored the gardener. To engage him would be to invite more senseless debate, and he was peeved enough as it was. He turned his gaze back outside.

The door pushed open and there stood Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, a half dozen logs cradled in his arm. "Afternoon gents. Jaysus, still a bit of a nip in the air, eh?" Ernie entered and made for the fireplace without regard for the interruption. "I seen the wee maid down by the kitchens. Says yer having a meeting up here." Ernie dumped the logs onto the iron cradle beside the fireplace. He then turned to face the men, dusting his hands on his pants. "So I figured ye might be needing a feckin log or two." The twinkle in his eye and the unabashed grin on his face hinted at an ulterior motive.

Buck and Alfonso expressed their appreciation for his thoughtfulness, while Yuno simply nodded.

"Splendid. Jolly good, but I daresay, a bloody knock would be rather more appreciated than barging in with little or no consideration for your interruption. So if that is all ..."

"Feck me, can ye not imagine a wee bit of courtesy on behalf of yer self, man? A thank you perhaps?"

"Mr. O'Boyo, we thank you. Now if you please, bugger off."

Ernie ran his hand through his mop of gingery curls. He looked as if he had an impertinent reply loaded, ready for a parting shot, but instead, he simply winked at Bob, turned, and left.

"Right! It appears we have all experienced some amount of concern as regards our newly-arrived steward," said Rohbair, making his way back to the fireplace. "That Milady has seen fit to send this man, presents us with a rather prickly problem. To wit: we can't simply send him bloody packing. This would be most improper and, I daresay, disrespectful to Her Ladyship. What, then, are we to do?"

"If I may?" asked Alfonso.

Bob nodded his consent.

"Señor Oboe is now here, and I theenk—same as you—we cannot make this man go away. But, what we can do, we can observe—and very close. And if we see that this man is planning a mischief, and if we are clever, if we stand together like Señor Knowles has said, maybe we can stop an unfortunate event."

Buck agreed. "Seeing as we don't rightly know what's going on, I reckon Alfonso's right. About all we can do is keep a close watch on this here fella. When we know more, we can talk again and maybe come up with a plan."

"Righto, it appears unanimous. There's nothing to be done at this time, save for keeping the steward under surveillance and gathering information. Information which we will then share at some point in the near future, so that we might prevent whatever dastardly deed—or deeds—that bleeding steward and his accomplices are planning from occurring. Is that it?" Buck and Alfonso nodded. Rohbair looked to Yuno, still sitting cross-legged near the fire, and asked, "Do you have anything you might like to add?"

The medicine-man appeared lost in thought, staring into the flames. The butler repeated the question, a little louder.

"I heard you, chief." Yuno redirected his gaze to the library door. "The boy heard you too."

Buck lifted from his chair and Rohbair started for the door.

"He's gone now," said Yuno. "He got what he came for."
Chapter Eleven

What Goes Round

Adolophles sat on a stool in the rickety tool shed that squatted next to the main barn.

The tool shed was a miserable outbuilding riddled with holes from missing or broken boards. And the roof leaked. The feeble light that crept in from a few small, broken windows was barely adequate for the work at hand. Traces of used oil, paints and thinners and rusting tools hung in the air, lingering, like the stink from discarded coveralls; and the floor was a thick mat of black, grimy dirt. The farmer loved it.

He had his back to the draft sneaking in through busted slats, and was hunched over a hub, applying grease to an axle. The old wagon's wheel, cleaned, greased, and ready to roll, lay propped against a side wall under one of the crooked little windows.

Zero was proud of his achievement. Horst would be too.

Exactly why Herr Kunkle wanted the wagon refurbished was still a mystery. One that caused Zero a good deal of concern—it was so unlike Horst. He'd said it was to be a surprise and wouldn't elaborate, even when pressed. The head-farmer wasn't buying it; something was afoot. Kunkle wasn't one for peddling lies. Then again, neither was he prone to holding secrets ... except maybe for the one that was already common knowledge—the one everybody knew about. Which was that he and Malgreete would meet for raunchy spanking sessions.

The thoughts troubling Zero shattered into oblivion when the shed door suddenly flung open, smashing against the wall with such a racket it nearly caused the farmer to fall off his stool. Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo raced in, skidding to a halt, out of breath, panting.

"Ernie! What in heavens could it be, lad?" Zero waited for the stable boy to catch his breath.

"Oboe. Have ye seen Oboe?" Ernie gasped for air. "I need to find him. Do ye know where he is, man?"

"Calm yourself lad, breathe slowly. What is this about? What's got you so excited you feel the need to rush about willy-nilly, breaking down doors, charging in on people? Crashing through the door as you did, you quite nearly had me clutching my heart from fright. And what, pray tell, has the stew—"

"JAYSUS! For feck's sake, man, shut yer feckin gob a minute, would ye?" Ernie wiped his sleeve across his brow. "Have ye seen him or not?"

Zero rose up to his full height, towering over the young lad. He placed a broad, heavy hand on Ernie's shoulder. "Listen here, O'Boyo, you'd best mind a minimum of manners so long as I'm capable of crushing your insolence with a single blow. And remember this: It behooves you to attempt a certain respect for your elders, even though your youthful inclination leans to ridicule, scoffing, casting aspersions ... Some of us are just plain bigger than you."

Scolding the lad proved to be an effective measure: Zero could feel the slender shoulder tremble under his hand.

"Sorry, Zero, ye know me ... I don't mean ye disrespect. It's jest me way a speaking."—stepping back, out of reach—"Now would ye know where this feckin steward can be found, or not?"

The burly farmer heaved a sigh and shook his head. Resigned to the fact the young rascal was not about to change anytime soon, he plonked himself back down on his stool and dipped his fingers into the grease bucket. "I saw the steward not half an hour ago. He was with Horst, up behind the stables."

"Thanks Zero," said Ernie, his eyes roving over the reconditioned wagon. "I was wondering where that old hunk o' junk had gone. Looks feckin great. What's the occasion?"

"It's a secret, lad."

"Secret, eh? Tell ye what, Zero, if ye let me in on yer little secret, I'll tell what's got me so fired up."

"All right, you first."

Ernie appeared to be pondering the predicament of being first to start, but then resolved the quandary by saying, "There's been an accident. Chin's cut his feckin finger off. They've got it wrapped tight ... ye know, to stem the flow ... but jaysus there's a lot of blood, and the man's in some serious feckin pain. Oboe's got to know. The man's needing a doctor!"

"And Dr. Dare? Why is he not attending to the matter?"

"Ye know as well I, that geezer's impossible to chase down when ye needs him. He jest appears when he feckin feels like it."

Zero was skeptical. Chin was a wizard with knives. He'd never been known to so much as nick himself let alone be so careless as to cut his finger clean off. "All right then. So now I'll tell you why I'm putting this old buckboard back in service. It's because we'll have need to dress out our new mares for harness. It's pure foolishness to rely on the mules and jackass for the whole of next year's harvest. They're too old and they're too miserable. Our nags ... yes, we've used them before, and we will use them again. But at least now, they'll have another team, younger and stronger, sharing the workload."

The stable boy, visibly astonished, took a moment to find words to describe his surprise. "But Zero, they're hunters. They're bred for sport, not for mucking about in fields. Hauling shit. Feckin doing farm work."

"An animal needs earn its keep on this estate—as do we all. It's a fact of life." Zero felt inspired. He continued, "Where there is food aplenty, where there is material comfort, little thought is given to misfortune. Yet all around us, if one would only open one's eyes, circumstance dictates what is of value and what is useless in the face of dire need. What good is a horse that can follow a fox when you've naught but a potato on your plate?"

Ernie nodded. Zero remained unconvinced the lad had followed his logic. In all likelihood, the lad simply wished to avoid an obtuse explanation.

"Nice talking to ye, Zero. Gotta run." The stable boy spun round and dashed out the door, leaving it open.

Zero resumed his task, mumbling. "Your shoulder's got grease on it, lad."

Oboe stood at the tack room door, inspecting a bridle held up for him by Horst. The men dropped their discussion as soon as it became apparent the stable boy was fast approaching. They turned to face him.

"Why, you look positively distressed, young man," said Oboe. "Is there something wrong?" The steward's concern for his ally was genuine. The lad's frenetic display of urgency suggested an intervention might be required.

"I need to speak with ye, Mr. Oboe—privately." Ernie gave a quick glance to Horst, but said nothing more.

Horst's crop tapped against his boot top. Short, snappy twitches. The bridle dangled from his other arm, reins, twisted and coiled and snaking along the floorboards. Kunkle looked from the boy to the steward.

"If you'd be so kind, Herr Horst ... We can continue our chat another time. It was most enlightening."

"Yah," said Horst, though it sounded more like a grunt. Thrusting the bridle towards the lad, he said, "Here. You put za horsie-thing away, yah?" Liberated, he thwacked his crop smartly across his palm, spun on his heels, and marched off in the direction of the manor.

The stable boy tossed the bridle through the tack room door. "Mr. Oboe, the butler and a couple others—Buck, Alfonso, the gardener—they're scheming and plotting in the library. I heard them. They're plotting against ye. They don't feckin trust ye. They—"

"Steady now lad, calm yourself. Let us walk through this in an orderly manner, shall we?" Oboe had said this despite his right eye beginning to flick about with increasingly erratic spasms.

"Are ye all right?" asked Ernie, taking stock of Oboe's comportment, "Ye don't look well."

"Let's sit. I need to sit. There, on the bales. We'll examine the situation. Decide if it's truly a problem. Then act accordingly. Come." Oboe led the way, his steps, a little unsteady, a reflection of his inner turmoil.

Ernie dropped down on a bale of straw. Oboe collapsed on another.

Looking Ernie in the eye, Oboe began his line of inquiry, employing a slow and deliberate tone. "How did you come to overhear our 'dear friends' plotting against me?"

"Marlyse—she'd served them coffee—said they're up there having a meeting. Said it's all hush-hush and all. So I figure I'd best get me arse up there and see what's feckin going on. Aye, so I grabs a few sticks of wood and sneaks up to the door for a listen. I heard enough to know they're none too feckin thrilled with yer being on this estate."

"What, exactly, did you hear them say, Ernie?"

After Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo recounted what he'd heard, Oboe sat back and looked upwards—to the loft. The gravity of the situation and the angst he felt at that moment seemed etched into his features.

"There has to be a way out," he murmured.

"Sure, there's always a feckin way out. At least ye know they can't jest boot yer arse out the door."

"Hmm? Never mind. So, as it stands, we know Yuno-the-gardener overheard the chat between Horst and I in the chapel, so they know I want a team and a wagon; then you popped in, took stock of who was in attendance, and popped out again; you stayed long enough at the keyhole to hear 'dear Bob' admit to the sticky problem of my appointment; in conclusion, we know they've banded together to watch my every move, expecting some heinous event to unfold ... and then you ran like the dickens. Is that it?"

"Aye, that's it. I buggered off quick after that."

"You did well, lad. Now, here's what we're going to do, we are going to do a little plotting and scheming of our own."
Chapter Twelve

Decrypting Keys

Oboe shuffled between the two letters he held in his lap, analyzing similarities in script, syntax, and even the weight and composition of the paper. He found no discernible difference between tint and color—the inks used to trace the lines of text were identical. Clearly, the person behind the note Malgreete had received and the one stabbed through the center, was one and the same.

But who?

He sat back in his creaky armchair and put his boot up on the low table in front of him. A small fire crackled, providing a measure of warmth and casting a soft undulating glow in front of the hearth. Outside, the afternoon, cold and gray, continued its drab plodding advance to ever darkening shades. Time ticked by, every second marked by the tick ... tick ... tick of the clock on the mantel.

Oboe put his mind to who might have penned the threatening messages. By process of elimination, he knew he could rule out most everyone on the estate. The wording was too precise; it conveyed a distinct element of style, one that no one he'd met thus far was capable of executing.

And there was only one person he had yet to encounter.

When the steward left his room, he noted the door latch could only be secured from the inside. The lock on the outside, which was a separate mechanism, required a key. A key he did not possess. It was conceivable then, that he could be locked in, against his will, by whoever held the key. Oboe also reasoned many of the estate staff and servants either did not have keys to their chambers, or were negligent about locking up when vacating their rooms. He knew this because he had been in most everyone's private quarters.

Oboe found Malgreete in the drawing-room, polishing a rare and magnificent violin.

"Heavens, wherever did you unearth that?" asked the steward, advancing. "I've been in this room on numerous occasions. I've never noticed it. May I?"

The maid handed it to him.

Oboe examined the instrument with a critical eye, turning it over, studying every detail. It was beautiful. He plucked a string. Listened. As the sound faded, he brought the precious Stradivarius closer to his ear, enjoying that one perfect note until it diminished and finally became inaudible. He smiled, opened his eyes, and handed it back to the frowzy domestic.

"Ya, this we keep in the room for music. In there is many more things for making noise, but not so nice and old like this one." Malgreete placed it back in its case along with the bow. "I list it," she said, fishing a piece of paper from her apron. "Here."

Oboe took the note and put it in his pocket. "You are doing a fine job, Miss Van Bleake, I'm proud of you."

"Do you find who is the silly ninny what writes these letters?"

"I'm close. I have a suspect in mind. But before we get to that, allow me to ask you a question: Why is it some doors are locked in this manor? Who has the keys?"

"Why doors are locked?" Malgreete's grumpy face took on a look of incredulity. "What you think? For keeping you out."

"Where are the keys?"

"How I should know? Some have keys, some don't." Malgreete appeared to recall something just then. "There is one key," she said, "what can open all doors. The butler keeps this key. Keeps it in his room. Sometimes he gives it to the other maid for cleaning."

"A master key," murmured Oboe, distracted by the possibilities it presented. "Maid Malgreete, do you think you can get hold of this key?"

"Maybe. What you want with it?"

"To be sure I have the right man—the person I suspect of writing your letters—I'll need to get behind some locked doors."

"You want I get this key, ya? So, now you tell me who." Malgreete folded her arms across her chest.

Oboe hesitated. He didn't want to reveal the suspect, but saw no other choice—he needed that key. "It's Bin, the doctor. But I hasten to add, I cannot be certain unless I can get into his room, wherever that might be."

"The doctor! How can be? It's not possible." Malgreete shook her head, unwilling to believe it.

"There's only one way to be sure. You need to get hold of that skeleton key."

"Skeleton key! Why now you want the skeleton key? Horst keeps the skeleton key."

The steward and the maid stared at each other, baffled by the monumental rift that just now opened between them, separating their ability to understand one another.

Oboe tried to bridge the gap. "What do you mean 'Horst has the skeleton key'? Only moments ago, you said it was in the butler's chambers."

Malgreete looked at Oboe as if he might be feeble-minded. "Ya, so the butler has the key for open all the doors. The key for the skeleton room, Horst has. He keeps it on his neck. Understand?"

"Skeleton room ..." Oboe's mind rapidly sifted through myriad possibilities. "And where is this 'skeleton room' located, pray tell?"

"After the gardens, in the back. That place for putting the dead ones."

Oboe's good eye lit up with the realization that the woman was referring to the crematorium. He sat down on the armrest of the nearest chair. He needed some time to work through this new-found information.

It didn't take long.

"Malgreete, you will find a way to secure the key from Rohbair's chambers. We will meet here again this evening—at eight. You mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone. Is that clear?"

The maid nodded, a lock of her black curls coming loose and falling in her face.

The overseer and the steward stood on the cold, stone floor of the mausoleum, before a wrought-iron gate leading to the crypt. The weak light offered by the late afternoon was of little assistance to Horst, who's hands were chilled and fumbling with the lock.

"Zer is long time zis gate is not open," said Horst, working the key and jiggling the bars. "I not like zis place, I really not like. Why come when zer is no good reason. Too many bones ... too many, and long time dead already. Yah, zer!" The mechanism clanked and the gate swung open.

Oboe stepped inside. Horst hesitated.

"Come now, Horst, don't be cowardly. Think of it as an adventure. Did you never thrill to the creepy unknown as a young lad? Wandered a cemetery at night? Poked about near tombs and graves?" Oboe smiled at frightful recollections rising up from his past.

"No. I am just normal. We not play in zis places for za spooks."

"Let's take a look."

"It's too dark."

"We'll just go in a little ways. Horst, ... do you want I hold your hand?" Oboe winked at the overseer with his wandering eye. The visual anomaly unruffled Kunkle so much he hooked the lanyard on his nose while attempting to put the key back around his neck. Oboe smiled.

Horst did not. He yanked his crop out from under his armpit, thwacked it against his boot top, and marched forward.

Down some steps and just a few paces in, the air turned foul, reeking of dank, slimy stone and rat feces. A ghoulish gloom transformed racks of skulls and scattered bones and cobwebs into an eerie phantasmagorical museum of death; a place where no living soul should dare venture; a place belonging to wraith-like shadows, guardians of the dead.

"I not go more," stated Horst, "zis is good for me, yah?"

Oboe grasped the overseer's arm and turned him so that they faced one another. "Why do you carry this key around your neck?"

Horst, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the situation, did not answer.

Oboe tightened his grip. He repeated the question, his tone more menacing.

Horst said nothing.

Oboe shook him. "TELL ME!"

"Stop!" Horst wrestled his arm free. "Enough! Stop zis shouting ... zis shaking." Trembling, Horst lowered his voice, and in a barely-audible murmur, said, "I can't tell, I just can't."

Oboe glared at him. Intimidation would not reap the rewards anticipated. Horst would not be bullied. Another approach was required. Oboe relaxed his stance, softened his regard, and put a gentle hand on Horst's shoulder. "Horst ... dear man, please forgive me. I don't know what came over me. Please, will you?"

Horst was shaken, but otherwise unharmed. He assented. "Yah, zis I can do. Zis is okay."

Oboe gave him a friendly pat on the back. "You know, Horst, as acting steward, my role is to command and to maintain order while managing the affairs of this estate. Secrets—important ones—should not be withheld. But you know this, for already we share confidential matters. You can trust me, Horst, you really can. And I'll prove it."

"Yah?"

"As you are aware, I promised I'd do what I could to reconcile differences between you and Maid Malgreete. And I've made progress. Yes, thank god, even since our little chat in the chapel this morning. You see, I met with your fair maiden no less than an hour ago." The steward had Horst hanging on his every word. "I don't wish to enter into details, but I believe she may be receptive to meeting with you this evening."

Horst could hardly contain himself. "Zis is super fantastic! Herr Oboe, I can't thank you—"

"Hold on now, don't get too excited, I said 'may be receptive'. I still need to meet with her again this evening. But, if I'm successful, you will be glad to know your evening's pleasure shall be but a prelude to your future romance. Perhaps, even marital bliss, who knows? It all depends on ..." Oboe left off to heighten the overseer's state of arousal.

"Yah, yah, and so?" Horst tapped his crop against his boot with short, eager, little snaps.

"It depends on you, and how truthfully you answer the burning question."

The tapping stopped. "Za key, yah?"

"Yah, ... the key. Why do you guard it so closely? Tell me, and you have my word, the love you long for, the love you cherish, is yours."

Horst looked deeply pained by the choice he had to make. He deliberated. He weighed options. He seemed to be calculating the outcome of numerous scenarios before arriving at a conclusion. "I show you. Come."

The overseer turned back towards the gate. He moved with small, painstaking steps, peering at the grim racks of dusty skulls, studying them, their placement, orientation. It was as if he were searching for something. Then he stopped. He brought his head close and stared for a moment at one in particular. "Zis one," he said, lifting his riding crop and tapping it on the forehead.

"But how can you be sure?" The question was reflexive; he had no idea why he was asking, or what Horst was about to reveal. It's just that there were so many skulls, and they all looked alike in that shadowy pit.

Horst poked the tip of his crop through a hole in the cranium. "Zis one has za hole in za head," he said, as he proceeded to lift the yellowed skull by tilting it backwards. Behind the black void of unseeing-eyes, and beneath the leering grin, draped in a wisp of cobweb, was another key, lying in the dust.

Malgreete, the sullen scullery maid, a ragged apron draped over her moth-eaten wool sweater, shuffled along the corridor on the second floor of the west wing. The swish-swash sound of her slippers stopped as she came abreast the quarters reserved for the manor's head butler. Malgreete put her ear to the door, listening. Hearing nothing, she knocked. And then she knocked again, only louder. There was no response from within. Relieved, she glanced up and down the hallway before taking hold of the handle. She eased it downwards and gave the tall french-door a little bit of a push—just enough to determine if it was locked. It opened. After stealing another quick look along the corridor, the dark maid slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Before her lay the sumptuous chambers of Bob Bosworth. To be sure, it was run-down, like much of the estate, but the spaciousness, the sheer grandiose expanse, far surpassed the paltry quarters of other staff and servants. She'd never been in this apartment. The utter disarray that swept from the day-room through to the bedchamber boggled the mind. How would she ever find the key in this clutter?

Malgreete latched the door and waded in.

She would start with the most private chamber, the boudoir. For if not secreted away in the sleeping-room, where else would one keep prized or precious possessions? It must be in there, she reasoned.

Stepping over, shoving aside, and kicking her way through the litter of rumpled clothes, leftover dishes, scattered books and papers, shoes, and other personal effects, Malgreete finally arrived next to Rohbair's massive bed. The nightstand held promise. She rummaged through the drawers but found nothing. She tried the wardrobe and came up empty. She checked shelves, looking in ornate little boxes and chests, all to no avail. The maid paused in the middle of the room, hands on hips, surveying for previously unsuspected potential. She was getting nowhere. Frustration fed into the latent anger that forever simmered just below the surface of Malgreete Van Bleake's persona. But then, quite unexpectedly, a thought popped up in her mind. It was ludicrous, but ...

She bent and retrieved a coat—a butler's formal coat—from the floor.

She put it on.

Malgreete tried to imagine she was the butler; as if donning his cloak of characteristics might somehow suggest a hiding place. A thumping noise stripped her from her abstract thoughts. Someone was at the door.

"Who the bloody-hell is in there! Open this bleeding door at once!"

The shouting and insistent pounding left no doubt as to who it was. For Malgreete there was no escape. She hurried to the door, but couldn't bring herself to open it. Why was she in here with the door locked? She needed an excuse. More hammering. Shouting. Malgreete's hand shot forward. And before she became fully conscious of what she was doing, she snapped open the clasp and leaped back.

The doors flew open.

Rohbair stood on the threshold, seething. Then he got a good look at who was facing him. His angry expression fell away, replaced by a befuddled mix of conflicting emotions; it was hard to know if he was bothered or amazed.

Malgreete flushed when she saw him staring at his coat—the one she forgot she was wearing. "I ... ya, I cleaning ... I get cold." The maid knew it was weak, but what else was there to say?

"Cleaning!" Rohbair scanned his quarters. "Cleaning what?"

"Here, in your rooms ... I want to make nice. I just now start but then you, ... ya, banging the door."

"Miss Van Bleake, you will remove my garment at once. You will take your leave. And you will never, never, set foot in these chambers ever again. Is that crystal-bloody-clear?" Rohbair did not wait for her reply, he crossed the threshold.

Before he could take another step, the strapping maid was on him, grasping his lapel, yanking him to her bosom. Strong, forceful hands reached up, grabbing his head, pulling him down. Locked in a powerful grip, her body pressing hard against him, she pushed her face into his with a brutish force, smothering him, crushing his lips in a beastly embrace ... until his arms hung limp. Whereupon, she released him and began taking off his coat.

Horst pulled his crop out of the hole, letting the skull clap back down over the key. "Come, let's go," he said, "zis place gives me za heebee-jeebees."

"The key Horst, you must tell me what this key is for—and why is it here, in this god-awful place?"

"Yah, yah, first we go, yah?"

The overseer and the steward left the crypt and Horst locked the gate again. The sound of their steps rolled off the stone walls of the cavernous mausoleum, persisting, echoing high up in the vaulted ceilings. They were making their way from the crypt towards an arched portal when Oboe stopped Horst by putting a hand on his shoulder. He was reluctant to allow the overseer too much time to mull over what he might or might not want to say regarding the key.

"Speak," ordered Oboe, "tell me what you know."

Horst tapped his riding crop against his boot top, his unfocused gaze, directed beyond the exit to the gardens.

"Come now, Horst, have I not displayed the best of intentions for your welfare? For your happiness? I have only your best interests in mind ... as I do for all members of the estate. Milady saw fit to send me here to act as your steward. She's placed her trust in me, as should you. You do want to be reunited with your heart's desire, do you not? Horst?"

Horst blinked as if snapping out of a daydream. He looked Oboe in the eye and began: "Zis key is for za cook, za big one, Marie-Claire. I am za only ones what know where is zis key, yah? Zis key is for a box. And only za cook knows where is zis box. In za box is one more key. Zis last key is for za butler ... yah, za dummkopf butler."

"What is Rohbair's key for, what does it open?"

Horst shrugged. "Maybe za cook knows."

"That's it, that's all you know? There is nothing more you can add?"

"You know same what I know."

The steward studied the stocky fellow standing before him, searching his eyes, looking for a telltale glimmer, a hint of deception. There was none. At length, Oboe patted Horst on the shoulder. The two men left, and soon, were but two indistinct figures trudging up the garden path behind the manor.

Within the great hall of the mausoleum, an empty silence prevailed. Time came to a standstill. And in the afternoon's fading light, shadows, dark and ominous, converged, reclaiming the asylum of death, the theatrical performance embodied in humankind, forced out.

Only then did a thin shadow materialized from behind a cold, gray column, motionless, silent, waiting.

Rohbair breathed uneasily. In the awkward aftermath of the maid's amorous attack, he felt embarrassed, uncertain of how to respond. His state of arousal proved an impediment to rational thought. He simply stood there, mute, watching Malgreete take off his coat. He should have been haranguing her for intruding, lying, and for violating his person. The entire affair was an outrage.

"Ya," said Malgreete, undoing the last button, "so, ... now you have something to think, Mr. Butler."

"I do?"

"You see me, how I am changing—trying to change. I do my job. I clean. I make all nice the manor. And many times now, you see me working like this. So, I helping, ya? But for why? I tell you: I want you are proud of me." The maid folded the coat over her arm and brushed a hand over it as if smoothing wrinkles or removing lint. "This other one—the black one, Marlyse—she you like. But me, not so much."

"You don't like her?"

"What? No. Me. Me you not like so much."

"You? I—I um ..."

"I only want same what she has; for you like me ... not hate me."

A flood of thoughts, rooted in physical stimuli and mixed emotions, caused Rohbair's mind to reject just about every negative notion he'd ever had about Malgreete. Suddenly he wanted to like her because she needed his praise, his attention, maybe even his intimacy. A fleeting recollection of her standing at her chamber door crashed through his consciousness—hardly a stitch of clothing, fiery blue eyes, ravishing black curls ...

"Miss Van—Malgreete, please, you mustn't think I despise you, I don't." Rohbair's voice flowed soft and tender.

"But you don't trust me. So ya, I feel it's the same."

"Whatever do you mean, I don't trust you?"

"You give her the key, but not me."

"What key?"

"This special key to open all the doors, you give it to Marlyse, never to me."

On hearing the words 'special key' the butler's eyes shifted ever so briefly to the mantelpiece. Malgreete handed him his coat, a faint smile forming on her lips. "Anyway, it is not so important. But maybe I come and I make your room nice sometime, ya? Then maybe you can trust me. And one day, maybe you like me." She winked at Rohbair, kissed her fingertips, and touched them to his cheek as she brushed past him.

"I like you Malgreete, I do." Rohbair could hardly believe the words he'd just uttered. He wanted to say more. He wanted her to stay.

At the doors, she turned, curtsied, and then pulled them closed.
Chapter Thirteen

Preliminary Spadework

Oboe entered the drawing-room just as the mantel-clock sounded the last of eight gongs. A single candle burned on the bureau next to where Malgreete Van Bleake waited. She sat behind a scuffed wooden desk, her Rubenesque bulk illuminated by the glowing flame.

"Are you certain you were not followed or seen entering this room?" asked the steward, his voice hushed.

"Nobody sees me," said Malgreete, making no attempt whatsoever to temper the volume of her pronouncement.

"Please keep your voice down. Precautions must be taken." Oboe pulled up a seat in front of the desk. He leaned forward and whispered, "There are spies lurking within the manor."

Malgreete's eyebrows rose, but she kept her surprise in check. "Spies—ya, okay, the doctor. Sure. But you say now there is more?"

"Yes, I believe so. But let us not waste time with speculation, for it is suffice to understand, we must trust no one. Just assume you are being watched, and take heed. Now, did you get the key from the butler's room?"

"No, but I can. He comes when I am looking and I don't have time." A grimace formed on the maid's face as she recalled the disagreeable confrontation.

"What is it?" asked Oboe. "You look like you swallowed a rat."

Malgreete recomposed herself and said, "I can get this key. I know where I find it now."

"You will need do this at your earliest convenience if I am to make certain where Dare hides his head at night. At present, there are perhaps a dozen rooms in this manor that I have yet to explore. He's behind one them. And, what's more, the 'good doctor' either has a key to his chambers, which he locks when he departs, or, he is normally inside with the door latched."

"I get the key tomorrow. When the butler is out."

"The other key—the 'skeleton-room' key—the one Horst keeps around his neck. What has he told you about it?"

Malgreete's mean eyes narrowed.

"Oh come now, don't be like that," said Oboe. "What has he told you? Surely you must have spoken about it."

Malgreete shrugged. "Ya, okay, it's not so much to know. He tell me there are three. He have one, and there is one for head-chef, and one for head-butler. Nothing more ... and I don't care who have a stupid key."

"Malgreete, you must procure the skeleton key from Horst."

"What!" The volume of Malgreete's voice spiked. "But it's—"

Oboe touched a finger to his lips. "Shh! Calm yourself. Listen, I can't explain the urgent necessity of this request, but you must understand, this is absolutely imperative if our plan is to succeed."

A quizzical expression formed over the maid's face, prompting her to ask, "Our plan?"

"How long do you wish to wallow in this manor? On this impoverished estate. Do you not dream of wealth and prestige? A life beyond these hills of sorrow, hemming you in, holding you prisoner? Don't you wish to be away from these clowns, these charlatans, claiming to be your superior? Escape with me, Malgreete. Make your dreams come true."

The maid hunched forward, her elbows on the desk. "Escape? With you? And you make me rich? Ya, very funny! A silly joker, ya?"

"No joke, Malgreete. I am leaving this estate. If you wish to leave as well, then help with my plan. I'll share the spoils; you'll have enough to live out your days in modest comfort, free from the confines of this estate and the duties expected of your vocation."

Malgreete Van Bleake pondered the implications of Oboe's offer. She asked, "In your plan, what do I do?"

The steward's eye began to wobble and flick in its socket. "You will begin by secreting select valuables to the storeroom next to the kitchens, where you will hide them from view. I'll circle items on the lists you've provided. We will begin with the smaller objects of gold and silver. Larger pieces—fine furniture, paintings, and such—will be handled later, as opportunity presents. You must be discreet. Do not allow anyone to see you."

"So, you want we steal everything what is of value and run off in the night? That is your plan?"

"There remains much to discuss, my dear, but in essence, yes, that is the plan. For now, your part will be to secure the key from the butler, so I can get behind locked doors and find a way to nullify threats; you'll stash valuables where they can be loaded for a late-night departure; and you must get hold of that crypt key from Horst."

"Why? It leads to bones."

"There is more to this story than meets the eye. Of that I am sure. But for now, dear maid, you must relieve Horst of his key. And you must do this tonight."

"But how? It's on his neck."

"You will invite him to your chambers, make him comfortable—I'm sure you have your ways. And then you will remove it while he sleeps."

"My chambers! Horst—I, ya, this is too silly. I can't."

"Consider your future, if nothing else. Should you wish to be free of Horst and all else that imprisons you; if you wish to be more than a common servant—a slave, really—you will do as I ask." Oboe slipped into a more soothing tone of voice when he said, "Come now dear, it's not like I'm asking you to do something you haven't done before."

Malgreete pushed herself back in her chair, brooding.

Dear Sous-chef No. 3,

It is with the utmost gravity that I seek your assistance in a matter that weighs heavy on the future of this estate. The welfare of all is at stake. I implore you to carry out the following instructions to the letter:

1) Reveal the location of the strongbox hidden in the pantry when asked.

2) Never reveal who asked for the location, if asked.

3) If asked, reveal nothing of the contents of this letter.

That is all I ask of you at this time.

In trust,  
DBD

Chin folded the note and placed it in the fire. He watched the paper flare and burn. He watched until the last fragments of darkened gray ash lifted and disappeared into the flue. Chin Cheong checked the time. It was after midnight.

The sous-chef, still in his nightclothes, stepped from his chambers, quietly closing the doors behind. He shivered. The frigid air in the halls pushed him along at a faster pace than he was accustom. Chin padded his way along the corridor and down the stairs, shielding the faltering flame in his candle holder as best he could. As expected, he found the kitchens dark, cold, and very empty. Empty for the simply reason, once the stoves had cooled, the chill in the air would drive most anyone to their quarters, even a sozzled Marie-Claire.

Chin made straight for the pantry door and let himself in.

The interior walls, designed to hold shelf upon shelf of preserved food stocks, had been decimated, reduced to hardly more than an array of bare, dusty planks. What meager supplies remained of the estate's dwindling reserves were scattered here and there: a few baskets of dried herbs; a cluster of jars containing condiments; the odd sack of grain or seed slumped in a corner; and on the floor, tucked under the shelves, a couple of crocks of pickled vegetables; hanging from the ceiling, smoked meats, a ham, cheeses. And yet, even though the larder's comestibles were in short supply, the heady aroma of what remained, left little doubt as to where one was situated.

Chin's candlelight drifted among the stores, searching. He lifted a ragged old jute sack and a mouse scurried away, but there was nothing of interest beneath. He hoisted the flame as high as he could, scanning the shelves. Nothing. There was no hidden chest. Besides, he'd been in the pantry numerous times—daily even—he'd have known of it.

Chin sat on a seed sack. He placed the candlestick on a shelf and put his mind to work. A lock-box in hiding ... somewhere in this room. Where? Huge eyes, magnified through thick lenses, swept the room, looking for any detail that might provide a clue. But the shadows and darkened recesses kept their secrets; areas that fell under the candle's muted glow, equally silent. Chin was cold. He decided to try again in the morning when properly dressed. He stood and was about to return to his quarters when an unexpected notion took form in his imagination. His eyes had come to rest on a stack of empty wine barrels. There were three. Normally, they would be stored in the cellar along with other empty casks. Yet, here they were ... in the pantry. He'd always assumed they were left here out of sheer laziness. Now he was not so sure.

The sous-chef picked up his candlestick and went over to the barrels. They were pushed up against the back wall, lying on their sides, the two on the bottom supporting the third on top. Chin examined them up close, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But it wasn't until he tapped on them, listening for a variation in sound, that he discovered an anomaly: The two on ground had a deeper, more hollow sounding thunk. Whereas, tapping the one on top resulted in a thwack, leading one to assume it might be full, or if not, partially so. Chin verified it was drained of wine by opening the tap. Nothing ran out. There was something else in there.

Chin tried to move the cask and found that it was fixed in place. The metal bands around the head and the foot of the barrel ensured it could not somehow unhinge and open lengthwise. The cook scratched his chin, puzzling over how to open the barrel. He tugged at the metal ring facing him, and, to his delight, it budged. He tugged harder. It budged again. Chin hunted for something to use as a mallet and found a wooden pestle resting in a mortar. A few whacks around the rim and Chin pulled the lid off. And there it was, a sight to behold: solid oak and brass, beautifully ornamented with exotic inlays and etched filigree on the hasp and corner pieces. The chef's strongbox was a work of art—a locked work of art.

Marlyse Marliemon sat at the grand piano in the conservatory, her head tilted up, looking through the glass. If she was hoping for a sun-filled afternoon, the morning sky left little room for optimism. The clouds hung thick and heavy with the promise of more snow.

Marlyse shivered and hugged her arms about herself.

Within the conservatory's protective panes of glass, even the hardiest of shrubs lay dormant, refusing the slightest hint of growth. Late-bloomers were long gone—dead—like the other flowering plants that drooped brownish, yellowed leaves. Everywhere, twigs stood testament to nights dropping near freezing.

The petite maid tucked her hands into the warm pockets of her woolen coat. Her legs dangled over the bench and she began idly tapping her boots together. The fingers of her right hand toyed with a folded bit of paper in her pocket. Marlyse allowed her gaze to drift in a slow and steady examination of the conservatory's interior. Her focus varied, but she never lost sight of her purpose.

The maiden got to her feet, determined to define a logical link between the butler and the strongbox hidden in the conservatory.

She strolled meandering pathways leading round the expired foliage. She thought about Bob and how wished to be percieved, which was so very different from how he appeared to most everyone: He thought himself more clever than he really was; he tried to be exacting, but wasn't; he wanted to be admired, but, again, he was not. The long and short of it was, Rohbair wished to be king—king of the castle. That said, he was also intelligent enough to know and understand, that the lord of the manor would always be king, even while absent. Besides which, Rohbair was no lord. But what if he were? How would a title affect his decision on where to hide a lock-box?

A lord wouldn't dare dig or muck about in dirt; it would be beneath him. Neither, then, would Bob stoop to digging up earth. Up, look up. The answer does not lie buried underground, it's over your head.

Marlyse turned her eyes upwards.

Panes of leaded glass. The underside of tree branches. Trestles. Impossible places for concealing a box. Unless, the matter at hand was not so much the concealment, but rather, an indication of where it might be found—like a pointer, a signpost.

Maid Marliemon focused her attention overhead with renewed interest, looking for a clue. She made several passes around the pathways of the conservatory, but came up with nothing. Exasperated, Marlyse sat back down on the piano bench. She pulled the note from her pocket, thinking maybe there was something she'd missed.

Dear merry maiden,

'Tis with the utmost urgency I call for your aid. Uniquely, it is your curiosity and creativity that are requisite to the task at hand.

To wit: The Butler Did It  
He did. For hid in the conservatory is a box, a precious box.

Your task (if you'll do what I ask), is to search high and low.  
Be patient, be still, observe. And when all seems lost, look again.  
Look through the black and white of truth and lies, to the essential gray.

Do this today. There's not much time.

Seek to discover, unearth and uncover ...  
For the rarest of treasures lies hidden within.  
To perceive a sense that reveals what is real,  
You must hear with your heart, but act with your mind.  
For once you find the box that is locked, secreted away,  
He—the man who acts wise, yet lies—the minstrel in disguise,  
Seek you out, he will, and puzzle and trouble you with doubt.  
So let the secret slip from your tongue, but no more.  
Hold fast to all that is meant in aid of a maid.

Solely for you,  
DBD

Marlyse folded the note and put it back in her pocket. She was still mystified. If there was a clue hidden between the lines, she couldn't see it.

The maid leaned an elbow on the keyboard and dragged her digit across a few keys. The notes sounded muffled due to a protective cloth draped over the piano's lid. By spring it would need tuning. Marlyse stared over the top of the grand piano, beyond panes of glass, into the distance. Low clouds obscured the definition between land and sky; the horizon was hidden, diffused in shades of gray, and snow had begun to fall.

A flurry of motion attracted her attention to the center of the courtyard. A squirrel scampered across slick, dark stone. It hopped up on the balustrade, intent on gaining the rim of a marble birdbath overlooking the commons behind the manor. The squirrel was white—all white, an albino—and it perched there on the rim, sitting back on its haunches, working furiously on the husk of a nut with its teeth and fore-paws. Marlyse marveled at the sight.

Not so the raven.

Perched on a cross adorning the chapel roof, and taking extreme objection to the intruder, it began an annoying and clamorous racket. The squirrel did not appear the least bit perturbed. This must have seemed an obvious and unforgivable snub, because the raven took wing and swooped in over the birdbath, frightening off the squirrel. Then, apparently having decided the day was ruined, it swept to higher elevations and, like the white squirrel, disappeared into the cold, gray morning.

An inanimate gloom settled over the courtyard.

In the conservatory, Marlyse played a few more distracted notes, thinking maybe she should come back later. But when a small, gray, downy feather floated into view and landed on the piano directly in front of her, it gave her pause. She sensed something strange was about to unfold.

A nerve-quivering rush ran through her body as a connection between the raven, the squirrel, and the feather formed. Words from the note mapped themselves onto the imagery in her mind. The resulting mental picture told her to "Look through the black and white of truth and lies, to the essential gray". Marlyse continued to stare at the feather. A bird chirped from somewhere overhead. She looked in the direction of the sound, high among the branches, but saw nothing. And then, a small, scruffy bird flitted from the bough of a pine to the bare limb of an olive tree. There, the tit ruffled its feathers and clicked its beak back and forth on a twig. Small eyes, black and beady, winked at the maid. Marlyse Marliemon watched the bird's antics, enthralled, anticipating something extraordinary was about to occur.

Nearby, a comfortable grouping of cane furniture was set under the trees and surrounded by potted plants and shrubbery. The tiny bird fluttered from the olive tree to one of the shrubs. It skipped through the branches and dropped down on the low wicker table. It stood there, as if waiting for something, cocking its head, showing one eye and then the other to the maid. It cheeped, pecked at the surface a couple times, and then chirped again. Marlyse watched the tiny bird repeating this action again and again. She came over and sat in one of the cane chairs. The bush-tit was not fearful; it kept up the peculiar pattern of cheeping and pecking. Marlyse wondered what the bird was trying to communicate. Something about the table, perhaps. She studied the wickerwork looking for anything out of the ordinary. Dark caning was used in the weave; it was rectangular but with rounded corners; skirting was angled inwards as it came down, close to the tiled floor. There was nothing to suggest that it was anything other than what it appeared.

Marlyse sat back and said, "Listen here little birdy-mon, you best let me in on what's going on, cause I ain't ..."

Marlyse's voice trailed off when the bird hopped to the edge and scrambled into a small hole on the side. Intrigued, the maid got to her knees and peeked into the opening. It was too dark to see anything. But she could hear the bird pecking at something—something metallic. When Maid Marliemon hefted the edge of the wicker table, the scruffy little ball of feathers panicked. It darted out from underneath and sought refuge in the treetops.

Marlyse slid the furniture back a ways. What she saw made her gasp. Then, as details of the awful discovery became more distinct, she began to tremble.

A large wooden chest lay under the wicker table. It was dark and old and encrusted with dreadful, wicked-looking images—images carved in wood, etched in the metal strapping—images possessed of an allure that proved at once powerful and evil. For they held the maiden transfixed, her eyes locked on one gruesome scene after another: Scenes of demons menacing terrified human beings, some cowering naked, some fleeing for their lives; others, depicted flesh-eating creatures devouring limbs torn asunder by hideously rendered harpies. The rusting metal corner-pieces of the chest were forged to resemble gargoyles. The hasp was fashioned into a skull, its leering grin designed as a keyhole. Unsettled by the find and still trembling, Marlyse nevertheless managed to pull herself together enough to lower the wicker-ware over the horrible coffer.
Chapter Fourteen

Skulduggery

By mid morning, preparations were well underway.

In the great kitchen, cooks hollered to one another over the din of clanging pots and sizzling pans. Knives chopped on blocks and whacked on counters, setting up a syncopated beat for steaming sauces, bubbling and simmering in the background. Orders were shouted. Demands were made. Some yelled for favors. Others traded gossip and mockery and playful jibes in loud cheerful voices.

Sweet Maid Marlyse divided her time between the kitchens and dining hall, busying herself with the cleaning and sorting of platters, terrines, silverware, and goblets and such. She whistled and hummed, and chatted with the cooks and the chef, in passing.

The stable hand, Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, could be seen lumbering throughout the manor, weighted down by the heavy loads he carried on his back. He was tasked to ensure there were plenty of logs to keep fires blazing well into the wee hours. He didn't mind the strain. Smiles came easy—as easy as poking fun at anyone he met along the way.

Even dour Maid Malgreete appeared somewhat less so. She shuffled about dusting and polishing and keeping to herself as usual, but today, she wore a sneering grin, as though she found nefarious thoughts to be amusing.

Malgreete stood next to a credenza at the top of a stairwell, polishing a magnificent silver vase. She heard someone moving along the corridor and looked up. It was the steward, coming towards her from the direction of the east wing.

Nearing, Oboe glanced over his shoulder before speaking. "Sleep well?" he asked. And though his voice was subdued, it smacked of sarcasm.

Malgreete ignored his question. "How soon we can leave? I want to be gone."

"Soon my dear, soon. You have the skeleton-room key?"

"Ya, I have." She took it from her apron pocket and handed it to him.

"Good. What has Horst said?"

"Nothing, I tell him I find it after. Then I kick him out."

"And you are managing to gather the necessary items?"

"Not all, but many."

"Be sure they stay well hidden, exactly where we agreed." Oboe looked beyond the maid's shoulder then back over his own. When he turned back, he said, "Listen, I know I've stated this before, but it bears repeating. You must be careful you are not seen or followed." Malgreete nodded. "Now, what of the butler's key? The master key, did you get it?"

"No, the silly ninny stays in his room. I must wait."

Oboe's eye twitched. "We need this key, Malgreete. Find a way—today."

"Ya, 'find a way'. Next you want I spank the butler too."

"If you have to," said Oboe. "Otherwise, nobody is going anywhere."

As the weight of his words settled, Malgreete regarded the stodgy, overbearing man standing before her, his wandering eye darting about in its socket. Her usual sullen expression dropped back into place. She wrapped her dust-cloth around the beautiful vase. Then, after verifying they were still alone, she placed it in a basket at her feet, along with other valuables concealed among rags.

Oboe's mouth twisted into a smile as he dismissed himself and left.

Malgreete checked the next item on her list—a gilded set of epaulets. They were at the back of the cloakroom in a long-forgotten chest of drawers reserved for ceremonial paraphernalia. She decided expedience should dictate her next move, and, since she was still within proximity, she would make another attempt at the butler's key. But this time with a different tactic.

As before, she approached with caution and put her ear to the door. There were no sounds of life as far as she could hear. With the consummate stealth of a seasoned burglar, she tested the door. It was locked—same as before. Bob was still within, probably asleep.

Malgreete took a step back and then began pounding on the door. And she continued doing so until the doors flew back.

"WHAT the blazes ..." Rohbair looked stunned. There, on the threshold, stood the wanton woman who'd forced herself on him only just yesterday. He pulled his housecoat around him in a manner that suggested he'd prefer a more modest form of concealment. He smoothed his hair with one hand while his other held closed his robe.

"They want you in the kitchen." The maid had delivered her announcement with a voice that was flat, unemotional.

"Well ... I presume it must be rather urgent, Miss Van Bleake, otherwise why the incessant thumping?"

"Maybe you sleep."

Rohbair hesitated. "Would you ... perhaps, care to come in?"

Malgreete sensed where this might be going and wanted no part of it. Still, she knew she had to employ a certain amount of diplomacy for her ruse to succeed. "The cook—that fat one, ya?—she wants you can come now. Right now." Malgreete's tone softened. She winked at the butler and added, "I come back another time, ya?"

Rohbair grinned.

The maid bent, retrieved her basket from the floor, and moved down the hallway, her steps, slow, nonchalant, almost cheery.

"Soon ..." called Rohbair after her, his hand extended in a halfhearted wave. She didn't respond, nor did she look back. The butler closed the door, still grinning.

As soon as Malgreete Van Bleake heard the latch click, she ducked into an unoccupied room adjacent to Rohbair's. After some minutes, the sound of the butler's boots receding down the hall told her what she needed to know. Leaving her basket, she stole along the length of the corridor separating the two chambers. Reassured she was not being observed, she slipped into Bob's apartments.

Malgreete went straight to the mantel.

Rohbair marched into the kitchens.

"Right! Madame Contraire, what is—my god! Are we expecting royalty? This is obscene! What are we to bloody eat this winter? Does no one care? Just look at this! Parties, sure—extravagance—all well and fine, but at what cost? Bloody hell!"

Marie-Claire slapped her ladle on the counter. Hands on hips, she squared off against the butler and said, "Bobby! Be quick, what ees it you want? We are too busy and we have no time for your blah-blah. We have much to do. Speak!"

"I should ask the same of you. For it was you who requested my presence. So ... so there. Now what do you want?"

"From you? Nothing. And I do not ask for you come here. So, now you can go. Go away. We will not be unhappy."

The befuddled butler managed a feeble tug at his waistcoat. But Malgreete, ... didn't she ... why would—she wouldn't ... Bob decided the knot of incongruous thoughts perplexing his intellect could not be sorted. Not at this time. Not with this mob. There was only one thing left to do: bark an order. "Right! Carry on then." Bosworth spun on his heels and strode off in the direction of the exit.

Moments later, the steward strolled through the doors, whistling.

Oboe greeted the cooks with waves, winks, and nods. His approving smile reflected his satisfaction with preparations underway for the grand soiree. "Chef Marie-Claire," he said, "you will have outdone yourself. This is splendid. Stupendous! Well done."

Marie-Claire wiped her face with a cloth. "There ees still much to do. But, we are coming there. CHIN!" Marie-Claire looked round for her sous-chef. She hollered for him again, and when he popped his head out from behind shelving, she said, "Be my sweet little one and go to make some wine vessel ready. Three, I think three can be enough. Lisa! Chèrie, please, not so much. We must be gentle with the taste." Marie-Claire returned her attention to the steward.

"I crossed Rohbair in the foyer," said Oboe. "He appeared vexed but didn't care to elaborate. He did, however, mention he'd just come from here. Do you know what bothers our dear butler so?"

"He ees not so happy. One, for we make the grande soiree. And two, becose he makes the mistake—he think I have somesing to say. But no, I have nothing to talk with this man."

"I see." Lowering his voice so that only the head-chef could hear, he asked, "Lisa has agreed to join in our little game, I trust?"

"Yes, everysing ees ready." Marie-Claire smiled. "I think tomorrow can be very amusing."

"Oh yes, dear chef, of that, you can be absolutely certain." Oboe grinned and winked at the head-chef. Then, after a few encouraging words to the cooks, he excused himself and left.

Once clear of the kitchens, Oboe verified he was unobserved before stepping into the shadow of an archway and following a narrow stairwell winding down to the cellar.

Built beneath the terrace, the undercroft provided a perfect environment for the production and storage of wine, brews, and spirits. The temperature remained relatively stable, the air, dry, and the space, capacious enough for the estate's modest winery.

Oboe surmised if anyone knew something of Chef's hidden lock-box, it would be one of her staff, or possibly Marlyse. Oboe had struck Alfonso as a point of reference since learning the Spaniard suspected him of maleficence. Besides, even if the sous-chef did know something, he was far too intelligent to let on. Lisa was a wild card. Her emotional unpredictability suggested she might easily get caught up in a discussion and let something slip. Which was precisely why Marie-Claire was unlikely to trust her with its location. That left Chin and Marlyse.

Chin was decanting wine from a hogshead into smaller casks in preparation for loading into a dumbwaiter. He was unaware of the steward's presence until he spoke.

"You're task looks to be ripe for sampling. Don't tell me you're not tempted."

Flustered over the sudden appearance of someone else in the wine cellar, Chin fumbled and almost dropped the racking cane used to siphon off the wine. "Mister stewart! You give Chin big scare. I think I alone."

"Yes, sorry for the unexpected interruption," said Oboe, leaning against a column.

Chin turned his attention back to the decanting process.

"I do hope the vintage is worthy of our festivities?" continued Oboe. "You've sampled this particular variety, I trust?"

Chin did not look up from the work at hand. "Oh no, ... no, no, Mr. Oboe. Chin cannot. Must be Chef. Only she say this can be okay. She decide."

"Well, dear Chin, as I'm a connoisseur and this wine is earmarked for a party—a party proposed by yours truly—I believe 'tis my rightful duty to make certain we are served only the best." Oboe took a goblet from a stout table nearby. He helped himself to a sampling and then went through the theatrics of twirling it, smelling it, drinking it, and swishing it round in his mouth. He swallowed and a look of ecstatic joy spread over his features. His wobbly eye wiggled with glee. "Oh, this is some fine wine, my dear man, very fine, indeed. Here you must try this," he said, filling the cup.

"Cannot, Mr. Oboe, really, cannot."

"But I insist, really, you must. Please."

The sous-chef suspended the decanting operation and took the goblet. He sipped the tiniest of sips, nodded, and handed the cup back to Oboe.

The steward gently pushed his hand back, saying, "Come now, Mr. Cheong, how can you determine anything whatsoever from such a small drop. Drink up. And fear not, no one will be the wiser. I'll not tell a soul."

Chin was trapped. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank. He drank it all, not once taking his eye off the steward.

"And?" asked Oboe, a smile spreading across his unfortunate visage.

"Good, really so good."

"Come, let us sit, Chin, I have something to discuss with you."

Oboe took a seat on one of the simple wood chairs next to the table, indicating the other for the sous-chef. Chin bowed ever so slightly before moving to sit down.

"I can see," continued the steward, "you're very fond of Marie-Claire. And did you know? She is very proud of you. Yes, very proud." Chin's magnified eyes blinked behind his spectacles but he said nothing. "You serve her well. And for that, she has great confidence in you. Now I would like to place my confidence in you as well. But before I do, I must be certain I can trust you. Therein lies the conundrum, dear Chin: How can I determine whether to trust you?"

"Ancient Chinese say, for trust somebody, exchange true secret."

"A guarantee of loyalty, is that it?"

Chin nodded.

"All right, Chin, allow me to take the lead. Here is my secret: I am searching for something, something hidden in this manor. It is very important to me because Milady has requested I locate this certain 'something'. I wonder, do you know anything about this hidden 'something'?"

"Every house have secrets, Mr. Oboe. Same like every house have something hiding. And, most important, every house have secret treasure hiding inside."

Oboe studied the little Asian fellow sitting opposite. He searched for a clue that would indicate if Chin were toying with him. But he saw nothing more than the smooth oval face and large oriental eyes void of malevolence. "Has Marie-Claire told you of a secret treasure hiding in this manor?"

"No." Chin blinked a few times, then added, "But ancient Chinese—very wise—say every house same like every people—have secret treasure hiding inside."

"I see," said Oboe, feeling like he was being run in circles by Chin's ancient wisdom, alluding to hidden treasure. "And do these wise old people say anything about where that treasure might be hiding?"

"Always in secret rock-box, ... natural, very hard to find." Chin giggled.

Oboe, exasperated, stood and collected another wine cup. He filled both before sitting back down. He slapped Chin's on the table before him with a firmness that jarred the humble sous-chef. The action obviated the need to order the subordinate to drink—it was implied.

"Okay dear Chin, tell me this: Who knows where to find this locked box ... hidden in the house?"

"Ohhh, Mr. Oboe, only special people can find. Some can see, but cannot know what they looking. Same like cannot find nose to spike the face ... understand?"

Questioning what he'd just heard, the steward murmured spike the face? Chin was proving to be a pain, but what else was there to do? He was already invested too heavily in this silly discussion. Oboe pressed on. "Do you know any of these 'special' people?"

Chin drank from his cup, smiled, and then drank more. "Yes," he said, slapping his empty goblet on the table. "I know one special people—me." Chin grinned.

"There is no denying, you are indeed special, although maddening may be more apt. Where is the strongbox?"

"In pantry, in barrel."

Gobsmacked, Oboe repeated what he'd just heard.

And Chin nodded, saying it again: "In pantry, in barrel."

"Mr. Cheong, are you telling me there is a strongbox in the pantry ... inside a barrel?"

Chin nodded.

Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones hissed. He'd seen the stable boy lugging logs through the foyer and felt compelled to call out, but without calling undue attention to himself.

He uttered the sound again. "Pssst!"

Ernie glanced round. The Spaniard's head poked out from a doorway. He was nodding and beckoning with his hand. Ernie put down his load and went over. "What's with yer sneaky 'pssst'? Are ye not able to jest call me feckin name, man?"

"Ernesto, please, keep your voice low. I do not wish that we are overheard."

"And why's that, then?"

"I theenk there are spies in this house. Not everybody can be trusted." Alfonso looked over Ernie's shoulder scanning the grand hall.

"Sounds like a bunch o' malarkey," said Ernie, beginning to blush. "Where did ye get them feckin ideas from anyway? Spies! Jaysus, spying on what? And for who? Ludicrous! Aye, that's what that is, feckin ludicrous."

"Yes, I know it sounds a leedle crazy, but things have not been the same in this manor since the new steward has come to stay. Some of us have worries. I theenk it is safe to say, we must be cautious. Keep our eyes open. Open for things that are not what they appear to be. Do you understand what I am telling to you, Ernesto?"

"For the life o' me, I ain't got the feckin foggiest," said Ernie, having regained his composure somewhat.

"I am told you are a good young man. Señor Buck vouches for you. Speaking personally, it is my hope—and I mean this with all of my heart—that you will find the courage to defend the honor of our household when the time comes. Because I theenk the time is coming when we must choose sides. Either you will join for what is right, true, and honorable ... or, you will chose wrong."

Ernie must have taken the noble words to heart: His face, set, his brow, furrowed, he looked to be pondering deep and troubling matters. He declined to look Alfonso in the eye and refrained from his normal contemptuous remarks.

As if caught by an irrelevant passing thought, Alfonso dropped an innocuous question into the mix. He asked if Ernie had seen Maid Malgreete that morning. To which, Ernie, seemingly unaware he was even speaking, said he'd seen her go in the cloakroom a couple of minutes earlier.

Alfonso thanked him, adding, "Remember Ernesto, when the time comes, you must choose wisely."

"Sure Señor, I'll be sure to keep that in mind then." Ernie turned to leave.

Alfonso suspected the lad was still consumed by forces waging an ideological battle between his heart and his desires. What else would account for the lack of vulgarity and impertinence? Where was the parting shot?

Alfonso positioned himself where he could observe the cloakroom door without being seen. When Malgreete exited, he followed. She went through the central hall and turned down the east wing. Staying out of sight, Alfonso pursued. He stopped and listened at the corner of the corridor. He could hear the sound of her feet shuffling along. Then they slowed, and he heard a door open. Chancing a quick peek, he caught a glimpse of her entering the drawing-room. He waited. The door opened and closed again. Maid Malgreete moved further along the east wing until she stood opposite the entrance leading to the lumber room.

Strange, thought Alfonso, why would she go in there with a basket of dusting rags. There would be nothing to clean or tidy.

The lumber room was a place filled with cobwebs, dust, and dirt. It housed all manner of rusted and worthless items ranging from buckets and tubs and tools to disused stoves and broken wheel barrows; rope and twine and weathered flower-boxes were among the junk scattered throughout; there were even stacks of old and broken furnishings, some with threadbare tarps haphazardly tossed over them. Generally, the only reason for visiting that vast cavern of scrapped and discarded junk, was to fetch fuel, since bins of coal and piles of wood were stored in there as well.

It crossed the sous-chef's mind, if he hurried, he might just be able to see what the maid was up to by sneaking in through the adjoining portal in the kitchen. There happen to be a conveniently-placed cord of wood blocking the view, which would allow him to slip in unnoticed. Besides, even if he were seen, there would be nothing suspect about a cook gathering more fuel for the stoves.

Alfonso dashed down the hall, but slowed to an inconspicuous gait when he walked through the entrance to the kitchen. Lisa and Chin were milling about, tidying counters and setting aside various dishes and sauces and such. Marie-Claire drank wine. She surveyed and picked at servings of food spread over the great oak table, sampling what was to be served for dinner and what was to be held over for the coming feast. Even though busy scouring pots and pans in the scullery, Maid Marlyse kept everyone amused and attentive with nonstop chatter on the merits of piquant seasoning used in creole cuisine. Alfonso was largely ignored.

That is, until he reached for the door handle.

"Alfonso, why do you go in there?" It was Marie-Claire.

"I will bring more coal."

"But we finish now—the cooking for today. There ees no need."

Alfonso hesitated. "Yes Chef, but tomorrow we will be very busy again. To avoid the delays, I theenk maybe I can be useful today. In this way, maybe we can be grateful tomorrow."

"But Chin ees normal—"

"I know, Chef. But Chin is working very hard today. He is busy still. I really do not mind. Really." Alfonso gave the Asian sous-chef a smile to show he was sincere.

In return, Chin bowed, and said, "Many hand make right work." When his lopsided aphorism fell flat, garnering nothing more than polite smiles, he shrugged and carried on with his chore.

Not at all shy to voice her admiration for the selfless intentions of her superior, Lisa said, "You know, Alfonso, you such a lovely man. All a time you helping. Even you do something you no have to. But you do, because you a kind and a lovely man."

"Thank you, Lisa, gracias." The number one sous-chef couldn't help glancing at the hourglass resting on a shelf. It served as an acute reminder of how time was slipping away.

"So true, chèrie," said Marie-Claire, agreeing with Lisa's sentiments, "what you say ees very sweet and very nice. Alfonso, do what you like. But before you go, please, bring me this pitcher of wine—there, beside you."

The sous-chef did as he was bid, grateful he could then take his leave.

Entering the storeroom, Alfonso quietly closed the door. He stood motionless, hidden behind cords of wood, listening. There were no sounds, only shadows, indistinct contours, vague and suggestive shapes. He waited for his eyes to adjust. Seconds later, after gaining the perfect vantage point, he realized he was too late; the door at the far end of the storeroom closed. Malgreete Van Bleake had departed.

Late afternoon under dark forbidding skies—a perfect time to leave the manor.

Bundled and bent against the cold wind, and with the snow falling harder now, Oboe trudged through the desolate remains of summer's glorious garden. Where once there were flowers blooming in a full spectrum of radiant colors, now only branches and twigs, stark and crooked, poked up from the barren snow-covered ground. He'd planned to slip away from the back of the manor unnoticed, cloaked by inclement weather and fading light, knowing once he reached the downward slope to mausoleum, he would be swallowed up by the gloom, indistinguishable from the featureless landscape.

Inside the vaulted entrance, sheltered from the wind, Oboe lit a lantern and made his way across the great hall to the burial chamber. If there was any amount of comfort in the warm yellow glow that swung by his side, it was dwarfed by long, sinister shadows cast fleetingly by its very motion.

Oboe unlocked the iron gate that barred entry to the crypt. He grasped the cold steel and pushed it open on creaking hinges. Looking down the steps leading into the darkness and what he knew lay beyond, gave him reason to pause. He hesitated, attempting to bolster his mask of rationality. Ultimately, the minstrel's desire for riches proved stronger than the fear eating away at his resolve. Oboe took a deep breath. He told himself to keep his eye on the objective and nothing else. Then he took a step, another, down, deeper into the pit. A pit lined with bones and reeking of death.

Oboe held the light to the skulls, passing slowly along the shelves where Horst had shown him the key. When he found the one with the hole drilled in the cranium, he stopped. Reluctant to simply reach out and lift the skull, he swung the lantern round looking for a stick, or something like it—something he could use to push the skull aside or lift it up. Nothing. Only bones, cobwebs, and dust. So with the end of his scarf wrapped around his bare hand, he nudged at the leering skull. No, a timid gesture wouldn't do; it would require a good, stiff bump to topple. Being nervous, he overestimated the requisite force—he gave it a clout. As such, it slammed against the stone wall and rolled forward again, tumbling off the face of the ledge. Oboe jumped back. The skull hit the floor with a crack! It broke. Fragments of bone and teeth lay at his feet.

He was horrified. A trepanated skull indicated the deceased was believed to have harbored evil spirits. And in Oboe's mind, the only thing worse than being haunted by a vengeful ghost, was being haunted by one that was also stark-raving mad.

The squat little man with the wonky eye knew this desecration of human remains would not bode well. But it paled in comparison to his next outrage: Whether from fear of incrimination, or loathing, or perhaps, due in part to both, Oboe brushed the broken skull under the lowest shelf. That he gave much thought to the scurrilous method employed was doubtful, because he did so using his boot. Nonetheless, his prize lay before him, uncovered, exactly as before, resting in the dust. He snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket, wasting no time scurrying from the crypt and locking the iron gate behind him.

Oboe felt relief. Under the relative safety and openness of the main hall, he could breathe easier. The confines of the crypt, with its low ceiling and dank stone walls pressing in on him, had caused a crippling tension in his body that stifled his breathing. Of course, the all-encompassing presence of death at every turn did little to diminish the stress endured. But, the deed was done. It was over. He had the key. He could feel it. It was in his hand, deep inside his pocket, warm and safe.

CAAAW ... CAAWW ...

Oboe nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound—loud and startling—came from somewhere up in the vaulted ceilings. He scanned overhead until he caught sight of a crow. It was perched high on a ledge, craning its neck, spying on him with those black, beady eyes. Oboe shouted an oath at the obnoxious bird. The crow, appearing to take umbrage, lifted off, swooped low, and flapped out of the mausoleum into the dark sky, leaving behind a single black feather, floating gently down to the floor.

Oboe extinguished the lantern and set off in the direction of the manor, following traces of his footsteps left earlier in the snow. As he neared the rear of the manse, he could make out the soft, wavering glow of those rooms lit by candlelight, firelight, or lanterns. Most windows were pitch-black. Some allowed a thin vertical shaft of light to escape between heavy drapery. The steward stuck to the shadows as he made his way over the cobbled path along the east wing. As the snow was still falling, navigating the uneven stones required prudence. Short before climbing the steps to the courtyard, Oboe ducked into an arched doorway. It led to the laundry. He knew, once inside, there was little chance of being observed; he could doff his coat and leave it behind, unencumbered by meddlesome questions. From there, it should be easy enough to return to his quarters without arousing suspicion.

Still hidden within the shadows, the steward was just about to turn and unlatch the door when something caught his eye. Movement, high up and at the furthest extremity of the west wing. A curtain, partially drawn, the light defining a human form. Someone was watching.

Off in the distance, somewhere below the rise, a long and lonely howl rose into night.

A few hours later, the steward sat in his chambers, comfortably ensconced in an armchair before a crackling fire, his feet up, and his belly fully sated from a copious and delectable late-evening meal. He puffed on a pipe. In his hand, he held the skeleton key—the one borrowed from the butler. Firelight glimmered on the metal as he twirled it in his fingers. The steward's mind, far removed from any form of fascination with dancing lights, delved into the mysteries of the manor.

Keys. Three secret keys. A very specific chain of events required to access the last of them. With the chef's now in hand, and the whereabouts of her lock-box known, obtaining the last—Bob's—is assured. But what does it open? A room? A hidden chest? What is locked behind that last key? Therein lies the mystery, and indeed, a puzzling weave of intrigue. Could it be that Chin's allusions to treasure truly does point to hidden wealth? And if so, then surely it would be concealed, locked away in a coffer. Now, assuming it exists, if it were at all possible to make off with said riches, well, the bulk of the other valuables—artwork, furnishings, and such—would no longer be a matter of concern; there would be no need to coerce Zero and Ernie to load the wagon. Therefore, discovering what hides behind the butler's key is paramount. Everything hinges on it.

Oboe imagined he'd been lucky thus far—the Chinese sous-chef was a push-over, a lightweight. Rohbair would not rollover so easily, certainly now that he was having his little "hissy-fit" over the extravagance of tomorrow's festivities. But, as with Alfonso, the real disqualifying point is linked directly to his involvement in gathering forces bent on thwarting unforeseen "events". Who else, then, would know something of significance? Who does the butler trust? Who's close to him? Nobody. His arrogance isn't tolerated by anyone. Ahhh, but wait! What of sweet Maid Marlyse? She who brings crumpets and coffee each morning. She who has never uttered an unkind word in his regard. She who defends, consoles, and provides encouragement to his flagging self-esteem. Yes, therein lies a possibility. She shall be the first candidate to interview.

Next, Oboe's musings swung to darker corners of his mind, where his concerns conveyed a more ominous sense of import. The silhouette, motionless, vigilant, looking down on the courtyard, bothered him. He couldn't be sure he'd gained sufficient cover in the shadows before entering the manor. Maybe he'd been seen. There was someone at that window. A window on the top floor, at the far end of the west wing ... a room he'd never been inside ... a locked room.

In his mind, Oboe ran through all the apartments he'd visited. He put a face to those he knew for certain were occupied. The only ones he couldn't place: the doctor and the old gardener, Yuno.

Oboe checked the clock on the mantel. It was time.

He pulled on his heavy woolen socks and housecoat, lit a candle, and poked his head out into the corridor. As expected, there was an absence of light under his neighbor's door. Alfonso would be fast asleep. And, at this hour, so would everybody else—normally.

Oboe crept through the manor with the stealth of a cat. He moved slow and deliberate, pausing from time to time to listen. The click of a latch, the shuffle of feet, a snore, every sound filtered for its potential threat. He was mindful of blocking the candle's luminance when passing doorways to quarters he knew were occupied. He stepped close to the wall to avoid creaking noises while climbing the stairwell in the west wing. Coming abreast of Malgreete's chambers, he stopped, blew out the flame, and listened. A rat scurried by, but otherwise, all was quiet and calm. The feeble light from windows along the exterior wall allowed the steward to feel his way to the end of the corridor. When finally he stood before the last door, on the top floor of the west wing, he put his ear to it and listened. There were no sounds coming from within. He pressed the handle downward, slowly, applied a slight pressure and found, to his surprise, it was unlocked. Oboe slid the skeleton key back into his pocket, eased the door open, and entered.

Dissimulated in the inky blackness, his back to the door and deprived of his sight, the steward first became aware of a faint and peculiar smell lurking in the air. Then it came to him: formaldehyde. He decided there was precious little to be gained standing in the dark listening to the rise and fall of his own respiration. He lit a match. In the instant it flashed and burned, he saw he was not alone.

A slender man wearing a crimson smoking jacket sat in an armchair facing the door.

"I've been expecting you." The voice was calm, the tone reassuring, like what one might imagine a doctor's should sound like.

Oboe did not respond. His first thought was to bolt, but what good would that do?

Another flash of light, only this time, the flame found a candle, and then another. The impeccably dressed gentleman lit two more. With the chamber sufficiently lit, he turned his chiseled features to the steward, and smiled. And though his smile was not entirely unpleasant, the dark eyes burned with an intensity that controverted any sense of courtesy.

Unnerved, Oboe's wandering eye flicked from side to side.

"Sit," said the gentleman, indicating a chair. "Let us put this situation into perspective."

Oboe moved to the chair and sat down, feeling far from comfortable. He attempted an explanation, but it was fraught with a tremulous insincerity: "I, ah ... I'm afraid I, um, stumbled into the wrong room. Good sir, I really, really, must beg your—"

"Stop! There's no need for your prattling excuses. You have what you've come for, so shut your gaping maw and listen carefully to what I am about to tell you."

Oboe, numbed by the direct order, did as he was told.

"You are a tramp, a low life, at best a wandering minstrel with a penchant for petty larceny. You are no more a steward sent by a Lady, or otherwise, than I am a juggler in a traveling show. You have deluded most of the others, but your ruse has failed—and miserably so—with regards to myself and one other, who shall remain nameless. You are, in effect, outnumbered. Your movements. Your actions. Your words. All are scrutinized. And your deceit is plain to anyone with eyes to see. We are aware you have collected a small number of unsuspecting peons to aid in your dirty deeds. But be forewarned tramp, you will not be permitted to abscond with the riches of this estate."

While enduring the doctor's contemptuous attack, Oboe held fast to a shred of bravado found beneath his bruised ego. "And just what makes you think you can stop me?" he asked.

Dr. Dare's hand slipped inside his jacket. It reappeared holding a long, thin blade. He held it up and allowed the candlelight to glimmer on the bright steel. Without a word, he suddenly flung it towards the mantelpiece. The dagger flew swift and true, splitting a walnut in two, before lodging in the base of fat candle behind the bowl of nuts.

"Point taken," said Oboe, standing to leave.

Bin said nothing further. Instead, he bent forward and began to extinguish the flames, save for one.

Oboe left.

The steward stood in the corridor a moment. To be sure, the knife throw rattled his nerves, but what really threw him, was how Bin could possibly know enough to expose him as he did. Oboe was stumped. He lit his candlestick and shuffled off towards his quarters, ruminating on the fact that they'd never once been introduced—hadn't even met!

Once back in his chambers, Oboe weighed his options and came to a conclusion: He had advanced the plan far enough to still hold a reasonable expectation of success. That is, if the meddling doctor could be removed from the scenario. Recalling the note dispatched upon arrival at the manor and the method of delivery employed, suggested to Oboe that the man was indeed a threat—the stiletto-flinging demonstration notwithstanding. Further, if in fact he did have an unknown accomplice, and if one were to assume it was someone quite aside from bumptious-Bob and his cohorts, then that meant the whole affair was rather sticky and apt to get messy. Clearly, Dr. Dare needed to be taken out of the equation.

Oboe reverently removed a small leather bundle from his belongings. He unwrapped it on the low table near the hearth. Inside, were a number of small vials, individually covered in protective layers of cloth. They contained powders and liquids and extracts of varying consistencies and colors. In addition to the glass vials, there were a number of sachets—packets of herbs and leaves and seeds and such. Oboe chose a vial with a whitish crystalline powder—chloral hydrate. This should do, he thought, at least for the majority, but that crafty old Indian chief is going to require something a little more intense. Oboe picked through his assortment of small cloth bags until he located what he was looking for—Devil's snare.
Chapter Fifteen

Oboe's Ode: Departing Party's Party

The morning broke with a light overcast and the promise of clearing skies. The snow had stopped falling sometime in the night, and now it covered the land, draping it in a wintry whiteness. Snow lay thick and heavy on boughs of pine; it nestled in every crevice of every thicket and shrub, stuck to twigs and branches; it clumped on fence posts and clung to strands of barbed wire; settled on railings, and dusted the barns, the stables, and the manor, and all else exposed and inanimate.

Marlyse Marliemon cleared a breakfast tray left on a sideboard in the hall, next to the head butler's chambers. The Jamaican maid, cheered by the brightness flooding through the windowpanes, hummed a tune as she made her way back to the kitchens. Turning down the east wing, she was confronted with a peculiar sight: Oboe's odd little head, with its wobbly-bobbling eye, poked into the hallway from the door of the instrument repository.

"Good day, sweet Marlyse," he said. "How fortuitous of you to pass."

"Why that, Mr. Oboe-mon? And good day to you too, by the way."

"Well thank you. But to answer your question: In actual fact, I've been waiting for you. Won't you come in and take a seat. There is something of great importance I wish to discuss with you."

Marlyse looked over her shoulder and back. "Something you can't be saying here? Seeing as I don't see as anyone can hear, if that be your worry, mon."

"I prefer the comfort of easy chairs and closed doors. If only to minimize intrusions."

"Okey-doke, let's jest get all comfy then, and you can say whatever you got to say."

Oboe stood aside to let Marlyse pass, made a quick check of the hall, and closed the door. Once the maid had made herself comfortable, the steward took down a violin case from a shelf. He brought it to a table and took out the precious Stradivarius, the one Malgreete had been dusting in the adjoining room a couple of days before. He brought it to his chin and played a few notes.

Marlyse smiled.

Oboe held the instrument at arms length and admired it for a moment before addressing the maid. "You know, Miss Marliemon, this wonderful violin ..." Oboe appeared to be searching for the right words before continuing, "well, it's a very rare treasure. Did you know that?" He looked at her, his brow raised.

"Nope, no sir, I surely didn't," answered Marlyse, her head shaking from side to side.

Oboe's gaze returned to the instrument. With a gentle hand, he placed it back in its case. "I also think that you, Maid Marlyse, are a unique and rare treasure. Yes, indeed I do. For you see, you are industrious and clever. Qualities, it seems, that are somewhat lacking on this estate."

"Why thank you, Mr. Oboe-mon, that's a fine thing to say. But you know, there plenty others who's pretty clever too. I ain't the only one."

He then proceeded to ask her what she thought of the head butler, and whether she thought he, too, was industrious and clever. It seemed to Marlyse the steward was conducting his inquiry with an intensity that surpassed mere curiosity. She shifted in her chair. "I'm thinking Bobby trying his best, mon. And I think he got his head and heart in a good place. He jest needs a little help, is all."

"And you help. You do the best you can to encourage our dear bumbling butler, don't you?"

Marlyse nodded.

"But has he ever praised you for your loyalty? Or shown you any amount of respect? Has he ever confided in you—shared a secret? Let you know, even in some small way, that you are worthy of his trust?"

Marlyse noticed the steward studying her features, searching to see what effects his interrogation might be having. "That's a lot a questions Mr. Oboe-mon. I don't know where to start."

"Why don't we start with the matter of confidence, because that will answer most of the other questions."

"I gotta question: Why you wanna know bout this anyway? What's it to you?"

"This may shock you, dear maiden, but I'm considering forcing Rohbair into early retirement."

"Lordy! Really? Why you wanna go and do that?" Marlyse was truly troubled by the steward's statement.

"In my capacity as thee majordomo of this estate, I am tasked to ensure persons in positions of authority are, indeed, perceived as such by their subordinates. To that end, if I suspect someone of not fulfilling the role, I must endeavor to replace that individual. Do you follow me, Maid Marliemon?"

Marlyse, stunned by the news, fell silent. Her gaze drifted over the array of shelves lined with dusty musical instruments. Looking through the window at that far end of the room, she noted the sky was still a light shade of gray. And then she remembered the note, the one Bin slipped under her door. Snippets of lines from the verse resounded with a powerful force: ... through the black and white of truth and lies, to the essential gray ... the man who acts wise, yet lies ... minstrel in disguise ... trouble you with doubt. So let the secret slip ...

"Sweet Maid Marlyse, I don't wish to burden you with these matters, really. It's just that I need to determine if Bosworth has the right stuff—is he cut-out for the job of head butler. If he has no reciprocal trust or confidence with his nearest staff ... if he has failed in this capacity, he will have to go."

"NO! Don't. Please mon, don't make him go. He does trust me. He told me bout—" The petite maid held back.

"Maid Marliemon? Come now, what has he told you?" Oboe put his hand on the maiden's shoulder. "It's okay, Marlyse, you can trust me. Milady has placed her trust in me and so should you. I'm here to help."

"A box," said Marlyse. "He told me bout a big old box ... nobody knows bout it neither. It's under the coffee table in that glass house, back a the manor. The one with all the plants and the piano inside."

The steward sat back in his chair, his wandering eye jiggling in gleeful fits and starts. "There, you see, he has confided in you. And so, he must be capable of trust. He's trusted in you, dear maid—his most-trusted aid. Now don't you worry, I believe we have something to go on here. Perhaps Rohbair does have the right stuff, after all."

"Meaning, now you not gonna give him the boot—you not kicking him out?"

"No, not for now. We'll have to see how things develop over the next while. But let's not get stuck in the muck; let's just forget about all this nasty business, shall we? You run along now, we have much to accomplish before this evening's fun-filled extravaganza."

"Suits me, Mr. Oboe-mon. I don't much like all this shuffling over who can stay and who gotta go. It's upsetting!" Marlyse got up to retrieve her tray. "Sure glad we got a party to look forward to, too. We need something to get excited bout sometimes."

"Yes indeed, dear maiden, too true. We all need something to get excited about. I'll see you this evening then. Have a pleasant day."

Oboe held the door for Marlyse.

The dining hall was set for welcoming drinks and appetizers. A fire blazed in the hearth. Everyone had taken pains to dress for the occasion. Men sported cummerbunds and tailcoats, even spats, for some. Painted-ladies wore silk and lace, adorned with tiaras and bangles and bobbles galore. They all milled about, chatting, tippling, and sampling. Yuno, who uncharacteristically decided to attend, sat cross legged, fireside, puffing on his pipe. The ever-reluctant Malgreete stood alone towards the back of the room, snacking and sneering, while Horst hovered in close circles, pretending to be tempted by the hors d'oeuvres. Zero bumped and nudged up against Marie-Claire, snickering over whispers shared. And though feigning interest in a discussion going on between Buck and Alfonso, Ernie nevertheless kept his eye on the prize—his heart's desire. Lisa, Chin, and Marlyse bubbled over with grins and giggles, babbling among themselves. Rohbair and Oboe, standing conspicuously apart from everyone else, engaged in quiet dialogue. The only person not there, was Dare, the elusive doctor.

Oboe was speaking: "And so, as head butler, it's only fitting you bestow a gracious aspect upon your underlings from time to time. You must realize, Rohbair, those under you really do need recognition for their good deeds. Arduous efforts are expended in the course of a day while attending to their vocation."

Rohbair took a sip of wine from his cup and then scoffed at the steward's sentiment, saying, "Vocation! More like a bloody vacation. I daresay, this lot could not possibly care less about what needs be done. Surely by now, you'll have witnessed the lack of application by this bloody mob?"

"But look around! Just look at this magnificent display ... culinary expertise ... dedication. Everything polished and shining bright. The fire roaring. What could be more inviting? This was our people, Rohbair, these people—everyone here."

"Humph, self-indulgence. If not for that, you'd not see this level of service directed to a common enterprise, be it for the benefit of a noble or otherwise."

"Your too hard them—and yourself, for that matter. If I may suggest, ease up, relax. Tonight is for amusement, frivolity, laugh—"

"Excess! That's what this is. Jolly good when there's plenty to go round. But even then, make a habit of it and it turns to bite you in the bloody arse if you're not careful."

"Astute observation, Rohbair, but if you'll excuse me, I see Maid Malgreete is in need of some cheering up."

At the mention of her name, Rohbair redirected his gaze to where she stood. Their eyes met, but there was no warmth in her regard. He raised his glass, acknowledging her presence. She returned the gesture, unsmiling, and then immediately averted her eyes.

Oboe left the butler and walked towards the maid.

Interesting development, he thought. First she's detested, then toasted. What's she done to bewitch the man?

The steward smiled as he came up. Malgreete Van Bleake ignored him.

"May I offer you another cup of wine," he asked.

"No." Malgreete's clipped voice and ice-cold tone left little doubt as to her mood. She hadn't even bothered to accord the steward so much as a glance. "I don't want—not now," she added. Then, granting him a brief look, she lowered her voice and asked, "Why you want I come here? I don't like the silly-time ... too many ninnies. Idiots, imbeciles, all of them."

Oboe leaned in, and in a hushed voice, said, "We have work to do. And the first order of business requires you to determine if the doctor is in his chambers. If he is, you will lock him in."

"How?"

"I'll slip you the key," whispered Oboe. "When the time is right, go to his chambers and attempt to open the door. If it's bolted, that will mean Bin is within. Remember, you'll need to leave the key in the latch to prevent him from using his to unlock it." Oboe glanced at the clock on the mantel. "It's still early. Perhaps we'll be lucky. If not, and Dare is lurking about in the manor, watching us, we'll have to wait until late before ... before taking another stab at it." Oboe's statement fragmented as he realized the irony embedded in his words.

"Ya, so where his room is?"

"Just down from yours, last door."

Malgreete shot him an incredulous look. "My door!"

"Sssh, keep your voice down."

The steward maintained a steady watch, his roving eye constantly shifting from person to person, scanning for anyone taking an interest in their quiet discussion. Yuno appeared to be watching. So too, the Spaniard, until Oboe caused him to avert his gaze by maintaining eye contact. Horst was hovering again. Oboe waited for him to clear off before taking Malgreete's hand and making a pretense of bestowing her with a courteous bow. He pressed the skeleton key in her palm. "Maid Malgreete," he said, "thank you for your delightful conversation. I trust we'll be chatting again before the evening is out. I have an announcement to make, so if you'll excuse me."

The corners of Malgreete's mouth twitched into a crooked smile, and her awkward dip conveyed the only the merest attempt to curtsy. She scowled at Horst, who had taken a special interest in the ridiculous and unfamiliar display of formality.

Oboe strode to the center of the room. Raising his voice, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention please ... thank you. First off, I wish to welcome you, and to thank you for your participation in this evening's feast of pleasures. Thank you, all of you, for the hard work and long hours spent preparing the many delectable dishes we will enjoy; for attending auditions, rehearsals, without which, the planned entertainment would be for naught; and for stocking the appropriate libations to keep the spirit of our little gathering festive; and for the thankless job of sprucing up the various venues and stacking sufficient firewood, so that we might enjoy the warmth and companionship of each other in a style and grace worthy of nobility.

"Next, I hope you will all indulge me with your attendance in the drawing-room. I will be performing a selection of music accompanied by lute, violin, piano, and, of course, the oboe."

Lisa, overcome with excitement, squealed and clapped her hands.

Oboe smiled. "Thank you Lisa, but perhaps you should save your applause for after the performance. And even then, only if you still feel it is warranted. So, let us make our way to the drawing-room, people. I will attempt to regale you with a virtuoso performance aided by some of my favorite instruments."

The steward stood by the open door, ushering everyone ahead. With the exception of Bin, the estate's entire population straggled through the corridor like a gaggle of confused geese: some pulling ahead with the pluck of dandy ganders, others lollygagging in the rear like waddling, doddering geese. Malgreete, last to enter the hallway, received a discreet signal from Oboe indicating the time was ripe for her to slip away, so that she might deal with the good doctor.

With everyone gathered in the drawing-room, and more or less settled—some seated, others standing—Oboe commenced the serenade. He chose the oboe for his first piece.

"This is from a sonata originally written for flute and played in the key of A minor," he said. "However, tonight, I hope you will forgive a minor transgression: the suite has been transposed to E minor for solo oboe. It's played poco adagio."

Four the next four and half minutes, the audience listened to an accomplished musician. And although his wandering eye floated out of sync with his other orb, it did not detract from the overall performance. Their applause was genuine and exuberant.

In return, Oboe was profuse with his gratitude: "Thank you ... yes, thank you ... pleeease,"—using his hand to wave off continued appreciation—"Enough, you'll make me blush. Really ... thank you."—still clapping— "Oh, come now ... stop. You're too kind. Really."

Oboe turned and walked to the desk at the back of the room where he shuffled through some sheet music. He swapped the sonata for a piano score before sitting down at the concert grand. The muted exchange of astonishment remarking on the musical virtuosity ceased when Oboe cleared his throat, signaling to his audience he was ready.

When they fell silent, he announced his next piece. "I have chosen a sherzo in A minor." After a brief pause, he added, "Oh, and fear not, I won't bore you for long, it only takes a minute."

He played.

With the last note still resounding, the servants and staff, having relished his performance, once again gave vociferous cheers, calling for more. To which, he immediately launched into the final movement of the suite—a gigue.

Clearly, the household had not heard music of the caliber they were experiencing for quite some time. They were thrilled. Once more, Oboe held up his hands to stem their appreciation. "Thank you friends ... thank you. I suggest we now take a small break. Let us enjoy some drink,"—directing attention to a sideboard—"and perhaps more of these lovely canapes."

With everyone mingling, chatting, snacking, no one took particular notice of Malgreete entering the drawing-room. No one except Horst, that is. A quick snap of the crop on his boot-top and he was off—he was going to greet her. She tried to evade, swerving hard to the right, which put Marie-Claire between them. He followed, skirting around the backside of the rotund chef. But then the maid shifted to the left, squeezing between Chin and Zero. Again, he followed. A few more steps and Malgreete suddenly spun round, fixing him with a menacing glare. Horst stopped short, nearly colliding with his heart's desire.

"What?"

Horst kept his voice low, so as not to attract attention. "I only want for be friendly. You know, say hello. Is zis so bad you must run?"

Malgreete's eye's darted about, presumably, to see if anyone had taken interest. "Fine," she said, giving him a quick look. "We say hello. Now, we say goodbye."

She turned to leave but Horst caught her sleeve. He gave a gentle tug as if expressing a plea to stay. She yanked her elbow away from his hand and said, "Stop. You must stop to pester me, ya? Not with everyone looking."

Horst glanced round. "No one is looking. No one cares what we talk."

Malgreete confirmed his observation. Her scowling countenance relaxed somewhat. "Ya, so?"

"Do you find za key?"

"I have in my room. I give—" Malgreete cut short her reply.

The steward approached. "Sorry if I'm intruding," he said, "but I noticed you've rejoined us. I trust your errand was carried out satisfactorily?" When she nodded her affirmation, he smiled and addressed Horst, saying, "Herr Kunkle, you will of course accept my apology for the intrusion. The matter at hand was rather urgent and I must avow, my curiosity as to the efficacy of this operation rather got the better of me. Now, as I have other business to attend to, I'll bid you both carry on." He winked his wandering eye and left.

"Zis man," said Horst, when Oboe was out of range, "he make so I am nervous. But why, I not know. He is up to something—zis is sure! What you think, liebchen?"

Malgreete still had her eyes on Oboe as he moved away. She appeared distracted, lost in thought, and so may have been only partially aware of her reply when she said, "Ya, he is a clever one ... but his business is not our business."

They watched Oboe steer Zero to an area where the two of them could talk without being overheard.

Horst was pleased Malgreete hadn't objected to the term of endearment he'd used in posing the question. Also, that she had said "our business" when replying. Eager to further their discussion, Horst broached a topic sure to incite dialogue, and he did so using her favorite form: derisive commentary. "Za butler, he thinks he is za clever one, yah. But remember za party? He not looking so clever, nah, with za face in za noodles. Look, now again we see him with za wine. How long before sloshed?" Horst took a sip from his cup and looked to Malgreete.

She ignored him. She was intent on observing the steward and the head-farmer.

It appeared the chat was over. Oboe gave Zero a pat on the back, then left to regain the center of the room. He called for everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "it is with the utmost pleasure, that I announce my next selection for this evening. It is from an Italian composer—a sonata in G minor—it's known as Il trillo del diavolo ... some of you may know it."

The saucier, Lisa, seized the head-chef's arm and whispered something in her ear. Marie-Claire responded with a shrug.

While Oboe rummaged through sheet music, members of the party took to chairs and sofas. Some preferred to stand. In the commotion, and without so much as a word to anyone, Zero left. Oboe, score in hand, opened the case to the Stradivarius resting on a credenza. He removed the instrument with a reverence reserved for rare and precious things, not unlike the care one might adopt when lifting a newborn for the first time.

He began to play.

Fifteen minutes later, his prodigious virtuosity as a violinist was beyond question. Even the young stable hand sat rapt, unable to move, to clap, or to emit the slightest utterance. Oboe had taken their breath away.

Then they roared.

Everyone on their feet. Shouts—Bravo! Encore!—rang out. Ernie's shrill whistle. Lisa's shriek of delight. Hoots and hollers from Buck and Yuno. Mad-clapping Chin. Fist-pounding Horst. Marlyse beaming and Malgreete almost smiling. More bravos from Bob ... and Alfonso, too. More encores from Marie-Claire. Zero wasn't there. And Bin was locked in his room.

Oboe turned his back to hide a single tear rolling down his right cheek. He brushed it away and put the instrument back in its case. And while everyone resettled or helped themselves to a refreshment, Buck ducked out.

"Dear friends," said Oboe, having recomposed himself, "I now come to the final selection for this evening. I will play a traditional pavan. It's from long, long time ago—a time when troubadours wandered the land regaling folk with tales and lore set to music. This particular piece is taken from a collection also known as Seven Tears. Noteworthy, is the dedication on the title page of this work. It is a Latin epigram that translates to: 'He whom Fortune has not blessed either rages or weeps.' Now, as tragic as that may sound, people, we must remember that tears are not always shed in sorrow, but sometimes in joy. Such is the case with music."

The wandering minstrel sat on a stool, his instrument poised in his lap. It was the lute he carried slung across his back the day he arrived on their doorstep, and although it was beat and lacking luster, it was sound, and it played flawlessly.

Owing to the modest nature of the piece, and because the dance music of the period was not given to excess, at least in terms of fanfare, Oboe's audience accorded it its proper applause: a polite flutter of hand-clapping. A fitting end.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen," said Oboe, "concludes our first musical interlude for this evening. So without further ado, let us return to the dining hall. 'Tis time to sup!"

Acting upon the steward's direction, the estate personnel vacated the drawing-room. Along the way, Marie-Claire issued an order for her underlings to muster in the kitchens; there were final preparations to attend to before serving dinner. In kind, Rohbair, apparently desirous of asserting his authority, suggested the maids make themselves useful as well. He ran off a list of tasks they should concern themselves with. After which, he tried on his snappy little butler's clap. But this merely produced a bout of snickering from Ernie. Malgreete returned a look of disbelief, suggesting it was unimaginable the butler presume she do anything at all. Marlyse, on the other hand, flashed her sweet smile, as a salute to her commander-in-chief.

Assembled in the dining-room, awaiting platters of food to be laid out, the five remaining men gathered near the hearth. Ernie stoked the fire. Yuno crouched low and to side, topping up his pipe. Oboe stood flanked by the overseer and the butler, with each, in turn, dredging up remarks meant to engage him in discourse. However, he was more concerned with the whereabouts of the stable master, and therefore unaware of his stunted responses to their inane comments. He wished only that they could find common ground and manage a discussion between themselves. It was a wish not likely to come true anytime soon.

Zero entered, his cheeks still rosy from the cold. He joined the men by the fire, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the heat. "Let me say, gentlemen," he said, "the company of men are preferred to that of beasts—even to a farmer—on night such as this. With a warm hearth and the prospect of a hearty meal at stake, no man in his right mind would dwell any longer than necessary in the barns on a winter's night. Unless, of course, ..."—glancing over his shoulder—"a wholesome woman beckoned from the loft."

His mild wit prompted smiles and at least one snicker. That, from Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo.

"And what, if I dare ask, would call for your presence in the barns?" asked Rohbair. "I mean, it does seem rather an effort to change into dungarees, boots, and coat and then back again."

Zero's eyes flicked to the steward for a split second. "Even lowly beasts require sustenance from time to time. And besides, what manner of farmer would entertain such a self-indulgent soiree as this, to dine on the bounty provided by the very beasts under his care, and with nary a thought to return some form of gratitude by way of a hearty meal?"

"A feckin greedy one, to be sure," remarked Ernie.

Marlyse pushed through the doors with a loaded cart. She began setting the table with the estate's finest porcelain, stemware, and silverware, all polished and shinning bright. Malgreete came through, her cart weighted down by an abundance of food, the likes of which were unimaginable for a servant's dinner. She distributed the banquet on the buffet. There were platters heaped with roasted meats and vegetables; an assortment of terrines brimming with soups and sauces; and there were baskets of breads and rolls. And still there was more to come.

"Now zis is a smell to make za man hungry," declared Horst.

"Fine for you to say, mon," said Marlyse, "but I bet you—small as I be, and a lady, too—I could eat a horse." Her quip was followed by a wink directed at Ernie.

"I ate a horse, once," said Yuno. His remark failed to elicit a response, so he added, "I was hungry."

The chef and her three sous-chefs bustled through the door carrying pitchers of wine, bowls of stuffing, and trays of assorted condiments and pickles. "We can start," announced Marie-Claire. "Of course, we still have sweets and cafe for after."

Each person gravitated to the same seat they occupied during the infamous dinner marking the steward's arrival. Yuno took the chair on Rohbair's right. When everyone settled, Oboe glanced at the clock on the mantel, offered a hasty toast, and suggested the ladies begin. With the exception of Malgreete, the ladies got up and went to the buffet. Oboe fiddled with his fob for a few seconds before pulling out his pocket watch. He checked it against the clock on the mantel. Addressing the overseer, he asked, "Horst, do you, perchance, happen to know where Mr. Knowles has got to?"

"Za stable master. Yah, he do what he please. Not always he says where he goes, so no, I don't know."

Malgreete rose when the other ladies returned to the table. She would now serve herself. That she deigned to aid in preparations for dining was, in itself, noteworthy, however, to interact with anyone on a social level was stretching the scope of her magnanimity.

Buck Knowles strode through the door. He'd been outside, and like Zero, he'd changed back to his formal wear. "Reckon, I owe y'all an apology being that I'm waltzing in here late and all, so let me just say right up front, sorry if I held up the show. Got a mare in foal. Looks to be feeling poorly, so I just need to keep a close eye on her is all."

Oboe was quick to say, "No apologies necessary, Mr. Knowles. You are a credit to your stock and trade. I'm sure not every horseman carries such an ardent sense of responsibility as regards their charges."

"Maybe not, but then again, you can't shoot a man that was born to hang."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"A man that tries to pass himself off as something he ain't, is going against the law of nature. And so it's just a matter of time, ya see, before those around him figure it out. Then, much as you like, you can't just shoot him for deceiving you, on account of ... well, if you do, you're just as bad as he is. So, you let the law of nature take its course: You give him just enough rope to hang himself."

"My lord, that is a mouthful, Mr. Knowles, but I fail to make the connection between that and the responsibilities of a stable master."

"A man that lets an animal die from lack of proper care ain't fit to call himself a horseman ...  I reckon he outta be shot."

"I see," said Oboe. "You make a very good point. But please, let's be sure to keep our six-shooters in our holsters, shall we?" Noting Malgreete was on her way back to the table, the steward said, "Ah good, it seems we gentlemen can now take up our plates. Shall we?"

With everyone eventually seated and savoring their meals, conversation turned on mindless banter requiring little more in response than spurious comments, grunts of approval, or scoffing contradictions.

"The final movement," said Bob, talking with food in his mouth, "the cadenza of Tartini's Violin Sonata ... truly sublime. Bloody good show, Mr. Oboe."

Lisa was quick to offer up the title of the piece. "This was Il trillo del diavolo—the trill of a diavolo," she said.

"You mean, thrill of the devil," corrected Zero.

"No, Zeroso, trill not 'thrill'. Is not a same."

"I was merely translating 'diavolo' to 'devil', as you neglected to do. But in any case, I stand corrected. My apologies."

Lisa's face soured over the trivial difference in translation as opposed to the gross error in terms. She appeared to be formulating an appropriate insult when Oboe hijacked the topic and turned it away.

"Quite right, dear Lisa. And thank you, sir," said Oboe, lifting his glass to the butler, "your praise is graciously accepted. But I believe I owe all gratitude to that magnificent violin. For it is a rare instrument that demands one exceed one's capacity, if only to approach the virtue embodied within. That said, one can only try."

Marie-Claire professed her preferred movement from the musical performance. "Me, I like very much this one with oboe. It ees so soft, so sad, and so beautiful, all on the same time."

"Ah yes, the flute sonata for solo oboe." Zero's assertion was made with confidence.

"Tell a ballet," said Chin, with a little giggle.

"Jaysus!" Ernie's derision won no support. Only Marlyse reacted—she scowled at the lad's impertinence.

By and by, the grandiose dinner portion of the soiree wound down. Most everyone had had their fill and were now idly sipping wine, chatting, and picking at leftovers on their plates. The steward tapped on his wine glass with a fork, calling for their attention.

"My friends, far be it from me to suggest our last gathering, spiced with spontaneity and fun, was anything less than exactly that. Tonight, however, before we launch into fits of infectious madness and drunken rapture, allow me to announce a surprise event. The event has been planned as an amusing diversion, one that will precipitate merriment in lieu of hurling leftover food. So, before we carry on to dance and more music, allow me to introduce the star performers for our next spectacle: Our esteemed head-chef, Marie-Claire Contraire will pit her culinary expertise against none other than, Zero Izzero, our man of the field. Their task will be to concoct a tasty Cajun remoulade. It will be judged by a worthy individual—an individual to be elected among us—a person with the impeccable expertise to adequately discern which of two offerings has the better flavor.

"At this juncture—as time is short—let us bid the cooks farewell, so that they may apply themselves to the task at hand. Then we will vote."

Giddy with the prospects offered by the competition, Marie-Claire and Zero exited the dining hall grinning like school children participating in a rigged event.

"Now then," continued Oboe, "we must decide amongst ourselves who is best suited to act as judge. Any nominations? Potential candidates? Someone wishing to nominate themselves, perhaps? ... Anyone?"

Oboe scanned the buttoned-up faces surrounding the table. Their eyes darted from one to another, searching for who might pipe up first. Only Yuno appeared detached from the situation; he was packing another pipe. "Well, I'd like to nominate Señor Alfonso," Oboe said, "for the simple reason, I believe he has developed a definitive taste for fine cuisine."

Despite the head-bobbing affirmation going round the table, Alfonso was swift to decline, saying, "Señor Oboe, gracias, but I cannot accept this recommendation. My palette is not so refined as our saucier's. Lisa would be the better judge. Of this I am most certain."

Again, head-bobbing affirmation, but this time interrupted by Lisa. "Alfonso, you so kind," she said to him, "but no, in a my mind, Marlysia is best for judge. She have a ... she have ... mama mia, how you—ROOTS! She have a the roots in this cuisine. She is a best choice. I vote for Marlysia!" Lisa punctuated her statement with a bout of excited clapping. Ernie joined in. And then Chin joined in too.

"Hey, I ain't no cajun queen, and I ain't no cookie neither, even if I do got a thing for the zesty flavors."

"Then you are the perfect candidate," said Oboe. "Who could be better suited, if not the baroness of zest? I too, cast my vote for Marlyse."

A resounding "Here! Here!" rang round the room, along with ample applause. To which the petite maid stood and curtsied, her fantastic smile reflecting her acceptance to act as appointed judge. Attendees tittered and chortled, and Oboe's wobbly orb bobbled about in gleeful jiggles and joggles. A merrier mood could not have seemed possible. Unless, of course, Malgreete Van Bleake happened to smile or chuckle. But no one was willing to hold their breath waiting for that to happen.

"Come people, let us see how our illustrious chefs are getting on," said the steward, rising from his chair and prompting all gathered towards the door.

In the commotion of everyone leaving the table and passing through to the main kitchen, Oboe managed a surreptitious signal to Ernie, causing him to lag behind. When the opportunity presented, he whispered, "Lad, it's time. Be quick—I'll make up some excuse. Off you go."

"Feck me, man, does it have to be now?"

"Yes, right now. Away with you. Go!"

Oboe entered the kitchens alone, Ernie having departed by the dinning hall's main entrance.

Zero and Marie-Claire, positioned behind a prep counter, were in the final stages of garnishing their presentations. A narrow shelf rose up from the leading edge of the counter, effectively hiding the array of ingredients, spices, and utensils being used from view. By design, this played into Marie-Claire's hand.

The competitors kept up a lively banter, teasing and taunting one another. Their amused audience, loosely gathered in front, looked on, some offering words of encouragement, others, words mocking one or the other contestant.

"You shall be soundly trounced Mr. Izzero," said Rohbair. "A farmer against a chef—preposterous!"

Zero responded to Bob's proclamation, saying, "I've skills beyond the norm, dear butler. Mark my words."

"Hah! Zis I like to see. Same like za donkey what want to race za horse."

"Señor Izzero is a man of many talents. Perhaps you will see this this evening."

"Look like wet stew," said Chin, peeking around the edge of counter. "Maybe tangy gnat stew."

"Stew! S'pose to be cajun remoulade. I ain't tasting no stew—gnats or no gnats. And if I do, mon, I judge both you two disqualified, that be sure."

"And yet," said Zero, with a chuckle, "I look to my side and what do I see? I see wet-gnat-stew."

"Oooh, la, la." Marie-Claire feigned indignation and then launched a teasing insult of her own: "Me, I like the cheese, but this farmer man in my kitchen? This ees not so nice smell."

"Perhaps not, oh-great-and-wonderful chef, but this is!" Zero placed his dish on the shelf. "Feast your eyes, ladies and gentlemen—and your nose, if you wish."

"Aaaannd, voila!" Marie-Claire set hers alongside.

Both remoulades displayed a creamy mouth-watering appeal.

The excitement was too much for Lisa. She clapped her hands and squealed: "Oooieee! Marlysia, you are ready, yes?"

Marlyse stepped forward.

"WAIT!" Marie-Claire pulled both bowls back down behind the shelf. "We cannot permit she can see which one she taste or maybe this can influence her choice. Here, we do like this ... just a little bit in the small dish ..." Marie-Claire ladled a goodly dollop from each bowl into identical side dishes, with a spoon placed in each. No one, save Zero, was able to see directly behind the counter. "So, as you can see,"—putting the two smaller bowls on the shelf—"we now have two sample, and for looking, exactly the same. Marlyse, you choose."

The petite maid leaned forward and sniffed each portion. Delighting in the savory aroma, she lifted her head, closed her eyes, and smiled. "Mm-mmm, now that do smell kinda fine," she said.

Sweet Maid Marlyse chose the sample on her right. She raised a spoonful and the crowd fell silent. Her mouth closed over it. Then the impact, harsh and immediate: eyes bulging—first in disbelief, then in horror; a hand shooting to her mouth; eyes squeezed tight now, her body beginning to tremble; shaking uncontrollably, pearls of sweat forming on her brow; a violent, spastic fit ... doubled over.

The crowd cringed, feeling her pain.

Some very long seconds ticked by before the effects subsided and Marlyse was able to regain some sense of composure. When she did, she mopped her brow, and, between deep breaths and with a shaky voice, said, "I—I think too ... too ... whew ... too much spice, mon." She fixed Zero with a look, as if to suggest the sample must have been a retaliatory measure on his part.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Her voice cheery and innocent, Marie-Claire asked, "You are ready for the next, chèrie?"

Marlyse was recovering but reluctant to continue. "Cookie-mon," she said, "truth be told, these buds ain't hardly up to tasting anything anymore."

"This ees no problem," said Chef, "maybe we see if someone can take for you." Marie-Claire winked at Lisa. "Lisa? You can be judge?"

"But Chef, Marlysia is a special for all spicy things. She is a best judge—only she. Maybe Zeroso make a spicy too much. Here, I try!" Lisa marched up and helped herself to a heaping spoonful from the small bowl. (The small bowl Marie-Claire switched while everyone was focused on the convulsing maid.)

A gasp from Malgreete and the room hushed.

Lisa swallowed.

Marlyse, riveted to the reaction.

Lisa remained calm, cool—her face, filled with thoughtful expression. And finally, an appropriate critique: "Yes ... a little spicy. I agree for Marlysia."

Infused with confusion and staring in disbelief, Marlyse was incapable of a verbal response. The crowd, on the other hand, came through with a mix of mumbles and a smattering of uncertain applause. Towards the back, inconspicuous, and with a self-satisfied smirk pasted on his face, stood Oboe, the smug maestro of discord, basking in the glow. No one noticed.

The head-chef removed the contestable sampling, but left the last dish to be judged. It lay there on the shelf ... alone ... isolated ... harmless, and yet a fierce challenge to anyone risking a simple taste.

"But we still have the last dish, the final remoulade," said Zero, almost pouting. "Who is to be judge? Lisa? Marlyse?"

Lisa looked to Marlyse, eyebrows raised.

Marlyse hesitated. Perhaps a little too long.

Marie-Claire smacked the counter with the flat of her hand. In a voice, shrill and louder than necessary, she said: "NO! No one. No problem ..."—seizing the bowl, slapping it down behind the shelf—"competition over. That's it. Finish!" She put her hands on her hip and looked over everyone's head with an air of extreme displeasure.

"Mama mia, Mariaaa ..." Lisa took a step towards the counter. "Please, don't become annoy. I test a next one."

"Wait!" Marlyse held up her hand, stopping the saucier. "Sweet Lise, I'm s'pose to be judge, so I best be doing the judging." She patted Lisa's shoulder in passing. Standing before the counter, she looked up to the head-chef and said, "Cookie-mon, as duly deflected judge, I's ready as can be. I can do this. I can."

One hand still on her hip, Marie-Claire plonked the bowl back up on the shelf.

Sweet Maid Marlyse did not hesitate, did not cower; she plucked up the spoon with one decisive motion and rammed the full dose straight into her open mouth. She shouldn't have. Because what happened next, became etched in each and every one's memory for years to come.

To be sure, Marlyse succumbed to much of the same frenzied antics as before. Which is to say, the same eye-popping shock, the same violent shakes and contorted fits and sweats. But what marked this occurrence, was that she began hopping—little bunny hops to begin with, but then increasing in speed and intensity until a full shift to giant, loping jumps that propelled her from one spot to another. The crowd moved back, allowing her all the room necessary. When her wild pogo stick-like gyrations took on a decided direction, it was towards the scullery. Midway, Marlyse broke into a sprint, her hands clasped over her mouth. She raced to the slop sink, slipped, skidded, and almost fell in as she plunged her head forward and began retching.

Marie-Claire, Lisa, Chin, and Alfonso rushed to the stricken maid. But, as no one was certain how to best provide aid, they simply collected around her—and watched. There was nothing they could do. The heaving, interrupted by rounds of panting and the occasional shriek or moan, would subside with the passage of time. They watched over her, filled with worry and concern.

Oboe looked in from the doorway. "I have suggested everyone return to the dining-room for coffee and cake. Once our unfortunate maiden has recovered sufficiently, perhaps we can all regroup in the dance hall. The scheduled merriment—a salve, if you will—will do us all a world of good."

Marie-Claire assented with a nod of her head but without looking back or acknowledging the steward in any other way. For that matter, nor did anyone else. Their concern rested solely with their fallen friend.

At length, Marlyse's burden diminished. Her contractions lessened until there was only the trembling undulation of her shoulders. Tears began to fall. Her sobs, soft and child-like, issued forth from a stream of sorrow. The pain of betrayal, and where it led—heartbreak—was its source.

Marie-Claire waved the others away. She placed her hand gently on the maid's back and made soothing circles as she cooed words of comfort. Before leaving, Alfonso had provided Marie-Claire with a cool damp cloth, which she now placed over the back of Marlyse's neck. Soon the sobbing subsided. Marlyse straightened and turned to Marie-Claire. The chef wiped a tear from her maid's cheek and took her in her arms.

Her voice muffled in Marie-Claire's bosom, Marlyse uttered a single word—she uttered it thrice: "Why?"

Marie-Claire hugged her close but did not reply. And then, a tear fell from her eye too.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo rejoined those gathered in the dining-room to find a cheerless mood had settled over the group. "Jaysus," he said, "party's turned to a feckin wake. Who's died, then?"

"I daresay, there's no need for your foul-mouth, Mr. O'Boyo," snapped Bob, "nor your callous bloody presumptions."

Ernie ignored the butler. He looked to Oboe for a clue. "Why all the long faces?"

"We've had an unsettling incident befall our festive atmosphere," said Oboe.

Alfonso elaborated: "Senorita Marlyse is not so well at the moment. She has became the unfortunate object of a not-so-nice treek."

"She will be fine, in time," added Zero. "Not to worry, it's nothing serious. Marie-Claire is tending to her and I expect they'll be able to join us before too much longer."

Ernie tensed. "It's this feckin cooking thing, yeah? She's been tricked into eating some shyte that's gone and made her sick—that it? Where's she now?" Before anyone could answer, Ernie stomped off towards the kitchens.

"This is a so sweet," said Lisa, "he cares for her sooo much, but never he is telling anybody. Poor Marlysia."

"Poor me, poor you," said Chin, "eat stressed desserts, no good digest ... sick heart, sick stomach too."

Yuno squatted by the fireplace puffing his pipe. He'd been attentive to the discourse going round the room. "My people have a tea for stomach sickness," he said. "If I make it, maybe the girl can try it. She'll feel better, anyway."

Oboe stood. "Whatever we have at our disposal should be employed. If the wisdom of Yuno's people allow a speedier recovery, so much the better. Come Yuno, let us see what can be done." After suggesting everyone meet in the dance hall in half an hour's time, he and Yuno left.

They entered the kitchens to find the chef at the stove, warming a broth. Ernie sat close to Marlyse at the servants' table offering tender words of concern. Her ordeal had taken its toll. She looked exhausted, but at the same time, relieved that the worst was over.

"Chef," said the steward, "our medicine-man has a few herbs that may be of help. Perhaps, in addition to your warm soup, we might further ease the maiden's residual discomfort with a curative libation of his making. What say you?"

"If this can help, I feel it ees no problem."

Yuno found his way to the prep counter where he removed his deerskin pouch and proceeded to spread the contents over the surface. The herbs, barks, and other natural ingredients used in his concoctions were contained in just over a dozen small cloth sacks. Oboe looked on as the old shaman sniffed at various packets of herbs. Before long, he had five set aside. From these he would blend a restorative tea.

The steward remained at the prep counter after Yuno joined Marie-Claire at the stove. And while Yuno tended to his infusion and made small-talk with the chef over simmering pots, Oboe retrieved a small packet from his cummerbund. It contained a carefully measured dose of crushed leaves. Secure in the knowledge his actions were hidden from view, he sprinkled the contents of his little sack into the bowl of Yuno's pipe. After which, he placed a pinch of tobacco over top and tamped it down. Before moving away, the wandering minstrel softly uttered the words Hell's bells. The sound of his voice, despite the tempered volume, seemed imbued with a cheery, sing-song-like quality.

A half hour later, Marlyse felt better for having drank something warm. She was further encouraged when the steward mentioned there was nothing like a little gaiety to chase away one's woes and liven the spirits. And so, with the promise of more entertainment close at hand, the five of them mounted the steps to the dance hall.

The opulence and grandeur of the ballroom might well have been unsurpassed at one time, had it not fallen to near ruin from neglect. Located on the second floor, it spanned the entire face of the manor. Windows along the facade stretched high to vaulted ceilings. Elaborate works of art and ornate sculptures, thick with dust, decorated the long rectangular space. The small clustering of servants and staff, dressed in their modest garb, did little to enhance the atmosphere of the room. If anything, it depressed whatever joyful ambiance might exist due to the sheer immensity of the dance hall dwarfing their collective presence. A few hundred guests would have made a small difference.

A fire roared in a giant fireplace at one end of the room, and loosely gathered round, were the estate's personnel, some seated, some not. A collection of instruments had been assembled, a few propped in their stands, others laid out on top of a grand piano. Nearby, on a credenza, wine, lager, and water awaited anyone who might develop a thirst. However, on this occasion, no one appeared overly inclined to excess. It might even be said, the party-goers were wary of overindulging.

As self-appointed master of ceremonies, Oboe addressed the gathering with an announcement that echoed throughout the vast interior: "Dear friends, once again, we come together to celebrate life in song and dance. Though our foibles may sometimes lead to a raft of haphazard unpleasantness, we must pull together, fix what is broken, clean what is sullied, and heal what is wounded. Only in this way, are we able to surmount the indelicate actions that have caused harm. But let us not dwell on a folly gone awry. Now is the time for gentle fun and simple laughter. We will dance and sing. We will play for one another. We will amuse."

Lisa, enthused, began clapping with such exuberance others could not help but join. But Oboe quickly held up his hand, putting a halt to their mounting ebullience.

"Please," he said, "let us not get carried away, lest we're led to bestow accolades before the worst is done. And what I mean by that is this: We have a number of performances this evening by individuals among you who mean to bring their talents to new heights. And, as I am scheduled for the first musical interlude, and as I don't wish to garner more than my fair share of kudos, ... save your praise for those who follow—they may need it." Oboe winked his wonky eye, shedding a gratuitous grin in the process.

Then, on his way to the instruments, his exaggerated swagger found good effect in the anticipated mirth. Although, in all probability, this was due in part to his bandy-legged gait pulling along the rest of his squat body. His small, round head and wobbly eye could only have advanced the comic impression. The people were amused.

Oboe took a flute from the top of the piano and said, "I don't wish to flout my innate and consummate skill, but I've decided in the interests of levity, to play for you something akin to what you might hear in a tawdry wayside inn. It's an Irish jig, and it's called Sweet Biddy Daly—also known as Health to the Ladies. If you feel moved to dance a jig, please do."

The steward stomped his foot to set the beat and started to play. Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, apparently overjoyed with the homespun selection, began clapping in time. Others joined. Soon, everyone except Malgreete was toe-tapping or clapping. Swept up in the moment, the Irish lad suddenly jumped at the chance to dance a jig. And as he did, he did so with all the alacrity of a tipsy townee bent on showing off. It was a splendid sight to behold. Even Malgreete smiled—a little.

The jig ended to a rollicking round of applause and cheers that had the grinning O'Boyo taking deep bows, his tousled, reddish locks, flopping and flouncing as if trying to keep up with his bobbing head. Lisa rushed to the lad and hugged him. Marlyse beamed her best smile. Marie-Claire ruffled Chin's hair and gave him a nudge, almost knocking him over.

"LAGER! I'm needing a wee feckin draft." Ernie was spent and perspiring from the lively step.

Zero responded loudly, saying, "Allow me lad! You've justly earned the right to a pint. As such, I'd be pleased to yonder fetch one hither. Hah! I'll bring us both one, we'll quaff together!"

During the brief intermission that followed, and while everyone mingled and chatted, Oboe sidled up to Zero at the sideboard. They were alone and far enough away from the others to speak without being overheard. "It's time to bring up the wagon," said the steward. "Take this opportunity to slip away, and be done with it in short order. And by the way, did you see the stable master when last out by the barns?"

"No, I didn't, I believe I was alone. But then who's to say? The farmyard, the barns ... they provide many a place to conceal one's presence, should one be so inclined." The farmer poured another pint.

"Did you then, perchance, note another set of tracks in the snow?" asked Oboe.

"I never thought to look, I'm afraid—why should I? I'd no inkling I might be followed." Zero turned to face Oboe. "I gather you don't believe Buck went to the stables to check on his mare?"

"No, I don't. He followed you. But it doesn't matter. We proceed as planned."

"And my heart's desire is agreeable?"

"I believe so, but as I said, it's imperative you not let on. You'll spoil everything if you do. This needs be crystal clear, for I cannot stress the point enough."

"Fear not, steward, I've not come this far to squander the opportunity by putting it at risk."

The two men turned to join the others. And in that precise moment, two disparate scenes struck a chord with Oboe: Of note, Alfonso, Buck, Bob, and Yuno appeared huddled in businesslike conversation by the hearth; and in the second instance, Yuno was about to light his pipe.

The steward clapped his hands together to attract everyone's attention. With everyone focused on him, and with Zero heading for the door, he raised his voice for an announcement. "Gather round, people. Sit or stand ... as you wish. 'Tis time for our next performer." Oboe waited for all to settle. "Now, since our last musical number only served to arouse your basal instincts, let us now strive to lift your spirits with a few melodious notes destined to enliven your soul. So without further ado, it is with the greatest of pleasures, I give you one of your very own ... the respected ... the accomplished ... the one and only sous-chef-number-one, HAR—Naaan—dez!"

Cheers, whistles, and applause ensued. Alfonso strode to the Spanish guitar resting on its stand. He picked it up and sat down on the piano bench, facing the audience. He said, "It is a long time since I play. I practice a leedle, you know, for this evening, but ... well, we will see."—strumming a chord—"This is a very deep and expressive style, one that we call toque flamenco. I hope you will enjoy."

Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones played the guitar and his audience loved it. This was followed by Rohbair, who managed a respectable piano accompaniment to Lisa's dulcet aria. Buck toyed with his harmonica and got a laugh. Oboe on lute, with the 'Lad' on shakers, kept Marlyse dipping and gliding to a Jamaican "brukins" dance. But then, in a spate of silliness, it turned into the "Dinki Mini" when the tempo reeled out of proportion. Everyone was amused, Lisa more so than most. Malgreete left. Zero returned. And something was very wrong with Yuno.

It's true, the wise old man squatting by the fireside was prone to peculiar acts—acts that, at times, raised questions as to his faculty for rational thought. However, most everyone attributed his queer behavior to his mysterious cultural background. Those few who did not share that point of view just thought he was senile. Oboe was not in the latter camp. Nor was he in the former. He knew exactly what influenced Yuno's odd behavior, at least, on this particular occasion.

Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno, still squatting by the fire, had fashioned a headband from a thin leather strap tied round his head. It had three feathers—two chicken and one crow—tucked in back. This adornment, in and of itself, did not seem too strange considering the heritage of the man. But what struck all who chanced to look his way as odd, was that he was flapping his elbows and pitching his head forward as if mimicking a chicken. And he did this while making clucking sounds that were interrupted by the occasional cawing of a crow. Strange behavior—even for Yuno—was the general consensus.

And so, it was not long before his antics attracted everyone's attention. They stood, muddled in hesitant comments and hushed remarks, looking on, bewildered as to a course of action, or if one was even called for. The steward put forth the most probable explanation when he intimated Yuno was likely rehearsing for his upcoming performance. He was, after all, scheduled to sing one of the ancient songs of his people ... maybe there were theatrics involved.

"In the meantime," said Oboe, speaking to the gawking crowd, "I suggest we amuse ourselves with something completely different. I would like to propose a Viennese waltz if Rohbair and Alfonso are willing to accompany—no offense Buck, but we won't be needing a mouth organ. What say you gents, shall we give it our best?"

The sous-chef and butler agreed. What else was there to do?

No sooner had the ensemble begun to play the first few bars of the impromptu waltz, then Zero swept Marie-Claire onto the dance floor. With emotions running high and encouraged by smiles bursting forth on everyone's lips, the stable hand cast all restraint aside—he pulled Marlyse into his embrace and they danced. They danced as children do, when they've yet to learn how to do what the big people do. Their laughter and unbridled frolicking was contagious: Chin and Lisa joined in. Horst, dejected by the disappearance of Malgreete, found solace in waltzing by himself. He twirled round, eyes closed, smiling, dancing far from everyone. Far, so that he might whisper sweet-unheard-nothings to his imaginary lover.

Yuno began stripping off his clothes. The music dropped away and the people stopped. They were shocked. They stared. The chicken-dance was one thing, this was quite another.

"Oooh, la, laa ... now this ees somesing we can not see everyday."

"Jaaaysus! Geezer's daft as they come."

Lisa whimpered. "Mama mia, something is a very wrong with Yuno. Somebody help him. We need to do something."

Naked and wrinkled, Yuno squatted by the fire again. Only now, he began hooting and chirping and grunting—he was running through his entire repertoire of animal sounds. It was quite a show.

"Loops at a spool," murmured Chin.

"Hoodoo or Goofer dust, mon, that's what I be thinking," said Marlyse. "Maybe both."

Buck thought it was locoweed: "Could be he's gone and mixed it up somehow with his reg'lar smoke."

Alfonso refuted the claim, saying he thought it unlikely an experienced medicine-man could ever mistake Jimsonweed for anything other than what it was—a poisonous and powerful hallucinogen. He also postulated that if Yuno were seeking a vision, he would not entertain the idea of doing so within the context of a party, nor would he risk corrupting the experience by allowing a group of observers.

Yuno yanked a cloth covering from a nearby armchair and wrapped in around himself. He was silent now, staring into the flames.

"What we do?" asked Horst.

Up to now, Oboe, unusually uncommunicative for someone bent on observing the manifestation of effects, had little to offer in the way of an explanation. It was Horst's voice that prompted him to surface from depths of his stagnant passivity.

"We will do nothing," said Oboe. "Because, although we recognize something has come over him, it matters not whether whatever it is was was self-induced or ingested by mistake. That is none of our concern—it's irrelevant. People, what's done is done. What is important is that the gardener's ability to interact with us is clearly impaired, and we risk harm should we engage him in this state."

Lisa pleaded for a different course of action. "We cannot leave him like a this. Maybe he hurt himself. Is a not right. I won't do it."

"Dearest Lisa, imagine if you will: You walk over there because you want to help poor old Yuno. Only, in his dreamy little head, he turns to you and sees a gargoyle. Without the slightest hesitation, he grabs you and hurls you into the fire. It may be the last thing you ever do."

Buck offered a suggestion: "Reckon we could overpower him and hogtie him till he gets right again."

"No, Mr. Knowles," said Oboe, "if we do that, he may never get 'right' again. He's a medicine-man; he has experience with vision-inducing substances, so I doubt if he'll do himself harm. The best recourse is to leave him be. In time, he'll regain his senses and be no worse for wear."

"So what we do?" asked Horst, again.

"Gentlemen, let us retire to the smoking room. A snifter and a cigar are in order. Perhaps then, we'll find the wherewithal to devise a suitable intervention to deal with our estranged gardener."

"And what we s'pose to do then?" asked Marlyse.

"Your implied indignation at not being invited is duly noted Miss Marliemon. However, as the smoking of noxious cigars are an indelicate affair, I would like to suggest the women of the house gather in the drawing-room for tea. I have already dispatched Maid Malgreete to prepare an especially fragrant blend for your 'tea-totaling' pleasure. You will please await my arrival there, for I have a special announcement to make that concerns you all. First things first. Gentlemen?"

The men trouped off in the direction of the smoking room, while the ladies hoisted their hems and sashayed to a tea party in the drawing-room downstairs. Yuno was left behind in the great hall, huddled in his blanket, near the fire. Alone, the old medicine-man raised his voice and began to chant an ancient song, a song long since passed down through the ages by his ancestors. It was about a one-eyed dog that defecated in a sacred spirit-lodge. The tribe killed the dog, smoked it over a fire, and ate it.

The smoking room was situated after the library in the east wing. Its windows were draped in maroon velvet, though the richness of the plush was long since marred by age and neglect. A collection of rusty sabers, lances, and muskets decorated the walls. There were paintings of epic battles between fierce armies of men, and though once jarring and vivid, they now hung on the walls robbed of clarity by a layer of dust, reduced to weak reminders of a bygone era.

With the exception of Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, the gentlemen of the house changed out of their tailcoats and into velvet smoking jackets and caps. A fire warmed the room, and soon, tobacco smoke drifted, thick and pungent, throughout.

Rohbair, Alfonso, and Buck had settled themselves comfortably in armchairs near the fire. Ernie 'Lad' tended to the blaze. Chin resembled a bespectacled school boy in his cap and over-sized jacket. He seemed at a lost for how to conduct himself in a setting so overtly foreign it could only have caused him no end of angst. So he sat bolt upright in a straight-back chair, stiff, motionless, hands in his lap. Only his exaggerated eyes moved, blinking from time to time. Horst wandered about somewhat aimlessly until taking a keen interest in the collection of weaponry. When one or another piece in particular caught his fancy, he'd take it down for closer inspection. Thus, he brandished a cutlass here, hefted a lance there, he even put an old blunderbuss to his shoulder so that he might sight down the barrel. Zero seized an opportune moment to signal the steward, indicating he needed a private word.

In a voice loud enough for all to hear, Oboe said, "Gentlemen, as we are all concerned, please take some time to give consideration to what we might do about Yuno. Help yourselves to spirits and such. The bar is open. Myself and my good man, Zero, here, shall be in the billiards room. Join us if you wish, the game promises to be quite sporting."

No one appeared much interested in displacing themselves from the comfort or fixation they currently occupied, so Oboe and Zero left them. And because the steward wanted to be sure no one could slip away unnoticed, he was mindful to leave the double doors between the rooms wide open.

Zero racked the balls.

Oboe, with his one good eye on the door, chalked a cue. He wasted no time in coming straight to the point. His manner was blunt and deliberate. "Say what needs be said Mr. Izzero, before someone decides to spectate."

"There's been a minor setback," said Zero. "The team has disappeared."

Oboe dropped the chalk. His odd eye went into spasms. "Disappeared!" He was gritting his teeth now. "How-in-hell, does a team of horses disappear?"

"A very good question, sir, but I have absolutely no idea. What is more strange, is that it's not just the team; every head of horse we had in the stables has been run out to the paddocks. They're off—scattered—all of them! Well, no, actually, the mare in foal, yet resides within." Zero shrugged his shoulders. "I went to the tool shed to hitch the harness. And with that done, off I went to the fetch the mares. But low and behold, the stables were bare. Nary a trace, save the tracks in the snow."

Oboe cast his regard through the doorway to the smoking room beyond. His menacing stare came to rest squarely on the back of the stable master's head. "Where is the wagon now, Mr. Izzero?"

"Oh, in the lumber room—as requested. Not to worry." Zero's cheerful smiled did little to ease Oboe's agitation.

"And how exactly did you manage to get it there?"

Zero appeared to anticipate the question. He wore a smug expression when he answered, "Why, dear sir, you must take me for an imbecile incapable of overcoming an unforeseen obstacle. I used a bucket of oats to attract a means of locomotion. Then it was simply a matter of harnessing the beast to the buckboard and  ... well, the rest is easily deduced, I'm sure."

Oboe looked somewhat relieved, but then a thought caught his attention, prompting him to ask, "What beast might we be speaking of Mr. Izzero ... in this particular instance?"

"The jackass—a stout animal to be sure, Mr. Oboe. Fear not, he'll haul a hefty load a good long way."

As disappointing as it was, it was too late to redress the situation. The pair of mares—the team of choice—had been preferred since their power and value surpassed that of the jackass. Oboe sighed and let it be. The despicable ass, as stubborn and belligerent as he was, would just have to do.

The steward checked his pocket watch. It was getting late.

Zero leaned over to line up his shot. "I note you seem somewhat preoccupied with the time. And have been for most of the evening." He took his shot and potted the ball. "Time does tick away, does it not?"

"Indeed," answered Oboe without bothering to elaborate. He was distracted with thoughts beyond the here and now.

Zero continued, "I wish to state—so long as the opportunity presents—that I have not shared so much as a shred of detail or concern regarding any of your requests. Further, that I have done all you have asked and not raised questions as to the 'whys' and 'wherefores'. So now, kind sir, allow me this indiscretion: For what other reason would you want the buckboard hidden and ready for travel in the middle of the night, if not for committing some nefarious deed?"

The steward regarded his inquisitive opponent. It did not appear Zero could be brushed aside again by playing down the importance of the matter at hand.

"I'm leaving," said Oboe, "and no one is to know. I depart tonight."

Zero's surprise registered with raised brow. "Lord! That is an astounding revelation. But where will you go? Will you be back? Who's to be steward?"

"It is suffice to know, I'll be gone in the morning. As to my return? Only the fates can answer. But as for now, there remains the conclusion of tonight's soiree. And to that end, dear Zero, I can now inform you that I have received a reply from Marie-Claire. It seems our little 'arrangement' has paid dividends. Your position is strong. To wit: you are invited to her apartments this very evening. But, as these sorts of affairs are rather delicate, you must slip away and enter her chambers while no one is the wiser. I suggest you do so directly after we conclude our business here. Marie-Claire will join you there in one hour's time."

"As Zeus is my judge! You, dear sir, have put me on the moon. I'm indebted—I'm beyond ... I—"

"Calm yourself, man. No need for words. Consider your aid and your loyalty, repaid."

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo sauntered through the door, saying, "Not to be rude, gents, but where's the feckin joy in sitting around sucking on cigars and spirits? I'd be one for joining the women folk. Least ye'd be having a laugh."

"Come, laddie, finish the game on my behalf," invited Oboe. "I've some unfinished business to attend to." Without waiting for a response, the steward handed his cue to Ernie, and in passing, leaned close and whispered, "The maiden awaits. You have one hour."

The twinkle in the young man's eyes and the wide grin on his face said all there was to say. He puffed out his chest and stepped to the table, primed for a match.

The steward was on his way to the bar located in a corner of the smoking room. As he approached and passed by the trio of men seated near the fire, their conversation fell away and paused until he'd distanced himself again. Though too far to overhear, Oboe observed from behind the bar. Chin still sat apart, alone, quiet, only his eyes darting around the room. He didn't drink. He didn't smoke. Horst sat at a desk, thumbing through an illustrated book of medieval weapons. He had a snifter of brandy and cigar keeping him company.

Oboe placed seven small, tulip-shaped glasses on a tarnished silver tray. He filled each with an eau de vie. Glancing round the room to reassure himself he would be undisturbed, he slipped another item from his cummerbund—a small vial containing crystals of chloral hydrate. He dispensed a carefully measured dose in each glass. In putting the vial back in the fold of his cummerbund, he happen to catch Horst's eye and waved him over.

The overseer marched smart, and without hesitation, straight to the bar. Oboe thought he might salute but instead, he said, "Yah, so now we have za drinks and za smokes and za idea come to me. What we can do for zis man—Yuno—we can make za command post, a small army what is taking za turns for guard him, yah. So, when za guard is tired—"

"Horst! Do you wish to spend the night with your lover or would you rather play commandant?" Oboe had the overseer's full attention. "We'll toast to our good health, after which, you will await Maid Malgreete in her chambers. I will send her. Go summon Zero and the lad to the hearth."

Horst beamed. If he had any further concern for Yuno, it was overridden by his passion for Malgreete. Without so much as a single word in reply, Horst spun on his heels, thwacked his crop against his boot-top, and strutted off towards the billiard room.

Oboe took a deep breath, picked up the tray, and carried it towards the mantel. He'd tapped Chin on the shoulder in passing, asking him to join as well. Chin Cheong slipped off his chair and followed, mumbling something under his breath. But the steward either didn't hear, or didn't care what he'd said.

Oboe placed the tray on the mantel, turned to the three men watching him, and smiled. He checked his timepiece. It was just before midnight. The others gathered while he carried on about how pleased he was with the performances and the dinner and the ambiance and the camaraderie and so forth. At length, he said, "Gentlemen, despite the occurrence of two unfortunate circumstances taking place this evening, I do believe we have mounted and executed a stupendous event. Our grand soiree has been nothing short of magical." Oboe began handing out the drinks. "I should like to close by wishing you all a fond goodnight and may—oh my! I've miscounted our number." Oboe feigned a look of bewilderment, and even went so far as to scratch his head. He said he wouldn't be but a moment. Then he scuttled back to bar where he poured a glass for himself.

Alfonso, Buck, and Bob exchanged glances. Ernie grinned. Horst and Zero were already fantasizing over the night ahead. Chin's discomfort was plain to see—as plain as the ridiculous clothing he wore.

"There we are," said Oboe, rejoining the men, "now then, where were we? In midst of raising a toast, I believe." His good eye did a quick scan, ensuring each still held their drink. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his glass, "to our continued good health, to our continuing friendship and collaboration, and to our great success with all our endeavors." Oboe looked each man in the eye. "Bottoms up!"

The steward held his gaze level to be certain everyone drained their glass. Because, though Rohbair had been tippling, he was not prone to excess this evening. So too, Alfonso and Buck Knowles seemed guarded, wary of consuming too much drink. And Chin was cautious as ever. Oboe suspected any one of them might try to avoid his "special" goodnight-cocktail. The other three were not a worry; they had imbibed heartily and with abandon, possibly to overcome inhibitions while in mixed company.

Satisfied all seven men would be fast asleep within the hour, Oboe doffed his cap and jacket, bid them all sweet dreams, and left.

When he entered the drawing-room, the ladies were just finishing tea and biscuits. An animated discussion had sprung up between Marie-Claire, Lisa, and Marlyse. It was about Yuno. And because the views expressed concerning his comportment were wide and varied, and because disagreements ensued, emotions ran high. Small wonder, then, they took little notice of the steward entering the room.

Malgreete was nowhere to be seen.

"Excuse my interruption, ladies," said Oboe, advancing. "Does anyone know where Maid Malgreete is to be found?"

The women suspended their conversation long enough for Marlyse to reply. "Last I seen, she sitting in the kitchens, chomping on a pork chop." Turning back to the matter at hand, she continued, "Like I said, Goofer dust and hoodoo go hand in hand and that old Injun, he root-working all a time—mixing up mojos and such. He messed up, mon, and that's what's sure."

"Ahem ... ladies?" Oboe waited. "Again, my apologies. I only wish to inform you I'll be back in a few minutes, so please bear with me. As I said earlier, I have an important announcement to make, but I must insist Maid Malgreete is here as well. I'll just nip out to get her. Carry on."

Oboe left the women to their conjecture and made for the kitchens.

He found the maid hunched over an empty plate, toying with a pork bone, twirling it between her fingers in a bored, lackadaisical manner. She snapped out of her reverie as soon she heard the door close.

"Grand, glad to see you're still awake," said Oboe. "I was worried you'd serve tea and retire to the privacy of your chambers."

"I want, but you say wait so we can talk. So, now we can talk, ya?"

From her tone, it was apparent Malgreete's mood had soured over the past hour or so. And not wanting to upset her unduly, Oboe knew he'd better choose his words carefully because her participation would be critical to executing the final phase of his plan.

"Yes, we can talk," he said. "But first I must ask you, where is the Lady Blunt? It is no longer in the drawing-room—I've just come from there."

His question met with confusion.

"Lady Blunt? What Lady Blunt?"

"The violin."

Malgreete's eyes narrowed. Her pinched face signaled irritability. "Violin. Blunt. What you want to say? This silly-time funny-talking ... I have no mood for this. So say!"

Oboe's nerves were frayed from the long day, the setbacks, the rewards, the whole affair. He wearied of dealing with convoluted assumptions, and what he thought of as block-headed people. Even so, he was acutely aware, the anger welling up inside would serve no useful purpose; it was imperative he maintain these last vestiges of self-control. He concentrated all of his efforts at calming himself. He took a deep breath—he was almost there, almost at the grand finale. He did his best to smile at the grumpy woman tapping the pork bone on the counter. With a voice forcibly mellowed and measured, he asked, "Maid Malgreete, where is the violin I played earlier this evening?"

"How I should know? You play it, ya? So, still where you leave, in the dancing room."

"Not that one," snapped Oboe. "The Lady—the ..."—closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, recomposing himself—"the violin I played in the drawing-room."

"I put back. In the music room."

"Fine." Oboe struggled to keep the inflection in his voice free of condescension. "Would you pleeease be-so-kind as to bring it back to the drawing-room? I'll meet you there. I believe I'll take a minute to gather my ... I just need a moment to myself. Please."

Malgreete studied the steward for a moment before slipping off her stool and trundling off to do his bidding.

The moment Maid Malgreete departed, Oboe was at the pantry door, lighting a candle. And no sooner did he enter, that he laid his eye on the casks at the back of the room. He hustled over. A close examination revealed the dust on the upper most barrel had recently been disturbed. And, upon even closer inspection, Oboe deduced that he would need to remove the head of the barrel, which, by its orientation, faced him.

He managed this in short order.

Holding up the candlelight to illuminate the strongbox, Oboe marveled at the magnificent ornamentation bathed in the soft yellow glow. But this was no time for ogling craftsmanship. He fished the key he'd taken from the crypt out of his trouser pocket and inserted it in the lock. With the hasp released, Oboe set the candle to the side and opened the chest. It was lined in a dark blue velvet, and in the middle, the third key—the butler's key—rested on a tiny marble pedestal. There was nothing else in the box. Oboe grabbed the key and quickly restored all as it was.

Back in the main kitchen, the steward took four sherry glasses from a shelf, dusted them off with a cloth, and placed them on a tray. As an afterthought, he added an enameled goblet made of a deep blue translucent glass—a ceremonial goblet. After dispensing an appropriate dose of crystals in the sherry glasses, Oboe topped them up with a fragrant Oloroso—a salute to the Andalusian-born Alfonso who'd been especially watchful of late. He filled the goblet with wine, picked up the tray, and left the kitchens to rejoin the women.

Oboe entered the drawing-room smiling. He nodded to the ladies in passing and placed the tray on the sideboard. Malgreete sat at the desk with her head in her hands, bored, listless, as inaccessible as ever. The trio, comfortably arranged in soft armchairs, appeared on the verge of drifting off to sleep, the disagreements, the discussion, the lively debate, no longer a source of stimulation; the subject of Yuno's circumstance had been drained of significance.

Oboe noted the violin case resting on the desk. He walked over, checked his timepiece, and without word to anyone, opened it and began to play. The effect on his audience was immediate and extraordinary: Malgreete's head popped up and she straightened from her slumped position. She brightened and there was an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes. A flicker of a smile materialized, if only for an instant. The sound of Oboe's improvisational dance melody, with its lively tempo and energetic rhythm, made the other women perk up in similar fashion—except their smiles did not vanish. There was much ruffling of petticoats and lace as they shifted to accommodate the involuntarily toe-tapping. Oboe piled variation upon variation, alternating between two melodic strains, keeping the sound fresh and yet familiar. The delirious fiddle tune's contagious appeal was meant to arouse all parties present—and it did, at that.

As the appreciative applause subsided, Oboe said, "Sorry ladies, not exactly my forte." Then, ignoring polite comments to the contrary, he put the instrument down and picked up the tray of drinks. He put a glass in front of Malgreete and handed one to each of the other three women.

Goblet in hand, Oboe raised his arm and proposed a toast that amounted to nothing more than a stale platitude: "The success of tonight's soiree—and for which I am deeply indebted—is due, in large part, to the wonderful ladies of the manor. For without your perseverance, skill, and participation, none of this would have been possible. Thank you. Here is to you."

The women raised their glasses and drank to their success.

Taking up the precious Stradivarius—the Lady Blunt—the steward began to play a Brahms lullaby. And with the soothing melody dreamily floating on air, it wasn't long before the ladies turned their thoughts to sleep. Marlyse said goodnight and excused herself. A minute later, Lisa nudged Marie-Claire, who's eyes had already fluttered and closed. They left. And when they were gone, Oboe stopped playing and put the violin back in its case.

Malgreete, head in hands, asked the steward, "So now, how we do?"

Oboe took a sip of wine, smiled, and answered, "Go to your room and get some rest. I will tap on your door before first light, while everyone still sleeps. Be sure to dress warm. Bring only essential needs."

With the effects of the sedative beginning to metabolize and acting on the maid's central nervous system, the suggestion to sleep transformed to a subliminal desire. Malgreete grunted something approximating an agreement and got to her feet. She shuffled out of the drawing-room, leaving the steward to himself.

Oboe took one last swallow from his cup, glanced around the room and smiled. Tucking the violin under his arm, he left.

As he passed the dance hall on the way to his chambers, he stopped to look in on Yuno. The fire continued to blaze, but now the old man no longer huddled nearby. Instead, he stood wrapped in a blanket before an open window, looking out to the moon and stars. Oboe was about turn away when Yuno leaned his head back and howled at the moon. It was a long, drawn-out, mournful howl that sent a shiver down the steward's spine.

In the distance, another howl rose up in answer. Nero.

Anxious to get underway, Oboe checked the time—a little after two. By now, everyone would be fast asleep, no matter the circumstance. And with Bin safely locked in his room and Yuno delirious and confused, there would be no better opportunity to finalize the affairs of this estate. It was time to retire.

Oboe dressed for the cold night ahead, collected his grip along with a bundle of pilfered necessities, and left his quarters. He had his lute thrown over his back, the Lady Blunt protected inside a rolled woolen blanket. Oboe bustled through corridors and down stairwells, hindered by the cumbrous bundles clumsily bumping and colliding against his bowed legs. Despite the burden, his heart was light, everything had gone according to plan, and soon, the riches of the estate would be in hand. He would be a wealthy man.

He was glad for the brightness of the near-full moon shining through the glass in the conservatory. It allowed him to pick his way to the wicker settee and table with a minimum of fuss. Oboe wasted no time in hoisting the coffee table up and pushing it out of the way. It was only when his eye focused on the detail of the strongbox that he felt alarm. The hideous nature of the ornamentation gave the man a fright. And that fright only heightened when, on his knees, he bent close to examine the scenes depicted thereon. Oboe struggled to control his trembling fingers as he forced his hand to take the key from his coat pocket. Reaching to insert the key into the mouth of the leering skull-shaped hasp, he reminded himself of the riches that awaited. The lock clicked. The hasp, released. Oboe held his breath and lifted the lid.

"NO! NO!" The roaring denial, the torment, the anger, filled the conservatory, threatening to shatter glass. On his knees, Oboe stared in disbelief at the horrid reality before him. The box held no riches. No jewels. No treasure. Nothing of value. The open box, like a toothless, gaping mouth, mocking him, held naught but a small, neatly-folded piece of paper—a note.

Tramp,

Conniving, thieving-tramp that you are, know that you shall die a lonely soul, fallen by the wayside, surrounded by false friendships garnered to abet in your deceits. And know, the real treasures of this estate are well beyond your reach. So, take heed: Flee as you've planned. Take that which you have stolen. Be gone with you! For your return can only be marked by a condemnation brought upon you by those you have now betrayed.

As I'm sure you know, when all is stripped away, there is only instinct.

Dare

The wandering minstrel, incensed with Bin's deception, realized now, he'd been led by the nose. He felt cheated, robbed of his chance to steal away with the treasures of the manor. Oboe slammed the lid closed. The estate held nothing for him. It was time to leave.

Oboe held up a lantern in the lumber room, surveying the surrounds. The ass, still harnessed to the buckboard, munched fodder left by Zero who'd had the sense to foresee a need to keep the animal complacent. Oboe tucked his provisions, grip, and blankets under the seat boards. He loaded the jute sacks containing valuables collected by Malgreete—trinkets for the most part, an insignificant pittance for all the scheming and convoluted trickery he'd masterminded. With the real treasure unattainable, and the bulk of his intended plunder, now, also beyond his grasp, he had little left with which to console himself if not for the Lady Blunt. At least the violin would fetch a handsome price in the market.

Heavy coat, hat, scarf, and mittens donned, and wagon loaded, Oboe swung open the massive double doors to the outside world. The wintry night, moonlit and calm above a powdered snow-covered landscape, showed every promise of a pleasant journey ahead. The minstrel's wandering eye gleamed. He turned and walked back to mount the buckboard. But just as he lifted his leg, a black blur streaked through the entrance led by a ferocious set of fangs. It launched into the air, and the fangs closed on the rump of the recently-retired steward. A yowl of pain escaped Oboe's shocked features. But the beast hung tight. Oboe snatched the whip from the buckboard and attempted to whip the dog biting his buttocks. In the flurry of commotion, what with all the shouting and growling, the frightened jackass reared and jostled in its harness. It kicked, catching Oboe in the chest and knocking him back. He fell on the mongrel, its teeth still gripping his flesh. The crushing weight and suddenness of the fall caused the mutt to loose his hold. It yelped, struggled free, and fled. Oboe rolled onto his stomach, got to his knees, and then to his feet. He cursed his attacker with a steady stream of invective while rubbing his behind as he hobbled to the wagon. The jackass settled and Oboe mounted the wagon to take up the reins.

Not long thereafter, a serene silence enveloped the estate. All that could be seen through the wide-open doors, under the twinkling stars and moonlight, were the tracks in the snow disappearing into the cold, crisp night.

A curtain, high up, at the furthest extremity of the west wing, came back down to rest.
Part Three

Allegory

"Secrets hidden between lines;  
the deeper meaning behind words—a piece of life's puzzle."

Chapter Sixteen

Steering Clear

The meeting was scheduled for nine o'clock—sharp. It was quarter to the hour. Rohbair stood before a full-length mirror appraising his appearance. Clean-shaven and dressed in his best, he fancied he looked quite the dandy. He had Marlyse to thank for pressing his morning coat—or cutaway, as the Yanks liked to call it. Aside from a down-in-mouth period around Christmas, Maid Marlyse was proving to be a gem. She never faltered in her enthusiasm, and never failed to regard the future in anything but the most optimistic light. Her bright smile shined like a beacon of hope. In fact, if not for her suggestion, the general meeting this evening would never have occurred. Marlyse had been rather astute in her reasoning. She surmised that the disgruntled population of the estate would embrace a forum in which they could voice their concerns. Certainly, after the holiday season's "festivities".

Rohbair threw a few more logs on the fire. He knew if he wasn't away too long there might yet be embers with which to rekindle a blaze upon his return. The nights had been cold of late, and the warmth from the hearth proved a welcome enticement. Rohbair checked the time. He pulled on his frock coat, lit a lantern, and left.

The hallway was dark, cold, and empty, the windowpanes, frosted over, and yet Rohbair marched with a lively sense of purpose, undaunted by the stark surrounds. His heart beat to the rhythm of the charge. He was going into battle—a warrior, powerful and confident, ready to tear all opposition asunder; to rip discord from the very gullet of its source. No one would be permitted to dethrone him, nor move him from his aim.

The drawing-room. The drawing-room. The drawing-room. The words, like a mantra, drove the butler in the right direction. If there was one thing he'd learned from his last call to meeting it was this: To chair a meeting, one had not only to study the material to be presented, one must also draw upon every resource to actually show up at the appointed venue.

The door had been left open and a flood of golden light spread into the hallway. As he approached, Rohbair could hear the murmur of voices from within. He halted just outside. He took a breath, mustered his resolve, and then crossed the threshold.

Upon entering, the butler saw most everyone had turned out. All except the doctor and Yuno were present, and were now milling about or comfortably seated. Dr. Dare could be excused, of course, since he was not part of the problem. If anything, he stood as an unswerving proponent of positive change. And besides, wasn't it he who drafted the rather effective "invitations" to attend this evening's meeting? The man certainly had a knack for knocking off notes designed to incite action. As for Yuno ... well, what's to be said about Yuno? Sometimes he's there, sometimes he's not.

Rohbair cut through to the front of the room like a strict headmaster about to commence instruction. He removed his coat and hung it on a rack. His movements were brisk and efficient. Turning to his audience, he gave a sharp tug on his waistcoat and stepped to the lectern, which, if truth be told, was actually just a music stand. Rohbair picked up the drumstick he intended to use as a lecturer's pointer. He tapped it on the edge of the stand to call everyone's attention. Voices settled. But not before a rude and derisive flatulent-sounding utterance erupted from their midst. A few disapproving glances pointed to Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo as the culprit. Bob ignored it. Chin didn't—he burst out laughing. Ernie grinned and made the fart-sound again for Chin's benefit. The hysterical laughter consuming the sous-chef terminated abruptly, interrupted by a loud report, not unlike a gunshot going off in a small room. Yuno, who had just entered, had slammed the door behind him.

Everyone's head snapped round, looks of surprise stamped into their features.

"Am I late?" asked Yuno in a calm, guiltless voice.

"No, not at all, I was just about to commence. Please, sit, or stand—squat, if you wish. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Yuno."

Yuno flashed his bark-and-berry stained teeth, but remained in back, leaning against the door, his arms folded across his chest.

Rohbair began the announcement. "First, I should like to thank you, ladies and gentlemen,"— pointing his drumstick at Ernie—"and you as well, Mr. O'Boyo. Thank you for coming together this evening, so that we might review our situation and plot a course for the coming months. Certainly, in the face of these trying times, it is important we pull together if we are to prevail over the difficulties that lie ahead. It's true, and sadly so, that Christmas has come and gone, and with it, only the most frugal of celebratory acknowledgments to mark the occasion."

"Celebration! Ye call that a feckin celebration? Jaysus! Feckin absurd, that's what that was." Marlyse, sitting next to Ernie, put a hand on his arm.

"You are, I must say, entirely right, Mr. O'Boyo. For how in God's name could a chicken ever supplant a turkey with all the trimmings, especially when it comes to a festive Christmas dinner? Squabbles and disappointments were to be expected, of course, but the rather stringent measures of austerity the estate has been forced to adopt, demand everyone participate and try to understand, whether you like it or not."

Marie-Claire weighed in with a comment: "This ees somesing not correct. Christmas ees a time for joy, a time for happiness—yes or no? A grand chef can not make cooking with what we have. It ees not so amusing."

"It is a pity, people, indeed," said Rohbair. "A pity, because owing to the general lack of comestibles with which to prepare meals, our chef cannot indulge in her true passion. But we must admit, given the limited resources, she has performed what can only be described as ... well, as miracles. And for that, we should all be truly thankful."

The chairman's remark prompted a bobble of nodding heads along with a small pattering of applause from Lisa. Zero, standing behind the sofa in which Marie-Claire sat, patted her on the shoulder. In return, she reached up and patted his hand, acknowledging the gesture of appreciation. Chin slouched in an armchair. His head had bobbed and wobbled too, but it was hard to know if he was agreeing or nodding off to sleep.

Horst raised his voice. "Yah, so why za butler must keep za key for zis food closet? Every time locked, and only he can say what we can eat. Something wrong—sure. Zis is what is not correct!"

Ernie chimed in now. "Aye," he said, "for the life o' me, I can't ever remember casting me vote so some geezer gets to hold a feckin key to the pantry. Ye can't even fix a cuppa tea anymore, for feck's sake!"

A rumble of discontent swept through the gathering following the lad's complaint. But Bob was determined. He would not allow the proceedings to degenerate into a mob-ruled forum for hurling abuse. He held up his hands to calm the crowd.

When they'd settled, he said, "Undoubtedly, there are those among you who think I should not have control of remaining food stocks."

Another murmur of discord. And again, Rohbair raised his hands and waited for the disturbance to die down.

"The alternative, I'm afraid to say, is that we leave the larder open to all and sundry. Now can you imagine, for one moment, the scenario that that would engender? Think about it, people. The last of our food supplies would surely be pilfered to satisfy anyone who deemed it necessary to consume more than what is currently rationed. We simply won't survive the rest of the winter." Rohbair paused, letting the statement sink in. "Herr Horst, I do not claim to have any more right to hold the key than you. To that end, we are equals. However, as your domain—at least insofar as it pertains to the estate—is inclusive of everything outside the manor, I trust you will allow me the courtesy of managing affairs within."

There was little anyone could say to refute the butler's statement. Silence prevailed. Rohbair had successfully reined them in, and since he didn't wish to lose ground, he continued, "As we have now commenced the new year, I think—"

"WOO! WOO! WOO-HOO!" Chin had popped out of his chair in the corner, hooting and hollering for all he was worth. "Melly New Year! Melly New Year! WOO!" The spectacle, what with all the shouting and jumping and waving of arms and such, won everyone's full and undivided attention. The exertion took its toll, however. Chin soon stopped, stripped off his overcoat, and flopped back into his armchair, exhausted. "Too hot to hoot!" he said, lapsing into a fit of giggles.

No one found his remark particularly amusing, so they turned back to Rohbair, who'd just then cleared his throat. But before he could begin, Ernie lashed out with another hot-headed rebuke. This time claiming the chintzy excuse for a New Year's eve party, which amounted to nothing more than a cheese plate accompanied by a keg of lager in lieu of champagne and caviar, was a disgrace to humanity. A hardy round of roars from Zero, Horst, and to a lesser degree, Buck and Alfonso, attested to their support for his sentiment. Lisa squeaked a corresponding accord. As did Marie-Claire, although with a more profound resonance. Chin loosed another vociferous "WOO!". Yuno just grinned.

Irate over the petty disruption, Rohbair rapped his drumstick on the music stand, furiously. He bellowed: "Oh, for Christ's sake! Christmas was a bleeding non-event. So what? So was bloody New Year's. What's the matter with you all? Don't you see? It's your fault. Your bloody fault!" He had their attention again. Smoldering eyes scanned their mute faces, daring anyone to so much as smirk.

"Let's," hissed Rohbair, "just get to the crux of the matter, then, shall we?" Everyone sat or stood stock still. No one dared breathe. "Right," continued Rohbair, "a thief, a man who shall remain nameless, arrived at this manor. We took him on his word. And he, he took us for the fools we indeed are. He abused our generosity. He lied. He stole. BUT, he did not, and I repeat, he did not ... do this unaided. He had help."

Rohbair glared at those he thought culpable, lingering on each in turn so that they might feel the intensity of his contempt. Zero looked away and then pretended to be occupied with something caught on his fingernail. Ernie patently avoided eye contact. Horst, fussing with his ascot, did not seem overly perturbed coming under scrutiny. But, when Rohbair's piercing gaze reached Malgreete, who stared straight back, unblinking, unflinching, a curious thing happened: her cold, hard, indigo eyes seemed to melt. And then, a twinkle sparkled in them about the same time that the corners of her mouth flowed into a sultry smile.

Rohbair blinked. He straightened, put his pointer back on the stand, and addressed his audience anew. "However, we are not here this evening to point the finger or lay blame. No, what we should like to accomplish is rather more complicated. Now, I daresay, we must all assume some degree of guilt for the largess squandered at our peril. For the excesses we have allowed, have now come back to haunt us. Thus, we have rationing ... outright depletion in some cases. And we will face further hardships—winter is not over. Therefore, we must learn to do without. And we must learn to come together, to work as a team, to trust—"

Alfonso stood up. "I do not wish to cut you off, señor, but I wonder how you can talk like this. You use these words 'trust', 'learn', 'come together', 'work in a team' ... these words, they have no meaning in this house. Look what has happened to us ... This is no leedle theeng—we almost lose everything. Let me esplain why this is. This is because of desires, señor, individual desires, they are too strong in this house. Like this, I theenk we cannot learn, we cannot trust, and we cannot work like a team. But this is just my feeling."

Alfonso hesitated as if he might have something to add, or maybe he was expecting a response from someone. But since no one gave any indication of having anything to say at that moment, he sat down.

There was a brief silence, broken by a remark from Buck Knowles. "Dang shame," he said, "losing that big ol' mammoth jack and the buckboard and all."

"Aye," said Ernie, surfacing from his thoughts. "But could a been worse; Oboe was after them mares. Wanted a team a horses, didn't he. Jest ask Zero."

Horst came to life now, his voice loud and accusatory. "Zis man, Oboe, he take all what he want. And he can do, why? Because you two"—pointing to Zero and Ernie—"you help, yah? Zis is what is za shame! You want to talk about za team and za work—"

Zero shouted over the clamor of voices. "HOLD your tongue. You have NO right to blame others. You colluded! You were the one who put me to work on the wagon."

"YAH! So who make so you bring za wagon, steal all za harness, za bridles, who ma—"

Zero objected loudly. "I had no part—it was Ernie who—"

"FECK OFF! I put the tack in the wagon. I didn't harness the donkey or—"

Bob was yelling for order, all the while whacking his baton furiously on the music stand. Everyone had something to say and the disruption forced each of them to shout louder than their neighbor. Only Chin and Yuno remained out of the fray. Chin, because he'd passed out. Yuno, because he'd stepped out.

"ORDER! ORDER, I SAY!"

Rohbair's orders had little effect on the mob. Arguments and accusations hurled round the room. Buck, Ernie, Zero, and Horst fought over who was at fault for allowing Oboe to escape. Marie-Claire, Lisa, and the two maids squared off, ready to shred frills and lace over trinkets gone missing from the manor. It wasn't until Alfonso climbed up and stood on a desk that the racket dwindled to a full and final cessation. He had their attention.

"Amigos, you are all carried away with your passion. You feel you must be right. It is important for you. So important, you want the other to know they are wrong. You shout. You won't listen. Como niños! Like babies. But you are hearing this now, and I say this: The animals and the things we have lost, this is nothing. Nothing, if you theenk, for just a small moment, what is most important. Not for you. Not for me. Theenk about the future. Without this future—you—me—all of us—we are nothing. Walking dead.

"Six weeks ago, a man—a skillful man—who calls himself Oboe, deceived us and discovered secrets that should not belong to such a man. And this man, amigos, he came very close to stealing our future. For that we must all feel shame. Shame, because no one in this room here tonight—not one—could do anything to stop him. But somebody did. And I am very certain that this somebody cannot walk through walls ... but, can any of you esplain how—"

The door had swung open, but there was no one there. From the corridor, a loud CRACK!—the snap of a whip. Then a sudden clamorous clopping of hooves, which preceded the bizarre appearance of an ox bursting in upon the proceedings. It stopped short at the sight of the astonished huddle of humans. Those who were seated had jumped to their feet, shock, fear, bewilderment frozen on their faces. So, too, the animal appeared startled: its eyes looked to pop from its head, and great snorts of breath rushed from its glistening nostrils.

Buck warned everyone to be still. "No sudden moves. Stay calm. Critter's spooked is all. Zero, you reckon you and Ernie can ease on over to the sides? I'll move down the middle. Maybe we can herd that steer nice and easy-like back out the door."

The farmer and the lad took their cue, moving slow and circling to the sides. Buck advanced down the center, uttering soothing there-theres intended to calm the panic-stricken animal. And all the while, the steady rhythm of Chin's snores provided a sonorous counterpoint to the thin, squeaking sounds escaping from Lisa's tightly-drawn lips.

"Oh, for god's sake, Miss Zeppatini," said Rohbair, "it's just a cow!"

"Nay, Bob," corrected Zero, keeping his eye on the huffing beast, "'tis not as you say, 'just a cow'. This magnificent creature standing here in the middle of the room is a steer."
Chapter Seventeen

Hoodoo vs Voodoo

The morning's sunlight, bright and inviting, glistened in a row of icicles suspended under the eaves. Now and again, a timid droplet of water would form on the tip of an icicle. There it would hang for a moment, as if somehow hesitant to let go. But then, in a silent, triumphant release, it would drop away, falling, diving, an exhilarating mad rush to the ground, three stories below—a tiny little splat on the slush-covered flagstone.

Rohbair lay in his massive bed listening to cooing doves nesting under the eaves. He stared out the window. He imagined a man—a man with a wandering eye, a lute strung over his back—strolling on the stone path below. He imagined that by the sheer strength of his will, he could command the glass-like daggers of ice poised to pierce unsuspecting passers-by, to fall away. He imagined ...

A light, but insistent, knocking at the door forced him to abandon delicious thoughts of revenge. He heaved a sigh and called out. "Yaas, Miss Marliemon, come in, come in."

Maid Marlyse swung the double doors wide, smiled her cheery smile, and said, "Top o' the morning to you, Mista Bobby-mon. Sleep well?"

"I say, Miss Marliemon, must you call me by that absurd name, every day?"

"What—Bobby-mon? What's wrong with that, mon?"

"The name is Bosworth. Can you not see fit to simply use that, rather than 'Bobby-mon'? I mean, really ... is it really so hard?" Rohbair's irritation was mirrored in the brisk manner in which he donned his housecoat, and in the way in which he strode through the clutter of his bedchamber, kicking clumps of apparel aside. And again, once in the day-room, where he dropped into his armchair and swept a mess of papers and books and knickknacks off a low table onto the floor.

Marlyse had muttered something under her breath, but the butler hadn't bothered to ask for clarification. Nor did he seem eager to press the point further. Maid Marlyse retrieved the breakfast tray from the sideboard in the hall and laid it on the table.

Rohbair stared at the miserable offering: a boiled egg, a crust of bread, tea, and a left-over potato. He was disheartened. He wondered how it was unappealing meals, meant to provide sustenance and vitality to his being, should routinely find their way before him at the start of each day. Because of Oboe, that bloody bastard, that's how!

"If you fixing to jest stare at it all day, mon, I don't mind saying, I'll eat it for you. 'Cause them eggs is powerful hard to come by these days."

"Miss Marliemon," said Rohbair with an air of genuine interest, "why do you bother? Putting yourself out, I mean. Making a breakfast for me each day. You do realize if you suddenly stopped, there would be precious little consequence. Nobody can force you to do otherwise."

Marlyse did not so much as give it a second thought. She explained: "Mista Boswort-mon, I fix vittles for you everyday, 'cause when we ain't outta coffee and all that other good stuff you like, it sometimes—not all a times—but sometimes helps get you up on your feet. And if you feeling good, then sometimes you like trying to be the boss, getting things done. That's why I do it, mon."

Rohbair was mulling that over while simultaneously nodding his head. "Well, I thank you, Marlyse—Miss! I mean, Maid Marliemon, I—I should ... thank you."

Marlyse smiled and curtsied.

Just as she turned to leave, Rohbair stopped her. "I say, I do hope you won't find I'm being overly inquisitive. But I wonder, did you find ... No, no that's all right. Never mind. I don't wish to pry." Marlyse encouraged him to continue, and so he did. "It's just that, well, when that impostor—the steward—was here in the manor, didn't you find that ... well, that you had more fun? You know, as if the mundane were put aside and that there was a certain aura of the unexpected circulating on the estate?"

"That Oboe-mon be bad news," said Marlyse, "no matter how you wanna look at it. He a thief. He stole a whole lot a stuff. He duped us, clean and clear. He full a mayhem, mon, and there ain't no other way to be looking at it. Look at Chin. Look what it did to him. Look what it did to all a us. So don't you go thinking he done us any bit a good. 'Cause that's jest plain bad thinking. And that's all I got to say bout that."

"I suppose you're right, he was a bad influence. It just doesn't seem possible ... I mean, how could Milady send us a man of this caliber—a crook!"

"Mista Boswort-mon, there ain't no way, no how, that fine lady done sent us the Oboe-mon. I jest can't believe that."

"But how did he know to mention her—that she was to send us a steward? How do you explain that?"

"I can't. But he sneaky and he clever. That I do know."

"Do you think Maid Malgreete likes me?"

"WHAT!" Marlyse's features bore the incredulity of what she'd just heard. She stumbled through an attempt to recover from the shock when she stammered, "Do I—she—does she like you? Like, like you, like you?"

Bob flushed. He suddenly realized he'd let down his guard. It was a mistake. He shouldn't have allowed the discourse to escalate. "What I mean to say is, um, ... as you know, as head butler, I'm meant to issue directives from time to time. Directives, Miss Van Bleake is duty-bound to carry out. However, it would appear she ...  well, she has absolutely no compunction ignoring my desires—demands, rather. I—I don't think she likes me."

Marlyse appeared to be absorbing the information while at the same time deciphering the context. At length, she said, "That girl don't like nobody, mon, least of all you. You the one s'pose to be her boss. Now I don't think she be all bad, you know. No, I think she jest needs the right kind a direction." The maid took a moment to redirect her line of exposition. She resumed, "Malgreete got some meanness in her. And you ought a know, mon—if you don't already—that Kunkle, he got his eye on her. Pretty sure he got a thing for her, if ya know what I mean?" Bob nodded. "Well, since this Oboe ordeal, I can see—don't know if you noticed, yourself—but ol' Kunkle and Malgreete acting like a couple a copulating cuckoos ... in a matter a speaking, a course."

Rohbair nodded again, though now as if following a train of impressions originating in his own mind. Marlyse exited quietly, leaving him to mull over the implications of her observation. For there was little doubt, she had provided the butler with ample food for thought.

Bosworth seized his fork and stabbed the potato.

Kunkle. Horst-bloody-Kunkle! What could she possibly see in that overblown half-wit? She'd sent him bloody packing! Despised him. How in blazes did he win her back? Strange. Who was it—Alfonso—man's a bleeding bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out characters skulking about the manor—said he'd spied Kunkle lurking in the stairwell. Upper floor of the west wing. No small co-incidence I suppose. Hoping to catch sight of her, no doubt. Or, what's more bloody likely, mustering the courage to knock on her door. But then what was that "look" during the meeting? And before, throwing herself on me—the passion, the embrace. What is that woman on about? She's toying with me, surely. 'Getting on like a couple of copulating cuckoos' indeed. Cuckolded—I feel bloody cuckolded! Must get that bleeding Kunkle off this estate. Bloody nuisance!

Marlyse wound her way down through the manor to the kitchens. There, in the bowels of the main kitchen, she found Yuno, hunched over a shelf, sniffing at an array of spices. He didn't turn or seem the least bit concerned with her presence. He did, however, extend a greeting as he continued inhaling aromatic samplings. When Marlyse returned the polite gesture, he made an intuitive comment that struck her as cryptic, and yet, somehow, clear, if framed in a certain context.

He said, "The dark maid needs to know and understand, she is useful, too. Twin maids, one black, one white, both the same but different,"—opening a small jar containing a black powder—"anyway, both maids are made to aid." Yuno sniffed. His nose twitched and he sneezed.

Marlyse wondered if Yuno meant for her to infer that he was the author of the message—the one she'd received nine months earlier, the one traced in the dust on the windowsill. She puzzled over his reference to the "dark maid". Did he mean Malgreete or her? And what is it the "dark maid" needs to know and understand? And how on earth could she be anything like that nasty old Malgreete?

Marlyse dropped the medicine-man's mystifying comments for the time being. He was now at the prep counter dispensing the black powder into a small cloth sack. She approached. But before she could ask, he said, "I'll tell you, if you promise not to tell anyone."

Marlyse nodded.

Yuno looked at her and asked again, "Do you promise?"

Marlyse nodded.

"Can you hear me?"

"Sure I hear you. Plain as I can see you."

"Good ... so, you promise?"

"I promise."

"Good, good to hear."

Marlyse was perplexed. He was looking right at her—or right through her, she wasn't sure which. She waved at him. His eyes didn't flicker in the slightest; they remained unfocused, looking in her direction.

"Anyway, why are you waving at me?" he asked. "Are you leaving? I haven't told you what I'm going to do with the pepper."

Marlyse brought her hand down, feeling silly. "Okey doke, what's with the pepper, mon?"

Yuno explained how he used it to keep Nero from tracking him when he trekked up the mountain at sunrise. And, since spring was soon to arrive, he wanted to replenish his supply. When Marlyse quizzed him on why he cared whether Nero tracked him or not, he said he didn't, but then as an afterthought, added that it was matter of pride.

Marlyse put her hands on her hip. "You know what, mon? We ain't got much a nothing left around here. And I'm thinking, you making off with all that black pepper jest so's you can throw it on a ground ... well, it's a shameful waste! Now if you need it for root-working or hoodoo or something, I could understand. But jest to fool ol' Nero ... that ain't right, mon."

Yuno grinned. "The little black one should teach the dark white one how to be useful."

"Look here, Yuno-mon, I don't much care bout all this black and white and who is right and who's useless and who has to learn and who has to teach. And besides, we talking bout pepper here, mon. Plain ol' pepper."

"You're right," said Yuno, "it's just black pepper, anyway."

"Don't mean it ain't useless, jest 'cause it's pepper."

"You're right. White pepper. Black pepper. Both, just pepper. Both useful."

"Don't have to joke, Yuno! Don't have to make me feel small. I jest telling you to stop wasting when we ain't got a lot a something—like pepper." Marlyse pouted, feeling like Yuno had got the better of her when all she was trying to do is teach him not be wasteful. It was not a trivial matter.

"Don't feel bad or small because of words, little one. You wanted to talk about pepper. We did. And I learned from you, anyway. You have a powerful spirit, little one, and it's big, too. You are needed here." Yuno poured the contents of his little cloth sack back into the jar. "I have to go now," he added.

Marlyse took to heart the sincerity of Yuno's words. She felt better. They had never really had much opportunity to converse on meaningful topics in the past; Yuno was a hard person to talk to. But through the discourse that preceded, Marlyse had come to understand that Yuno—for all his strange ways—was not someone who was inherently malicious. In fact, she thought he was kind of sweet, in an odd sort of way.

"Hey! Hold up a minute, mon. Mind if I ask you something?"

Yuno turned back. "Shoot."

"Don't feel like you obliged to answer, mon, 'cause it's jest something I been thinking bout for a while now. And could be, maybe you thinking it too personal-like. So like I said, don't feel obliged."

Yuno stood placidly waiting for her to continue. She took a deep breath.

"The night a that big shindig, when we was all in the fancy dance hall, you got up to some strange shenanigans ... What happen to you, mon?"

Yuno smiled large, revealing his bark-and-berry stained teeth. He took a seat on the wooden stool next to the counter, opened his leather pouch, and began preparations for a smoke. Marlyse could see Yuno was settling in to tell his tale. She pulled up a stool.

Before long, Yuno, puffing his pipe, began. "For a long time," he said, "maybe two weeks, I couldn't remember. The spirit-thief—the one hiding in the smoke—stole my memories. But then I found them again, anyway. So now I remember: I was watching the fire-spirit dance; I could hear the music; I could feel the warmth; everything was as it should be. Then everything changed." Yuno went on to detail his Datura-induced delirium, much to the enjoyment of the maiden.

Marlyse sat perfectly still, mesmerized, listening to the medicine-man recount how he'd transformed into various feathered spirits—first a chicken, then a crow, and finally, a hybrid combination of the two. She heard how he'd shed his human skin, and how he summoned all manner of animal spirits while attempting to cast off the effects of the drug, to no avail. He told her of relinquishing the struggle, and the peace and the delight found in visions that came to him while staring into the flames. Yuno recalled how a powerful wolf-spirit took over his being and stayed with him to the end, protecting him from further perturbations.

When he had finished telling his tale, Marlyse shook her head, amazed. She said to him, "Yuno-mon, you sure had us all worried bout you. Whatever kinda hoodoo that Oboe-mon put on you, sure messed you up, mon. Now let me ask you, how do you think that googly-eyed carpetbagger got here, anyhow? Do you think that fine lady really sent him to us?"

"The man with the crazy eye came to us but the white princess did not send him. This man's spirit wanders the earth. You find him on every path. He waits for you at the fork in the road."

Marlyse grinned. "Next, you gonna wanna tell me he speak with forked tongue."

There was no mirth in the old medicine-man's tone or aspect when he said, "Next time you meet him, little one, ask him which path you should follow. Then you will know."

"I don't think that Oboe-mon gonna be back here anytime soon ... 'less he wanna get his-self lynched."

"The great fire-spirit gave me a vision. A warrior will come. The white princess sends him to us." Yuno broke off, seemingly reluctant to elaborate.

"Yuno! You gotta tell me, mon, what else d'you see?"

The gardener stood, put his pipe in his pouch, and turned to the door. The sunlight, beaming through the high-set windows, reflected in his silver hair.

"What else d'you see? Yuno—"

Yuno did not turn to her, but his voice was solemn and nuanced with a sense of foreboding when he stated, "The warrior rides a black horse—a horse with a crazy eye."

The image of a warrior riding a black horse with evil, unsettling, crazy eyes, materialized in the maiden's imagination. Her unfocused stare became lost in the translucent, whitish, shimmering glow emanating from the medicine-man's long mane of hair. It held her captive, entangled in a dream-like state. Images formed and dissipated in a succession of animated battles—struggles between forces of good and evil, rooted in the essence of her being. She felt as if her soul were on fire.

"Marly! Eh, ye all right?"

Marlyse blinked, and there stood Ernie, looking concerned.

"Ernie-mon, hi. I didn't see you." She glanced around, somewhat bewildered, wondering what happened to Yuno.

"Ye didn't answer when I first come in ... jest sat there daydreaming. Anything wrong?"

Marlyse reassured the stable boy there was no need for concern and that she was fine. She then went on to tell him about her encounter with Yuno.

"Aye," said Ernie, when she'd concluded, "that geezer's more than jest a wee bit odd. I've said it before and I don't mind saying it again, the man's a feckin spook!"

Marlyse frowned at the young man taking a seat next to her at the counter.

"What?" he asked, frowning back at her.

"Do you really gotta be cussing like that all the time? Can't you jest give it a rest?"

The disappointment in Marlyse's regard became all too apparent. The lad's gaze fell away, drifting to the floor. He tapped his fingers on the counter. The young woman reached out and put her hand on his, suppressing his anxiety-driven thrumming. With her other, she lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. She could see a fusion of anger and hurt, the pain of an immature lover who's perfect view of the world has suffered a blow. A blow made all the worse because it came at the hands of the very one he worshiped—the one who made the world perfect.

Marlyse, her voice soothing, asked him, "D'you gather eggs yet, Ernie-mon?"

He blinked. And in that moment, Marlyse caught a flicker of astonishment in his eyes. It flashed for the briefest of moments, just before a smoldering irritation that made what he said next, not the least bit surprising. "Jaysus, Marly. Feck! Ye thinks ye can order me about? It's no concern o' mine. That wee chinky fella, Chin—he's the one what's suppose to fetch the feckin eggs and veggies and shyte. Jest 'cause he's up to his gizzard in lager all day doesn't mean I should have to be the one to fetch everything for dinner ... for feck's sake!"

Marlyse smiled, squeezed his hand, and leaned in close to give him a peck on the cheek. "I asking nicely, Ernie-mon. Not ordering—asking nicely." She winked at him and saw the twinkle return to his bright Irish eyes.
Chapter Eighteen

An Apothecary's Alchemy

Several gables interrupted the steep slate roof of the manor, overlooking the terrace. Behind those small panes of glass, a murky attic loomed large and empty. There were no walls between the trusses supporting the rafters, such that the space beneath, formed three contiguous blocks of shadowed nothingness—a convenience to anyone wishing to move from one end of the manor to the other, undetected. A convenience the elusive doctor availed himself of frequently since it was possible to cover the entire span, from the west wing through the central edifice to the extremity of the east wing, all without opening a single door.

On a late afternoon in March, the illumination filtering through a dormer in the west wing cast a tentative light over a crude work surface festooned with beakers and vials. They were arranged symmetrically according to height, and lined the back and sides of the table in an orderly fashion. Some contained liquids and powders, others awaited experimentation. And there were jars, too. Jars that held vile creatures, whole or in part, suspended in an unctuous, deathly-green fluid. A sheaf of paper lay to one side, crowned by a human skull that acted as a paperweight. Most of the three-hundred-some-odd pages were blackened with detailed notes and by neat, exacting diagrams. Despite rafters, beams, and nooks and crannies covered in dust and strewn with cobwebs, the lab and all its appurtenances gleamed with a fastidious sort of conceit.

Dr. Dare hunched over his worktable dispensing drops of liquid into a bubbling concoction. He was working long and hard to come up with a solution to compel Chin Cheong to shun his current addictive lifestyle.

Since the night of the notorious soiree, the sous-chef had developed an attraction to altered states of consciousness. Doors to yet-undiscovered sensory perceptions sprung open with the surreptitious introduction of the drug-laced eau de vie. Never mind that it was foisted upon him by the steward, nor that the compound effects of ingesting wine, lager, and spirits played a part. The simple fact of the matter was that Chin became seduced by the pleasurable effects of being under the influence—only now, it was a problem.

Dare deemed the noxious concoction ready for trial. He poured some into a test tube and corked it before doffing his lab coat. Then he slipped the test tube into a vest pocket and faded into the gloom.

At the far end of the attic, Dare descended a narrow stairwell, unlocked the door at the bottom, and stepped into the bedchamber of an unoccupied apartment—a twin to his in the west wing. From there, he took the backstairs, where there was little chance of being noticed. (No one ever used the constricted passageway to the undercroft. Mostly, because it was a long, narrow, cramped and unlit stairwell leading from top to bottom without exits to intermediary floors.) Bin descended, not the least bit bothered by beady-eyed rats, their scurrying shadows racing ahead of his lantern's sweeping light. He was accustomed to dark corners and so was very much at home making use of little-known passageways. After all, they were key to keeping out of sight, and hence, out of mind.

The undercroft was a maze of arched corridors leading every which way, mostly to dank and uninviting rooms in various stages of disuse. By contrast, the wine cellar was a welcome haven in the dungeon-like basements of the manor. Due in part, perhaps, to oak barrels, stacked row upon row, lending a woodsy coziness to an ambiance already rendered warm and inviting by a profusion of burnished brass reflecting light from candles and lanterns; and in part, due to the tantalizing combination of indistinct aromas: hints of a musky, well-aged port, or sometimes a sweet wine, heady brews—malt, hops—even lingering traces of distilled spirits. But for Chin, it was simply the proximity to an abundance of good cheer.

Bin stepped into the soft, yellow glow of the candlelight. Chin Cheong lay sprawled on a makeshift cot, a collection of cushions providing a degree of comfort. He had a blanket pulled over his slight frame, and he was snoring. His glasses, still on his face, hung askew, threatening to tumble at the least provocation. On a stout table nearby, a half-mug of lager, a pipe and pouch, plates and utensils, all pointing to Chin's recent activities.

He's had a meal, thought Bin. Somebody sees he eats, at least, before passing out, drunk. Now, the keg ...

The doctor walked to the small cask of lager. He tipped it some to determine approximately how much remained. Not much. Bin judged it to be a little less than a third—about three gallons. He did a rough calculation while rocking the spile back and forth, loosening it sufficiently to wiggle it free of the shive. Once he'd gained access through the top of the little barrel, he retrieved the test tube from his vest pocket, uncorked it, and poured half the contents into the beer. He replaced the spile and gave it a tap with a mallet, for good measure. Finally, Bin shook the firkin in its cradle so that the "medicine" might dissolve more evenly.

Satisfied with his administration of duty, Dr. Dare sat down at the table and picked up Chin's pouch. He opened it and examined the contents. Tobacco. He sniffed it. Yuno. Mildly dismayed, Bin flipped the little sack back onto the table with a casual flick of his wrist. He crossed his legs and studied Chin's smooth oval face. He liked Chin. He was a fine fellow. Someone that could be counted on to carry out important tasks. But, like most everyone, he required direction and purpose. Without which, he was apt to fall victim to the likes of Oboe and end up a sniveling drug-and-alcohol addled dope.

Bin picked up the mug of beer and doused the oblivious drunkard.

Chin shot bolt-upright, sputtering and flailing his arms. He squawked something in Cantonese, an oath, perhaps. Chin struggled to clear his vision. He wiped at his wet face. He blinked hard. He squinted while snapping his head from left to right, looking for his assailant.

Bin rose from his chair and strolled over to where Chin's spectacles had fallen on the floor. He crouched and picked them up, examining them for a moment, before saying, in perfect Cantonese, "Your eye-ware is intact. Here."

He put them in Chin's hand and watched as the drenched Asian fumbled them onto his face. The doctor was disturbed with his patient's declining condition. Chin was a mess.

With his sight restored, Chin Cheong was able to acknowledge Dr. Dare as his aggressor. A fact that appeared to confuse him more than the most arcane sayings of Confucius. He responded to Bin in kind—in Chinese. "Thank you," he said, "but you wreak havoc on a sleeping man. And you have done so as a dedicated practitioner of medicine, a man of honor. How can you account for this? I am confused."

Again in Cantonese, Bin answered, "You should be confused. You don't know day from night. You drink, you sleep, you eat food only when presented. Your mind swoons in states of inebriation. You fight the onset and repulsion of aggravated delirium tremens by consuming more of the poison that is killing you. As a man of honor, a dedicated practitioner of medicine, I am duty-bound to wreak havoc, to disrupt your self-inflicted torture, to wake you to the horrors of what you have become—a useless human, drunk on pleasures that are as fruitless as they are fleeting."

Chin was silent. He lifted his glasses away and mopped his face with a dry corner of his blanket. When he put them back on, the doctor was gone.

He'd left a note. It was propped against the mug on the table.

Chin didn't care. He felt terrible, the front of his tunic was wet, and he reeked of beer. Dropping back down on his damp cot, he pulled his blanket up and shut his eyes, thinking he might be able to escape the reality of his wretched state by sliding back into a dream. After a few minutes, he realized the near impossibility of the enterprise. His head pounded. He needed to relieve himself. Chin flung his blanket aside and pulled himself to his feet. But the room began to spin, and so he sat back down. Habituating his body and senses to an upright position, he gradually found the equilibrium necessary to stand erect. He tried a few unsteady steps using a post for support. So far so good. Chin gained the table, leaned on one arm for balance, and picked up Bin's envelope. Nothing appeared written on either side. Though curious and anxious to read the letter, Chin was overcome by a more pressing need, one that urged him towards the cellar's exterior doors.

As with the great kitchen, the wine cellar could be accessed by horse and wagon through massive oak doors. One of which, like its counterpart in the kitchens, had a man-sized portal built into it. Chin Cheong pulled it open and stepped over the threshold onto the cobblestones. He gave a cursory look round before busying himself with his buttons. The immense relief following those first few seconds of release, proved a welcome sensation. And far preferable, he thought, to the involuntary form of release that sullied his person on rare occasion. He watched the trickle and splatter for a bit before lifting his gaze. The garden beyond lay dormant. Small humps of dirty snow dotted the ground in areas blocked from the sun. And in the waning afternoon-light, shadows predominated. Nero's bark could be heard from somewhere down by the barns. Spring was in the air.

"Yoo-hoo! Wadda you—oh!"

The voice came from overhead. It was Lisa. She was on the terrace, at the balustrade, looking down.

Chin peeked over his shoulder in time to see her head disappear. He was done now, anyway, so he put himself in order and called to her. "Risa! Still here? Risa! I finish."

Lisa Zeppatini's head leaned into view. She wore a sheepish grin. "Still here," she said. "You are fine, Chin?"

Chin nodded.

"Is so nice day," she added. "I come for a fresh air ... outside here, on a terrace."

Chin nodded.

"Dinner is okay for you, yes? I leave last night on a your table."

Chin nodded.

Lisa nodded in return, apparently having nothing else to add.

"Risa, Chin very thank you for take care."

Lisa's smile melted away, replaced by a frown. Her voice laden with disappointment, she said, "Wadda you do to yourself, Chin? You drinking all a time now. You smoking some kinda funny smelly-smoke. Same like a Yuno smoke. You just a ... just a silly goose, you know?"

"Do geese see god?" he asked in return. Then, despite his poorly condition, he began to giggle. (As he often did when something struck him as funny, though the humor was rarely obvious to anyone else.)

Lisa shook her head slowly from side to side. "I wanna go now, Chin. I bring a you something to eat after the dinner time, okay?"

Chin gave a little wave and Lisa's head disappeared from view. He turned to take one last look over the garden when his eye caught sight of a crow in flight. It descended the slope towards the mausoleum. He watched as it flapped through the last light of the day, downward, until it came to land on the domed roof. Perched upon the cross that adorned the peak, the bird set to crowing. It crowed incessantly. It crowed as if possessed, or possibly, stark-raving mad. Chin Cheong nodded as though he somehow understood the significance of what he was witnessing. As he turned back to the cellar, he muttered, "God saw I was dog."

Back in his cozy corner, near his cot and his small table, and surrounded by so much good cheer, Chin took the liberty of pulling a fresh pint from the firkin he'd started the day before. Best cure for what ails, he thought. That and a smoke to help ease the rude effects encountered upon waking to another day. Pipe in hand, mug at the ready, Chin opened his letter.

He sat back in his crude wooden chair and studied the Chinese characters, painted in black, and which appeared to have come from the hand of a practiced calligrapher. What was all the more fascinating, however, was the drawing that accompanied the message. The scene showed a caricature of a small Asian fellow—Chin, obviously—placed in a pillory and put on display in a medieval market square. To be sure, he was being mocked, pelted with rotten fruit and all manner of disgusting projectiles by the townees. But what made the sketch intriguing, was in the details: First, the townsfolk were illustrated caricatures of estate personnel; the artist portrayed Chin as a sinister hunchbacked midget with a bucket and a mop propped against the pillory; written on the bucket were the words Almost the Standard Measure; bottles littered the ground at his feet; a keg stood atop a barrel in the background; and in the foreground, a simple clay pot lay cracked and broken, a few fresh flowers scattered among the shards. But the detail that Chin found most provocative, was the depiction of Lisa Zeppatini standing before the pillory squashing the bulk of the floral bouquet into the face of the caricature of himself. The significance of it puzzled him, so he turned his attention back to the Chinese characters.

(The best translation of which would follow thus:)

Quasi "Motto":

You drink, you're drunk.  
You're drunk, you drug.  
You're drugged, you drop.  
You drop, you die.  
You die, you're dead.  
That's it, you're done.  
Goodbye.  
The end.

Chin laughed.

Dr. Dare—funny guy—talented, too. To your health! Chin hefted his mug and quaffed a goodly portion of the lager.

Yes, Dare had talents. And, as everyone was aware, as an accomplished apothecary, he had a flair for cooking up batches of tonics and balms and such. However, unbeknownst to Mr. Chin Cheong, the doctor was still honing his skills as an alchemist. Turning a drunk back into a sous-chef was no small matter, nor was it an exact science. Risks were taken, and mistakes were made.
Chapter Nineteen

Gentry's Equine and Canine Paradox

A pleasant Spring day dawned on the estate with an exuberance that was altogether contagious. The sun was warm and the air held a gentle breeze. Much to the delight of all living creatures, fragrant bouquets and vibrant colors swirled anew.

Rohbair lounged on his massive bed, reluctant to rise lest he break the spell of the perfect contentment he now relished. He sipped his tea. Having breakfasted, he knew he should address the concerns of the day. After all, he really ought to be out there ordering somebody to do something. But that would mean leaving this sanctum of privacy, a place where he was free to indulge in all manner of daydreams and fleeting thoughts, undisturbed by circumstance and extraneous discourse. Venturing forth would almost certainly entail an encounter which would disrupt his current sense of ease. It wouldn't be worth it. And he wasn't up to it. Not today.

Nero set to barking. He was round front, barking in that crazed, incessant, irritable way that could only mean one thing: somebody was approaching.

Rohbair, still in his underwear, threw a coat over his shoulders and exited his chambers. He scurried down the hall and over to the ballroom where he could look out the front of the manor to see what was causing all the hullabaloo. And what he saw caused his jaw to drop.

Coming up the carriageway, was a man riding a white horse. He rode tall in the saddle, exuding a presence that conveyed an aspect of nobility with its attendant qualities of confidence, eloquence, and power. Insofar as could be determined from such distance, and without a clear view of his countenance, which was shaded by the wide brim of a hat, Rohbair guessed him to be of middle-age. For his traveling clothes were sensible, conservative even, and yet modern. But what left the butler truly gobsmacked, was that the gentleman on the horse was followed by a wagon pulled by an ass. And not just any ass, this was the estate's mammoth jack. And driving the buckboard—the estate's buckboard—was none other than the erstwhile steward of the estate, Oboe.

Rohbair slapped himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. No, he saw what he was seeing; it was altogether too vivid to be unreal. He slapped himself again. This time to shock him from the stupefaction that enthralled him, keeping him inert and in limbo.

Rohbair tore himself away and ran at breakneck speed back to his quarters, his mind reeling under an assault of confounding assumptions. Nothing seemed to fit. There were too many holes, too many questions. He dashed and whirled about in his chambers until he'd assembled a suitably presentable form of attire. Once dressed, Rohbair made haste for the main entrance to the manor. When he arrived, he found the doors ajar and Maid Marlyse standing on the stoop, watching. The gent on his horse, followed by Oboe, were just coming under the carriage porch as he stepped out.

"Now don't that beat all?" murmured Marlyse.

"Quite," said Rohbair, who'd taken up a position next to her. Keeping his voice in check, he added, "And I don't mind saying, I should like to give that cad, Oboe, a jolly good drubbing."

The man halted his horse as he came abreast of the two domestics. He turned to them. Rohbair could now see his face. It was clear, the gentleman's fine features portrayed an intelligence borne of reason, a reason wedded to wisdom, and which can only come to one through experience; so, not young, nor foolish, neither old, nor calcified. He was hale and hardy, like a man of action should be. Rohbair deferred greetings in light of his premonition that the gentleman should be accorded the first opportunity to speak. It was not long in coming.

"I am Magnus," the man said, "and since the rest of you know each other, we can conclude introductions."

Oboe, wearing a sheepish grin, gave a little wave. Rohbair returned a scowl, but said nothing. And Marlyse looked away, refusing to acknowledge the gesture.

"My name is Roh—"

"Mr. Bosworth, I know who you are. Now I will tell you who I am. I am your steward—the real steward. Please assemble your people in the drawing-room. We will meet in one hour's time."

"I—I might, uh—"

"Robert, I realize this is uncomfortable. Please do as I ask. Your questions will be answered in due course." His regard now turned to the wide-eyed maiden. He gave her a wink and lifted his hat as a departing courtesy, saying, "Marlyse."

In return, she forced a weak and uncertain smile to accompany a hesitant curtsy. The man set his mount in motion. Oboe followed, giving a shrug when questioning eyes looked to him for answers as he passed by. On the carriageway, they turned towards the stables, leaving the butler and maid standing on the porch, bewildered by what had just transpired.

"Mista Boswort-mon," said Marlyse, watching them pull away, "you recall when that ol' steer come bustin' in on us in the drawing-room?"

"I do."

"I feel like it jest happened again."

"Indeed," said Rohbair, staring after the riders fading into the distance, "only this time, we won't be eating it." Then, snapping out of his reverie as if he'd suddenly remembered something, he turned to her and asked, "I say, Maid Marliemon, who do you suppose let that rampaging beast into the drawing-room in the first place? It could only have been Dr. Dare or Mr. An—An—Blast! You know who mean, the gardener. They were the only two not present."

"Probably both, mon, that's what I'm thinking. One to lead him up and spook him, and one to pop the door and wave him in. Takes two to tango with a crazy ol' steer like that, mon, and that's for sure."

"Hmmm, yes, you may well be onto something there; they're quite peculiar those two. In any event, I suppose we'll never really get to the bottom of it." Robert was about to turn away when another thought crossed his mind: "By the way, what's become of that barking-mad hound? He'd quite disappeared by the time I got down here."

Marlyse told him Yuno, who was down by the stables, had started making yipping coyote-like sounds and that that caused Nero to tuck his tail between his legs and slink away. Rohbair thought he might like to learn to do likewise. Of course, he didn't mention that to Marlyse. He made a mental note to ask Yuno about it. But then, almost immediately, he wrote it off as being rather too silly; he couldn't picture himself hooting out windows at animals given over to absurd behavior. "Well," he said, addressing the situation at hand, "we'd best gather all and sundry. It appears there's to be a meeting." Turning to enter, he added "We have a new steward!" Though it sounded whimsical, the affirmation was meant to stem the tide of disbelief—Bob was having hard time coming to grips with the current situation.

"What we gonna do about Chin?" asked Marlyse, following the butler inside and closing the doors behind.

Rohbair had already set off marching across the grand entrance hall. He called over his shoulder, his voice rising in volume the further he distanced himself. "It shan't do us any good to rouse him and force him to attend. The certain disruption would hardly justify his presence. Best to let him sleep."

"Okey dokey, mon," said Marlyse, though by now, the butler was too far away to hear.

It was a foregone conclusion to assume everyone would attend. The level of interest amounted to more than what mere mortals might readily dismiss. Curiosity over the self-acclaimed "new steward" invited speculative summaries targeting the veracity of the claim; though there was also much banter concerning his lineage, his demeanor, and his intentions. Above all, he was man to meet. Whereas, the somewhat twisted attraction of coming face-to-face with the "old steward"—to once again behold the deceitful wobbly-eyed villain who'd wreaked havoc upon the estate—was sure to inspire some to pummel his repugnant visage, or scratch his eyes out. On the other hand, others might well feel justified in giving the man a hug. In any event, Oboe's presence was tantamount to a wild card in a close game of poker; it was a gambit you wouldn't want to miss.

All personnel, with the exception of Bin and Chin, had filed into the drawing-room before the hour had elapsed. Chattering in hushed tones and casting furtive glances towards the door, they made themselves comfortable while awaiting the appearance of the two stewards. When at last they did appear, the room fell silent. The contrast between the two, as they moved to the front of the room, could not have been more startling. Both had taken time to change from their traveling clothes, but what marked the difference as extraordinary, was in their respective comportment: Magnus carried his athletic physicality with a fluid grace and ease. Oboe bore the brunt of his corpulence in his slouching, lumbering gait. Magnus was tall. Oboe was short. One handsome and confident. The other, disfigured, leery—the shifty eye, an unfortunate fate.

At the front of the room, before all assembled, the "new" steward turned to address his audience. The "old" steward sat on a chair behind the desk. Before he spoke, Magnus scanned the room, looking at each and everyone in turn, as if accounting for who was who. Looking directly to Rohbair, he asked, "Where is Mr. Chin Cheong?"

Rohbair cleared his throat and answered, "He is indisposed—unwell, I'm afraid."

A murmur rippled through the audience, but Magnus ignored it, choosing instead to press Rohbair for details. "What is the nature of his ailment?"

"He's turned green."

"Come again."

"He's turned green ... ingested something or other. Perhaps an infliction of some sort. Hard to know, exactly."

"You mean infection."

"Possibly."

"Robert, has the doctor looked in on him?"

"Rohbair, if you will, and yes, the doctor is administering treatment."

"I see ... and no, I won't call you 'Rohbair'. Robert is your name and I will pronounce it without affectation."

The butler appeared flustered by the direct refusal, but also, somewhat embarrassed by the tacit suggestion that it was pretentious to pronounce it any other way. He had nothing else to add.

Addressing the general assembly, Magnus continued, "If any of you are still unaware, my name is Magnus, and you will refer to me by that name and no other." Looking again to Robert Bosworth, he added, "Not Mister Magnus. Just ... Magnus."

A stifled chuckle rose up from the vicinity of Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, prompting a swift redirect of the speaker's gaze. Any desire the lad may have held to elaborate was squashed by the reproving regard leveled on him by Magnus. The silence that followed spoke volumes. The attention one man could command, and by dint of his presence alone, bore witness to the power of his persona. Magnus was such a man.

"I am your steward," he said. "I was sent here to help you. That man"—pointing to Oboe—"is Mr. DeLouche. As you are all aware, he is not your steward. But, he is here to help."

Maid Malgreete, standing near Robert, nudged him to get his attention. When he looked at her, she leaned in and whispered, "Why you want to believe?"

Before Robert could respond, Magnus interjected. "Share your thoughts, Miss Van Bleake. An interruption is due to either urgency or thoughtlessness."

Malgreete did not hesitate, and her voice was unwavering when she replied. "Ya, so I tell this butler he should not believe just everything. Look for last time some ninny want to be steward." Malgreete's glowering regard came to rest on the man sitting in the chair.

"Why not just speak up? Why instead warn Robert?"

This time Malgreete did hesitate before groping for the right words. "I ... he ... ya, he like to act the big boss, so he must speak."

"You are right to raise concern. And you are right to direct it to Robert. But you are not right in choosing this moment to do so." Magnus made the statement matter-of-fact, void of any nuance suggestive of a reprimand.

Malgreete offered a blunt apology and sat down in a chair. Others in the room looked around trying to gauge what effects the proceedings were having on each other.

"As I was saying," said Magnus, "Oboe DeLouche is here to help. How that will happen is up to you. I only ask that you please don't kill him." He paused, allowing a gentle smile to form. And in that moment, his stern expression gave way to one composed of tranquility and kindness. However brief, the effect on his audience was negligible. They remained stone-faced. "I can see no one in this room is capable of a charitable sentiment for this man. He deceived you. He betrayed you. He stole from you. And yet, each of you has also taken something away from this experience. He has taught, and you have learned. For this reason, he will have free-rein on this estate. There is much more to learn from Oboe DeLouche."

A rumble of discontent echoed through the assembly. But as soon as it became apparent Magnus was about to continue, it dropped away.

"Collectively, you have learned to be wary of anyone supposing to take charge of your destiny. And here I stand, claiming to be your rightful steward. So, as Malgreete asked, why would you believe me? The answer is this: You will judge by my actions. If there is no benefit, I am an impostor. As of today, your gain amounts to the return of most what was taken from you. Count yourselves lucky in that regard.

"So, you will judge me, and I will judge you. Meaning, if you fail to conduct yourselves as I prescribe, if you fail to incorporate instructions offered, then you will not have to worry if I am an impostor—I will leave of my own accord.

"Much has been said here today, and there remains much more to say. But, as I and my traveling companion are weary, I will adjourn this meeting so that we can retire to our chambers for a much-needed rest. Before I go, I want to give you something to think about: We are understaffed. We need assistance. I ask that you each of you consider how best to acquire this support. Thank you for your attention." Magnus turned to look over his shoulder. "Oboe?"

The former steward rose from his chair and asked if he might be permitted to speak. Permission granted, he stepped forward. At once, his wandering eye began to twitch. He said, "What is there to say? Should I say I'm sorry? Would you forgive me if I did? No. We all know it could never be that easy. Though I were to get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness, it would not be bestowed. Why? Because I'm a scoundrel. I'm a thief. A liar. Yes, it's all true. It's hard to be anything more than what you've become. But—and some of you will not want to believe it—I am your friend, too. And, as some of you already know, I have a soft spot when it comes to matters of the heart. In that regard, I have no doubt my past actions have served some of you well." Oboe's wonky orb continued to flick about while his good eye jumped from Zero to Horst to Ernie and back again. Then it made the rounds with Marie-Claire, Malgreete, and Marlyse. None of them showed the slightest sign of congeniality.

Yuno, squatting in a corner, packing his pipe, took advantage of the lull to make his voice heard: "In my vision," he said, "the great warrior rides a black horse. But all I can see now is a dog."

Before anyone could react, Magnus ordered the meeting over. He concluded his announcement by saying, "I will see you all at dinner this evening. We dine at seven."
Chapter Twenty

A Rose by Any Other

Shortly before seven, everyone not actively involved with dinner preparations began filtering into the dinning room. Immediately and embarrassingly clear, was that no one knew what to expect. When Magnus entered, dressed in a subdued but stylish dinner jacket, he found Robert and Zero attired in stiff, ill-fitting formal wear—tailcoats and such. The foppish butler had even gone so far as to boast a top-hat. (Which he removed and left on the mantel when it dawned him, he was overdressed.) Buck and Ernie wore clean, regular working-man's clothes. Whereas Horst sported a freshly-pressed set of khakis, with a bright-colored silk ascot. His crop, gleaming, twitched against his polished boot-tops when Malgreete entered. Her presence astonished everyone. Not just because she deigned to appear, but more so, because of how she appeared. Though garbed in drab but tidy apparel, her wild hair had been tamed—brushed and styled and tied back with a violet ribbon. Her face—powdered and pale, highlighted with rouge and painted lips—culminated in the most pleasing aspect of all: a genuine smile.

Marlyse, frazzled and perspiring, pushed through the doors, her dining cart loaded with entrees. She bustled straight to the sideboard, ushering clipped greetings to those in the vicinity. The front of her apron bore witness to the double-duty occupation with which she was tasked; she filled-in for Chin, as sous-chef, as well as being the only maid available to tend to the dining-room. Her generous smile was absent. Her eyes narrowed when they locked on those of Malgreete Van Bleake, but she held her tongue.

The clock struck seven.

Magnus asked everyone who was not already seated, to do so, and then turned for a word to Marlyse. "Please ask the others to join us as soon as they're ready," he said. "We'll give Oboe and Yuno a few more minutes before sending out a search party to drag them in here." His smile and his twinkling eyes prompted a glimmer of reciprocating playfulness in Marlyse. It was short-lived; the maid turned to the kitchen and shoved her cart forward.

Before the others managed to get settled in their chairs, the gardener entered, followed a moment later by Oboe. Yuno appeared as usual, in denims and deerskin, permeated with the smell of smoke. Oboe wore a fine, newly-tailored suit. Greetings and apologies for tardiness dispensed with, and with the arrival of the kitchen staff bearing flagons of wine, lager, and water, all thirteen were soon sitting down, eyes turned to Magnus, awaiting what was to come next.

"Would everyone stand, please," asked Magnus, himself rising.

A shuffle of chairs amid a smattering of confused glances brought everyone to their feet.

"Thank you," continued the steward. "Marie-Claire, as head-chef, you will sit in the middle of the table, there"—pointing to where Kunkle stood—"facing the doors to the kitchen. Alfonso will sit to your right, Lisa to your left, and Chin, when he's able, to her left. Facing you will be Horst, with Mr. Knowles to his right and Ernest to his left. Mr. Izzero, pardon my ignorance—what is your given name?"

Zero mumbled an indiscernible reply and then immediately began to fidget with his bow-tie, tugging at it, trying to loosen the unfamiliar constriction currently choking him.

Magnus paused, studying Zero for a few seconds, before saying, "You will sit next to him."

Zero's bewildered expression, when he abruptly stopped fidgeting and looked up, caused Magnus to repeat himself. "You will sit next to Mr. O'Boyo, ... with Marlyse to your left. I will be across the table from you, and Robert will be seated to my right."

With the remaining seating arrangements concluded, the steward invited everyone to sit down in their assigned chairs. The ensuing chaos saw people bumping into one another, side-stepping, turning about and setting off in varying directions—sometimes the long way round—to avoid clusters of tangled bodies and bottlenecks while attempting to get to where they thought they should be. Magnus, who withdrew, watched until the confusion sorted itself out. It took some time.

Finally, with everyone seated, Magnus moved towards his chair while stating that seats at the head and foot of the table were reserved for nobles. "It is where your lord and lady will sit if ever you're deemed worthy to serve. For now, these are your seats. And this is where you will sit each evening while we dine in company of one another." Sitting down in his chair, he added, "Robert, you're a butler. You and Malgreete will serve this evening. Marlyse has done more than her fair share. She deserves a break."

The hushed stirring in the dining-room with everyone reacting at once produced a profound effect. And although the range of expression ran from glee to glum and worse, only the butler and the maid registered absolute shock and horror. The extreme notion that they should actually serve the other servants and staff, put them into a state of what could only be likened to rigor mortis. Marlyse, on other hand, had found her smile. And never had it beamed so bright.

Robert Bosworth mustered the resolve to get to his feet, albeit a little unsteady. Malgreete's rare and pleasant aspect had vanished, burrowed deep beneath the commonplace scowl that was her usual expression. She sat stubbornly still, refusing to move.

Magnus looked down and across the table, to his left, where the brooding maid sat stewing in her self-aggrandized justification and misplaced pride. Malgreete's reticence to accept her station was painfully obvious. The conflicting dichotomy that existed between who she was and who she wanted to be, fueled the fires of her smoldering discontent. When her piercing, violet, angry, maniacal eyes met his, he could see she was on the verge of boiling over.

"Malgreete," said Magnus, his voice gentle, soothing, "if you allow the radiance you brought into this room earlier to return, I will gladly assume your duties. I will serve you this evening." Magnus stood to show he was serious. "I will even oblige Oboe to do likewise, if you like. Or if you want, I'll have everyone wait on you, ... hand-and-foot. But please, show us that lovely person hiding inside."

Malgreete swung her gaze to Oboe, who sat opposite her, isolated by empty chairs on each side (where Bin and Chin would be seated if in attendance). Her lips formed into a puckish smile. "Ya, so this I like to see," she said. "Mr. Fancy-pants-ninny can be the maid—he can serve."

A wave of approval swept through the room, and without hesitation, Oboe rose from his chair. With a polite but modest bow, he said to Malgreete, "If it pleases you, and all else gathered, I humbly accept." He then turned to the butler and in a lilting voice, laced with mockery and insincerity, said, "Sir Rohbair, shall we?" The slight did not go unnoticed.

Magnus smacked his hand on the table, hard, prefacing a sharp retort: "Mister DeLouche! We will not condone snide remarks nor uncomplimentary mannerism at our table! And you will pronounce this man's given name in English as it should be, without a contrived French accent." Stripping the severity from his voice and with a glance to the head-chef, he added, "Madame Contraire is of course excused."—looking round the room—"Otherwise, the rule holds true for all of you. Is that clear?"

A general nodding of heads confirmed a unanimous submission. Oboe and Robert moved to the sideboard to load serving trays with platters and terrines from the steaming array of entrees, soups, and sauces. Meanwhile, a restrained round of chatter sprung up around the table. The mood was upbeat, sprinkled with sly smiles and whispered exchanges. Once a goodly portion of the meal had been placed along the center of the table, Oboe and Robert made the rounds pouring beverages and serving dishes until all seated were content and ready to commence. In turn, they then helped themselves and sat down.

In the tremulous air of unfamiliarity, most everyone chose to follow the steward's lead and refrain from picking up their fork or drinking from their cup, except Ernie. He didn't exactly plow into his meal, but he did pick and nibble. Marie-Claire, too, seemed unable to restrain herself; she was about to reach for the pitcher of wine when Magnus scolded the lad for his cheek. Her partially-outstretched arm retreated back to her body.

Magnus asked for everyone's attention. "Thank you," he said. "We won't be praying, but we will observe a minute of silence before consuming this food. During this time, I ask that you try to raise your level of awareness. Pay attention to your posture—sit up straight with both feet on the ground. Relax any tension you may feel in you muscles. Be attentive to your respiration so that you're breathing steadily and comfortably. Try to clear your mind, stop the flow of petty or negative thought fragments. If that proves difficult, focus on the effort required to grow and prepare the food you are about to eat—the resources, the people, the expense—all of it. And be grateful."

"Should we join a the hands?" asked Lisa, all aflutter, and yet, completely serious despite raising a number of chuckles and smirks among the others.

Magnus leaned forward, looking past Alfonso and Marie-Claire to the maiden. He smiled. "No, Lisa, we don't need to hold hands—but it's a nice thought. Maybe we'll try it one day." She smiled in return, apparently content with the potential for a deeper emotional experience. Magnus sat back. He advised everyone to close their eyes in order to avoid visual distractions, and then gave the word to start.

Only two people kept their eyes open: Ernie and Oboe. When the lad turned his head to look down and across the table, almost to the end, he saw the man with the wobbly orb leaning forward on his elbows, his head supported in one hand, the other wiggling his fingers as if to say Hi there, remember me? Ernie flashed a smile. Oboe, already grinning, gave the lad a complicit wink of his eye, for good measure.

Approximately a minute later, Magnus broke the silence saying that that was good enough for now. Ernie snapped his eyes shut at the first sound uttered. The staff and servants reanimated with a stirring of bodies, furtive glances, and self-conscious smiles. When Zero nudged Ernie, saying he could open his eyes, the lad put on an exaggerated show of awakening, as though from a profound state of consciousness. Marie-Claire rolled her eyes. Anyone else taking notice, merely shook their head. Dinner commenced with gusto. And though everyone now enjoyed the unrestricted opportunity to prattle freely, no one bothered much to do so.

After a few minutes, Magnus put down his utensils and looked at those around him. Marie-Claire's arm reached for the wine, again. "Marie-Claire," he said, and the arm withdrew, "Chin Cheong is an integral part of your team. How are you managing without him?"

The chef wiped her mouth with her hand before answering. "He ees missed. We manage, of course—we must. No, Marlyse ees very good for us."

Alfonso, sitting between the two, drifted back further in his chair to allow them a clear view of each other.

"Miss Van Bleake will assist tomorrow. After that, everyone who is not involved in daily preparations for dinner will alternate until the sous-chef is well again." Magnus ignored the oath Ernie uttered under his breath, choosing instead, to measure the effect his statement was having on the others, especially Malgreete. "Are you agreeable to fill in tomorrow, Miss Van Bleake?" he asked, his voice coming across loud and clear.

Though far from being overjoyed, the maid did not react with scorn; she acquiesced with a simple, almost pleasant, nod of her head. And while further discussion concerning Chin's condition was elaborated upon by those in the know, Oboe managed to catch Malgreete's eye. He leaned forward and, keeping his voice low, asked, "I would like if we could have a chat after dinner. Perhaps in the library. I believe what I have to say will be of great interest to you."

Malgreete's eyes burned. "You make a silly-joke, ya? You think I care for what you want?"

"I only wish to explain. Apologize. Not ev—"

"I won't. No!"

"I will," offered Yuno, who sat directly across from Oboe and to Malgreete's right.

Oboe glanced up the table. No one appeared to be taking interest in what transpired in the immediate vicinity. He leaned back in his chair. "All right," he said, with a measure of uncertainty. "Was there, um, anything in particular you cared to discuss?"

"Sure."

"Okaaay ..." Oboe's odd eye took on a nervous flicking motion. "Would, say, nine o'clock suit you?"

Yuno licked his fingers and told Oboe nine would be fine. After which, he stood and left without so much as a word to anyone. Oboe now sat conspicuously alone, with no one either side or across.

At the other end of the table, Robert was informing Magnus of Chin's whereabouts: "I'm afraid our reclusive cook harbors a proclivity to hibernate in the cellar," he said. "And from what I understand, he seems rather quite at home there. Though I daresay, if it wasn't for Miss Zeppatini, he'd have died of starvation by now. He rarely leaves the confines you know—bit of an odd chap, really."

With the steward's attention focused elsewhere, Marie-Claire snatched at the pitcher of wine. Her gesture was so brisk, she almost toppled the vessel. Her cup filled to the brim, she set the pitcher back down, but with an exaggerated gentleness.

"I see," said Magnus in response to the butler's remarks. Turning now to Marie-Claire, he said, "I'd like you to accompany me after dinner. We're going to pay Chin a visit. Alfonso, you'll join us." Adding, before anyone had a chance to reply, "Lisa, you as well, please. You'll probably want to bring his dinner."

Buck and Horst opened a conversation centered on the well-being of the mare in foal. Horst was asking when the birth might take place.

"Oh, reckon probably be another month or so," answered Buck.

"So we get lucky, yah? We get za two in one!"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure that dude, Baron, knew this mare was in foal. Nothing to do with luck, Herr."

The overseer seemed on the verge wanting to say more, but instead, nodded his head repetitively, all the while uttering "uh-huh, uh-huh". Magnus interjected, asking Horst if he was an avid horseback rider. A sputtered outburst from Ernie stifling a reflexive laugh, saw more than a few involuntary smirks form round the table, some immediately and politely covered behind hands. Magnus, peeved with the lad's derisive behavior, redirected his question to him. The maneuver effectively shifted the attention away from a crimson-faced Horst, who held his head down, fidgeting with the crop straddled across his lap.

"Aye," said the lad, puffing his chest, "racing a fleet-footed horse o'er hill and dale, there's nothing better. A feckin lar—lark! I mean, lark. It's a lark, it is. Yeah, good fun."

"So you're an accomplished equestrian then," said Magnus.

"Well, if yer meaning I know me way with the horses, then, aye. But not in yer highborn kinda way, like with all them geezers in their feck—fancy!—fancy pants and coats and all."

"Then you won't mind giving a few pointers to Horst. Help him brush-up on his skills."

The color drained from Ernie O'Boyo's face. "But he—he doesn't have any skills. He can't ride."

"Then you'll teach him."

Speechless, Ernie's head turned slowly to his right. Horst sat looking back at him in a dull sort of despair.

"Mr. Knowles, will you oversee the instruction, ensure no one gets hurt?"

Buck's smile spoke more than words; not only would he do as asked, he was obviously going to enjoy it. Then, for no particular reason other then maybe feeling uplifted by the turn of events, Buck admitted something he'd never mentioned to anyone in the room. "Name's Beauregard," he said. "Buck's just a handle folks seem to prefer." His magnanimous avowal found relevance in the steward's propensity to employ the use of proper names.

Magnus thanked him for his frank declaration and said he'd bear it mind.

Out of the blue, Zero piped up, proclaiming what he failed to make clear earlier: "My name is Adolophles!"
Chapter Twenty-One

The Cook and The Crow

Dinner done, the three chefs, headed by Magnus, trouped down to the cellar. Entering the dim enclave, normally the reserve of vintners and brew masters, produced a profound effect on all but Lisa. She was used to the foul air in the vicinity of Chin's encampment. The natural bouquet of pleasant aromas had been replaced, supplanted by that of urine, and vomit, and sweat. Lisa took the lead, advancing while the ambivalent party edged closer.

"Blech!" uttered Marie-Claire, wrinkling her nose as they approached.

Chin Cheong lolled on a squat stool, a wood bucket between his legs, oblivious to their arrival. His head drooped and swung slightly as if about to doze off. Before any exchange of words could transpire, Chin pitched forward and retched into the bucket.

Lisa Zeppatini paid him no mind. She moved past him and cleared a space on his cluttered table for the dinner tray. Noting their worried looks, she said to the others, "Don't worry, he gonna be okay soon. He do that a lot."

On cue, Chin heaved again.

The others were not reassured.

Marie-Claire plopped down on a chair while Lisa took to stripping the bedclothes from Chin's cot. (Previously, she had stocked clean blankets on a nearby shelf to be used for bedding changes.) Alfonso and Magnus stood by, waiting for the sous-chef to finish throwing up.

The small corner Chin had carved out for himself was in shambles. Chin was in shambles, a mere shell of his former self. He no longer resembled the plump, zany, wise-cracking character known and loved by most, tolerated by others. No, now he invoked pity, and in some cases, even disgust, in his colleagues. The degrading transformation in the months following the party left the man a complete and utter wreck. He'd lost weight. His clothes were soiled. His smudged spectacles showed a crack in the right lens. What's more, his wispy whiskers and unkempt hair disheveled his appearance even further. It goes without saying, he stank to high-heaven. But the most remarkable feature of Chin's depraved descent, was the unusual tint of his flesh. It seemed the doctor's concoction produced a notable side-effect: ingesting it turned him green.

At length, the dry-heaves and groans subsided. Chin wiped his mouth on his sleeve, lifted his head, and groped for his glasses left on the table.

"Here," Lisa said, handing them to him. "You hungry? I have a dinner for you."

Chin mumbled a thank you, and, despite still being a little unsteady, managed to get the eyeglasses put on. He looked around. "Who you?" he asked, when his field of vision brought Magnus into view.

When Magnus spoke, his tone was firm, and yet, not unkind. "Your steward, Mr. Cheong," he said. "The real one."

"Ahhh so, ... borrow or rob?" Chin swayed as if he might fall off his stool and he seemed to be having trouble focusing.

Alfonso spoke out, admonishing the sous-chef for his insolence, and, by association, managed to put a stop to Marie-Claire's tittering.

"That's all right, Alfonso," said Magnus. "The man is not himself."—turning to Chin—"You need help. You're wasting away down here. Torturing yourself. Are you aware of this?"

"Lager, sir, is regal." Chin lifted his chin, flagrantly mocking aristocratic airs.

Magnus frowned and looked to the others. Marie-Claire's response was to shrug her shoulders. Alfonso shook his head in a way that imparted a sense of helplessness. Chin wavered and Lisa put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. She asked again if he felt like having something to eat.

Chin smirked, and then in an exclamatory voice, said, "Wonton? Not now!" He laughed and gave his knee a smack.

"Never odd or even."

Though the statement came from the steward, it did not appear to be directed to anyone.

"Escuse me?" It was Alfonso who spoke.

"Hmm?" Magnus appeared lost in thought, though he continued to gaze at Chin.

"Maybe I am wrong, but I hear you say 'Never odd or even'. I don't understand, Señor—Meester—I mean, Magnus. Escuse me."

The steward looked to Alfonso and smiled. "It's nothing. A loose thought."

"Loops at a spool!"

"Chin!" Alfonso's warning took on a decidedly harsher tone this time round. "I theenk this is enough, yes? You speak only nonsense. Just stop."

"Calm yourself," said Magnus. "It isn't nonsense." The steward took in the silly lop-sided grin on Chin's face. The man was drunk; there was no question. And yet, the puzzling feature of his state of inebriation suggested an emergent force struggling to express itself. "Not nonsense," said Magnus, finally. "No, it is opposition. Isn't that true, Mr. Cheong?"

"Goddamn mad dog!"

"Chin!" It was Lisa who now rebuked her colleague's incivility. "Don't speak like a this. Please. This is a real steward."

Magnus dismissed the outburst. "He's just playing, Miss Zeppatini. Let it be."

"Now I won. Rum ... rum ... I murmur." Chin's incoherent babble went nowhere—he was ignored.

"I've seen enough for today. Lisa, please see that he eats. Alfonso, Marie-Claire, come with me."

Magnus led them out.

They entered the library at fifteen minutes to the hour. Magnus invited Marie-Claire and Alfonso to make themselves comfortable. He stood at the mantel. "From what I have seen," he said, "the doctor's medication is not going to get Chin back on his feet. He will need additional help and support."

"This is clear," said the Spaniard. "With no assistance, this man will become more and more sick. One day he will die. No one can live like this for long."

"This ees very sad," said Marie-Claire. "Before, I see him, always he ees so clean, so soft—everysing he ees doing ees nice, sweet, and so perfect. Now ..." Marie-Claire shrugged.

Magnus nodded. "Do either of you have some idea how we can reverse this trend?"

The two chefs glanced at each other and then back to the steward. They had nothing to offer.

"Nothing?" asked Magnus, pressing for a response.

Alfonso furrowed his brow but shook his head. Marie-Claire picked up a snifter on the side table. Reaching for a crystal decanter, she said, "Me, I have a little cognac. Then maybe I think of somesing." Alfonso's countenance betrayed his deepening concern. He said nothing.

"I want you to come up with a plan."

Marie-Claire shifted her gaze to Magnus.

"Yes, you Madame Contraire. You might consider asking Alfonso and Lisa to help. They are your aids, after all."

The chef threw back a mouthful of cognac, slapped her glass back down, and folded her arms across her chest. "Me! You want me. Save Chin—bring him back to form. Repair somesing even what Monsieur Bin cannot do—a doctor!"

"You will manage."

"How? Tell me."

"You have the competence of your top chef and Lisa's significant support at your disposal. Together, you will think of something. Start by setting an example."

Marie-Claire's mounting agitation threatened to ignite an argument. Alfonso put a hand on her arm. Her head snapped round. She gave him a look. And though her stare burned with an intensity marked by outrage, he knew it was not directed at him. He patted her arm, assuring her he would do his best to help.

Magnus stepped to the side table and poured a cognac for Alfonso. He did not pour one for himself. "To your success," he said, handing him the drink.

Alfonso took the glass. He glanced at Marie-Claire, who was watching him closely. The scenario presented him with a predicament, one that stirred a foreign and unwelcome uncertainty in him. He put the glass down on the side table next to his armchair.

"You don't strike me as someone coming from humble beginnings, Alfonso," said Magnus, returning to the mantel. "There is refinement in your comportment that suggests otherwise."

Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones let his gaze drift to the ashes in the fireplace. His mind filled with images, sensations, and words long ago buried in the past. In the silence, he felt the eyes of Marie-Claire and Magnus pressing down on him. At length, still staring into the empty hearth, he said, "Even a man from the noble beginning can fall. A birthright, this is not a shield."

"True," said Magnus. "Which is why our focus of concern, for now, is getting our fallen friend back on his feet. I'll do what I can to assist where possible. Thank you for your time and attention."

With parting formalities exchanged, the steward turned to the door. Alfonso got to his feet. So too, did Marie-Claire, but she lagged behind, and when their backs were to her, she plucked Alfonso's glass from the table and drained it.

They met Oboe at the door as they were leaving. And since neither party expected to bump into the other, the situation presented an awkward moment for all concerned, with the exception of Magnus. His face did register mild surprise, but he smiled, stepped back and bid Oboe enter.

The former steward hesitated. "I don't mean to intrude," he said. "In fact,"—leaning to get a look past Magnus—"I'd be happy to come back later. It's really not a problem." He gave a quick glance up the hallway.

Magnus asked if he was expecing someone.

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes. But I can see he's not arrived as yet. So, like I said, I'd be happy to return a little later."

"We were just leaving. Come in, make yourself comfortable."

Oboe crossed the threshold and entered. A couple of paces in, he stopped to acknowledge the two chefs. His greeting fell flat, unable to breech the barrier of incivility erected the moment he appeared at the door. Marie-Claire would have none of it. Without a word, she brushed past, nose in the air, and left. Alfonso's countervailing response to what he perceived as nothing more than a charade was reflected in his harsh regard—he despised the man with the wandering eye. And he might even have said so, had he not felt the intense scrutiny of the steward's judgmental stare. He said goodnight to Magnus and followed Marie-Claire out of the room.

Oboe, commenting on the obvious snub, said, "Such are the niceties of an unwelcome reception."

"What did you expect? Our presence here is bound to cause friction."

"Indeed. But it is I, who must tread carefully."

"And who's to blame for that?"

Looking to change the topic, Oboe remarked that he was waiting for the gardener.

"You mean Yuno—the medicine-man."

"Yes, but more of a gardener—a herbalist if you will."

"Still," said Magnus, "you will want to be careful."

"He's a gardener."

"Not just a gardener."

"And you. You were just leaving, were you?"

Magnus put his back the to the former steward and walked away.

Oboe DeLouche strolled to the grouping of armchairs and sat down. He checked the time. It was just after nine. A number of thoughts drifted into his mind apropos of Yuno: What could he be looking to accomplish? Revenge? No, not a very likely scenario given the man's temperament. There has to be something else. But what? There's nothing predictable about the man. Nothing to presume ... nothing to suggest ...

Tic-tic ... tic-tic...

Oboe followed the sound and found it to be coming from a window.

Tic-tic ... tic-tic...

Something beyond the glass ... impossible to see. Too dark. Pitch-black out there.

The window reflected the soft lamp-lit interior of the library. Oboe could see himself sitting in the chair looking back over his shoulder.

Tic-tic ... tic-tic ... tic-tic.

Tapping. Two stories off the ground ... How could ...

Oboe rose to his feet. Lantern in hand, he went to the window. He held it to the glass. Eyes—like black polished beads. A glossy-feathered crow perched on the ledge, pecking at the glass, tic-tic-tic ...

A brisk shooing-motion failed to scare it off. So, too, a thump on the glass. It stayed. Unruffled by Oboe's tactics, the bird cocked its head, its beady eyes glinting in the light. Oboe pulled the curtains and returned to his chair. A moment later, a strident cry—the cawing-sound of the bird—could be heard fading into the night.

The quiet settled in.

But the peace that went with it didn't last. A rock crashed through the window, shattering glass with such force, that by the time Oboe realized what had happened, broken shards were still clinking and tinkling on the hardwood floor.

His heart racing, Oboe moved towards the shimmering bits and pieces concentrated beneath the curtain. The rock, about the size of man's fist, lay amid the broken glass. And tied to it, was a square of folded paper—a note. As he reached down to retrieve it, a barely discernible flutter was heard just behind the drapery. Had he not been so intent on collecting the rock to satisfy his curiosity concerning the message, he might have thought to look behind the brocade. As it was, he carefully extracted the rock and took the square of paper from beneath the string. He blew on it and waved it in the air to dislodge any slivers of glass. When he unfolded the paper and read the message, he chuckled and shook his head, thinking what a humorous fellow Dr. Dare proved to be.

Tic-tic-tic-tic ...

The ticking sound again. Oboe threw back the shades. The crow!

Before he could react, the bird hopped through the broken windowpane. With a furious flap of its wings, it was on him—a blur of feathers, a flurry of pecking and clawing. Oboe's astonished face, though more particularly, his wobbly orb, became the target of the attack. His flailing arms barely succeeded in warding off the assault. It wasn't until, while backing away, when he tripped and fell, that the bird left off. It flapped back to the window, hopped out again, and disappeared into the inky blackness of the night, a ghostly fwip-fwip-fwip of its wings, the only sound to reach the stricken victim. Oboe lay crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath. A rivulet of cherry-red blood trickled down his cheek from the corner of his eye—the right eye. The note, which had dropped on the floor during the scuffle, lay face up.

It read:

Beware the medicine-man.  
He is not just a gardener—he's a scarecrow!

Nero's forlorn howl rose up into the night.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Love's Lost and Found

The following day, mid morning, Horst tapped on Malgreete's door. By force of habit, he used their "special" code, though it was hardly required; she'd not permitted entry since the night of the infamous party, six months ago. The door opened. Malgreete was dressed, combed, powdered, and painted. She wore a half-smile that was not altogether unpleasant to look upon. Horst's crop twitched against his boot-top.

"Liebchen! Mien Gott! For za looking, you are so—so beautiful!"

Malgreete's smile blossomed. "How are you? Everything is okay?"

"Good, yah, good. You?"

"Same. Good."

Horst fussed with his ascot.

"Do you come for something?"

"I can come in?"

"No, ... Horst, we talk already. This is not so good idea for now, ya?"

Horst's demeanor took on the aspect of a sad puppy. He looked as if he was about to pout. But when Malgreete reached out and took his hand in hers, he brightened. "Yah, zis is nice," he said. "Liebchen, I come just for tell you, in za evening, yesterday—for za dinner—you make so beautiful. So lovely. And yah, now I see, again today."—smiling and leaning towards her, his voice playful—"You not have za new boyfriend, nah?"

Malgreete rewarded him with a luscious smile and replied saying he didn't have anything to worry about, there were no other suitors courting her at present. She further indicated that they could meet after dinner, as usual, in the drawing-room for tea and conversation. Smug in the knowledge he was the only one competing for her charms, Horst bid farewell, saying he'd see her again at the dinner hour. She gave his hand a squeeze before letting go and closing the door.

There was a certain jauntiness accompanying the overseer as he stepped through the hall. His thoughts were centered on the voluptuous maid; the emerging pride in her appearance; her coy attention to his advances; the growing intimacy that was gentle, intentional, and mutually fostered. It all pointed to a positive outcome.

And then there was Bosworth ... There! Right there—at the end of the corridor. He'd come around the corner advancing with a purposeful determination. But the moment he'd caught sight of Kunkle, his business-like strut came to an abrupt stop, his surprised expression, hastily replaced by one of annoyance. He continued, but with a slower, meandering sort of walk, one that seemed less sure of a destination. He stopped at a door. Opened it and looked in. Closed it. He moved to a window in the corridor and dragged his finger through the dust on the sill; rubbed at a smudge on the glass; and then took a few more steps; looked in on another room.

Horst's gait had also turned cautious, the jaunty step, reined-in, so that now he appeared more to be strolling down the hall, taking time to gaze out the windows. As the two men neared, their haphazard and furtive glances at one an other could not help but coincide. They exchanged weak smiles, a nod, and a reluctance to speak. However, Horst's inhibitions were soon overwhelmed by a brewing storm of suspicion, and he acted upon it before the butler managed to pass by.

"So, za butler is having za nice day, yah?"

"Nice day? Oh yes, quite. Very nice. And you?"

Horst ignored the question. "You are going somewhere?"

"Herr Kunkle, I daresay, I don't believe that is any of your business. But since you ask, I am merely making my rounds. Noting what needs attention ... for cleaning and such." Horst nodded, though he didn't believe a word of it. Robert added, "And you? I don't recall your chambers being anywhere near here."

"For now, not. But maybe I moving on zis floor soon. I looking. We see, yah?"

"But you—you can't just bloody move your quarters. Not here!"

"Why not? No one can tell me where I make my sleeping room. Zis is for me to say. No one else."

"Well, it's—it's highly bleeding irregular, that's why!"

"For you, sure. For me, I not care." Horst punctuated his remark with a slap of his crop against his boot-top.

Robert Bosworth, lifted his nose in the air. "Well, we'll just see about that." He put his back to the overseer and took his leave.

Horst watched him marching off in the direction of Malgreete's room. When the butler looked over his shoulder and frowned, he too, turned and began to walk away.

Before coming up on the maid's door, Bob, glanced back again. Since Horst was still in the hall, he continued on, past Malgreete's chambers. At the end of the hallway, he stopped. He stood at the window, looking out to the west, over fallow fields towards the distant hilltops. It was a fine Spring morning, complete with blue skies and billowy white clouds. Tender leaves, shoots, and buds in every shade of green seemed to be bursting forth from branches, twigs, and even the barren ground. Creatures, young and newly-born, tested limbs and limits while frolicking amid all that was new and fresh. A fine day indeed.

Even so, Robert's thoughts were far removed from appreciating the majesty of the landscape, or the exuberance of life on display at every turn. No, there was only one reason to be here, on the third floor of the west wing.

Another check.

Gone. Good. Bleeding pest!

Now then, ... Maid Malgreete, what have you to say, today?

Must knock with authority—but not too much. Nothing timid. That won't do. Firm. Firm is what is called for. Assert one's authority in the immediate. Unflaggingly. Nothing overbearing. Can't have the chicken dashing off before the rooster! Right, here it is then.

Robert knocked on Malgreete's door.

When it opened, so too, did Miss Van Bleake's eyes—she was surprised.

"What you are doing here?" she asked, not impolitely, despite the lack of formality.

"Miss Van Bleake—Maid Malgreete, if I may—I should like to have a word with you. Are you perchance disposed at the moment?"

The maid hesitated, but then retreated, inviting Robert to enter. Before doing so, he glanced down the hall and caught a glimpse of someone's head snapping back from the corner. It was Horst, of course. Bob treated himself to sly smile as he strolled into Malgreete's salon.

There was no telling if the maid kept her bedchamber as immaculate as this room since the door was closed, but nevertheless, Robert was duly impressed with the tidy vestibule. Malgreete's reception further inspired a sense of ease in the butler, her grim hostility being uncharacteristically absent. She looked relaxed, content even. Robert admired her poise, but more than that, he was attracted to her; she was a handsome woman when she wanted to be.

Malgreete sat in the chair opposite her guest, apologizing for not having refreshments or tea to serve.

"Quite all right, no bother," said Robert. "After all, it's not as though we'd planned to meet." As soon as it became clear Malgreete was not about to entertain any amount of small talk, the head butler pressed on. "Righto, well, as it now appears we have our rightful steward and he has more or less appropriated tasks—for which, I daresay, should be mine to issue—well, in any event, I simply wanted to ask for your thoughts on the matter."

"Why me?"

"Well, you'll recall, it was you, Maid Malgreete, who warned of a possible deceit. And rightfully so. We were already taken in by one charlatan. Gawd! And for the bloody life of me, I can't understand how he could dare make his way back here and expect to remain among us. And with the blessing of our rightful bleeding steward, no less. Shocking, I say, just bloody shocking."

"Robert, this new one, he is a man what does what you do not ... because you cannot. He has a way—a kind of power—to say what to do, and everyone will listen and follow. This is what I see. But, is he the one this high and fancy lady want for us? Like he say, we can know from what is his actions. So now we wait and we see, ya?"

Robert was stung by the dismissive tone of Malgreete's statement. He did not like that she thought of him as ineffective, powerless. On the other hand he was encouraged by her proper use of his name, which to his ear, sounded almost warm and endearing when she spoke it. "I should like to point out," he said, "if not for a lack of cooperation, I might get a lot more accomplished around here. A lot bloody more!"

"Sure, but you must get their respect. This is first."

"Do I have yours? Is that why you are telling me this?"

Malgreete looked perplexed, uncertain as to how to answer.

"Something has changed here, Malgreete," said Robert, "and I would like to clear up some of the confusion." He studied Malgreete's features, looking for signs of volatility. Her expression revealed a reluctance to give voice to her uncertainty, but otherwise, she did not seem bent towards anger or aggressive states of emotional upheaval. He was safe, at least for now. "I admit, I myself am experiencing a change of heart. What I mean is, insofar as our relationship appears to be taking on a ... well, ah ... a rather new life of it's own, so to speak, I think I—we ..." When Robert lifted his eyes from the floor and brought them to meet hers, he could see she was smiling. It was a lovely knowing-smile that gave him cause to blush.

She covered his hand with hers. "I respect you are wanting to try to make everything better in this place," she said. "And, maybe, I think you will. One day. And ya, I try to help you."

A small contented smile formed on Bob's face. But he knew, although he'd won some concession, there was still a need to forge ahead. "Are you aware Herr Kunkle has plans to relocate his quarters to this wing? To this very floor, no less."

No sooner had the question left his lips that he had his answer: The look of surprise on Malgreete's face obviated the need for a reply. Against his better judgment, he decided to delve further into the toxic residue of their not-so-secret secret tryst. "There are rumors—well there always are, you know—rumors that you and Horst are ... well, that you're romantically inclined."

It was Malgreete's turn to blush. "He is ... he try—I think maybe I don't talk. Ya, this is better," she said, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from in her lap.

"He was here, was he not, just before I arrived? I passed him in the hall." The maid's features began to cloud-over, and at once, Robert regretted his persistence. But if the prickly assumptions concerning their affair were not made clear, he would be relegated to an unfair playing field. He was, after all, in a competition with Horst for the maid's attention. He needed to make a decisive move, one that could turn the game in his favor. And so he decided to give voice to his thoughts. "I'm jealous. There it is. I've said it. And I can't be anymore plain-spoken—or truthful. I'm jealous."

Malgreete's features softened, her smile, lusciously seductive, returned. Robert was reminded of the sultry smile she had given him during the meeting he'd called earlier in the new year. He was glad he had said what he said; it was the right thing to say. The timing was perfect. Gloating, however, would have to wait until Horst Kunkle was fully vanquished, annihilated, run off the estate.

Malgreete Van Bleake's hand came back down to his, giving a gentle squeeze. "After the night of this party, I think I want to kill everybody. I am so angry. Maybe even, I want to kill myself. But Horst, he is the one—the only one—always the one who show he can like me. Even I am not so nice for everybody, still he try and he try ... always he try to make me feel better. And he do. And it's nice. Nice when somebody show a good feeling for you ... even when you hate and want to kill everything."

"Well," said Robert, straightening, "now there are two of us. Two suitors, if you will. Two who have become fond of you. And I must say, I don't exactly know how all of this has come about, but I can assure you, Maid Malgreete, I wish to win your reciprocal feelings." Bob hesitated, then added, "I also wish to compliment you on your toilette ... you look very attractive."

Malgreete's crooked smile reflected his use of an obscure French term cached within his praise of her well-groomed appearance. In Bob's mind, however, it was neither ambiguous nor awkward; it connoted a particular savoir faire—a certain je ne sais quoi.

And so, with little else left to say, the housemaid stood, curtsied, and showed him to the door. Their discussion had run its course and had paved the way for a new understanding. Henceforth, Malgreete Van Bleake would be the object of more than one man's affection. Robert Bosworth had officially declared himself in the running.

Bob stepped into the hall catching sight of Horst yanking his head back around the corner again. The sardonic smile and liberated swagger that carried the butler on his merry way attested to his sense of accomplishment. He reveled in self-congratulatory musings. He had won the day. He had bested Horst. But ultimately it was Malgreete's acceptance of him as a contender for her affection that thrilled his desire and fueled his imagination. He was over the moon, walking on air.

Behind her door, Malgreete Van Bleake pressed her forehead to the wood and closed her eyes. She allowed her thoughts to spiral, blending from one fantasy to another. Consumed in a twirling merry-go-round of illusion, Malgreete saw herself pursued by two rivals intent on winning her charms. Each scenario pitted one against the other in a duel to the death. First it was the overseer, then the butler, then the overseer again, and so on, each winning out over the other. But the conclusion remained the same: The victor would gather her in his arms and she would swoon. It was all so romantic—and tragic. And the very notion had her heart all aflutter.

At length, she pushed herself from the door and strolled dreamily to her boudoir. She sat at her vanity and gazed at her reflection. A small half-smile flickered across her visage. There was no denying, when she took pains to enhance her features, she really was a handsome woman. Malgreete warmed to the recollection of her appearance at dinner the previous evening. The eyes, the expressions ... their regard spoke to the one undeniable fact: she was admired. And wasn't it just so perfect to have that loathsome Oboe pressed into service at her behest. She liked this new steward. He was fair-minded. And a fine looking specimen, as well.

But what to do about the butler? And what to do about Horst? Both, seeking an amorous liaison. Both, willful and determined. Both, at odds with each other. How wonderfully delicious!

Steady, good old Horst, like a solid, unyielding force, always ready with a tender thought. And to think, despite the quirks of the past, all he ever wanted was a true love. No small wonder, then, he was able to withstand the abuse, the rejection, the silence. Though spurned, still he made every attempt to be a consoling presence in the wake of that grand folly the befell the manor—when everyone awoke to find they'd been made fools of, and when each and every person knew in their heart, everything had changed. For better or worse, life had been turned upside down. But there he was, steadfast in his desire, soft and sweet, always present to the pain—a rock. And now the butler arrives on scene, aloof, and yet so unsure of himself, so child-like in his amorous declaration. How could this have come about? The kiss? He never could see through the pretense, the manipulation, or deceit. And now he's forged a fondness for the very one who sought to dupe his unwitting heart, poor soul. So innocent. So foolish. Oh, but isn't it grand? Two suitors! Two!

Malgreete's preoccupation with the emergent love-triangle continued well into the afternoon. Such that, even while scrubbing, chopping, and slicing vegetables in preparation for the evening meal, she found herself distracted. She was among the cooks and the chef in the great kitchen, dutifully carrying out these mundane tasks when she quite nearly diced a finger in the process.

"AAAiieee!"

All eyes locked on the maid squeezing her finger in her apron.

Lisa Zeppatini rushed to her side. "Malgreesia! Mama mia, Malgreesia, you are cut! You hurt? It is bad? What I can do? Show to me."

Malgreete winced as she withdrew her digit from the cloth to examine the wound. "I think not so bad, ya?" She held it so Lisa could inspect the laceration.

"Is not so bad. You gonna be okay. Come." Lisa took her by the wrist and led her towards the scullery. "We make it clean and put a cloth."

Marie-Claire called to Lisa. "Chèrie, you can bring the wine after you help this maid, yes?"

Aside from a quick nod, Lisa did not appear to give the request much thought. Alfonso, on the other hand, who was stoking a stove with coal, suspended his activity. He straightened and folded his arms across his chest, glowering at the head-chef.

"What?" asked Marie-Claire. "Why you look to me like this? You want I cook with no—how you say—inspiration?"

The Spaniard continued glaring at the chef, his stance, stubborn and unwavering. Marie-Claire shrugged and turned back to her potage, mumbling something under her breath.

In the scullery, Lisa held Malgreete's arm over a copper basin as she poured warm water onto the maid's hand. She gently rubbed the cut and squeezed the surrounding flesh so as to open the wound site, allowing the flow of water to enter. Malgreete watched, helplessly, as blood blended with the runoff to form a pretty pink puddle in the basin.

"It is hurting, yes?" asked Lisa.

The maid nodded, but nonetheless managed to push a weak smile through her mask of pain.

"Don't worry, we finish. There." Lisa patted the hand dry with a clean cloth and then wrapped a strip of cotton around the finger. She instructed Malgreete to grip her finger tightly while she retrieved a small bottle of medicine. It was a diluted solution of carbolic acid prepared by Dr. Dare and used as an antiseptic for minor cuts. It was kept handy, along with clean strips of gauze, in the event kitchen staff needed to avail themselves.

"Thank you. You are very kind," said Malgreete as the saucier put the final wrap on the bandage. "Are you caring like this for everyone?"

"If I see someone to help and I can, I do. Is nothing," said Lisa, smiling.

Malgreete glanced through the entrance way. Satisfied no one was close enough to overhear, she lowered her voice and said, "Lisa, I can ask you something?"

Lisa's gaze flitted from the maid to the kitchen and back again. Her eyes lit up and twinkled as she eagerly nodded her assent.

"If you have two man wanting you, and you have to choose, how you can know the one is the good one?"

"Oh, you know," answered Lisa, leaning closer and speaking low, "I never have so much good luck like a this. But you ask because this is for you, yes?"

"No, no, not me, no. But I thinking a beautiful girl ... kind ... caring ... ya, like you, maybe you have this before?"

"This is dreams, Malgreesia. Nobody ever shows for me a love and a romance. Of this I know nothing, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry. You are sweet. You are kind, lovely—you, before everybody, should be the one all the man are wanting."

"Oooh, this is a so beautiful thing to say," said Lisa, giving the other woman a hug.

Malgreete found herself returning the gesture, partly out of appreciation for the aid, but also from a heartfelt and inalienable sense of belonging. She was, after all, a part of what all females must endure and share in man's world. Theirs was a gender-based collective—a sisterhood—and one that no man could ever hope to understand.

As their embrace lingered, perhaps a little longer than necessary, a curious thing happened: Lisa's arms, which were around the maid's midriff, slid downward some small distance. Then, before Malgreete could register a response, she could feel Lisa's hands palpitating her backside. The saucier was squeezing her rump! Malgreete stiffened. The reflex was immediate and involuntary, prompted by a twirling confusion of unfamiliar thoughts and emotions. Lisa suddenly stepped back, a mix of horror and absolute shock frozen on her face. Her mouth opened but she could not formulate a cohesive phrase. Her stammering attempt to apologize fell short of full realization. In the end, both women stood facing each other, embarrassed, and not wanting to look the other in the eye. Nevertheless, they managed to blunder through an awkward exchange, both hopeful of dismissing the incident without further complication.

After Lisa left, Malgreete looked at her neatly bandaged finger and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Three

Feast or Fodder

Shortly before seven, staff and servants gathered in the dining-room. All were groomed and dressed appropriately, Zero and Robert having chosen to follow a more subdued choice in attire than the previous evening. Marlyse, who wasn't tipped to serve dinner on this occasion, wore a yellow chiffon frock. She lit up the room with a Spring-like radiance—a perfect compliment to her bubbly disposition and winsome smile. As the cooks and Malgreete entered carrying the last of the dinner entrees and beverages, everyone began taking up their assigned seats. Overall, the mood was friendly and it appeared everyone was looking forward to dining together. The kitchen staff removed their aprons and tunics and joined the others at the table. Their hushed chatter fell away the moment Magnus stood.

"Thank you," he said. "Ladies, gentlemen, ... Mr. DeLouche," —smiling down the table at Oboe—"I'm pleased to see everyone is present. Before long, Mr. Cheong will be joining us as well. Isn't that right, Madame Contraire?"

Marie-Claire shrugged. "Maybe, but not so soon. We see. For now, he ees put in a room. From here we begin to make a treatment."

"It's a start," said Magnus. "Now, who will help Robert serve this evening? I see Malgreete has an injury to her hand. Anyone?"

Without so much as a second thought, Marlyse got up and said, "Me! I don't mind. Sweet Malgreete, you sit and heal, mon. Ain't no problem, none at all."

"Ooh, that's a so sweet," cooed Lisa, ever so softly.

"Marlyse, thank you," said Malgreete, rising, "but, no, I can serve. This is a small cut—not even hurt so much. Sit, sit, I can do."

Marlyse was already moving towards the other end of the table. "You sit! I doing this, mon. You jest relax."

"Your dress," said Malgreete. "Wait ..."—retrieving her apron—"here, take this." The housemaids traded friendly smiles, and as Marlyse donned the apron, Malgreete thanked her again for her thoughtfulness.

Magnus looked to Robert. On cue, Bosworth rose from his chair, seemingly reluctant to assume his duty. "Don't be glum, Robert. You're a butler. Try to keep that it mind," said Magnus, sitting down.

Conversations sprung up round the table, and, with warming covers lifted, a mouth-watering blend of aromatic smells rose, mingled, and wafted throughout the dining-room. Among the array of steaming platters and bowls on the sideboard, was an enticing crop of early vegetables and lettuce, fresh from the garden, making a debut after long winter months without.

Marlyse and Robert, removed from the others, readied for service. "You needs to snap outta it, mon," said the maid to her superior. "You moping round the table ain't gonna win you no smiles. Besides, it ain't right. This is what you s'pose to be doing; it's your job, mon."

"My 'job', Miss Marliemon, is to serve nobles—lords and ladies, aristocrats—not this mob of knobs. It's quite beneath me, don't you know. Intolerable." Bob plopped a bowl of beans onto his tray.

"Mista Boswort, you missing the big picture here. Tonight, it's me and you. Tomorrow, and every other night, you gonna be rubbing shoulders with Maid Malgreete."

Robert paused. Looking askance, Marlyse saw Bob smiling, his unfocused gaze directed straight ahead.

Only Oboe, noted the exchange of whispers at the buffet between butler and maid. Noticeable to anyone who took an interest, however, was just how much more cheery Robert appeared when he returned to the table to begin the dinner service. Marlyse, beaming her beautiful smile as per usual, gave Malgreete a wink in passing.

With everyone served and seated, no one—not even Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo—dared sneak a bite until Magnus gave the word. They waited. Magnus leaned forward, looking past Alfonso and Marie-Claire, to Lisa. "Should we hold hands?" he asked, his smile adding a degree of levity to the seriousness of his tone.

The saucier blushed, letting her eyes drop to her lap.

"Well, I still think it's a good idea," he added. "And we will, one day, when ready. For now, let's just close our eyes and reflect for a minute on what we are about to consume. Be present. Be considerate. Be thankful."

Ernie 'Lad', as before, did not close his eyes along with everyone else. A piercing stare from Magnus, however, compelled him to do so. He complied, but not before shooting a quick glance down the table to where Oboe sat. The scoundrel was hunched forward on his elbows, eyes rolled to the ceiling in a mocking display of contempt for the proceedings. Clearly, DeLouche was not playing by the same rules. What's more, he didn't appear to be obliged to, either. A moment later, when Ernie peeked, Magnus was still glaring at him. And again, twenty seconds after that.

Finally, with everyone ready to commence their meal, Marie-Claire reached for the pitcher of wine. As she poured, Magnus posed a question regarding her plans for Chin's treatment.

"So, first we move him to a room—away from his drink." Marie-Claire took a sip of wine before continuing. "And for the cave, we keep the door lock. Like this, he cannot go to stay there again. Next, we feed him only what ees good—somesing to make the fat."

"And we gonna take his stinky smoke away too," added Lisa. "A little bit every day. Soon he gonna be okay."

Alfonso offered a prognosis for Chin's recovery: "If we keep him away from these things that are making him sick, I theenk his color will return. He will become normal again. But we must find something to give him strength—a desire for different sensations."

"Find Chin's hidden passion," said Magnus, "and you'll have the key you're looking for."

"Singing! He tell me," said Lisa, "is a not so long. This night, you know, when everybody play the music and a dance and sing. He is telling me because he like a so much my aria. He say he always want—since a small boy—he wanna sing."

"Teach him to sing," suggested Magnus.

"Opera! No, I cannot, I am a no teacher for the opera singing. This is impossible. Impossible."

Lisa was still shaking her head no when Magnus said, "Oboe DeLouche is capable. You could ask him to help."

The shock, the ire, and surprise that enveloped the team responsible for Chin's recovery was manifest in their respective expressions: Lisa looked absolutely appalled, Marie-Claire, startled, and Alfonso, very much displeased.

Oboe ignored the discussion being carried out midway along the table, choosing instead to focus on Yuno, who was sitting across from him, eating with his fingers. "I missed you last night," he said. "I was given to understand we would meet at nine." When Yuno did not respond, he pressed further. "Were you delayed? ... No? Perhaps you forgot."

Without looking up, Yuno said, "Maybe your imagination."

"What, that you agreed to meet in the library at nine?"

"No. That I wasn't there."

"I would have noticed."

Yuno lifted his head from his plate. "It's not always easy to see things for what they are. Once, in a vision, I saw a crow trying to take the spirit from a rat. The rat was blind and had only one eye." Yuno paused and Oboe's hand reflexively touched the scratch at the corner of his eye. "Anyway," he concluded, "the crow had the other."

"Your point being?"

"Imagination is like that sometimes; it's hard to see things for what they are."

Oboe stabbed a morsel of meat with his fork and shoved it into his mouth without saying anything further. Yuno continued staring through him with those intense, unfocused and unblinking gray eyes. Uncomfortable with the penetrating gaze, Oboe slapped his fork down and demanded to know just what he was looking at.

"I can't see anything," said Yuno, turning his attention back to his plate. "And anyway, there's nothing to see."

Malgreete, seated next to Yuno, was only half listening. Her preoccupation with private thoughts showed in the way she kept sneaking sidelong glances across the table to Lisa, who, for her part, seemed intent on avoiding eye-contact at all costs. Picking up the bread basket and holding it out, Malgreete asked, "Lisa, maybe you like a warm muffin?"

The impulsive gesture caught the sous-chef off-guard. "Me? No! No, no, is okay. Thank you." Her weak smile and furtive glance indicated she still felt uncomfortable with what had transpired between them that afternoon.

Malgreete swung the basket to her left. "Buck?"

"Why thank you, ma'am. Don't mind if I do," said the stable master, taking one.

Malgreete put the basket back down within reach of Lisa. And although she took care to keep her gaze averted, Malgreete allowed her smile to linger. She harbored no hard feelings over the incident and wanted the saucier to know it. She liked Lisa. The fact that she appeared confused with a nascent sexual orientation was of little consequence. Lisa was struggling to understand something that did not fit a prescribed ideal, something that deviated from conditioned norms. There was nothing more to it than that. Malgreete made a vow to herself: She'd help the young woman come to grips with her identity.

"Mr. O'Boyo," asked Magnus, "if you had to share a table with a farm animal, which would you choose?"

Ernie, slouched over and shoveling food into his mouth, looked up with a quizzical expression forming on his boyish face. Bits of partially chewed vegetable matter fell to his plate when he attempted speak. "Farm an—"

Magnus cut the lad off, telling him to take his time, finish what he had in his mouth, and give thought to the question before answering. Ernie chewed and swallowed while his brows crowded into a vexed frown. Those who were nearby and attentive straightened their posture as if suddenly mindful of their table manners.

Ernie washed his mouth clean with a swig of lager. He was ready to answer. "First—and I don't mean ye no disrespect—but jaysus, I'd have to be saying, yer question begs another. And that is: Why would ye ask such a fec—sorry—such a queer question in the first place? I mean, it's jest a wee bit odd, innit?"

"On the surface, yes, but consider the impression on those around you if you, for instance, were to conduct yourself like a pig at a trough. The stretch of imagination required to suppose such a question would not be far off."

The statement came down like a hammer. All those seated nearby and within earshot felt the sting of the thinly disguised reprimand. But none more so than Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo. In the thick silence that ensued, he reddened, boiling, seething with a mounting anger. His fiery eyes flashed with a piercing, hateful glare directed straight and unflinchingly at those of the new steward. He stood, knocking his chair back with such force, it toppled. Throwing his napkin to the floor, he stormed from the room shouting, "Fine by me! I'll eat with the feckin pigs then!"

A number of curious glances shifted towards Maid Marlyse. Her concern was evident across her features: eyes cast down and to the front, sitting upright, rigid, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

Tension bearing down, its full weight felt by all, Magnus continued dining as if nothing untoward had occurred. As Marie-Claire reached for the pitcher of wine for the second time during the course of the meal, he said loudly, and with just the right measure of inflection to cause Marie-Claire's arm to retreat, "Restraint,"—pausing slightly—"if not already established, must be learned from the adverse reaction of the company you keep to objectionable behavior. Observe the effects you have on those around you and you may learn something of yourself. Then, aspire to set an example for those stricken by ignorance or unbridled desire, and they, too, may change their ways. Of course, if time is short, patience expired, you could just spit the infraction out in no uncertain terms. But then you risk incendiary opposition—not everybody can be right about everything all the time."

"Mean, mon, that's what that was," murmured Marlyse, still not lifting her eyes from her plate.

"If I had the luxury of several lifetimes to set an example," said Magnus, "I would not have hammered the point home, as I did. But I don't—time is short. And, in this instance, patience cripples virtue. I'm sorry to say, but a blunt object requires a blunt instrument."—softening his tone and looking to the maid—"Don't worry, Marlyse, he'll be fine. He's young, resilient. Help him, if you will. Teach him. Show him how to conduct himself at a table. Let him know that unrestrained cursing—at least in his particular case—is only a small step up from being a feckless dolt." Magnus turned, leaned forward, and, looking to the other end of the table, said in a loud voice, "Speaking of blunt instruments, that's how I found Mr. DeLouche; he was attempting to hawk your Lady Blunt in the market at the town square. Isn't that right, Oboe?" The accused returned a sheepish smile, but otherwise remained mute. Sitting back, Magnus carried on with his story at a normal volume. "Milady had told me about the fine instrument housed in this manor, and yet, there it was, on sale to the highest bidder. DeLouche had other items in the buckboard—household items—objects of gold and silver. Knowing something of the scoundrel, I offered him a choice: He could go to prison for a very long time, or, he could help with my work here."

"Please understand," said Alfonso, keeping his voice low so Oboe could not overhear, "we appreciate that you have returned most of these stolen things to us, and that you are here to help us. But, as I said last night—and I theenk I speak for all of us—we are not overjoyed with this man being here."

"Yes," said Magnus quietly to the Spaniard next to him, "you did mention your concern. And again, I say to you, the man has many talents. He has certain skills and you should take advantage of his presence. Learn from him. His expertise spans many disciplines. Find an area of interest, approach him with it, and he will likely have something to teach you. The only caveat you need bear in mind: beware insidious forms of deception."

Robert, sitting on the other side of Magnus, had no problem overhearing. He, too, kept his voice hushed when he asked, "And just what, pray tell, is stopping the rogue from absconding with our valuables for a second time?"

"Only you."

"Me! But I—I'm but—"

"Not just you, Robert, everybody—the entire household. Your responsibility is to protect what's yours."

Zero, sitting across the table, leaned in and spoke. "To be sure, the violin and the knickknacks are hardly trifling affairs, but then that's not what he was really after, now, is it?"

Magnus looked from Zero to Robert. The butler offered no comment. Magnus glanced down the table, to the end, where Oboe sat, quietly enjoying his meal. Marie-Claire and Lisa were talking sauces while Horst and Buck discussed horses. Malgreete chatted with Yuno. With all the extraneous chatter, it was unlikely the steward could be overheard whispering to Robert, "Your estate will never see nobility taking up residence if you lose your most valuable asset. Keep this in mind, Robert—always."

"Psssst!"

Nearby eyes swept to Marlyse. She was gesticulating with a pointed finger hidden behind the upheld palm of her opposite hand. Robert and Magnus leaned back simultaneously, looking over their left shoulders. Oboe DeLouche was on the move, plate in hand, making his way towards them.

"It's a tad lonely way down there," he said, putting his plate down and pulling out the chair next to Robert. "Should Chin and Bin ever join our lovely gatherings, I'll have someone to chat with. As it stands, however, there are a lot of empty seats with little in the way of conversation coming from the immediate vicinity." Oboe sat down. "So," he added, "unless you are entirely opposed, I'd like to sit here, where I'm apt to experience more scintillating topics of discussion."

Robert stiffened but said nothing. Marlyse, sitting opposite, frowned, but likewise, did not voice her displeasure. The two others seated at that end of the table, Magnus and Zero, carried on eating as if indifferent to the newcomer. Oboe's orb wobbled in gleeful fits and starts, and he smiled.

Choosing a moment when potential eavesdropping-ears were distracted, Oboe DeLouche leaned towards Robert and whispered, "We must talk. There are threats on your life."

The shocked look of disbelief erupting on the butler's face was not missed by Maid Marlyse. Sitting directly opposite, she noted the sudden snap of Bosworth's head. Robert stared at Oboe, mouth unhinged, yet unable to utter a sound.

"It's nothing to get overly excited about," said Oboe in a normal tone of voice while giving Robert's arm a reassuring pat. "At least not for now. But let's have a chat about it after dinner, shall we?" His good eye flicked to Marlyse and then Zero—both were now watching.

Robert understood the gesture to imply that now was not the time to ask questions. He slowly turned his head to the left to see who else might have caught sight of his reaction. Magnus was chatting with Alfonso and Marie-Claire. And the only other person in view, Horst, had his ear bent to a discourse on the merits of horse manure, delivered by the estate's highly esteemed master of animal husbandry, Beauregard "Buck" Knowles.

Just as Marlyse seemed on the verge of asking, Oboe piped up and explained, "I was just mentioning to Robert here, how I'd heard rumors in the town square. Mind you, it was some weeks ago, but nevertheless, it seems a certain individual—an escapee from an insane asylum—oh my! Pardon me. I mustn't carry-on. Fairly unsavory affair I'm afraid. And certainly not something to be discussed while dining in mixed company. I apologize, Maid Marlyse. Please, forgive my indiscretion."

"A kook on the loose!" said Marlyse, excited by the prospect. "Now you best be spilling them beans, Mr. Oboe-mon. You already got the full and undivided tension here. So come on, out with it."

"She's no lady," said Zero. But immediately realizing his blunder, he quickly added, "What I mean is, of course, is that our fair maiden is not of such high and noble temperament that she would eschew a juicy bit of hearsay, simply because it's not deemed fit for a dinner table. Isn't that right, Marlyse?"

Marlyse cast a dismissive frown his way, but otherwise made no comment.

Robert stared into his plate.

"Well," said Oboe, "that being the case, allow me to elaborate. Where was I?"

"Asylum," prompted Marlyse.

"Oh yes. So, the word about town has it that this insane escape artist is ... well, he's seeking refuge in country estates,"—a sidelong glance at Robert—"by passing himself off as a butler. He was nearly caught when, taking umbrage to a disgruntled lord's vociferous oath, he stabbed a large fork—the kind used for carving turkeys and such—into the neck of the lord's old mother-in-law. She's in hospital. The lord, it's said, is not overly distraught ... but, the main point, is that the lunatic is still on the loose." Oboe smiled seeing the twinkle return to Marlyse's eyes. Zero, too, appeared eager to delve into the nitty-gritty details. However, a stern reprimand from Magnus closed the topic to further inquiry.

"Gossip thrills idle minds," he said. "Worse, the more it's repeated, the more the story becomes fantastic. In the end, it's only lies. We won't entertain gossip at our table. That will be the last of it."

When Marlyse and Zero caught Oboe's eye, he made a show of rolling it to the ceiling, thus joining his wandering eye which was already aimlessly turned upward.

By now, dinner was winding down, and so people began to drift away from the table. Bob, uncommunicative, still stared into his plate, leaving what remained of his meal. He waited. Oboe waited. Soon, only Marlyse and Malgreete were left, and both were busy clearing table and sideboards.

"Shall we make ourselves comfortable by the hearth?" asked DeLouche, already starting to rise from his chair.

"Comfortable!" Robert threw down his napkin. "Hardly bloody likely!" All the same, he rose to his feet and followed Oboe to the grouping of armchairs.

Once settled, the former steward took his time preparing and lighting a cigar, giving time for the maids to vacate the room. Alone and undisturbed, the two men regarded one another. Oboe appeared smug and in control, comfortable. Robert sat upright, rigid in his chair, anxious.

"I don't believe a word of it. A nutter on the loose. Posing as a butler. Bloody ridiculous."

Oboe sat back a little more comfortably and exhaled a great cloud of bluish gray smoke. A sly smile formed.  "Just a little fib to deter the young miss from becoming overly curious. Wouldn't wish to have anyone become privy to the real threat—that someone in the manor may be plotting dastardly deeds. No, perish the thought my good man, that would lead to suspects, suspicion ... finger pointing."

"I daresay, should anyone point a finger, it would be directed at you. Plotting dastardly deeds are rather a specialty of yours, I'd expect, given recent history."

"Now, now, Robert, no need to be unkind. Anyone can succumb to temptation. In fact, it is precisely that that leads us to ... well, to point the finger so to speak. You see, if not for temptation, dear Horst would not have conspired to have you done away with."

"HORST! DONE AWAY ... If you're—"

"Quiet!" Oboe glanced to the kitchen door. "Now listen. Herr Kunkle is jealous. He'd like you dispensed with—gone—never to return. I know because when last I was in residence, he had gone so far as to ask if I might aid in this ruthless endeavor. And just so you know, I warned him against such acts of treachery. I have no heart for it. But, as I find myself back in the manor, I felt I should make you aware."

"Why? What do you care?"

"I only care for matters of the heart. And, like most everyone, for the finer things in life. But that I'm telling you, is because redemption dictates one incur some form of sacrifice. And my sacrifice entails I dishonor the trust placed in me by the overseer. I do this for two reasons: one, with the hope that you, in return for divulging this information, will see your way clear to place some amount of trust in me; to not see me as a lowly, thieving scoundrel, but as man of integrity, at least insofar as my dealings with humankind are concerned. And two, because whosoever goes about hatching plots to off someone, merits having the tables turned—they should be the ones done away with."

Robert Bosworth studied the man who would squander the trust of another, and who then spoke of treachery against that very same person. Could it be, Oboe DeLouche—a known thief, a man who would deceive an entire household in order to abscond with its riches—could it be he was telling the truth? "What was Kunkle's plan?" asked Robert, searching for any sign that might point to a lie.

"I'm not entirely sure," said Oboe, "but what I can say, is that there was some talk about a casket."

Robert bristled at the mention of the word casket. His lips moved as he repeated it, the utterance barely audible. Abruptly, he stood, tugged at his waistcoat, and marched out without so much as another word. Oboe puffed on his cigar, a wry smile creasing his lips.
Chapter Twenty-Four

Smoke and Mirrors

The butler slashed the air with a carving knife. Another slash in the opposite direction. He felt silly. His awkward thrusts and slashing motions lacked the requisite authority and menace to deliver a decisive blow—a deadly blow. Robert Bosworth, dejected and self-conscious, aware his flailing movements lacked conviction, let the blade clatter on a silver tray. Bob was about to give up when a thought occurred. He picked up a fork. He imagined stealing up behind his adversary, seated alone, in a chair at the dining table. He mimed crouching and pulling his victim's head back in the crook of his arm, exposing the jugular. He stabbed at the neck with swift, short, erratic jabs. His imagination painted all the gory details of the ensuing bloodbath in vivid colors: streams of frothy blood, crimson, spurting out in all directions; his nemesis, wild-eyed, futilely clutching at his throat; and in the end, only the gurgling, gasping sounds of a man in the throes of his dying breaths. Robert saw himself standing over Horst, spattered in blood, the fork dangling from his limp hand. There was no elation, no glory. There was no gloating, self-serving sense of victory. No, just a profound emptiness, doomed to turn on itself, to putrefy and become a loathsome burden to be carried for the rest of his days. He saw it for the heinous crime that it was, and he had no stomach for it. There had to be another way.

An accident. Accidents happen all the time. Kunkle's a bit of a clumsy old cock, so why not? A fall from a flight of stairs, perhaps; a tumble over the back terrace; or maybe a loose bit of brickwork. Slate shingles—they slide from rooftops. It's been known to happen.

Bosworth flipped the fork towards the platter. He missed. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he allowed his thoughts to drift. Accidents. So many possibilities ...

While all manner of dastardly scenarios played out in his mind's eye, the clock on the mantel tick-tocked away the seconds. Robert, obsessed with formulating a feasible plan to do away with Horst, failed to notice a white envelope glide silently into his room from under the door.

WHUMP!

The loud thump shocked him from his trance-like state. He blinked. He was in his room, on his bed, looking through to the antechamber. No further disturbances came from the hall. He stared hard at the white rectangle on his floor. Another note.

Bob retrieved it, broke the seal, and opened the neatly-folded sheet of paper.

It read:

To Whom It May Concern,

Your current predicament is, to say the least, precarious. You must not take the return of the former steward in stride. Never be so dim as to overlook the nefarious deed done onto you. (You quite nearly lost that which is entrusted to you to guard at all costs, you boob you.) Remain vigilant at all times. Enlist the aid of all those who are trustworthy. Endeavor to win over those who are not. Convince them to comply with your directives.

From whom it concerns

P.S. By the way, I'm keeping the master key.

"Who the devil ..."

WHUMP!

Startled, Bosworth jumped back and nearly fell. He waited, but there was nothing further, only silence in the hall. Robert reached for the handle, gripped it, and then jerked the door open. His stunned expression was slow to dissolve into some semblance of normality.

Dr. Dare stood at the entrance, dressed, as always, in an impeccably tailored suit. His features betrayed no trace of any underlying emotive condition. Keen eyes locked onto those of the butler.

Nothing was said.

Robert's lips twitched, but before he could make a sound, Bin delivered a smarting slap to his face. The shock surpassed any realization of pain. Bob's left hand lifted to his cheek, his mouth frozen on the first syllable he was about utter. His horrified unbelieving-eyes, begged for an answer.

Bin's mouth spread into a rare grin. A mischievous sparkle flashed in his eyes. "Don't be a boob, Bob. Your key privilege could be revoked." He turned and walked away. Before the butler closed the door, he called out, saying, "Think about it."

'Think about it'...  The man's mad—a lunatic!

Bob let the letter slip from his fingers. It drifted to the floor and became fully integrated into the disarray of discarded effects littering the room. Dropping into his armchair, staring into the cold hearth, it wasn't long before his mind departed, once again, constructing scenarios, building on probabilities, envisioning methods of doing away with Horst Kunkle, his arch enemy.

Plink!

A pebble bounced off the window pane.

Annoyed with yet another disturbance, Robert rose, tugged his housecoat closer, and crossed the room. He yanked open the window, poked his head out, and peered into the darkness below. "Who the bloody-hell is out there?"

A voice came back from the dark: "Itsqwatyoukno Anotwhoyoukno."

"What? What did you say?" Bob leaned out, but could see nothing.

"Yuno," said the voice.

"Oh! Yes, ... well what the devil do want, man?"

"Maybe I can help you."

There was a silent interlude whereupon the butler tried to fit the gardener's offer into a meaningful context. It didn't work. "Help me?" he asked. "With what, exactly?"

"Your vision."

"I can see perfectly well—well not in dark, of course, but I—blast it! Mr. Yuno, I don't see what any of this has to—"

A matchstick flared to life, illuminating the medicine-man's weathered old face. He was lighting his pipe. A puff of thick, bluish smoke temporarily obscured his features. The light went out and the darkness closed in. If not for the glow of embers each time Yuno drew on his pipe, it would have been impossible to know if he yet stood below.

After a puff or two, the Paiute attempted to elucidate: "You need a vision to see ahead ... to move forward. The trail you take now leads you in circles. Your path is not clear. I can help you find your way."

Robert unraveled the old man's rambling innuendo and found a thread of truth. "I say," he said, at last, "won't you come up? Perhaps we can make some bloody sense of this vague notion of yours."

Yuno didn't respond, but a few minutes later there was a knock at the door. It was he.

"Well, here you are then. Come in," said Robert, inviting him to take a chair. Yuno settled cross-legged on the carpet in front of the empty fireplace. "Fine," he added, "as you like." Robert sat back down in his armchair and folded his arms across his chest. "Now, what, pray tell, is all this nonsense about visions and paths and circles and finding one's way and such? Sounds rather confounded, what?"

"What?"

"Oh, just get on with it, man. What were you nattering about down there? More to the bleeding point: How do you mean, you can help me?"

Yuno pulled a small cloth sack from his deerskin pouch. He held it to his nose and sniffed it. Taking out his pipe, he told Robert that if he would partake of the special blend of tobacco and herbs, a transformation of his psyche would occur. The smoke would induce a cognitive state that would open doors to previously unimaginable possibilities.

Robert was intrigued. He could use a few "new" ideas.

After a few fits of coughing, Robert learned to better control the flow of inhaled smoke so as to avoid the harsh reprisal that inevitably comes to the uninitiated. By and by, the antechamber filled with the sweet smell of Yuno's "special blend". The medicine-man became contemplative, uncommunicative. He left Robert to himself, to discover whatever it was that was new and revelatory, unsullied by disturbances from the exterior framework of reality. Robert soon came to sense a peculiar detachment, a slipping away. His body felt more fluid but at the same time heavier, viscous, like mercury; and a warm glow of pleasure tingled throughout his nervous system, most prominently on nerve endings within his brain. By closing his eyes, he opened more fully to the sensations enveloping his body and mind. New relationships were formed, resulting in thought patterns the likes of which he'd never encountered. Some—the more intense—produced a tickling type of reverberation throughout his entire being. It came to him, that this phenomenon was not unlike when one is on the verge of sneezing, or about to experience an orgasm. It only lasted a few moments, but was nonetheless exquisitely pleasurable. He giggled. And then found he could not stop giggling.

Yuno reached over and tugged on the hem of his housecoat. But when Bob opened his eyes and saw the old man dressed in denim and leather, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him, tugging at his robe, he burst out laughing. He couldn't stop laughing. Doubled over, his laughter, uncontrollable now, bordered on a maniacal form of hysteria. Yuno stood, stepped forward, and cuffed the butler, a smarting wallop across the back of head.

It worked. Bob popped up, a look of profound stupefaction emblazoned on his face.

"Hey, you need to stop that now," said Yuno. "Small heads have no room for seeing the spirits." He stepped back and sat down, as before.

Robert became serious, full of concentrated effort. "Will the spirits ... will they show me something? A vision? Is that what I'm meant to see?"

"Maybe, but I don't think so. This is your first step on a path. You need to train like a warrior. Bad spirits are strong. One day, you will meet one and you will have to fight with it."

Robert grew evermore concerned as the words tumbled from the wise old head. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eye to eye with Yuno. "What must I learn?" he asked. "How can I do battle with a spirit? I'm flesh and blood! Spirits are ... are—what are they? See-through apparitions? Figments of some bloody imagination spawned within a deranged mind? Tell me what you know, Mr. Itsqwatyoukno. Tell me."

"Calm. Be calm. You have to learn to hold your mind quiet and still. Clear, like a mountain lake." After moment, Yuno added, "And anyway, it's Mr. Anotwhoyoukno ... the name of my ancestors. Itsqwatyoukno is the name my father gave me." Robert looked confused. "It doesn't matter."

Robert, driven by curiosity pressed for more answers. "Do I have to smoke more of this before I can see spirits? How long do I have to train? Is this the same stuff Mr. Chin Cheong—that's an odd name! Is this the same—"

"Calm. Remember? Calm." Yuno loaded another pipe and lit it. "Here."

Robert's first greedy inhalation brought on a series of hard-to-suppress hacks. From then on he reverted to a slow, more controlled draw on the shared pipe. "Aaahh," he murmured when it was done, "now isn't this a fine feeling. Much better. I feel calm now."

"Visions come when you're prepared."

"Let's smoke more. I want a vision."

"You're not ready."

"I'm ready. I can feel it. I'm ready."

"You can keep this bag and pipe. Don't smoke it all at once, and only at night before you sleep."

"You know, Mr. Anotwhoyoukno, you're bloody fine fellow, a proper chap. I never real—funny that, I never realized ..."

"Bob?"

Yuno's soft voice seeped through the reverie.

"Hmm?"

"The spirits are smiling on you."

"Ohhh, isn't that nice. Do say hello for me, would you?"

Yuno smiled. It was a big, bark-and-berry stained, toothy smile.

"Yuno? What might happen if I smoke this during the day?"

The old medicine-man rose to his feet. Turning his back to his host, he said, "Don't. Your dreams won't leave you alone. You'll get lost in everything you do, everywhere you go. Don't do it."

Robert Bosworth became fascinated with the silvery mane of hair. It shimmered in the lamplight creating a captivating, multicolored glitter. A million pinpoints of dancing light emanated from the old man's back and were reflected in the butler's dilated pupils. He was hypnotized, entranced by the spectacle set before him. When he blinked, all that remained was a silent emptiness—the void between him and the door.

Why am I so hungry, thought Robert. Bloody famished!
Chapter Twenty-Five

Nebulous Conclusions

Marlyse brought breakfast.

"Smells like that ol' Yuno been in here," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I don't see how that it's any of your business, Miss Marliemon. But if you must know, yes, he was. Last evening. We had a bit of chat."

Bosworth joined the maid in the antechamber and sat down to his breakfast. Marlyse placed his crumpet, coffee, and a small dish containing a dab of butter and preserved blueberry jam on the coffee table. She held the tray, looking for an uncluttered space on which to put it down.

"Just there, if you will," said Bob. "Now then, what is it you find so curious about Mister Awha—Yuno visiting my quarters?"

Marlyse placed the platter on the mantel. "He a crazy ol' coot, mon. I don't see as how you two have much to be talking bout, is all."

"Yes, well, I daresay, I've often thought of him as rather peculiar. But all the same, if one makes an effort—a serious effort—his arcane drivel does, finally, have some semblance of truth about it." Bob dipped his crumpet in his coffee. When he looked back to Marlyse, standing next to the fireplace, he noted her look of disbelief. "What?"

Marlyse blinked. "Have you been smoking them weaselly weeds with that ol' Paiute?"

Bob blushed.

"You have! I know it! Well, lordy-lord, now don't that beat all."

Bob made a fuss of buttering his crumpet. He was trying to avoid the maid's accusatory gaze. "Well, what if I have, Maid Marliemon? Is it such a crime?"

Marlyse put her hands on her hip. "Don't you think maybe that's why that ol' coot is always saying the things he says, mon? He smokes too much a that stuff. And look what happen to Chin when he took up with them weaselly weeds ... which he surly got from Yuno."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Chin Cheong became ill from drink ... I think."

"You think what you wanna think. I say it's 'cause he smoking and drinking."

Robert became pensive. He spread the blueberry jam on his crumpet in a slow, methodical manner. The maid turned to leave. "Miss Marliemon ... Marlyse, won't you stay a moment? Have a seat. Please."

Marlyse sat on the edge of the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She watched Bob chomp into his crumpet and then take a sip of his coffee. After which, he continued, "You know how Yuno is always going on about these 'visions' of his, and how he carries on about this or that great spirit. Well, it occurred to me that we have never once—with the exception of that one particular night—seen him in a state of experiencing such visions. What I mean is, Yuno is filling his pipe, as it were, rather quite frequently, and yet he never enters this hallucinatory state. Last night, he intimated there was more to it than simply smoking these 'weaselly weeds' as you like to call it. Moreover, that this smoke was only a preparatory step ... a training exercise, if you will." Robert took another bite, looking to see if she might have something to add.

She blinked.

"Are you aware of any substance that Yuno consumes to induce visions?"

Marlyse Marliemon's brow knitted with equal measures of concern and vexation. "Why you so interested in Yuno's weaselly weeds and visions and such? You thinking bout bringing on some vision of you own, ain't you? That's why you interested in all this mumbo-jumbo, spirits, and such."

"Marlyse, would it be so wrong to look through the door, to widen the gates of one's perception, to understand more of—"

"Understand this: Yuno a medicine-man, he always working the roots, so he knows what's safe and what ain't. He got a way with them spirits and visions and such ... but you, mon, you like a babe in the woods when it comes to all this here kinda thing. You get hold a what that Oboe-mon done put in ol' Yuno's smoke and you jest as likely not gonna find your way outta them woods—you never come back, you hear?"

"Oboe?"

"That night, Yuno acting like a chicken and taking his clothes off—you know the night. He sure don't get like that from his own doing, mon. No sirree, he got to be like that on account a that sneaking, thieving Oboe. He the one what put something into the mix to keep Yuno out a his right mind. To hear ol' Yuno tell it, he weren't sure he coming back to this world. That's some serious hoodoo, mon, and believe me, you don't want no part a it. Better you stick to them weaselly weeds if you want to 'look through the door'."

Robert nodded, then reached for the last of his crumpet, took another bite, and sipped his coffee.

Marlyse rose to her feet. "I got things to do," she said, "but before I go, mind if I leave you with a bit of advice?"

Robert smiled inviting her to speak her mind.

"Next time you smoke them weaselly weeds, mon, maybe you might think bout tidying this place up some."

"And why, pray tell, should I devote any thought whatsoever to such a mundane task?"

"Jest think bout it, mon, that's all I'm saying. You have a nice day, Mista Boswort."

No sooner did the click of the latch signal the maid's departure, then Bob jumped to his feet. He rushed to his bedchamber, pulled open his nightstand drawer, and retrieved the small cloth sack Yuno had left with him. The pipe loaded, he lit it, inhaling a carefully drawn breath. Soon his head was swirling in pleasant and unfamiliar patterns of thought. The smoke rose and drifted throughout the room. His body relaxed with an oozing comfort reminiscent of those first wakeful moments after a prolonged slumber. As his eyes took in the interior of his chambers, he began to imagine what it might look like void of clutter.

Two hours later and after another bowl, Robert found himself sitting on the floor amid a dozen or so small mounds. They were little heaps of personal effects, clustered into categories that had seemed not only pertinent, but astute, at the time of creation. Now, however, as Bob fondled a long-lost slipper, he was struck with a realization: his failure to recall the precise logic behind the methodology for parsing chaos and disorder, had left him baffled and confused—his quarters were still a mess ... and he needed a shave ... and he was hungry, again.

It was after ten when a persistent knock summoned him from a deep sleep. Groggy, he climbed into a housecoat and made his way to the door, aided by the flickering light of a candle he'd left burning in the day-room.

It was Oboe DeLouche.

"What is it?" asked Robert, annoyed.

"Apologies extended, dear man, but please understand, I worried for you when you did not join us for dinner. I decided to stop by." Oboe pulled his coat closer against the chill of the night air.

"How do you mean 'worried'? And what bloody business is it of yours if I attend dinner or not?"

"You left in a state of duress last night after we spoke. You haven't been seen all day. Oh, and incidentally, it may interest you know, our esteemed steward volunteered to serve this evening, in your stead. But I digress. I'm here simply because I wanted to be sure you were still of sound body and mind. I'd hate to have to think I'd caused you some unwarranted psychological malady by suggesting you were in harms way."

Bob watched Oboe's wobbly eye twitch in tandem with a thin smile forming on his fleshy countenance. Bosworth considered DeLouche a despicable sort with a clever, if not devious, way of gaining people's trust. Perhaps there was some use to which he could serve in ridding the estate of Kunkle. After all, he did say the man deserved to have the tables turned for plotting to have someone done away with and all. No need for knives or forks in the neck. Nothing quite so bleeding gruesome need transpire. No, to have him run-off for good would suit the purpose entirely. DeLouche seems eager to regain some amount of trust—companionship even. This might play out very well with the scoundrel as an ally.

"Mr. DeLouche, would you care to step inside? Make yourself comfortable. I'll get a blaze going," said Robert, inviting his visitor in.

Oboe was clearly not expecting the invitation. His roving eye halted, the insincere smile on his face faded, and he hesitated a little too long before saying he'd be delighted.

With a small fire crackling in the hearth and the warmth and glow of the flames lending a cozy atmosphere to the room, the two men settled into their armchairs. Having dispensed with a certain amount of small-talk, or, as in a game of chess, moves required to fill the uncomfortable minutes leading up to the point of engagement, they now held their game-wining strategies guarded from expression, waiting for one or the other to bring about an opening.

Oboe was first to lead off. He started with a barrage of questions fashioned to get to the heart of whatever it was that prompted the butler to invite him in: "Are you concerned about Herr Kunkle? Has something happened in my absence? Something that would lead you to believe he still has it in for you?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. He's still a bloody nuisance, you know. Opposes everything I say or do. Forever trying to strip away my authority. The cad has even gone so far as to suggest he'll move ..."

"Move?"

"Not important. It hasn't happened yet. But, I take umbrage to the man nonetheless for seeking to have me done away with. Bloody done away with! Murdered! Can you believe it?"

"Hardly. But then who's to know what lurks in the hearts of those we surround ourselves with. Not everyone's motives are pure and honorable, isn't that right, Robert?"

"Indeed." Bob sat back in his chair, tilted his head back, and stared up at the chipped plaster, crumbling from his ceiling.

After a moment, Oboe asked, "What do you plan to do about it?"

"Not much for now. We'll need a workforce. You know, people skilled with a trowel ... painters, carpenters and such."

"Kunkle, Robert. What do you plan to do about Kunkle?"

"Kunkle! Of course, yes, well, I suspect there must be some way of getting him out of the way."

"When you say 'out-of-the-way', do you mean dead and buried, or just gone?"

Robert leveled his gaze on Oboe's ghoulish, glowing head, lit from the firelight in shades of orange and yellow like an evil, grinning pumpkin. He peered into the twinkling eye—the good one—judging whatever reaction might follow his reply. "At first, I was thinking an accident might be the answer. But if there was a way to run him off without inflicting grievous bodily injury, I daresay, I'd be more open to that as means of ridding the estate of Herr Kunkle. Perhaps you might be susceptible to lending a hand, as it were. You know, planning a—"

"Running him off is no guarantee he won't return seeking revenge. No, I think your first thoughts are more in line with keeping him out of the way. You don't want him coming back—ever."

"Would you—I mean, do you—do you think you might—"

"Nay! Perish the thought, old man. I'd no sooner help you with your plotting and scheming than I would Horst. No, not I. I'm not one for aiding and abetting, not when it comes to sending one off to meet his maker."

"But you said yourself he should have the tables turned—he should be the one who is done away with."

"Yes, but not by my hand. An eye for an eye and all that, you know. But it should be you who pulls the trigger—figuratively speaking, of course."

Bob was flustered. Oboe DeLouche was goading him into doing away with Kunkle but refused to be a part of it. The whole thing smacked of some twisted, idiomatic manipulation designed to unbalance his frame of reference in what was right and what was wrong and what would justify a preemptive retaliatory measure against Horst's threat. Bob snatched the cloth bag and pipe left on the side table.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"And why bloody not, Mister-Know-it-all?"

"You're not in the right frame of mind. It won't be a pleasing experience."

"Says the expert in all things medicinal, musical, and logical."

"Trust me, Robert, there is a right time for everything, and this is not the time to indulge in playthings. Not for you, at least."

"Perhaps it's time to face my demons. Stand up to the monster within, to paraphrase Yuno, the-all-seeing mystery medicine-man. The very man, I might add, who was kind enough to provide this gateway to alternate forms of perception. The very man who you tried—but failed—to send over the edge, into some hellish oblivion, hitherto unknown to any sane man. Yes, that's right old chap, don't look so surprised, I know about your meddling. All of us fell victim to your sleep-inducing concoction but not so mister-you-know-who. No, he did not simply drop off to a prolonged dream state. He rather had a time of it, didn't he ... howling at the naked moon, baring his soul to spirits and demons. It took a full two weeks for him to recover! And even now, we're not entirely sure he's back to the abnormal self we all know and, well, ... put up with."

"I see," said Oboe, his voice measured. "So you would like to dredge up the past, implicate myself in an attempted homicide to show that I know nothing of what I speak. That I delve in dangerous substances without the requisite knowledge to prescribe what any one person might be able to withstand. Is that it? It is. Sure it is. And here is what I have to say about that—and you better hear me well, Robert Bosworth, for I will only ever say this once. I could have killed you all that night. That you are all here is a testament to my knowledge and skill. The substances I deal in are not playthings like your little bag of combustible herbs there. If you want to meet some monsters, face demons, test your mettle ... you come and see me, and not that half-baked sham who calls himself a medicine-man."

Robert looked at the glowering little man hunched in the chair beside him. Much as he would have liked to have had a curt, incisive reply to counter with, nothing was coming to him. The harsh words echoed in his head, leaving him speechless.

POCK, POCK!

Both men turned to the sound coming from the window. All that met their gaze was the interior of the room reflected in the panes of glass.

POCK, POCK!

Oboe was on his feet in an instant. "Don't open it!" he said. "I have to go."

Robert, too, was on his feet now and moving towards the window. Shielding his eyes from the light, he leaned into the pane and peered beyond the glass. Just as the door clapped shut behind him, a crow, perched on the ledge, lifted off into the night, its cawing cry sending a chill up Robert's spine.

Returning to his chair, he settled in and soon found comfort in the glowing embers and flickering light of the fireplace. His eyes fell to the little cloth sack resting on table before him. He gave consideration to Oboe's advice. It was fleeting. He filled the bowl, reasoning that the smoke would bring a welcome change to the dark, brooding atmosphere, to the angst, to the tension enveloping his mind and body.

Before long, acrid fumes hung in the air, thick and pungent. The fire snapped and crackled altogether too loudly. The ridiculous mounds of junk that were his "classified" belongings, mocked him in silence. Oddly, it seemed Oboe's residual presence haunted the chair next to him. Far from the heady comfort of what he'd previously experienced, this current state seemed fueled by negative impressions. His body was tense, agitated by every sensation he became aware of. Robert closed his eyes. Images presented in his imagination. They were frightful, ungodly, and perverse. His conscience wreaked havoc on his psyche. The scornful little man was right, this was not a good time to look through the door.

Down below, by the barns, Nero's long forlorn howl rose into the darkness. And Bob shivered.
Chapter Twenty-Six

Pretty Trinkets

A sharp beam of sunlight cut through a slit in the drapes where the heavy brocade came together. It cast a diffused light throughout the bedchamber. Lisa Zeppatini sat on a small stool, a bowl of gruel in her lap. She was at the edge of the bed spoon-feeding a grim-looking Chin, propped up by a stack of pillows. Sitting in an overstuffed chair, Marie-Claire looked on with an air of distracted insouciance, as if she might be daydreaming. Her lips were formed into a half-smile. At the mantel, Alfonso stood erect, silent, brooding. He, too, watched the saucier nursing the invalid.

Lisa kept up a steady chatter, nattering on about anything and everything under the sun. It didn't matter that Chin could only manage the odd nod in response. Each spoonful was taken hesitantly, chewed slowly, swallowed carefully. The sous-chef lived under a shroud of dread, never knowing if the next mouthful might launch an uprising within the confines of his stomach. For it wouldn't be the first time his meal revolted in an unseemly manner. The only defense at his disposal: his trusty bucket, the one he'd kept close during his sabbatical in the wine cellar, and which, even now, stood by his bedside like an old friend, waiting, ready to serve in a time of need.

Alfonso stepped forward. "Señor Chin, you are feeling a leedle better, yes?"—a slight nod from Chin—"Maybe you wish to have a drink? A beer, maybe?"—Chin grimacing—"No. Okay. So maybe a smoke?"

Chin took a few seconds to ponder the question before indicating he'd rather not.

Lisa let the spoon drop in the bowl. Turning to Alfonso, she fixed him with an icy look that required no further comment. Whereupon, the Spaniard looked to Marie-Claire with raised brow, as if inviting her to adjudicate whether there might be any merit in the line of questioning he'd brought forward.

Marie-Claire shrugged. "We can see what to say when our little man can speak; when there ees nothing in his mouse. For me, I think the worse ees finish. Maybe we have no need to keep him lock in his room ... he cannot come to stay in the cave, becose this we keep lock—this is sure. And by what I see, Chin, he ees not so much wanting to drink like before. His color, it ees coming back to somesing a little normal."

"Live not on evil," whispered Chin, leaning his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes. He smiled, seemingly content to leave off without further comment.

Alfonso shook his head, returned to the mantel, and folded his arms across his chest. Some moments passed. And then, addressing Marie-Claire, he said, "This man, locking him in a room, feeding him, cleaning his mess ... this not a treatment. We must theenk what we can do next."

Lisa chimed in when she recalled the suggestion put forth by Magnus. "The singing! You must remember, yes? If we bring Chin to a new ideas—"

"Senorita, bringing these 'new ideas' to our friend, this is a good theeng. Bringing our friend to this man—this DeLouche man—this idea is not so good. The man is not honorable."

Alfonso's interjection created a lull where each member of the team pondered the potential problems associated with placing Chin under Oboe's tutelage. At length, the head-chef raised her pudgy digit. Something had come to her.

"Maybe this ees true what you say, chèri," said Marie-Claire, "but the man, he ees good for the musique. I say we—"

Chin had blurted something indiscernible. And now, his lips moved again. "Sing," he murmured. "Chin ... sing." His eyes were still closed.

The colleagues exchanged a look. It was a look that suggested they were all in agreement as to the right course of action. But who would be the one to approach the loathsome person capable of imparting proper instruction? That Alfonso was best suited, was a notion beyond reproach, and which all in attendance realized without much deliberation. It came as little surprise, then, when the Spaniard offered to take up the commission.

Alfonso closed the door on the darkened room and stood in the brilliance flooding the third-floor corridor of the east wing. The late morning sun shone through the glass, radiating heat and light. Closing his eyes, he basked in the warmth for a moment while he braced himself for the task at hand. Dealing with DeLouche was an unsavory prospect, but if it could save Chin from relapsing, it would be worth the effort. The man needed a point of focus.

A cursory look through the common areas of the manor yielded little evidence of Oboe's whereabouts. And since no one knew precisely where the scoundrel had taken up residence, Alfonso could only surmise it was in some remote corner of the manse, shielded from view by the majority of inhabitants.

Looking askance brought a glimpse of movement from the terrace. It was Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo. He was traversing the courtyard, heading in the direction of the stables.

Alfonso exited the back of the manor and called to the lad.

Ernie turned and raised an arm in greeting.

"Hold up one minute. I am coming." The air, still fresh in the shadow of the east wing, caused Alfonso to pull his collar closer as he advanced.

Ernie, standing in the sunshine, grinned as he came up, greeting him with a warm and cheerful salute: "Top o' the morning to ye, Señor."

Alfonso returned the smile. "Do you know where I can find this Oboe DeLouche? Have you seen him this morning?"

"Nay, and if ye cared to know, can't says I'd feckin like to neither."

"Hmm," said Alfonso, scanning the grounds below the balustrade. He blew warm air into his cupped hands and rubbed them together.

"Why ye looking for that geezer, anyway?"

"I must convince him to ... to help with a leedle problem."

"Jest as likely to turn yer wee problem into a feckin massive one."

Alfonso pulled his meandering train of thought back on track. Chin's problem needn't require Ernie's in-depth analysis. DeLouche, on the other hand, was also a problem. So what if the lad could provide some insight into the workings of this man's character? Clues, hints—something that might give one an advantage. "Ernesto, can you tell me? Why did you agree to take all these harnesses, the bridles—everything—and put them in the wagon? Why did you help this thief?"

The stable hand's countenance clouded over, his brow furrowed, menacingly, and his eyes narrowed. But before he could utter a word, Alfonso laid a hand on his shoulder, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "It was for love, yes? The bargain you made with this devil, you did it for love. Am I wrong?"

The tension under Alfonso's hand relaxed. Ernie's eyes softened. "Aye," he said, "I suppose it's plain as day. The man played us for fools. He used us. Told me he'd help—and to be fair, he did. So deeds were done but there's naught to be feckin proud of, believe me."

"I do," said Alfonso, encouraging the lad to continue. "So tell me—from your point—what happen on this night with Señor Zero and you and Señor Buck? All of you coming and going, back and forth, in and out. I hear already from Señor Buck, how he put the horses out from the barns. But how is Señor Horst involved? This I never understand."

"Again, Señor, same thing, the overseer got played. He made a deal. Zero made a deal—we all did. Horst Kunkle couldn't harness a team to the buckboard if his feckin life depended on it. But, he could get Zero to fix that old wagon. On the night Buck followed Zero, and saw some shenanigans going on, he must have figured it best to put the horses out to the paddocks. But it didn't matter. Zero managed to catch that daft old jack, so he hitched him up instead of the team. It was Oboe that had me gather the tack and toss the whole feckin works in the wagon. And that's why we couldn't go after him—and why he got away. But, for the life o' me, I can't figure why he's back here."

"This is a mystery, young man," said Alfonso, shaking his head. "I, too, cannot understand this."

Something had Ernie's attention.

"What are you looking ..." Alfonso looked back over his shoulder.

"There's yer man, Señor. I jest seen him moving behind the glass. He's in the conservatory."

Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones wasted no time in bidding the lad adieu. He marched, fully aware that his heels hitting the flagstones and echoing off the walls would announce his approach. But it didn't matter, the villain lurking amid the foliage couldn't possibly know he was the target of the hunt. And so, when Alfonso gained entry and found Oboe settled comfortably in a wicker armchair, it came as no surprise that the man's demeanor revealed only curiosity.

Alfonso dispensed with formalities in short order preferring to get straight to the point. "Señor, I wish to speak with you. May I sit?"

"Please do," said Oboe, indicating the chair opposite.

Alfonso sat, but as he took a moment to frame his opening thoughts, he noticed Oboe's good eye had fallen to the wicker table between them. "It is no longer there," he said.

"I know," said Oboe. "Your rightful steward is in residence. So how could it?"

"Señor Magnus is not the only one taking interest in safeguarding this box."

Oboe's sardonic smile unfolded slowly, reminding Alfonso of how a coiled serpent slithers away from a confrontation. "Yesss, too true," said Oboe, his wobbly eye beginning to flick. "But then, that's not what you came to speak with me about, now is it?"

"No. What I like to discuss concerns our sous-chef, Señor Cheong."

"You would like for me to teach him to sing opera."

Alfonso was genuinely astonished. "Who—I mean, how did you know?"

"I pay attention ... even when it looks like I'm not."

"I see," said the Spaniard, recomposing himself. "And so, will you?"

"No. Why should I?"

Alfonso regarded the squat little man sitting across from him, his one mean piggish-eye locked straight back onto his own while the other snapped from one perspective to another. Oboe's smug comportment irritated the sous-chef. But since the matter required diplomacy, he decided it best to maintain an air of detachment, appeal to his interlocutor's sense of decency—if it existed at all. "Chin is not well, as you know," he said, "and you are in a position to help. He is needing a new sense of purpose—a focus—something which, most importantly, cannot harm him. He very much desires to sing. You, Señor Oboe, can fulfill his dream. You can deliver him from ... from ..."

"Temptation?"

Alfonso nodded. "It is no secret. He needs help."

"Aaah, there, you see, help is the little thing that we all need at some time or another. Don't you agree?"

Alfonso narrowed his eyes.

"Now, if I were a man in need," continued DeLouche, "and assuming I were aware I required aid, I would be prepared to pay handsomely for my ... my deliverance, so to speak. Isn't it sad when some poor souls don't even know they need help. But their friends do. Don't they? Isn't that why you're here?"

Alfonso leveled a harsh glare on the odious creature who would reach for a bargain before saving another man's life. "What is it you want, amigo?" he asked, his voice betraying his sentiments.

"Why, Señor Corazones, do I detect a hint of animosity in your tone? Are you upset that I deign to speak of payment for services rendered in the context of helping your friend? Then tell me, how can one possibly hold hope of getting something without giving up something? There is always payment ... even if it may not be readily apparent."

Alfonso calmed himself. He took a few deep breaths before answering. "I ask you again, what is it you want in return?"

"Nothing. Chin Cheong is ill. He needs help. If I can be of service, then I do so without recompense. That he is unaware his addiction has led him to his current condition is all the more reason to help the man. He is, after all, a friend in need."

Alfonso sat baffled by the man before him. What was behind this charade? Why the preamble pointing to payment if it all boiled down to the simple notion that a friend helps a friend without regard for gain?

Oboe DeLouche got to his feet, saying he would commence instruction as soon as Chin was able. As he turned to leave, Alfonso thanked him. He'd taken no more than ten paces before turning back to the Spaniard. "Do you like Robert?" he asked.

The question came out of the blue and caught Alfonso off guard. "I ... I do. Yes, but—"

"Would you like to help him? As a friend."

Alfonso waited, uncertain of how to react or where this might lead.

"There is a book in the library. It covers an area of interest—botany. It seems our butler is keen on natural remedies ... derived from plants, herbs and such. If you wouldn't mind, I'd be most appreciative if you would point it out to him. I'll leave it on a side table."

Alfonso sensed there might be something amiss with Oboe's objective. "Why not tell him, yourself?"

Oboe drew a deep breath. "The man—like all of you—distrust me. He will read all manner of nefarious intention into a simple suggestion. Frankly, he just won't believe I'm being helpful. It's going to take some time before you people come to the understanding that my heart is in the right place ... despite my proclivity to abscond with pretty trinkets."

"I will speak to him at dinner ... if he joins us."

Oboe pushed a smile onto his visage, a smile that bordered on graciousness. And then he left.

Alfonso watched him leave. "Pretty trinkets," he muttered.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

Secrets: Revealed and Cached

Dare sat at his desk in the murk of the attic, pen poised, pondering the predicament of the estate's personnel. The current situation was dire and needed to be addressed. A scourge was upon them. Oboe DeLouche, like a disease, infected all who came in contact. Revealing a disingenuous motive to man like DeLouche was to open one's self to a sickness. A sickness made all the worse if the individual's contrived implementation relied on his participation. The man was a cancer to the human soul; he needed to be put out, rid of, gone for good. But who was up to the task? Who could be counted on to cast him out, if not Magnus? And just why the rightful steward allowed an affliction as vile as DeLouche back into the manor in the first place, baffled the mind. What higher purpose could possibly be served by it? Permitting a despicable tramp full access to the house was tantamount to treason.

Despite the difficult questions plaguing the good doctor, he understood one thing: Chaos threatened to run amok and there was little he could do about it. His only recourse lay in his innate ability to sway the principal actors; he would have to dispense a number of customized prescriptions. As for the lesser actors, they would fall into place—or not—depending on the influence exerted by their superiors.

From his vantage point, Bin had a clear line of sight down to the stables. Riding lessons were underway. Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo could be seen trouncing through the mud and muck of the paddock leading the old swayback around in circles. Horst rode, clutching his crop and sporting a bright, shiny-new hunt cap. He might even have passed for a seasoned rider if not appearing quite so fearful. Despite looking the part, his posture lacked poise. Being unaccustomed to the motion, Horst bounced and bobbed in the saddle as the mare clomped about under the watchful eye of Buck Knowles.

The doctor turned his attention back to the task at hand. Putting pen to paper, Bin drafted a note. It began: Dear Robert, ...

Later that afternoon, on third floor of the west wing, Malgreete Van Bleake hosted a seance with the estate's saucier. They were sitting before the hearth in the day-room of the maid's quarters.

Lisa blushed. Her hands trembled as she laid the aquatint back down on the tea table with the rest. The display of erotic etchings spread over the surface unsettled her. She couldn't meet Malgreete's twinkling eyes.

"They make so you feeling funny, ya? Why?" Malgreete was grinning, buoyant, apparently thrilled to have the company of the young woman in her chambers, viewing her private collection.

"They—they are so, ah, ... Malgreesia, why you wanna show me things like a this?" Lisa chanced a quick look to her hostess, immediately diverting her eyes again.

"The art is a masterwork—beautiful! But ... ya, maybe you not like so much the ideas. This one ... one I like so much." Malgreete leaned forward to select a favorite. She examined it for a moment before presenting it to Lisa for inspection. "You look to this and what you see? Happy baby angels dancing in the sky. A lady—she wears the fine hat, flowers in the hair, necklace, ... ya, and the opera gloves. Look, the black stockings, the fancy ribbon under the bosom ... so why she is blindfold, and naked and walking the pig on a string from silk?"

Lisa glanced at the image. The cursory look did not hold long enough to note the details described. "But why you want I to look? These is a not like the paintings we see everywhere."

"Lisa, you can find so many secrets hiding in what is art—in paint, in music, in books, and even in the stone works—secrets that the silly ninnies are afraid to talk about. Why? Because all the time they push you to be like the way they want. If you are different, you have no place." Malgreete put the piece back.

"But I ..." Lisa cast a furtive glance to the table. "I am a same like everyone, no?"

"No. Nobody is same like nobody. You are you."

"Why you want we talking this kinda talk?"

When Malgreete responded, her voice was warm, maternal. She said, "I like you are comfortable for who you are. The idiots, they will want to make you crawl—idiots what maybe not like what they think they see." Leaning forward and placing her palm over Lisa's folded hands, she continued, "So, you must learn to keep some secrets too, ya? Same like you keep the pretty things—the fancy underthings. Not for all to see."

Lisa's gaze held steady on the hands resting in her lap. She nodded but said nothing.

At length, Malgreete tapped the young woman's forearm and said, "It's time. We have a dinner to make, ya?"

Somewhat surprised, Lisa looked up and said, "But you no have to take a the place for Chin. Today is Horst."

"Ya, I know, this is okay. I will help. Come, let's go."

The two women made their way to the kitchens. Upon entering, they found the head-chef directing her underlings. Alfonso was tasked with selecting a few choice cuts of meat. The overseer was told to fire up the cook stoves. Marie-Claire then took the time to welcome the additional help before putting them to work: Lisa with the usual array of sauces and such, Maid Malgreete with scrubbing new potatoes.

Horst's disposition took on a notably brighter dimension with the appearance of Miss Van Bleake. And when his eye caught hers and she graced him with a discreet smile, his step became positively jaunty. Something unpredictable and exciting was afoot. Opportunities presented.

Marlyse Marliemon popped through the door, exuding the effervescent charm that usually accompanied her appearance. She smiled broadly, warmly, and with genuine affection for her colleagues. They each returned greetings in kind as she went about collecting accoutrements in preparation for the evening meal.

When Bosworth stepped in and stopped short, the ripple effect that marked his presence, halted all in turn. They stared at him. He stared at Horst, who, up until that moment, had been nudging up to Malgreete at the prep counter. Robert turned to Marie-Claire, bristling. "Madame Contraire, just what the bloody-hell is he doing here? I don't recall the overseer as having any bloody business whatsoever in the bleeding kitchens. This is an outrage!"

"NO! You are the outrage! You come in MY kitchen to say to me who can be here? Who cannot? Get out! I won't stand for this. I am chef. I say who can be here. MERDE!"

Robert fumed. Chef Marie-Claire stood, defiant, enraged, fists firmly planted on her ample hips, eyes bulging in their sockets, daring the butler to contest her supreme authority. This was her domain—it was unassailable.

Intervening in the standoff, Kunkle's voice rose from the back of the room. "No one tells za overseer where he can go. No one!" Horst snatched up his crop and smacked it hard on the counter to punctuate the remark. "No one! Not za butler. Not za chef. No one."

Robert managed a quick tug on his waistcoat before Marlyse got hold his elbow and guided him towards the door. Smug in his conviction, Horst turned to Malgreete, seeking her approval. She cuffed him across the back of the head.

"Wine! Someone get me my wine. I want my wine." Turning back to the spice rack, Marie-Claire muttered, "Command a grande chef ... in my kitchen ... never!"

"Maria, you like for me to go get a wine?" asked Lisa.

Marie-Claire nodded without diverting her attention from the spice rack. It wasn't until she'd asked Alfonso to give Lisa the key and received no response that she lifted her head. "Chèri? Where ees Alfonso? Where he goes?" Her queries were met with shrugs and blank looks. No one knew.

When the number-one sous-chef did appear, it was from the portal leading to the lumber room. He carried a couple of buckets of coal. "Why you look surprised, all of you," he asked. "Somebody must do this, yes? If Señor Horst was not so busy, I theenk maybe I would not." Alfonso set the buckets down.

"Yah! So, za overseer, now he is ready to go ... for get za coal. Yah." In passing, Horst fumbled through a halfhearted apology mumbled to Alfonso before disappearing down the stairwell.

"Chèri, be so sweet, give the key for the cave to Lisa, please."

Alfonso replied, saying, "I am sorry to say, Chef, I do not have this key; I leave in my quarters. The wine, we only need for dinner, no?"

"No. We need for cooking ... for make in the sauce sometime. But okay, not for today." Marie-Claire, though visibly irritated, put the matter behind her in the interests of getting on with the work at hand.

Moments later, Alfonso caught a quizzical look from Lisa. Ensuring he wasn't observed, he returned a sly smile and a conspirator's wink. Lisa turned back to her sauces, grinning as the implications of his actions took form in her conscience.

Dinner had been served. All were seated, ready to begin. As before, Magnus invited everyone to close their eyes and reflect upon the moment. And, as was the case previously, Oboe DeLouche ignored the request, choosing instead to let his eyes wander, flitting from one face to another, searching out anyone else tempted to disobey. On this occasion, the usual suspect, Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo, chose to stick to the steward's instruction. And he did so in earnest—not once did he sneak a peek.

"Thank you," said Magnus, concluding the approximated minute of silence. "Now, before you all wallow in the awkwardness of the moment, allow to me to offer you something to consider. Collectively, you represent a wealth of knowledge. It behooves you recognize your particular talents and be open to sharing with anyone interested in learning. I'm aware some of you don't like each other. That represents a barrier. Regardless, I urge you to put aside petty differences. Learn a language, an instrument ... learn to read if don't know how. Acquire skills that will enhance your existence." Magnus smiled as he scanned the faces looking back to him. He picked up his fork and his knife, adding, "You can thank me for it later."

The evening meal commenced without further utterance. Everyone, it seemed, needed some amount of time to fully digest the steward's words.

Lisa Zeppatini was first to comment. "I wanna learn a dance," she said. Looking up the table to Marlyse and raising her voice, she asked, "Marlysia, wadda you call this one—you know, the one you do when we have a the party?"

Marlyse flushed at the recollection. She glanced at the steward before replying. "That would be a brukins if you talking bout what I started with. But if you meaning that fast shimmy-shake style, that's called the Dinki Mini. That's more for fun, mon. Brukins is traditional."

"You can teach me, yes?"

Again, Marlyse looked to Magnus. But he appeared to be more interested in what was on his plate than what was taking place round the table.

"Marlysia, tell me you teach me a Dinki Meeny. Pleeease."

Marlyse consented. This time she caught the steward's eye; he was watching her now. He winked.

Alfonso hefted the pitcher of wine and offered to serve Marie-Claire. She nodded and slid her glass closer. He poured a modest serving before extending the offer to Lisa, who refused saying she'd prefer water. Alfonso also abstained. He placed the pitcher back in the center of the table. Marie-Claire stared at him, but he paid her no mind. With her annoyance unacknowledged, she shrugged and turned back to her meal.

"Seems to be a wee shortage of the stuff tonight," said Ernie, remarking on the nominal serving of alcohol. "That Chin fella drink it all?"

"Ernesto, in deference to Chin, who we hope will join with us soon, we will place only one pitcher of wine and one pitcher of lager on the table. This is enough, I theenk, for everyone in moderation."

Ernie grumbled something that was for the most part inaudible.

"Manners!" The steward's declaration cut short a smattering of babble burbling round the table. Magnus continued, but in a softer tone, "I'm glad to see you're grasping the rudiments necessary to dine at a table, young man. You've made progress. Congratulations."

Ernie could not seem to reconcile whether he was being reprimanded, mocked, or congratulated. He slowly put his utensils down, exactly as Marlyse had instructed: knife and fork resting on each side of the plate. Placing his wrists on the edge of the table, which was a departure from the natural tendency to lean on his elbows, he regarded the steward, sitting opposite. A smirk materialized on his face. "Pigs aren't so bad, once ye gets to know 'em," said the lad, "but yer right, at least insofar as making progress ... the slop on this table beats the feck—pardon me—the fare being served up in the trough."

The silent interval following Ernie's commentary felt laden with tension; no one knew how Magnus might respond. When, after a moment, he too allowed a smirk to appear and said "I believe we'll make a gentleman of you yet" the audience relaxed, content that the lad's brash manner failed to fuel a potentially explosive situation. Conversation welled up round the table accompanied by a clatter of silverware.

Horst had trouble sitting still. He shifted his weight from side to side. Marie-Claire, sitting opposite, noticed his discomfort. She asked him, "You are having a problem? Becose I see maybe you are not so happy for sitting."

Kunkle glanced round to see who else might have heard the chef's remark. Buck Knowles had taken heed, but no one else seemed much interested. He replied, in a hushed voice. "I have za riding lessons today. So yah, zis rump is not so happy for za sitting down."

Buck consoled the overseer saying it was only normal and that he'd get over it in a few days. Marie-Claire suggested he take a page from her secret to success and pad his posterior. Despite feigning disinterest, Ernie, sitting to the left of Horst, had followed the conversation. He leaned in now and whispered, "Taught ye might a been up to yer old tricks there, Herr."

The overseer stiffened, his hand instinctively reached for the crop lying on his lap. Buck was quick to intervene. Putting a hand on Horst's forearm, he said, "I reckon in a week or so, you'll be ready for a ride on that chestnut mare—one of the new ones. What do you say to that, Herr?"

Horst restrained himself and turned back to Buck. "Zis is za real horsey, yah? Not za old plow cow like what I riding today?"

"No sirree, that mare ain't no plow cow, no sir. She's a might high spirited though, so we best be sure you're ready to handle that much horse. You just keep on riding that ol' nag for now. We'll have a gander in a week's time, see how you're getting on."

The prospect of graduating from the swayback to the Thoroughbred pleased Horst. He gave the table a perfunctory tap to mark the achievement and said, "Yah, good! Zis is good."

Robert Bosworth sat sullen and unresponsive to anyone's attempts to engage him in idle banter. His clipped acknowledgments were largely relegated to yes's and nos. If Marlyse Marliemon noticed, she likely put it off to a distaste for Oboe's presence next to him. Sitting across the table from the butler, as she was, she was able to observe Robert's facial expressions and eye movements. There was an intensifying look of disgust each time he cast eyes in Horst Kunkle's direction. Finally, when Bosworth wiped his mouth and stood, dropping his napkin onto his unfinished meal, the "look" had turned undeniably deadly, like a man conveying a readiness to kill. He excused himself from the table and left.

"Was it something I said?" asked Oboe, feigning surprise.

Marlyse returned a frown but said nothing.

Zero, too, refrained from comment, though he did give his shoulders a dismissive shrug.

Magnus, looking across the recently-vacated chair, said to Oboe, "Why don't you try your luck at the other end of the table."

Although the suggestion prompted a bout of chuckles from those near enough to overhear, Oboe remained seated. He mumbled something incoherent, something about a potato. Then, picking up his fork, he stabbed one from the bowl before him.

Meanwhile, midway along the table, Alfonso and Marie-Claire discussed the latest developments concerning Chin's recovery. They did so, quietly. Opposite, Buck and Horst talked of mules, horses, and other beasts of burden. Ernie focused on table manners. Topics of maidenly interest kept Lisa and Malgreete as gabby and giddy as a couple of schoolgirls. At the far end, Yuno gnawed the gristle off a rib bone.

When Robert entered his chambers that evening, he noted an envelope on the floor just beyond the door. It wasn't addressed. Nor was there anything written on the back. He tore it open on the spot.

It read:

Señor,

In the library, there is a book. It waits for you on a side table. I understand you have interest in the plants.

Respectfully yours,  
Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones

Robert crumpled the paper into a wad and tossed it on the floor. An 'interest in the plants'? What the devil does that mean? After a moment or two of reflection and with nothing coming to him, he said to himself, Right! Off we go then.

Robert entered the library. It was dark. A musty odor hung in the stillness of the room. He considered lighting a fire to ward off the chilled dampness of the night air. In the final analysis, he reasoned that it was more trouble than it was worth. Besides, he thought, one needn't tarry. If the book was at hand and of interest, he could bring it back to his chambers to peruse at his leisure.

Holding his lantern higher, Robert made his way to the armchairs grouped near the fireplace. He swung the light over the table-tops, easily locating the volume that awaited him. It was the only book in evidence on a side table. He picked it up and read the title: Crippleton's Encyclopedic Guide to Plant and Herbal Remedies by Jethro Crippleton, Jr. Setting his lamp down, Bob opened the leather-bound tome and thumbed through a number of pages. There was nothing remarkable about it. It contained an exhaustive list of plants and herbs with corresponding Latin names and applicable uses; illustrations and suggestions on how to identify various taxonomic categories; cautions to be observed while ingesting and handling particular varieties—it went on. Just as the butler was about to drop the book back on the table, his eye caught sight of an anomaly. The uniform edge of the pages with the book closed showed a disturbance three quarters of way through. A page had been marked. Robert opened the book at the dog-eared corner and positioned the page to better catch the light.

The subject matter concerned a variety of plant in the nightshade family, Datura stramonium, known as Devil's snare or hell's bells, among the many other common names in use. Skimming the text, Robert learned the of the plants medicinal use as an analgesic, and that in higher doses, it was a powerful hallucinogen. He learned that for centuries, tribes the world over used the plant for the intense visions it produced, and that it was incorporated into sacred ceremonies as way to commune with deities. The problem with Devil's snare was that it had a habit of luring the uninitiated to an early grave through fatal overdose.

Robert lifted his eyes from the page and stared into the cold, black fireplace. A chill ran up his spine. The awareness of converging and conflicting trains of thought crept into his consciousness. His "chat" with DeLouche came back to haunt him.

Is all this his doing? Pointing to this text. If so, then bloody hell, what is Alfonso's part in it? How—or more specifically—why is he involved?

Bob tucked the book under his arm, lifted the lantern, and left.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lavender Delight

"Lise-mon, you needs to be up on your toes a bit more."

Marlyse was issuing instructions to the saucier while banging out a beat on the bongos with one hand and shaking a shaker with the other. "That's it, that's it ... and now crouch down some in the middle ... you got it. That's the way, mon."

"Is a too silly!" said Lisa, panting, almost laughing. "Is silly."

"You doin' the Dinki Mini, mon. Now get them hips swingin' ... to and fro. To and fro."

"No, enough for me," said Lisa. "Enough." She flopped onto a sofa to catch her breath. "I stop now. We take a the break, yes?"

"Fine by me, girl. You jest say when you ready." Marlyse set the instruments aside and took a seat across from Lisa. "You getting there, mon. It's coming along."

The saucier's dance lessons were conducted in the drawing-room where there was ample space to swing, slide, and glide. The proximity to the music repository allowed for all manner of accompanying instrumentation, from wind and string to percussion. Maid Marliemon was a budding percussionist.

"Marlysia, you make a this Dinki Meeny look so easy. Is a hard!" Lisa paused, smiling at the petite Jamaican. "Is a fun dance, but still, not so easy, you know?"

Marlyse smiled but her thoughts were elsewhere. She was concerned with Robert's sudden departure the previous evening. "Lise-mon, you seen our butler today?"

"No. I don't see him since a last night, at dinner. Is a strange thing, no—I mean, how he just leave from a table? No words. No nothing. He just leave."

"Bob ain't been his self, going on a few days now. He out a sorts, mon—lost. I keep making up stories, saying he ain't feeling too good. But he keep missing dinners, someone else having to do the servin' ... Magnus ain't gonna put with it for long." Marlyse slumped back a little in her chair and sighed. She looked into Lisa's soft green eyes. "You notice anything else, Lise? Bout Bob."

"You see him too, no? This same afternoon—yesterday—he become so loud to Maria. You know why? You thing just because Horst is in a the kitchen? No. Because Horst is making a sweet for Malgreesia. He jealous. Is a simple as that."

"I think there's more to it, mon. I seen a look in his eyes last night, jest before he walked out from dinner. He's got something burnin' him up inside and that Kunkle-mon, he's at the heart a it. That's what I think."

"Is a jealous. This is for sure. This can burn in the heart." Lisa leaned forward and whispered, "This morning, I see something: Horst is a sneaking in a hallway to Malgreesia room. He looking over his shoulder too much, you know. But anyway, Roberto, he is there too; he hiding around a corner, and he using a mirror—the one on a that table, you know—he using it to spy down this corridor. When he see me on a the top of the stairs, he try to act like he doing nothing. But I know he is following Horst. He crazy with a jealous."

Marlyse was anxious. Robert had become unpredictable, his behavior, erratic. She decided to change the subject.

"Lise, you think Alfonso would teach me to talk Spanish? I been thinking bout taking it up."

"Alfonso is a man with a big heart. You just gotta ask him. I know he will a help you." Lisa's smile was like a stamp of assurance. The matter was settled. Then something flickered in her eyes. She asked Marlyse how Ernie's lessons were coming along.

"He learning jest fine," answered Marlyse, "but getting him to quit that damn cussing, mon, that's gonna be the hard part."

"You know, I always see you like a sweet and a kind person. But look at Malgreesia, you see how she change? She is a same now—sweet and a kind. Is a so nice to see, no?"

Marlyse nodded. "Something's gotten into that girl, mon. And I gotta say, whatever it be, it sure is needed—she's a vixen what needs fixin'! Lets hope it lasts."

Lisa's eyes drifted to the ceiling as her words and thoughts intertwined. "She dressing sooo nice ... ribbons ... her hair, so beautiful ... black, curly ..." By the time the maiden realized she'd gotten carried away, it was too late. Marlyse was staring at her. "I—I mean—"

"That's okay, Lise," said Marlyse, "no need to explain. Makes no never mind to me, mon. But you best be keeping those kinda feelings in your wardrobe. 'Cause there ain't no telling what the other folks round here could be thinking."

"Malgreesia, she say the same a thing. I need to keep—" Lisa blushed anew.

Marlyse nodded. "Well, like I said, best keep that under—"

"I know, I know."

An assortment of mouth-watering aromas drifted throughout the dining hall. A small fire crackled in the hearth. All were seated, save the butler and Maid Malgreete; they busied themselves placing trays, bowls, and flagons of drink on the table. The murmuring ebb and flow of discourse streaming from a variety of conversations provided a convenient sound-barrier for a private discussion at the buffet. Robert Bosworth seized the opportunity.

Retrieving a platter, Bob surreptitiously timed his return so as to coincide with Malgreete's. Their backs were to the other staff and servants. "I should like to join you," he whispered, "for afternoon tea. Tomorrow, if you're available."

Malgreete bumped his elbow playfully. "Ya, and if I say no, what then?"

"It depends ... 'no' because you don't want to, or 'no' because you're simply not available?"

"Not available."

"Then the day after." Robert glanced over his shoulder. He wanted to be sure no one was mindful of their little tête-à-tête when it suddenly occurred to him: "It's him, isn't it? Horst!"

Malgreete turned to face him. Her violet eyes twinkled and she smiled radiantly. Her voice brimming with coquettish charm, she said, "Robert, don't be the silly ninny. I take tea tomorrow with someone, but the next day it is with you, ya ... okay?"

"Right! Fine." Robert turned and left her at the sideboard. A brisk stride took him to the end of the table, where he slapped the platter down between Yuno and Oboe. The abrupt clack of crockery startled Oboe. Yuno remained serene, unruffled.

"Smoked rattlesnake?"

Bob, caught out by the old Paiute's query, said, "I—'smoked' what? You've lost me, man. What are you on about?"

Yuno rephrased the question: "Something move on that plate, chief?"

"No. What's that got to do with snakes? Smoked or otherwise."

"Sometimes you bite into something, but it isn't dead yet. Gives you a bit of scare, anyway."

"Mr. Istqwa—It—Itqwa—blast! You know, I daresay, I thought you a right clever old blighter, but now ..." Robert shook his head and began to move off.

"Careful what you smoke, Bob." The medicine-man's warning did not fall on deaf ears.

Robert glanced back, but Yuno was already pushing the platter towards Oboe, asking if he'd care for some snake.

Bosworth halfheartedly blundered through the task of serving while indulged in a muddle of troubling thoughts concerning Kunkle's pending teatime rendezvous with Malgreete. He was bothered. His imagination took wing. It wasn't until he'd finished catering to Ernie that he came to his senses and realized he would now have to serve Horst.

The butler assumed a rigidly formal stance and posed the question: "What will you have?"

Horst bristled at the sniffy inflection, slight as it was. Pointing to the various dishes in turn, he said, "Za butler will serve that ... that, that, and that."

Robert refused to engage the overseer anymore than what was absolutely necessary. He said nothing, but during the course of his duty, he observed Horst was sporting an ascot, one which he'd never seen before. It was lavender in color. And strangely, it smelled faintly familiar. Bending over Horst's left shoulder to place his plate, Robert inhaled to get a better sense of it. The distinct floral essence teased him; he knew that smell. But where? And then there it was, staring him straight in the face: Malgreete Van Bleake, directly opposite, serving Marie-Claire, her lavender dress a perfect match to the silk adorning Kunkle's neck. It was hers! Her scarf. Her perfume, still lingering on the cloth.

Reaching for a bowl of mashed potatoes, Robert brought his face closer to Horst's ear. Through clenched teeth, he asked, "Where did you get that scarf?"

Horst, taken aback, cocked his head to the side, away from sound. He turned slowly until his fierce eyes locked onto those of his adversary. Then he spat a stream of invective that immobilized everyone in attendance. He ended by proudly stating "Zis is my lover what gives zis to me!" He was red in the face and breathing hard, his crop clenched in his fist. The room had been stunned into silence. Horst's brutish presence and jarring denunciation resonated throughout.

Robert shook off the lurid effects. The bowl in his hands moved away from his chest. It began to turn. No one moved. No one said anything. Then, the bowl of mashed potatoes plopped upside down, crowning Kunkle's head like an odd hat, too big and too lopsided to pass for anything remotely fashionable—even to a troupe of performing clowns.

Before anyone could blink, Horst was on his feet, thrashing wildly, blindly, whipping the butler like a madman. Robert had the sense to jump back, covering his face as best he could with his arms. At the start of the melee, the bowl on Kunkle's head fell and broke. Globs of mashed potato and broken crockery littered the floor. Dollops of the stuff clung to Horst's head and shoulders, and flew in bits and splatters as his flailing arms whirled through the air. He landed blows with his crop and open hand. Bob backed away, cowering from the onslaught.

Mere seconds had elapsed before Buck jumped into the fray, seizing Kunkle's arm and wrestling the crop away from him. Ernie and Zero intervened. With Horst partially restrained, Robert lashed out and ripped the lavender scarf from his neck. He tried whipping it at Horst's face but was quickly and easily subdued by the farmer's powerful grasp. Ernie 'Lad' pushed and shoved until he stood in the middle, arms outstretched, keeping the struggling combatants from edging closer.

"ENOUGH!"

The steward's booming voice rose over squeals and shouts of protest, putting a stop to the commotion. A hush fell over the room, the only sound, the snap-crackle of the fireplace. Magnus stood. He looked round the room at the gaping mouths, the wide-eyed personnel, the people he was meant to aid and inform. His expression bore the extent of his dismay. "You," he said, "have just witnessed the depths of your deplorable condition. I could single out Robert as the instigator, but that would just point to this particular incident. Know that the future of this manor hangs by a thread. If you people are unable to resolve your differences and come together as a functional unit, you are doomed." Magnus wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Robert," he said, looking to the butler who was now standing unrestrained along with the others, "you will excuse yourself from our company. Until deemed fit to carry out your duties, you will, henceforth, dine alone. Horst, leave us. Go clean yourself up." Before anyone could move, Magnus stepped back from the table. "Actually," he continued, "I've lost my appetite. You will excuse me." With that, he dropped the napkin on seat of his chair, turned and left.

As the door closed, all eyes swept to the butler.

Embarrassment welled up in deepening shades of crimson. Robert couldn't bear to face anyone's reproachful regard. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop himself from chancing a quick look to Malgreete. He had to know how this debacle affected her. What he saw in that brief look was a sad smile, tender eyes, moist with compassion—a woman who felt his pain. Bosworth's crippled ego was manifest in the slouched gait that carried him from the room, the lavender scarf trailing from his fingertips.

Accusatory glares now fell upon the overseer. On the face of it, Horst appeared far from feeling culpable; he seemed to shrug it off as a justifiable reaction to a grievous attack on his person. Kunkle knocked a lump of mashed potato from the front of his khakis. Pulling his wrist free from a still-dazed Buck, he snatched back his crop and gave a smarting thwack across his boot-top before stomping out of the dining hall.

The show was over. All that remained was the lingering air of hostility and the broken bowl of mashed potatoes, smashed and scattered on the floor. Innocent bystanders began to sort themselves out. Those who'd jumped to their feet, sat back down. Ernie and Buck moved back to their chairs. The dinner party's complement had been reduced by four—only nine remained. Yuno, too, was now absent; he'd slipped away, unnoticed, as usual.

"Feck me," muttered Ernie, shaking his head as he sat back down. "I'd a never believed it if I hadn't seen it with me own two eyes. Ol' Horsty kicking the ever-living outta Bob ... didn't think he had it in him."

"Ernie-mon," said Marlyse, admonishing the lad, "jest 'cause the steward ain't here don't mean you needs to be back to cussing. It ain't right, mon. It's still a dining-room."

Ernie must have taken the maid's reproach to heart; he didn't immediately lash out with a retaliatory remark. Instead, after a moment's reflection, he apologized to everyone for his lack of manners.

"So. For me," said Marie-Claire, brushing back a wisp of curls and picking up her fork, "the time for eat, ees not when food ees cold. You wish to close the eyes, hold the hands, up to you. Sing, if you want, I don't care. Me, I eat now." Lifting her glass, she offered a toast, "Santé, to your health." Without waiting for anyone to reciprocate, the chef knocked back a generous dose, and then proceeded to tuck into her meal with a twinkle-eyed delight.

Others, too, commenced with their meals. However, unlike Marie-Claire and Ernie, no one felt much inclined to share thoughts on the matter of the disturbance. The mood in the room was troubled, filled with trepidation.

Sitting conspicuously alone at the far end of the table, Oboe DeLouche thrilled to the pervading atmosphere. His wobbly orb, like a loopy Jack-in-the-box, flopped in gleeful bounds from one perspective to another. Oboe had seen something, something that puckered the wrinkles of his withered soul. In the aftermath of the scuffle, he saw the key to the crypt dangling from Kunkle's neck.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Teetotalers Anonymous

Tea was set for two.

Malgreete paced the floor of her apartment. Intermittently, she would cast an anxious glance to the mantel: A few minutes before the hour. Then after. Then 4:07—ten after—quarter after, and still her guest hadn't arrived. She stopped by her writing desk to straighten a candle leaning slightly to the side. She passed into her boudoir for yet another look in the mirror. She stepped to the nightstand, picked up a vase of flowers and brought it to the mantel. Four twenty-five. This was not like Horst. He had always been punctual for tea and conversation in the drawing-room after dinner. Perhaps he'd forgotten. No, that hardly seemed likely. This would be the first time he would be permitted entry to her chambers since the night of the ill-fated party. How could he possibly forget?

The tap on the door came at four thirty-four.

Malgreete opened to a nervous-looking Horst. He was perspiring and out of breath. A forced smile accompanied a bunch of fresh flowers shoved towards her. He shot a furtive glance down the hall, then bustled through the entrance, quite nearly brushing Malgreete aside.

"What is it?" she asked, troubled by the wild-eyed look on Horst's face. "What happens to you?"

"Za butler! He follows me. I taking too much time—sorry. But I go here, I go zer, and everywhere. Rushing. I not want he see me coming. Zis man, he is crazy!"

"You think he will hurt you because what you do?"

"I not sure. He try to be za sneaky one, hiding around za corners. Yah, but he see zis flowers, so sure, he know I coming here. He waits now for see how long I stay."

A look of concern spread over Malgreete's features. She told Horst to take a seat. As an afterthought, she latched her door before placing the flowers in a vase and joining him.

"The tea is not so hot now," she said, serving him.

"Liebchen," he said, shaking his head, "zis doesn't matter." Horst picked up his cup and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and continued, "What is now important, is to be together. Yah, and zis is za important day, nah? Long time I don't sit in zis room. You remember—"

Malgreete halted him, her hand upheld. "Horst, I don't want to look in the past. What we do before, how we are before, this was something ... ya, something not correct. I don't want we come back to this."

Horst put his hand over hers and patted it gently saying he understood. His smile was warm and genuine.

The following day, when Robert knocked on Malgreete Van Bleake's chamber door, he was taken aback by the apparent unease that greeted him. Malgreete was vulnerable, timid, unsure of herself in a way he had never seen before. Her fingertips thrummed on the open door, which she held close to her, like a shield. She nervously pushed back a shock of hair that had fallen across her rose-colored cheek. Robert was struck by the timidity embodied in this woman, who, until recently, was as irascible and domineering as could be.

At the same time, Robert Bosworth couldn't help but be aware of his own apprehensiveness. He'd spent the entire morning filled with dread at the prospect of presenting himself at her door. Should he or shouldn't he? The crushing humiliation he'd been subjected to, crippled his desire to face anyone in the household ever again. That it came at the hands of the overseer, made it all the more unbearable. If not for that last sympathetic glimpse, the one she'd left him with and that was etched in his memory, he surely would not be standing before her now.

"May I?" he asked.

She acquiesced but only after a slight hesitation. A gleaming silver tray resting on the table before the hearth held the tea service. Robert stepped into the maid's tidy day-room and took a seat. His hostess closed the door and then glided to the mantel, where she stood, twirling the mesh of jet-black hair that had fallen away from the rest.

"Malgreete ... I am so very sorry." Robert took the lavender scarf from his vest pocket and offered it up to her.

Malgreete's violet eyes shone with a sadness that belied the sweetness of her smile. She took the silky satin from the butler's outstretched arm. She held it to her cheek for a moment and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she took a deep breath, and then sat down next to Robert. Placing the kerchief back in his hand, she said, "Keep it. You won it."

"Won it?"

"You take from Horst. It's yours now."

Robert wasn't sure what to say. In his mind, the gesture amounted to nothing more than shallow sentiment, a hollow gesture meant to alleviate the shame. He returned the scarf to his pocket, but without the jubilation due for having won it from a foe. There was no honor in the award. It reeked of pity.

"Robert? What you doing to Horst? Why now you follow him? Maybe you want to hurt him, ya?"

The butler's face clouded over. He stared into the cold, dark, empty hearth. He said nothing.

Malgreete Van Bleake placed a warm hand over his. "I see you change, Robert. There is jealous and angry and hate in you. Because of me, you feel this. I know, I see this. And there is danger in it. Someone will be hurt." Malgreete fell silent. Robert continued staring into the fireplace, a mirror reflecting the desolation he felt within his soul.

At length, Maid Malgreete wiped a tear from her eye. "I have to tell you something," she said. "Before, with my life, here ... all I can think was to go away. I hate everything. And everything hate me. This is how I feel before. But everything can change. And sometimes ... ya, I don't know how, but now I feel not the same. I know what I have to do."

Tearing himself away from his self-inflicted despair, Robert looked into Malgreete's tearful eyes. "What are you saying?"

Malgreete hung her head. "We stop this now—this pretending. You feel something for me. And, ya, me for you. But Horst, he too feels something for me ... and I for him. There is the problem. I must choose. And I can't. So, for now, I stop. I stop you both." A single tear trickled down her cheek and fell to her lap, a glistening drop of moisture, slowly soaking into the fine fabric of her dress, until all that remained, was a small darkened spot on a sea of satin.

Robert touched her shoulder. "Malgreete, you don't—"

"Go. Please."

Robert rose to his feet. He stood next to Malgreete for moment before withdrawing his hand. He removed the lavender scarf from his pocket and looked at it, as if to convince himself he was doing the right thing. Then, he placed it gently on the table, next to the untouched tea service. There was nothing left to say. He left Malgreete to herself.

"Sing the note," said Oboe, issuing the instruction as he put his bow to the instrument.

Chin's voice was weak, off key, and lacking sufficient breath to sustain the duration of the note being played.

"Again. Higher."

DeLouche stood in the middle of Chin's darkened room, running through a series of musical exercises. Chin was still ill. It had been six weeks—four of violent retching every time he'd taken a drink, and two since being confined to his room while being nursed back to health. Nevertheless, in the estimation of his team, he was well enough to commence singing lessons. He sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet dangling over the side.

"Try again."

"LAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaa ..."

"Chin! By chance, are you tone deaf?"

Chin Cheong's hugely magnified eyes blinked behind the lenses of his spectacles.

Oboe muttered, "You're not saying anything." He studied the invalid who would be his student before continuing. "Now I can see you're still a little green around he gills, so to speak, but if you are to be my pupil, you must buck up. Show some spunk, boy! Answer me when I ask you something."

Chin responded in a soft apologetic voice saying he didn't quite understand.

"Tone deaf—'amusia', if it amuses you to learn the clinical name—when your voice cannot match the sound you're hearing."

Chin smiled. "Ohhh, I think no, maestro. No amusia, not here. Maybe hard hearing."

It was Oboe's turn to blink.

"Again," he said, lifting the bow.

A short time later, frustrated with his student's progress, Oboe called a recess. Putting the violin aside, on top of a cluttered and tired old credenza, he wandered to a window and used the bowstring to part the brocade. A bright beam of sunlight cut through the gloom and lit particles of dust floating in the air. Beyond a dirty pane of glass, sloping away from the manor, a tract of land stretched to the distant hills. The blue sky beckoned. DeLouche longed to be outdoors, on the meadow, fresh and green, wandering under thickets of elm, oak, and alder, not a care in the world. Alas, his obligations to the estate superseded his desire to frolic on the commons. Besides, he still held a reasonable expectation of making off with the estate's fortune. The strongbox had been cached elsewhere, true, and to be expected, of course. However, in light of the recent revelation—a stroke of good luck, really—where it was revealed that the overseer retained his gate key, one could only surmise that the others continued to hold their respective offices as well.

It was time to get busy.

DeLouche moved back in full view of Chin. He tapped his coat pocket. The other side. A vest pocket. All, to make a show of searching for something. He had Chin's attention. "Aha!" he said, patting a breast pocket. His hand slipped inside his coat for a moment before withdrawing. When it did, he was holding a gleaming silver flask. Oboe winked at Chin, who's drawn face suddenly took on a grave aspect. Oboe proceeded to uncork the flask, his wobbly eye jiggling with glee. He said to Chin, "Hope you don't mind. Helps with the old rehabilitative process. I suffer from joint pains. Best thing for it." He took a nip and then another. About to push the stopper back, Oboe suddenly halted. Pretending to be struck by a complete lack of consideration, he addressed his charge, saying, "My lord! Excuse me, Mr. Cheong. Please. Here I am imbibing for medicinal purposes and there you sit, haggard and very likely in need of some yourself. My apologies. Here." Oboe extended his arm, offering the flask to Chin.

The shiny sliver, glinting at end of an outstretched limb, uncorked; wisps of a sweet, sweet aroma, snaking out from the opening; sifting through airways and passages to register in receptors of welcome recognition; a promise of burdens eased, pains forgotten. Oh what bitterness this sickness entails.

Chin's bony little arm flashed.

By the time Oboe's wicked grin spread to full realization, his star pupil had snatched the flask and was threatening to suck it dry. Pressed by the fear of discovery, DeLouche wrestled the flask away from him. There would be hell to pay if Chin's keepers found him waltzing about his room, blithely singing arias. Worse still, if his state of inebriation included indelicate gestures directed at the maidens.

Oboe stood back, corked his flask, and pocketed it. "You seem a little too eager, my friend," he said, straightening his cravat. "Maybe a little more tomor—Chin! Are you all right? You don't look well."

The greenish hue resurfaced, vibrant, almost glowing. Chin Cheong's body began to tremble. Then convulse. Muscles twitched. Eyes grew wide. His head jerked back and his glasses fell. His head lolled forward—back—to the side—forward—back again. Then, on the next forward thrust, Chin's mouth opened, expelling a stream of vomit that hit Oboe square in the chest. The lava-like flow of partially digested food spilled down the front of his fine coat and vest. The stink of it filled his nostrils. He gagged, clamped a hand over his mouth, fighting back the urge to reciprocate.

And that's when Marie-Claire and Alfonso appeared at the door.

The strained atmosphere during dinner that evening alerted Magnus to the fact that something was amiss. The kitchen staff appeared agitated, uncommunicative, preoccupied. DeLouche, isolated at the far end of the table, seemed ill at ease as well. Malgreete and Marlyse were withdrawn, hardly saying a word. As far as Magnus could tell, everyone was affected or had knowledge of what had occurred—or might occur.

Upon conclusion of the evening meal, with most everyone excusing themselves from the table, Magnus put a hand on Alfonso's arm. "Please join me by the hearth," he said quietly before getting to his feet.

The Spaniard assented. He rose and followed the steward to the cluster of armchairs. Others drifted from the dining hall while the maids, aided by Lisa, set to work clearing the table and sideboards. Marie-Claire hadn't budged; she remained at the table, deep in thought, leaning forward on her elbows, chin resting in her hands.

Keeping his voice low, Magnus asked Alfonso if there was anything he might like to discuss concerning affairs of the estate. After a moments reflection, Alfonso replied. "There is much to speak about, but I feel most important, is the theeng that has happened to Chin today. He is having a music lesson and becomes sick. He is a leedle better now—he's resting. But his temperature is high and he cannot hold his dinner in the stomach ... and his color, it is once more green."

"A relapse," murmured Magnus.

"Chef and myself, we are asking if this man—DeLouche—if maybe he can have something to do with this. He was in the room alone with Chin. And when we ask him what happened, he says maybe Chin don't like to sing so much. I theenk he is not telling us what he knows. He is hiding something."

"You want to say DeLouche is responsible?"

Alfonso looked past Magnus to where Marie-Claire sat. "My chef is certain. I am not. Not without the proof. Still, how do you esplain the very simple fact that Chin is getting better each day, and then on the first day he is alone with Oboe DeLouche, he becomes sick?"

Magnus studied the noble aspect of the man before him. After a moment, he called to Marie-Claire, asking her to join them. When she was settled, he asked how she could be certain Oboe caused Chin's relapse.

"For this," said Marie-Claire, tapping the end of her nose, "I am never wrong of the smells. I smell the alcohol inside this stink—the sick from Chin on the front of Monsieur DeLouche. Chin, he have the drink. This ees sure. And this make him become sick again."

"You said 'on the front of Monsieur DeLouche', what did you mean?" asked Magnus.

Marie-Claire smirked. "You don't know?" Somewhat surprised, she glanced at Alfonso before continuing, "Our dear little man, Chin, he ees sick all on the front of his instructor."

Magnus couldn't help but smile. However, one look at Alfonso's stern expression reminded him this was no trifling matter. A transgression of this magnitude could set Chin's recovery back weeks. The situation was disconcerting. On the one hand, Chin needed a focus, something he deeply wished to achieve. On the other, DeLouche, being the only person capable of delivering Chin's primary desire, was not trustworthy. Left to his own devises, he'd gladly sabotage any effort if it served his purpose.

"The choice is yours, Marie-Claire," said Magnus, having considered the matter. "If Chin's lessons are to continue, be sure to post someone else in the room during instruction. Lisa would be an apt choice. She could prove a useful aid, an inspiration even, insofar as Chin is concerned. Otherwise, call the whole thing off. Find another means to engage Chin's desires."

Marie-Claire looked to her trusted sous-chef. "There ees somesing else? Somesing to help Chin."

Alfonso shrugged. "I theenk it is not so difficult for one of us to be in this room with Chin. He desires to sing. Lisa is a good choice."

The chef nodded saying she would speak with the saucier.

"Before you go, Marie-Claire" said Magnus, "I want to speak to you about an alternative therapy for Chin. I would recommend this as an adjunct to his keen interest in learning to sing."—turning to Alfonso—"Would you please speak with Lisa, privately, regarding Chin's singing lessons? She's in the kitchens. It would be best to speak with her this evening before she retires to her chambers."

Astute, as always, Alfonso stood, graciously excused himself, and left. Marie-Claire regarded Magnus with an air of uncertainty.

"You're wondering why I sent Alfonso away," said Magnus. "What I have to say concerns you as much as it concerns Chin. I want both of you to participate in this therapy. For the time being, no one else need know. This will involved only you and Chin."

Marie-Claire pursed her lips and began drumming her fingertips on the arm of the sofa. She glanced over her shoulder. Marlyse and Malgreete had finished clearing the dining-room. They were alone. Turning back to the steward, she said, "If I am not mistake, you say to me you want me for therapy. Me."

Magnus smiled. "Both of you. It's compulsory. And in time you will understand the value of it." Marie-Claire did not look convinced. "Don't look so anxious," added Magnus. "Trust me; I'm your steward."
Chapter Thirty

Moon Flower

Spring-like days fell away. The sun warmed and the skies cleared. Summer flourished. Overseeing the imperceptible shift from season to season was Mother Nature herself. She saw every hill and dale along the commons boasting their deepest greens. She saw eager crops pushing from fields with a vigor hitherto unseen. She saw flowers of every shape and size and color under the sun, blossoming in a kaleidoscopic burst of beauty. The occupants of the manor were not unmoved. They, too, ceded to nature's enchantment.

Relationships deepened. Zero and Marie-Claire oft times lunched together. Marlyse and Ernie developed a fondness for meandering the pathways of the garden, hand in hand. The two ladies, Malgreete and Lisa, habitually entertained each other for afternoon tea. Insomuch as romance was concerned, only Robert and Horst suffered setbacks—they were miserable.

In a more general sense, and under the steward's guidance, lessons learned transformed into augmented expertise. Efforts doubled and co-operation improved. The staff and servants of the estate gradually learned to better rely on each other. And though each attended to their respective vocation, they also began to feel duty-bound to share knowledge and skills with anyone seeking assistance. Robert Bosworth was the exception. He kept to himself.

And so it was, then, on one such fine morning in June, on the terrace, that Alfonso Fandango Cabeza de Corazones poked and swished, slashed and jabbed, his foil slicing through the air like a mad knight-errant. His fervent simulation was cut short when he chanced to notice Yuno squatting by the balustrade, watching him while puffing his pipe. Alfonso let his sword drop to his side. Smiling broadly, he offered the old Paiute a hardy salutation.

Yuno rose and beckoned the Spaniard closer. As he came up, Yuno asked him, "Did you win?"

Alfonso felt the prick of Yuno's surreptitious jab. And in a rare instance of self-doubt, the ridiculousness of facing off against an invisible foe dawned on him. After a moment's reflection, he replied. "I theenk the wind will always win, Señor Yuno. I only wish to vanquish the evil within. This is why it is called practice."

"A man cannot kill spirits in the wind. But you can drive evil from your own spirit. Maybe that's what you're saying."

Yuno's astute riposte gave Alfonso pause. With nothing more than the obvious to fall back on, he answered, "Yes, of course, within ... where an evil can arise, señor."

Yuno flashed his best berry-and-bark stained grin. "You ready, chief?"

Alfonso smiled. "Petunias, pansies, begonias ..."—putting aside his rapier—"I am ready. Vaya con Dios! Into the garden!"

On their way, Yuno treated Alfonso to a dog's tale. He recounted how, once upon a time, he used to thwart Nero's nose by dusting the trail with ground pepper. Nowadays, he let nature take its course; sometimes man bested beast, and sometimes not. Alfonso applauded the old man's craft and cunning. The medicine-man then went on to expound the virtues of natural compounds enhancing humankind's existence. It was an area of immense interest to the Spaniard, and he appreciated that Yuno agreed to explain some of the lesser-known concepts of plant utilization. As a budding botanist, Alfonso looked forward to these morning lessons.

"Are you teaching someone?" asked Yuno during a pause.

"I am," said Alfonso. "Senorita Marlyse, she has asked me to teach her to speak in Spanish. She is very keen, you know."

"And your sick chef, how is he doing?"

Alfonso's features drew taut. His concern for Chin under Oboe's tutelage weighed heavily. Permitting the lessons to go ahead stretched the bounds of his magnanimity. DeLouche was a constant threat and if not for Lisa's generous participation, the instruction would dare not take place. "Chin is singing," said Alfonso, his features softening. "He is happy. Lisa Zeppatini tells me he is fast improving. His color improves. Maybe one day, he will make a debut. Perhaps a duet, singing with the senorita."

Yuno smiled. "His spirit is strong."

The old man's sentiment was lost on Alfonso; his attention had been diverted. His gaze carried over Yuno's silver-white mane, beyond the garden to the vale. A lone rider rode out in the early-morning mist. It was Horst, and his mount was one of the new mares, the one he affectionately called Schatz.

"He isn't afraid to ride anymore," said Yuno.

Alfonso agreed. "Señor Horst has conquered this fear."

"He is lucky."

"Why is that, señor?"

"He prays to the great white-chief in the little house with the cross. He asks to take away his fear. But anyway, he has the boy who teaches him, and Buck Knowles, too. They help because our new chief asked them. He's lucky."

Alfonso nodded, though he was somewhat perplexed by the nebulous connection to faith and practical experience. Changing the subject, he asked if Yuno had seen Robert Bosworth of late.

Weathered features wrinkled into a frown. "He's lost."

Alfonso waited, knowing there was more to come.

"I tried to help him ... you know, to find himself. Maybe I was too late."

Again, Alfonso waited.

"He fell down and now he's lost in the forest ... and it's getting dark. Anyway, Bob needs a light. Something to shine on the path."

The old man's metaphoric analysis of the butler's plight was not lost on Alfonso. It was true, Robert had become reclusive since being disgraced and then barred from the dining hall. He'd been seen skirting round corners and columns on occasion, but always managed to avoid direct confrontation. Malgreete's dismissal of his advances, coupled to the humiliation he'd suffered, had apparently hit him harder than imagined. His mien grew dark, secretive. He admitted no one to his chambers, not even Marlyse, who left meals for him on the sideboard outside his door. Alfonso made a commitment to himself just then: He would coerce the butler to allow him an audience, even if it meant laying siege in the corridor until Bosworth presented.

Slumped in an armchair, staring into an empty fireplace, Bob unconsciously rubbed a hand over the stubble of whiskers on his chin. Windows throughout his chambers were clamped shut. Drawn drapery shut out the light. He sat in the stale gloom. Days had passed. His clothing, disheveled, creased, and wrinkled, gave evidence of being slept in. He subsisted on meals left for him in the hall. But as he had neither the appetite nor the volition to eat, much went to waste.

The effects of Yuno's mind-numbing smoke did little to alleviate his depression. If anything, the mixture of tobacco and herbs only served to exacerbate the angst and animosity consuming his soul. There was no escape. He led a cloistered existence. Like a demented hermit, his wakeful hours were wasted, relegated to flights of disturbed imaginings or emotional upheaval. Drifting into a peaceful slumber was impossible given the nightmarish assault from his tortured subconscious.

Robert pulled himself to his feet. He stood and looked around his cluttered room unsure of what he should do next. Without much thought and for no apparent reason, he forced his legs to carry him across the floor to a window. He parted the brocade and squinted into the blinding light. The morning sun had already risen over the rooftop of the east wing. Once adjusted, his eyes took in the bucolic landscape stretching away to the southeast, beyond the stables and barns. It was a beautiful, breezy summer day—a perfect day. Pleasant as it was, Bosworth did not feel the slightest desire to venture forth. He let the curtain drop and turned back to the gloom. Standing there by the window, he let his gaze sweep over all that filled his personal domain. It contained nothing of significance, nothing that he felt attached to on an emotional level. The world was bleak—within and without.

Then his eyes chanced to fall on the book he'd brought from the library. It rested on the mantel where he'd left it some weeks ago. He was drawn to it. Something in the text, something he recalled reading, spoke to his darker side. After lighting a lantern, Robert Bosworth settled into his armchair and opened the book to the marked passage.

He studied the section on D. stramonium paying particular attention to dosage and variations in methods of ingestion. Previously, when he'd skimmed the pages in the library, he had read that the leaves of the plant were dried and smoked by assorted indigenous tribes. Now he learned that the small black seeds of the Devil's snare could also be ingested. As the words registered, they triggered the first hint of an application—one that caused a shiver to run down his spine. Robert Bosworth lifted his eyes from the page. He turned inward, allowing his mind to explore nefarious intentions.

At some point, a wicked grin appeared. It spread slowly, lending credence to an evil glint that flickered in his eyes. He slapped the book closed with resounding SMACK! A moment later, he was on his feet, grabbing a coat in a rush for the door. He swung it wide and froze.

There on the threshold, stood Alfonso, arm raised, about to knock.

"Ahh, Señor Bosworth, this is most fortunate. I theenk a few minutes later and I would not find you in residence. You are going somewhere?"

"I—I was—I mean I was not, um, expecting anyone. But, yes ... to answer your question, I was just now leaving. Was there something you needed?"

"If you would allow me some moments of your time, I will be most grateful, señor."

"I'm rather in a hurry. Can it not—oh, all right then. Tell me, what does this concern?"

"Matters of estate ... important matters."

"Be more precise, man, I don't have the bloody time—"

"FINE!" Alfonso's sharp retort severed the butler's ire with one decisive swipe. Bob stood, staring, mouth unhinged, shocked by the gentleman's uncharacteristic severity. Alfonso continued, his voice stern but moderated, "I will come direct to this point. You, señor, are the cause of this concern. Your duties, you neglect. You lock yourself away, hiding from the world. You are feeling shame and you are hurt. And because of this, you theenk you can be justified to hurting those around you, those who are only trying to help, those who care for you."

"Nobody cares for me," muttered Robert sullenly, his gaze falling to the floor. He stepped back and motioned for Alfonso to enter.

Both men sat down but said nothing. The stilted atmosphere that hung in the air forced each of them to retreat to the relative safety of private thoughts. Bosworth respected his colleague; the sous-chef had proven himself trustworthy and capable. His integrity and concern for the welfare of the estate was beyond question. He wasn't here to meddle. He was here to help.

Robert's eyes flitted from one object to another as his mind floated on an influx of disjointed thoughts. Landing on Crippleton's book of botany, he recalled that he'd meant to quiz Alfonso over it. If in fact it was—and how could it be otherwise—Oboe who had been the source of the reference, why would Alfonso condescend to do his bidding? The butler cleared his throat, tried to look nonchalant, and asked, "How do you feel about the return of Oboe DeLouche on the estate? I've been meaning to ask."

The sous-chef appeared wary, his critical regard cutting through the pretense. "I theenk you are asking this question," he said, "because there is something else on your mind. Why don't you come straight to the point?"

"All right then. Have you, or have you not, befriended the cad? No, wait! That couldn't be. Far bloody likelier he's duped you into serving his purpose. He's promised you something, hasn't he?"

The question was met with a blank stare.

Robert leaned forward and tapped the cover of the book lying on the low table before them. "Was it not he, who asked you to point out this text to me? The book from the library."

"The book in the library ... yes, but I don't—"

"Bloody-hell, man! How could you stoop so low? Why do his bidding? I'd thought at least some of us were above this—this scoundrel, and his bleeding manipulations."

Alfonso looked pained by the inference. He struggled to explain: "I—no, you must understand, I did this for the good of the estate ... to help Señor Chin. I make the note, yes. But I do this so he will teach Chin to sing. There is nothing more to this than that. I swear to you. Look, he tells me you like the plants. You like to learn about them. This book can help you. I do not see where there is a problem, señor."

"So why, pray tell, does he ask someone else to put me onto the bloody book?"

"He says you will not trust him. You will theenk there is more to it, something behind his good intentions."

"I would venture to say, that ogre has no conception of 'good intentions'. I doubt he's ever had one. Not in his entire bleeding life!"

"If I did not need him to give the instruction for the singing ..." Alfonso leaned forward and retrieved the textbook. He held it in his hands, studying the cover. "A book about the plants,"—thumbing through pages—"and there is so much to be learned here." He closed the book and put it back down. Looking to Robert he said, "I, too, like the plants. Do you know, I study with the gardener, Señor Yuno? He is teaching me all about the plants and the flowers in the garden and in the forest."

This was news to Bosworth. An avowal of an interest in botany was one thing, but that the Spaniard actually received the gardener's guidance and expertise, well, that was quite another.

"Tell me, in the course of your wanderings," asked Robert, suddenly full of enthusiasm, "have you perchance run across a plant called Datura stramonium?"

"Oh, you know, Señor Yuno is not the scholarly professor. He is very knowledgeable, but he relies on the smell and the touch and the words from a more common language to describe the plants and the flowers."

Bob picked up the book and found the section covering deadly nightshade varieties. "Thornapple? Pricklyburr?"

Alfonso shook his head. "No, the gardener has not mentioned these names."

"Stinkweed? Locoweed?"

Again, Alfonso shook his head.

The butler read off a series of other common names: "Devil's snare, hell's bells, Devil's trumpet, Devil's weed? Ah, here we are, what about this—the Spanish name, Toloache?"

"Sorry señor, maybe we have not looked to this plant before. There is still many to learn."

Robert turned the page and showed an illustration to Alfonso asking if he'd seen a similar plant. Detailed drawings on the opposite page, showed a leaf, a flower, and a seed pod. The sous-chef examined them carefully. His head began to nod.

"Yes, yes I have seen this," he said. "Moon flower! This is the name Señor Yuno calls this plant. There is many growing by the creek, close to the old mill. What is your interest in this one?"

"I've read there are therapeutic properties—analgesic properties, don't you know. And so, well, I should think it rather handy to someone like our good Dr. Dare. That said, he's probably already stocked up on the stuff. Quite. Yes, well, never mind old boy. No harm in a little investigative plant pharmacology, what?"

A look of concern grew over the Spaniard's features, clouding his otherwise clear and friendly disposition. "The gardener says to leave it alone. There is nothing good about this plant, nothing that cannot be served by another."

"Yaaass, well, not to worry," said Bosworth, tapping the book's cover, "plenty of other shrubbery and whatnot to look into."

Alfonso nodded but said nothing more. His face remained clouded over.

"So, as I was saying, I was just on my way out. Hate to be a bore, old boy, but perhaps another time." Robert rose from his chair, prompting his visitor to follow suit.

"I don't wish to inconvenience, but I theenk it is best for you to speak about what is bothering you. You should not keep this inside. I am not the only one concerned for your peace of mind. And I only say this, señor, because if you do not choose to speak in confidence to me, maybe you will choose another. Someone who is closer to your heart."

"Righto! Well, jolly good of you," said the butler, ushering Alfonso towards the door. "Not to worry though. One has one's moods, don't you know. Stop by again. Does one rather well, the old chin-wag."

Robert closed the door and listened as the steps receded down the hall. He smacked his fist into an open palm. "Moon flower!"
Chapter Thirty-One

Recipe for Disaster

Oboe DeLouche hunched over a crenelated parapet looking down. He could see his shadow far, far below, silhouetted in black on the sun-drenched flagstone. He lifted his gaze. The tower offered the best vantage point on the estate. It rose from the courtyard to the roof line and was situated midway along the central block between the two wings. From here, the full, unbroken horizon was visible through every compass point. The hills and fields, pastures and meadows, from near to far, all fell within the vista afforded an observer atop the tower.

Oboe checked his pocket watch. It was just after noon. He looked up, over his shoulder, high in the sky, to the summer sun. He smiled. It was a fine day. He whistled softly while pacing the length of the rampart. Oboe took immense pleasure in admiring the landscape stretching away in every direction. Every now and again he would stop and peek over the edge. Punctuality was a matter of pride with some, and if there was one thing DeLouche knew about Robert Bosworth, he would not disappoint in that regard. And then, on cue, there he was, tugging on his waistcoat, head snapping to each peep and tweet and rustle of wind. Robert Bosworth stood below, waiting.

Oboe scanned every window, nook, and cranny searching for any sign or movement betraying unwanted scrutiny. As near as he could tell, they were alone and unobserved. And although Bosworth was conspicuous, standing alone as he was on the terrace, at least he wasn't prancing about like that foil-wielding Spaniard. Moreover, anyone atop the tower not overtly waiving a flag was largely hidden from view. So again, Oboe felt confident of his mission's success. He edged closer to a corner. He checked one last time to ensure his target was stationary and that his placement hadn't changed. Oboe DeLouche then reached up to a large flowerpot perched on a stone pedestal. It held the dried and dying remains of daffodils, their blooms long since withered away. He heaved and toppled the pot. Oboe listened to the wind, counting off the seconds—almost four, before the crash.

Below, the butler quite nearly jumped from his skin. A mere two paces to the left, lay the shattered remains of a clay pot. A mere two paces to the left, lay a bushel of dirt and bulbs and dried stems and leaves, clumped or splayed from the force of impact. A mere two paces to the left, the specter of certain death.

Robert shook, unable to arrest the trembling fear that gripped his very soul. He looked up, squinting into the blinding sun. If anyone was there, it was impossible to make them out. He took a few unsteady steps to distance himself from the stonework. Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. His hands were shaking. He needed to pull himself together. Malgreete could appear at any moment. It wouldn't do for her to see him like this, once again, in a state of duress, vulnerable.

It's true, bits and pieces of the old manor were crumbling, breaking off, and falling away. It happened all the time. And however rare it was for such large chunks to let go, it was plausible. It could have been coincidence ... Robert retrieved the neatly folded note from his vest pocket. He opened it and read it again:

Dear Bobby,

All is forgive.  
Meet me. Bottom of za tower 12:30.  
We can talk.

M.V.B.

Robert looked hard at the note. It carried a faint smell of perfume. The script was not particularly practiced, but it was legible. The brevity did not seem out of context considering Malgreete's clipped manner of speech ... but there was something else, something not quite right. It wasn't until he read it aloud that his ear stopped him, his eyes frozen on the word za. For all Malgreete's failure to enunciate certain words properly, she never, ever, said za when she meant the. There was only one person on the estate who did—Horst-bloody-Kunkle! He wrote this note! He wanted me here, and at precisely this time. He pushed that bleeding flowerpot off the top of the tower. He bloody-well tried to kill me!

Bob took one last look at the near-tragic scene, imagining his limp body amid the strewn wreckage, his skull crushed and his lifeless eyes staring up into the blinding light. He envisioned his estranged lover coming upon him, sobbing uncontrollably, heartbroken, filled with regret. He would be dead. But it would be worth it, for she would be tortured, hurt so deeply over his loss, she would be unable to withstand the suffering. In the end, she would take her own life, just to be with him.

While the aforementioned vignette played out in his mind's eye, a crow happen to drop from the blue sky, alighting atop the tower's flagpole. Once settled, it tilted its head from side to side, watching the figure far below. It crowed and broke the butler's gratifying reverie; he blinked back into reality. Clearly, Malgreete Van Bleake would not appear. No, not today. She would not be meeting him and there was to be no reconciliation. Bosworth slowly walked away.

Unbeknownst to the departing butler, high up on the third floor of the west wing, in the last window, a sheer curtain dropped back into place. At precisely the same instant, from somewhere deep in the surrounding countryside, a strident howl rose above the pleasant sounds of summer. It was Nero, the black mongrel beast, giving voice to an ominous sense of doom spreading across the land. It was a primitive cry, one of dread, a portent of discordant beginnings.

By the time Robert reached Oboe's door, no more than fifteen minutes had elapsed. He knocked. There was a muffled sound from within. It could have been an oath. A moment later, the door opened and there stood Oboe DeLouche, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. His eye—the good one—widened at the sight of the butler.

"I—well, I uh ... Robert! I wasn't expecting—"

"I know. May I?"

"Of course, of course. Come in."

Bosworth entered the antechamber, noting the freshness and cleanliness of the room. A breeze moved through the open windows, gently lifting the sheers. The space was bright, tidy, and orderly, everything in its place. Since returning to the estate, Oboe had taken a small apartment at the extremity of the first floor in the west wing, away from most other occupants of the manor.

"Allow me to come straight to the point," said Robert.

Oboe assented with a nod of his head, his outstretched arm inviting his guest to take a seat.

Robert preferred to stand. He continued, "I am well aware, sir, Crippleton's book of botany, however surreptitiously pointed out, was nonetheless your recommendation. In addition, I suspect it was entirely by design that the marked page was intended for my edification. Would you deny this?"

DeLouche exhaled, releasing some amount of tension from his body. His right eye began a slow roll to the opposite side of its socket. His left stayed locked on his accuser. "You will recall," he said, "when last we met—when was it, a month ago? In any event, you displayed a certain interest in plant pharmacology. I thought you might find the text useful. You know, get you on the path, point you in the right direction."

"Why mark that particular page?"

"Why do you think?"

"You tell me."

"Fine." Oboe wiped his brow on his sleeve. "It so happens, dried leaves from the Devil's snare were what was used to send dear old Yuno on his ill-fated journey. You expressed concern for his well-being, insinuating I might have done something to drive him mad—permanently. Or worse, that I could be held accountable for his untimely death, due perhaps to a self-inflicted accident.

"Now, if you have studied the section—the marked section—you will by now be aware of how critical the dose is to the desired effect. Too little, and all you will have achieved is to introduce a mild analgesic. Too much, and the subject would never live to describe the harrowing experience of an induced psychosis.

"Look, Robert, I told you then and I'll say it again, knowledge and skill are essential in the administration of substances that could otherwise prove fatal."

Robert studied the despicable person who stood before him. He was cunning and devious, and ultimately pursued only that which could enrich his personal fortune. "Do you ... would—what I mean to say is, I need your expertise. I should like to know how one goes about determining an 'effective' dose."

A gleeful glimmer flashed in Oboe's eye. He smiled. "What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Well, it's rather scientific, I suppose. For instance, if one were to introduce the seeds, say, to a chicken, how would you know how many to give it? Assuming you didn't wish to kill the bird."

DeLouche chuckled. "A chicken, you say? Well,"—scratching his head—"if I explained it to you, would you, in turn, tell me something I'm dying to find out?"

"That depends."

"Your key, is it in the strongbox? The one hidden in the pantry."

Oboe wasn't mincing words, he was going after the estate's treasure. Robert decided now might be a good time to take a seat. His host followed suit.

The butler took time to settle, all the while pondering the appropriate response. Robert reasoned since Magnus was the only one who knew where the chest was located, DeLouche would have to go through him before gaining access. And that was not likely to happen. Therefore, if Oboe were to simply obtain the key, it would do little to advance his agenda. The risk was minimal. Gaining Oboe's knowledge, on the other hand, was paramount, and worth considerably more risk than divulging the key's whereabouts.

Robert told him what he wanted to know.

DeLouche sat back. A sly smile appeared and his head began to nod, slowly, as if he might be incorporating this new knowledge into the scheme of things. At length, he looked to Bob and explained: "Seeds, leaves—whatever part of the plant you wish to utilize—you must know that potency is relative to a great number of variables. You will need to experiment. For instance, on a purely physical basis, you will need to take into account the weight of the subject, the dose, and the duration of observed effects. Start small and increase until the desired outcome is achieved. If you overdo it ... well I should think you will have cooked your goose, as the saying goes—or in your case, the chicken. Does that answer your question?"

Bosworth stood. Satisfied he'd learned what he needed to know, he said, "Thank you. I won't be taking anymore of your time. Good day to you, sir."

"Robert ... where is the strongbox now?"

Though he made it sound like an innocent enough question, Oboe's evil eye burned with such intensity, Robert felt hiding behind a lie would prove futile. But then again, there was no real need to answer. Robert turned away and walked to the door.

"BEFORE YOU GO," warned Oboe, "there is something you should know."

The butler stopped on the threshold but did not turn back. He waited.

"There is no accounting for the consequences of psychological impairment."

Robert Bosworth stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Thirty-Two

Illusory Intrusions and Retributions

Bob was in his chambers with a couple of chickens. He'd plucked them from the coop earlier that afternoon when no one was about. Coming up from the barns with a gunny sack thrown over his back was no bother, but crossing paths with someone while making his way through the manor, well, that was extremely worrisome—problematic even. After all, how does one arrive at a reasonable explanation for bringing two live birds into your room? Never mind, here they were, poking about, scratching and pecking, seemingly content with their new surroundings.

Bosworth hunched over his desk studying a prickly seed pod with a magnifying glass. He had harvested a dozen or so the day before last while out for a stroll down by the old mill. Splitting the pod with a penknife and prying it open, revealed a cluster of small black seeds. He scraped them onto a kerchief spread over his desk. Next, he sprinkled a small handful of grain onto two saucers and put one seed in one and three in the other.

He checked the time—shortly after four. As most everyone would be busy with chores and preparations for dinner, there was little chance of being bothered.

Bob appraised the two chickens: white Leghorns, appearing to be about the same weight and size—a design detail necessary to the success of the experiment. It did occur to him, however, that he should better identify one from other. He chose a length of light blue ribbon to be tied round the neck of one of them.

Catching a chicken proved rather more difficult then when snatching them from the coup earlier. Here the hens were not hemmed in with the rest of the flock, crowded within the confines of a hen house. The sheer expanse of butler's day-room offered a nervous chicken ample room to evade capture. To make matters worse, Bob knew nothing of how best to catch them. He rushed at the birds. But they swerved and ran, squawking and flapping and jumping, always just out of arms reach.

Ten minutes later, exasperated and exhausted by the effort, Robert sat down in an armchair. He watched until the hens settled. Once calm and back to clucking and pecking about in his chambers, he rose and nonchalantly strolled towards one.

"Pawwwkk, pawk, pawwwk." Robert mimicked soothing chicken sounds as he herded the bird into a corner. Then, without agitating his quarry, and keeping his hands at his sides, he carefully bent over, still cooing. And, when in range, made a quick grab for the bird. It worked! He had it in hand. Tying the bow of ribbon round its neck required a number of awkward attempts. But finally, it, too, was done.

To the ribbon-clad chicken, he gave the dish containing three seeds. After serving the other, the butler stood to the side and watched as they happily pecked away at their respective victuals. Another glance at the mantel showed the clock about to strike the hour. Robert moved to the hearth, positioned his armchair, and settled in to observe:

5:23 p.m. - Subject "A" (the bow-bedecked hen) showing signs of increased nervousness; erratic strut; wings frequently outstretched; periodic squawks / subject "B" squatting on floor; appears docile

5:32 p.m. - Subject "A" now cackling incessantly; short scurrying bursts, punctuated by aggressive pecking / subject "B" laid an egg

5:43 p.m. - Subject "A" frequent attempts to fly / subject "B" experiencing ambulatory impairment; movement appears weighted; stops and drops, often resting with eyes closed

6:03 p.m. - Subject "A" roosting on bedpost; eyes glazed over, unblinking; motionless, hawk-like; (note to self: bird defecated on sheet — clean) / subject "B" has fallen over; lying on its side; clucking contently

A tap on the door—Marlyse, signaling she'd left dinner on the sideboard. The tap ... that one small incongruous sound, innocuous as can be, sparked a flurry that went beyond measure. It unleashed a ferocity in the post-perching chicken that was nothing short of astonishing. Bob's mouth dropped. His eyes grew wide. For the bird stood fully erect, wings outstretched, crowing like a mad cock. And then, in an instant, it swooped down on the unprotected egg, attacking it with an unbridled passion, pecking and scratching and squawking with a blood-lust that struck the butler as unworldly. Even with the egg broken and yolk oozing out, the assault continued, unrelenting. The other hen, curiously, lay unperturbed by the mayhem, oblivious to the onslaught being carried out on its unprotected egg. The peculiar spectacle held Bob transfixed. Such that he did not see or even hear the door opening. In fact, it wasn't until Marlyse rushed forward and clobbered the assailing chicken with a discarded boot that he became cognizant of her presence in the room.

She swung her gaze from the dazed hen to Bob. Her eyes registered a complete and utter failure to comprehend the situation. She dropped the boot.

"Marlyse ... I, uh, ..."

Her hand came up, halting any further discourse. Her head moved from side to side. "I don't care to know, Mista Boswort." She looked to the stunned chicken with a blue bow around its neck. "What you doing in here, mon, in your room, that ain't none a my business. Nope, none a my business." Marlyse glanced at the hen, the one lying on its side, still merrily clucking away the day as though it hadn't a care in the world. The peculiar nature of the thing caused her face to pucker. Rather than comment, however, she began moving towards the door.

"Marlyse, please."

"Nope, don't care to know."

The door closed and she was gone.

Robert felt deflated. He got up from his chair and walked to the prostrate chicken lying on its side. He nudged it with his toe. It clucked but otherwise did not budge, would not get up. It was happy to lie there, happy to cluck. The other hen looked as if it might have shaken off the effects of having been clubbed over the head by a stray boot. A feisty glint in its eye, it unleashed a defiant squawk, then crouched. And just as Bob was about to turn away, the hen launched yet another offensive: It leaped into the air, wings flapping, beating furiously to gain altitude. Bob ducked just as the squawking clump of feathers bobbled over his head and landed on his bed. The soft landing must have thrown the bird for a bit of a loop because it became distracted by the surface of the mattress. It pecked and scratched at it in a hesitant, curious kind of way, as if testing foreign ground. Bob shouted in an attempt to scare it off, fearful it might foul his sheets a second time. But the bird merely lifted its head. It looked him straight in the eye. It was not afraid. The brazen look held steady, locked on the butler. A moment later, the chicken toppled over—dead.

Time of death — 6:10

Twelve hours later, Robert Bosworth wound his way down through the manor with a gunny sack slung over his back. He entered the kitchens just as a feeble light began to creep through the small high-set windows on the back wall. Treading carefully, Bob made his way to a counter. There, he pulled a stiff chicken from the sack. He placed it on a scale and took note of the weight. Then he removed the light blue ribbon from the hen's neck and bound its feet with it. He hung the hen on a dangling meat hook supported by a bar over the counter. Next, Robert turned back to the gunny sack. It held the other chicken—the live chicken. He clucked soothingly to it as he eased it from the burlap, both hands cupped over the wings. The cautionary treatment was hardly necessary; the bird was semi-comatose, completely unruffled by the butler's manhandling. When placed into the scoop-like tray of the scale, the docile hen nestled down and promptly fell asleep. Bob was content. Both subjects were of similar weight. He picked up his sack, and just as he was turning to leave, he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye, something he failed to notice when he came in—Marie-Claire.

She sat at the great oak table, back straight, hands in her lap with her eyes closed, eerily motionless. It dawned on him that she'd been there the whole time, concealed in the shadows, not a sound to give her away. But why just sit there like that ... with her eyes closed? Had she seen him? Was she pretending to sleep? The sight proved altogether too strange and gave rise to a tingling shudder that ran the length of his spine.

He approached.

Since clearing his throat elicited only the merest flutter of her lashes, he asserted his presence by saying, "Madame Contraire, I daresay, I'd no idea you were, um ... well, that—that you were sitting here."

There was no response from the head-chef. She just sat there like a cadaver propped in a chair to scare off unwitting intruders.

"Look, I know you're not asleep. Now speak up. What is this, is this some sort of bloody charade?" Robert stood, hands on hips, fully expecting a reply.

A few moments passed before Marie-Claire's posture relaxed and she opened her eyes. She sighed and gave her head a slight shake, sending her mass of red curls flouncing and bobbing every which way. She brought her hands up to smooth her hair back before placing them on the table, palms down. She sighed again, only more heavily this time. It was as if she were struggling to overcome an involuntary reaction. She didn't immediately meet the butler's annoying stare. Instead, she focused her gaze straight ahead, on the hen nesting on the weigh-scale. When she finally did speak, she said, "For me, I don't care what you are doing here. I only wish you to go away. Leave me in peace."

"But you were bloody-well spying on me! No one sits in the dark pretending to be asleep. Bloody hell, woman, why didn't you say something when I came in?"

"I am chef. I do not have to say somesing when somebody come inside my kitchen. This ees my domain. I am in charge here." Marie-Claire took a deep breath before continuing in a softer, more conciliatory tone, "Monsieur, I do not—how you say—spy to you. I sit here in the quiet of my kitchen. It ees my practice ... to be quiet, to be still, alone with my thoughts, my presence."

Robert gawked. He couldn't believe his ears.

"This is true, what I say," she said, "but not so very easy for explain." Marie-Claire's smile was warm, genuine. "Monsieur Bosworse, I do not wish to be unpolite, so if you have nothing more to do, please, have a very nice day."

Robert blinked. "I ... yes. Quite. Right! Well, have a very nice day to you ... too—as well."

Before Bosworth could reach the door, the chef called his name. He turned.

"The two chicken, why bring them like this? One dead, one not so dead."

Bob looked across the expanse of the great kitchen, into Marie-Claire's inquisitive gaze. The light was stronger now. The sparkle of curiosity in her eyes shone bright.

"It's ... well it's a rather long story," he said, and turned away.

A melancholy mood had draped itself over Horst on the day Malgreete Van Bleake ended their courtship. He would woo her no more. She needed time, she'd said, to decide between him and Bosworth. Since then, he moped about the manor and grounds with nary a smile nor friendly wave for others. He sat sullen and closed during dinners. When pushed for conversation, he became cross. It wasn't long before his comrades knew well enough to leave him be.

If there was a bright spot for Kunkle, it existed in the early morning hours when he'd ride out on his beloved Schatz. His infatuation for the animal commenced the first time he mounted her and was not summarily thrown or bitten. Schatz, though a spirited Thoroughbred, tolerated the rider's untried performance. As such, the overseer's fear soon turned to trust.

Then there were the hounds. Since their arrival, Horst fostered a relationship with twice-daily visits to the makeshift kennels. He offered scraps to each and every one. They were his babies—his doggies. The overseer spent many a happy hour nattering to his pack of hounds. He talked of hunts to come, elaborating on how the chase—oh, the glorious chase—how it might unfold, and always, always, as the victor, he, the beneficent master, would release the quarry so that they might meet again another day.

One afternoon, Horst, sitting on a bale of straw, was in the middle of just such a tale when he happened to look up. His jaw dropped at the sight of the gardener, overhead, squatting on a rafter.

"Sorry chief, I was waiting for you to finish your story."

Flustered, Horst groped for something to say. "You ... you sit long time?"

Yuno smiled, revealing a fresh bark-and-berry stained grin. "You speak to dogs. And you speak in the language of your people."

"Yah, so?"

"Dogs know every tongue. Do you want this?" Yuno retrieved a white envelope from his doeskin sack and held it out where Horst could see it.

"And zis is what?"

Yuno let it drop. It dipped and yawed on a current of air as it floated downwards. Before it could land, Yuno launched himself from the rafters and plucked it mid flight with a nimble flick of his arm. Touching down softly, he presented the envelope to the astonished overseer. "It's a letter. I'm delivering it to you," he said.

Horst thanked him, took the envelope, and examined it. There was nothing written on the front but the seal, stamped in a blood-red wax on the back, left little doubt as to who it was from. He opened it and read the note.

Herr Kunkle,

Be forewarned, missives not originating from myself are suspect. Do not blindly trust in the declared signatory. Forgeries abound. You are in danger. Be vigilant.  
Now cheer up.

DBD

"He give you zis?" asked Horst, folding the letter and tucking it into a breast pocket.

Yuno grinned.

Kunkle retrieved his crop from the bale. When he looked up again, the old Paiute had his back turned, about to leave. The light shimmering in his silver hair reflected countless flickering pinpoints of color. It fascinated the overseer, and it wasn't until he blinked that he became aware of being alone. The medicine-man had departed.

By and by, Oboe DeLouche happened to poke his head through the doorway to the barn. When he saw the overseer near the back wall, hunched over his knees, staring at the floorboards, he approached and said hello.

Horst lifted his head from his hands. He sighed. The sight of DeLouche strolling up to him with a lopsided grin smeared on his face did little inspire a sense of convivial chumminess. If anything, it irked him all the more that he hadn't spotted him first and managed a hasty exit. In his present mood, there was no masking his true sentiment for the man.

"Yah," he said, "so what you want?"

"My, my, pardon my intrusion, Herr Kunkle. Seems I've caught you at a bad time."

Horst looked away.

The ensuing silence seemed to stretch time. Horst took up his crop and tapped his boots. He waited. Those few moments that elapsed before Oboe cleared his throat seemed to last an eternity.

"I wanted to speak to you," said Oboe, at last, "because I see your pain. You are heartbroken. It's no secret Maid Malgreete is the cause. Horst, I only wish for you to know, if there is anything I can do ..."

"No, zis is nothing what anyone can do. Leave me. Just go."

"What if I said I could help? You know, to win back your sweetheart's favor."

Horst turned from his dogs to look Oboe in the eye. He saw insincerity looming in the background, leering, like a carny making a pitch for one last dime. He saw the depth of Oboe's deception—past, present, and future—awash in turbulent waves of realization, one after another crashing on the shores of his cognition. His anger welled up inside. He was wrought with such hatred that before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet thrashing Oboe DeLouche with his crop, shouting at him to leave.

With the first stinging lash to his cheek, Oboe covered his face in an effort to fend off further blows. But in the end, since cowering from the onslaught proved not only foolish but painful, he fled.

A short while later, Oboe DeLouche stood before Robert Bosworth's chambers. He thumped on the door. As soon as the latch clicked and the door began to open, he barged in, brushing past the astonished butler. In a voice that was not only loud but bristling with menace, he said, "Thirty—maybe forty—that's what you'll need." When he turned to face his host, it was clear the significance of his statement was lost.

Bob stood by the open door, his hand still on the handle, his expression, the perfect portrait of bewilderment.

"SEEDS! You'll need at least that many. Kunkle's a hefty lump. So if you're putting him down, use forty."

Robert closed the door, but remained stationary while the implications of Oboe's words took form. After a moment or two, he moved to the mantel and made a gesture, offering his uninvited guest to take a seat.

Oboe was wound like a tightly loaded spring, furious, eager for vengeance. He was breathing hard and sweating. His wonky eye trembled as if spurred by an agitated sort of rage.

"What's happened to you, man?" asked Robert, "You look rather upset."

"UPSET! I 'look-rather-upset' ... I've just been horsewhipped by that Teutonic fool! That clown, that—that goddamn—god damn that Kunkle!"

A sly smile spread across the butler's face. "Your cheek. I fancy that bloody reminder will be with you for some time to come."

Oboe touched the welt with his forefinger. He winced. And when he responded, his voice was barely audible. "Yesss ... a little something to remember him by." The underlying threat of his words grew in significance as the sun slid behind a cloud, projecting an even darker mood within a room already dimmed behind drawn drapery.

"So do tell," asked Robert, his tone almost cheery, "did you suffer this humiliating spectacle in the absence of an audience? Or did it unfold before a jeering crowd, eager to heap further derision upon your misfortune?"

DeLouche understood the butler was about to embark on a comparison study of whose beating was worse. But since he was in no mood to sketch out the details, and far more interested in pressing Bosworth into action, he countered with a demand. "Are you, or are you not, going to rid this estate of that khaki-clad clown? You know he undermines your authority. You know he vies for the attentions of Maid Malgreete. And you know he's out to get you. For god's sake, wake up! He means to put an end to you if you don't do it first.

"Listen Robert, I've advised you, pointed you in the right direction. I've helped you find an elegant solution—one that won't get your lily-white fingers all messy with blood and guts. So what are you waiting for, another pot to drop on you head? Get on with it!"

Robert Bosworth's eyes narrowed. But before he could utter a sound, the scurrying footsteps of somebody coming up the hallway reached their ears. It halted just outside the door. A salvo of rapping fists followed. It was Maid Marlyse. She shouted for Robert to open the door.

DeLouche moved out of view and put his finger to his lips, indicating he did not want it known he was within. Bob nodded and went to the door. He opened it, but only partially, using his body to block any unexpected advance.

Marlyse Beatrice Marliemon stood on the threshold, panting, her eyes wildly excited. "Milady! She's coming. She's coming, Mista Boswort, she on her way, mon. She'll be here and she coming with a whole bunch a folks—bout fifty—and Magnus, Magnus says we gotta get assembled and get ready for a greeting out front and—"

Robert held up a palm. "Miss Marliemon, calm yourself. Please. There. Now, how is it you know this—and when exactly is she expected to arrive?"

Marlyse drew a deep breath and explained that a rider had been sent forward to alert the household of the party's imminent arrival. They were due within the hour. "Magnus, he asked me to run fetch everyone. Tell 'em all to get ready. Said he wants you to go tell them boys down by the barns and stables. Everybody needs to be there, no 'ceptions, mon, that's what he said."

Robert looked into the maid's sparkling eyes. She bubbled with excitement, thrilled with anticipation. "You'd best run along then," said Robert, "inform everyone, as you must. And don't worry, I'll pop out to barns and deal with the rest. Run along."

Marlyse flashed her famously-grand grin, gave Bob a wink, and sped off down the hall.

The butler closed the door, slowly, deliberately, the click of the latch punctuating a decisive maneuver. He seemed distracted, overwhelmed even, by a barrage of conflicting thoughts.

Oboe pounced. There was no time to lose. The noblewoman's return to the manor was at hand. And that—enchanting as it may be for most—put a very complicated wrinkle into the tramp's prospects. "And just how do you plan to deal with Horst now?" he asked. "With a house full of watchful eyes? With some noble flouncing about under your roof? With—"

"I won't!" Robert's sharp tone sliced through Oboe's burgeoning bravado. "You will."

"But ... well, what makes you think I would do such a thing? After all, he's your problem, not mine."

"I don't mean to bloody-well kill him ... at least, not outright. The seeds are for the horse." Robert pulled a small cloth sack from his waistcoat pocket. He dangled it as if chiming a little bell before tossing it to Oboe DeLouche. "This won't kill the horse either, but I daresay, it will give the bleeding overseer the ride of his bloody life! You're going to mix the contents of that sack with some grain. You'll feed it to Kunkle's horse just before he leaves on his afternoon ride."

"An accident. Something you've plotted all along. It could still kill him, you do know that?" Oboe's ire had calmed. Robert's push for him to shoulder the burden of a potentially lethal malfeasance gave him pause. Many questions began to surface, not the least of which was: "What's in it for me?"

"You want his key," answered Bosworth, "and I want him to have an accident. I'm obliged to gather with the others. You're not. In my stead, you will go to the stable and barns. Alert the others."

"What about Horst? He's with his hounds."

"You avoid him. At four o'clock he will enter the stables, saddle his horse, and be gone before anyone is aware."

Oboe's concern grew in proportion to the risk. There were too many variables, too many unanswered questions. Yes, he needed Horst's key to get to Marie-Claire's and ultimately to the butler's, but how could Bosworth guarantee he could secure it? And just exactly where was the strongbox now? In spite of the nettlesome uncertainty, one thing was absolutely crystal clear: He could not stay, not with a noble in residence; he would have to leave, and the sooner the better. Of course, absconding with the loot had always been the ultimate goal, so even though Bob's proposal was fraught with irrational presumption, he felt he had to make the deal. There was nothing to lose.

"Horst's key in exchange." Oboe made the statement to be sure the point was mutually understood.

"Yes, but be sure the horse consumes the seeds just prior to departure."

"And you know where the steward has hidden the strongbox?"

"I will personally lead you to it. But let's first be sure you've carried out your part of the bargain, shall we?"

DeLouche leveled his one good eye on the butler while the other wandered at will. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something different about Bosworth recently. He seemed to exert a force, a cunning determination to employ any advantage that might serve his cause. Oboe sensed Robert knew as well as he, there was no room for negotiation—either he was in or he was out. "If you cross me," said DeLouche, advancing towards the door, "you'll be exposed. I'll make sure of it."

Robert Bosworth glanced at the mantel clock. "You have precious little time. I should think you'd best get on with it."
Chapter Thirty-Three

Rallying the Troupe

The estate personnel assembled on the pea gravel drive in front of the porte-cochère. They stood in a neat line according to rank, eyes fixed in the distance on the approaching band of horses and wagons. They watched in silence, each absorbed in details of the advancing party as it began the ascent leading up to the manor. Overhead, the sun played hide and seek in a deep-blue sky dotted with drifting, brilliant-white, cottony clouds. A shifting pattern—an interplay of light and darkness—glided over the landscape, so that all along the valley and surrounding hillsides, bright splashes of sunlight chased after shadows.

A gust of hot dry wind whipped up the northwest slope, stirring pockets of dust. The promise of rain hidden within the medley of smells caused Robert to divert his gaze. Clouds gathered, heaping up in dark hulking shapes that loomed over the western horizon. A summer storm was brewing.

As the procession drew nearer, the full complement of their troupe became more distinct. Leading, were nine smartly attired individuals on horseback. They looked to be accompanying an elegant four-in-hand carriage drawn by a team of Cleveland Bays. Thereafter, came a train of five wagons—three passenger-carrying followed by two covered in tarps and loaded with cargo. Bringing up the rear was a herd of beasts composed of cattle, goats, and mules, the latter laden with packing-crates stuffed with an assortment of domestic fowl. A solitary cowherd trailed behind to roundup strays.

When the rider on point came within a stone's throw of the greeting party, he raised a hand and the company came to a halt. The eight riders directly behind split off and retreated to the rear to help herd livestock. A good number of folk began to disembark from the wagons, some to stretch their legs, others to sprawl on the grass of the central commons. The point man, a burly fellow, rode back to the carriage. He had a brief word with the occupant before giving a sign to the coachman to proceed. With a sharp crack of the whip, the coach lurched into motion.

However handsome the carriage, it was hard not to be struck by the grace, strength, and beauty of the team—four magnificent bays, indistinguishable, one from another. As they drew up before the assembled staff and servants, the accompanying lead rider reined in and dismounted. After a cursory survey of the personnel, he offered his hand to Magnus.

"Baron," said the steward, exchanging a firm handshake, "nice to see you again."

"And you Magnus. All is well, I take it?"

Magnus affirmed with a nod while his eyes redirected to the coach.

Baron's gaze swept over the assembly once more. Long hours on dust-covered roads had left the travelers parched and soiled, a discomfort that irritated and at the same time exaggerated Baron's usual gruffness. "Never mind," he said, "let's get this circus started." He turned and walked to the coach, slapping dust from his coat as he went. He swung the step into place with his boot and opened the door. A slender arm reached out and took his hand. Milady stepped down.

Her radiance immediately eclipsed all that made this fine summer day beautiful, bountiful, and good. There was something other-worldly about her—ethereal. This noble, known only as Milady, evoked a rare emotion in all who set eyes on her. She was both admired and loved, immediately and unconditionally.

Her Ladyship approached her adoring audience. First in line was Magnus, who received a warm embrace. Next, was Robert, but in the moment their eyes made contact, Milady's exquisite smile faltered. She saw something. Her composure only flickered for the briefest instant, so it was hard to know if anyone caught the sadness reflected in her eyes during that transient moment. She stepped back to look into the faces of each and every one remaining. Not a word was spoken, everything that needed to be said was in her regard, communicated through emotion.

Baron cleared his throat. "I'm parched," he said, "so don't begrudge me this hasty departure." As no one paid him any mind, he turned and led his horse away. "I'm thirsty," he grumbled under his breath, though it was unlikely anyone heard.

Milady scanned the manor's facade. Her smile brightened and she winked at someone just prior to a sheer curtain fluttering back into place. "Well," she said, bringing her attention back to those gathered, "here we are ... almost all of us.

"As you can see, I've brought a good number of people with me. They're here to help. We have crafts people, carpenters, masons, painters and the like. We have farmhands and stable hands, kitchen and household staff ... gardeners. Good people ready to contribute to the transformation of this estate.

"Marie-Claire, your staff has been augmented. Each of your sous-chefs shall now have two cook's helpers to instruct and manage. Maids Marlyse and Malgreete, you will each receive the assistance of three auxiliary household staff. Mr. Knowles, you and Ernest have acquired a considerable increase in the size and range of your herd. As a consequence, you have also gained two experienced hands and two stable boys to cope with the care and maintenance of these fine animals. Mr. Izzero has labored long and hard with insufficient help. As of now, his workforce consists of ten extra farmhands. Additionally, there are now three gardeners keen to work under the supervision of a true master. I'm referring of course to Yuno, a visionary of unprecedented botanical skill."

Lisa Zeppatini could contain herself no longer. "Oh Milady," she said, "I am a so, so happy you are here! Really so happy!"

Smiling, Milady thanked Lisa for her exuberant declaration, adding that there was much to discuss. "I'm sure you all have questions," she said, "but please, let's save them for this evening over dinner. You should know, I'm very much looking forward to speaking with each and every one of you. For now, I would like you all to go and meet your subordinates. Once you've made their acquaintance, show them to their rooms and instruct them according to your wishes. Baron and Magnus will coordinate with you on the commons."

A muddled exchange of sidelong glances ensued before those concerned shuffled off, following in the footsteps of Magnus who'd left without hesitation. Robert Bosworth watched as staff and servants gained distance, everyone headed for the lawns fronting the manor. He was all alone, standing before Milady, uncertain and uncomfortable.

"Come with me," she said, stepping past the butler, "let's have a look at that grand piano in the conservatory. I'd like to see how it has fared in my absence."

Milady led the way with Bob following.

Her gentle presence did little to ease the anxiety coursing through every fiber of his being. At the first opportunity, he surreptitiously checked his pocket watch. By now, Kunkle would be saddling Schatz.

The conservatory held captive the humidity driven from lush foliage and damp soil. The air was heavy and wet, and, despite opened skylights, a thick earthy perfume assailed the olfactory senses. It was a heady blend of vegetation, one that spanned the entire spectrum from flower to rot.

Milady and Bob stood apart, each looking at the grand piano, raised, as it was, on a dais in the middle of the conservatory. It hadn't been played since last they were here together.

"It can't have fared too well," said Milady, stepping up to lift the cloth covering. "I would think with all this moisture ... Still, it's a nice idea—the botanical setting."

Robert watched as she sat down on the bench. She played a note, and then another, listening to each as it faded. Turning to him, she asked, "What do you think, does it sound a little off? Out of tune?"

Robert couldn't help sensing she was not speaking about the piano. There was something in the tone of voice, the look in her eyes, something that demanded more than a simple answer. He shrugged. "I couldn't say, Milady, I'm not qualified." Feeling like he needed to elaborate, he added, "What I mean is, I'm not a piano tuner, so I ... well, I don't believe I'm qualified to speak on the matter, ma'am." Robert let his gaze drop. He felt exposed, stripped of all pretense.

"Is there anything you'd care to share? I ask because from the moment of our arrival, I sensed a certain discord in your comportment. As if there might be a problem or crisis lurking in the shadows. I want you to know, I'm here for you ... to help you, no matter the concern. You do know that, don't you?"

Robert stared at the floor.

"Robert? It's not too late, is it?"

The butler chanced to look up, meet her gaze, and at once wished he hadn't. The intensity of the sadness expressed crippled his soul. She saw through him. There was no place to hide, no place to run. He felt as though he'd left the confines of his corporeal body, that somehow he had floated out and had become a nonentity, a witness to his own condemnation. He couldn't speak, had no words. He was defenseless, a criminal awaiting judgment.

The genteel noble rose to her feet. Disappointment, impossible to conceal, wrapped itself in her words when she said, "I had so much hope for you, Robert. I believed in your potential. Your ability. Your resolve."

Though her voice was soft, the declaration, like a razor-sharp dagger, pierced his heart. He could not bare to look into her eyes again.

She stepped down. And in passing, she paused and quietly said, "We will leave again in the morning."

In her wake, the damning silence weighed on his conscience. Like the oppressive air he breathed, it stifled his ability to act, to speak out, to absolve himself of his misdeed. He should have confessed, but he didn't, and now all was lost.

Moisture, condensing on the panes of glass overhead, fell in isolated, lonely drops, like the aching tears of a lost youngster. Lowering himself into a wicker chair, Robert let his head fall into his hands. Immersed in misery and self-pity, he failed to notice a shiny patent-leather gleam under nearby shrubbery. A moment later, it was gone.

Outside, a distant rumble of thunder rolled through the valley. A long and mournful howl followed.

"STAND UP!

The harsh command ripped into the silence and shocked Bosworth from wallowing in the muck of his own undoing. Without hesitation, he snapped out of his chair, almost saluting the steward who stood towering over him like a menacing drill sergeant. Magnus glared at him with a contempt that caused Robert to go weak in the knees.

"What have you done? Have you lost your mind? I've just spoken with Dare. He's told me Milady is leaving. He said it's because of you. And what are you doing about it? Feeling sorry for yourself. Wake up, man! It's time for action.

"Now, listen well, this is what you're going to do: Take this."—shoving a key towards the butler—"It's a security key—Bin's. Go to your quarters. In your wardrobe, you'll find the strongbox. Open it. I'll gather everyone and meet you in the library."

Bob's mouth parted. He would have liked to respond, but he had nothing to say. His eyes were fixed on the key he held in his hand.

"ROBERT! There's no time to waste."

Without knowing exactly what was to happen, Robert Bosworth found himself charging through the manor, clutching the key to the estate's treasure. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaotic turmoil attacking him from every angle: Strongbox ... my wardrobe! How? Open it—what then? The library ... everyone together ... Dare—his key. What is it that Milady knows? And DeLouche, where is—good lord, Horst! The time ..."

Gaining his chambers, Robert made straight for the wardrobe. He threw back the doors. Where? Scanning the interior returned nothing. Nothing peeking out from uppermost shelf. Nothing draped behind hanging garments. Nothing visible on the floorboard. Where? Where? In desperation, Robert tore at a clump of clothing heaped in a corner of the closet. Shirts, trousers, vests, jackets, breeches, and underclothes tumbled to the floor. The box! Right there. All this while, right under his nose, cloaked by an assortment of discarded apparel.

The butler cringed as he knelt before the hideous coffer. It entered his mind that it would be more fittingly served as a coffin for a witch's deformed stillborn child. He shuddered at the thought. Robert inserted the key into the mouth of skull-like hasp. He turned it until he heard the click of the latch. Sitting back on his haunches, he took a moment to brace himself. He would have to put his hands on the vile object, something he'd never had occasion to do. The head butler drew a deep breath, reached over with both arms, and lifted the onerous lid.

Whatever expectations Robert harbored for a chest brimming with gold and jewels, bore no resemblance to what lay before his eyes—an empty box. Puzzled by the steward's direction, he leaned in and peered into the void. It took moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim confines of the closet. When they did, he was struck by what he perceived to be a small, neatly folded square of paper, lying at the bottom of the strongbox. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it.

Dear Robert,

If you are reading this, it can only mean you have failed—or are about to. You have been entrusted to protect that which is contained herein. The entirety of this estate and all those dwelling hereupon rely on your courage, resolve, and persistence to uphold your allegiance. It is a great responsibility for which, as head butler, you have been assigned.

Distractions, spawned by desire, will always conspire to lead you astray. Misguided, swayed by false promises and illusion, you will surely stumble and fall. If left unchecked, if you do not resist, chaos shall sweep up from behind and push you over the brink. There will be no way back. You, and all that you have custodial powers over, will thereafter find yourselves on a path to absolute ruin.

If there is even the most remote chance to reverse this momentum, I urge you to devote any and all means to do so. The fate of this estate lies in your hands.

I, herewith, take it upon myself to inform you: Our collective wealth has never consisted of gold and jewels. Our treasure—all that we have ever possessed, and which is humanity's greatest gift—amounts to nothing more than our potential. Lose that, and you've lost everything.

Dare

Robert jerked his timepiece from his vest pocket—4:35. The library! Get to the library. If the steward has a plan, now is the time to put it into play. Hurry, man, hurry!

In less time than it takes a barber to whip up a lather, Bob burst through the entrance to the library. All essential personnel were gathered. All, that is, save for Bin, Chin, Horst, and, of course, the newly-arrived. The hushed thrum of conversation ceased the instant the butler appeared in the doorway. He stood, seemingly rooted to the threshold, staring across the abysmal expanse separating him from his colleagues. He was uncertain if he should proceed.

"Get in here."

The order issued by the steward obviated any need for further deliberation. Those huddled in clusters of two's, three's, or more parted to make way. And once Robert had joined him by the mantel, Magnus resumed: "Now, you have your people here to help sort whatever mess you've created for yourself. I suggest you put your petty grievances aside—all of you—and work this out. I'll go have word with Milady ... see if I can't convince her for a stay of execution." With that, Magnus spun on his heels and marched from the room, leaving Bob to fend for himself

From the look in their eyes, Robert knew they'd been briefed on Her Ladyship's impending departure. Worse, it appeared they were also made aware of who was to blame. Facing down a pack of wolves would have been preferable.
Chapter Thirty-Four

Vindicating Vacant Venues

Marie-Claire pounced first. Others followed. Soon the clamor of everyone talking over one another escalated until almost every voice in the room seemed to be bellowing insults or hurling accusations. At the center of it all, stood Robert Bosworth, stunned, but bearing the brunt of abuse with every shred of stoicism he could muster. He saw lips moving at such a furious pace, that apart from the odd word here and there, the intent and meaning of any one individual phrase became incomprehensible. Not that it mattered, no one was listening to anyone anyway.

That is, until Yuno cut loose with his very best imitation of a crow—crowing: CAW-CAW-CAW! (It was also his loudest.) The effect was astounding and immediate. You could hear a pin drop.

Everyone's gaping mouth began to assume a more natural orientation once their eyes turned to the source of the peculiar vocalization. Yuno's smiling countenance greeted their stares. He sat behind them, cross-legged, on a desk near an open window. With their undivided attention in hand, he said, "If we don't let the chief talk, we can't know what to do." His argument was sound. On cue, as if in a single orchestrated movement, they all swung their eyes back over to Bob, standing by the mantel.

Bosworth imagined himself alone and defenseless, raising a white flag in the face of the enemy. He saw the brutality of war blazing in eyes brimming with an insatiable blood-lust. He was cut-off from retreat with no chance of support from rallying forces. He was beaten. The time had come; he now had to disclose his nasty little plan to do away with Horst, a prospect ridden with angst and fear of reprisal.

He started in a meek, tremulous voice. "I ... I have ... I'm sorry, I—I'm not sure how to say this." Robert wiped his brow and took a deep breath. He swallowed hard, as if that could keep him from choking on his words. Pained at having to witness his struggle, Lisa gently encouraged him to carry on. Robert was grateful for the show of support. He continued, "I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake. Horst ... Horst ..."

A murmur rippled through the group. A possible connection surfaced in their collective imagination: What if Horst's absence from the greeting party linked directly to Bob's "terrible mistake"?

Malgreete Van Bleake shot to her feet, horrified. "Tell me you don't kill him! Tell me he is not dead!"

The maid's impassioned concern crashed into Robert's flimsy foundation of support. The mob could still turn on him. It was imperative he temper the worst of their fears. He responded to Malgreete, reassuring her that Horst was still alive, which seemed to elicit a unanimous sigh of relief.

Marie-Claire lifted her great bulk from an armchair. She squared off, facing the butler with hands on hips, ready to get to the heart of the matter. "You, Monsieur Bosworse, must speak—and NOW! Come to the point! What ees this big merde you make?"

"Please, Madame Contraire—Marie-Claire, if I may—I har—"

"No!"

"Excuse me?"

"You do not say to me 'Marie-Claire'. Clear?"

"Fine," said Robert, "but please be seated ... you're making me nervous."

Marie-Claire stomped her foot on the floor and took two steps forward. "Nervous! I make you nervous? For me, I don't care. If I want to stand, I will stand. You cannot make me to sit. Okay, clear?"

Alfonso obstructed Marie-Claire's advance by putting himself between her and Robert. He leaned close and whispered something in her ear. Marie-Claire's aggressive stance relaxed. Her disagreeable nature dissolved. She smiled at her sous-chef. "Of this, you are right," she said. And then, with a small shrug of her shoulders, she looked past him to the butler and said, "Rohbair, pardon this effect from my behavior. Don't be nervous." Marie-Claire returned to her seat and sat down.

Bosworth gave a weak tug on his waistcoat as if to mark a point won in his favor. The game—if it was one—was lopsided; there was the entire conglomerate of staff, servants, stable hands, and farmhands on one squad, and him on the other. Everyone waited. It was his play.

"Before I admit to my wrongdoing," he said, "I wish you all to know that it was borne of a desire to preserve my life. Herr Kunkle has threatened to end it."

It was no secret that the overseer and the butler were at odds with each other, and always had been. The constant and generally-perceived boring struggle for supremacy in matters concerning management of the estate bore that out. The recent tit-for-tat battle for Malgreete's affections, on the other hand, and that so engrossed the rank and file, suggested there may have been a grain of truth in the butler's declaration. Nevertheless, it didn't stop a sporadic outburst of demands to know how he knew Kunkle wanted to kill him.

Robert motioned for everyone to calm down before continuing. "Three days ago, the overseer launched a bloody large pot from the top of the tower, quite nearly crushing me whilst I stood below. I daresay, if that doesn't bloody-well constitutes a life-threatening act, well ..."

The revelation caused a stir and prompted a few more queries along the lines of How do you know for sure? Before Bosworth could respond, Malgreete Van Bleake was on her feet and moving towards him. She quietly asked him to tell everyone to give them a minute; she needed a word with him in private. It was urgent.

The request met with a grumble of dissent, but it subsided as quickly as it was ignored. Malgreete led Robert to the back of library. A hushed conversation followed with the maid doing most of the talking. Bob's brows rose and fell with each choice morsel of information. In the end, he looked utterly perplexed. So much so, that Malgreete had to take him by the hand and lead his befuddled body back to the mantel. Before abandoning him, she kissed him on the cheek.

The shock of it, like a slap to the face, brought Robert back to the moment. He blinked, several times, while looking into the faces of his audience. Then it dawned on him why he was standing in front of all these gawking people. If they were to save Horst, they needed to act now. A notion reinforced just then by a window-rattling rumble of thunder.

"Horst has gone out for a ride," said Robert. He slipped his pocket watch from his vest and allowed it to dangle from its fob. His next statement: "His horse is drugged" caused a gasp or two amid a flutter of fragmented whispers.

Zero weighed in with what appeared to be a reasonable comment. "I fail to see how this situation should warrant undue concern. Dear friends, the mare is drugged. Ergo, Horst will find her slowing. Perhaps she'll refuse to continue. At length, she'll lie down ... drift away to a contented sleep. Our gallant knight will simply have to wait for his steed to recover."

"I'm afraid not," said Robert. He checked the time and his face clouded with a worried look.

"Better tell us what you gave that mare," said Buck.

"It was plant—seeds, actually." Bob went on to list some of the common names by which Datura stramonium was known. At the mentioned of stinkweed, Buck Knowles slapped his thigh; he knew it as locoweed. A smothered oath by Ernie O'Boyo confirmed he, too, understood the situation.

Zero slumped in his chair. He muttered, "This is a problem."

Alfonso brought the group's focus back to the matter at hand: "We must now theenk what can we do about this unfortunate situation?"

Before anyone could formulate an answer, a soft, undulating chant broke out from behind the crowd. Yuno had his eyes closed. He was immersed in a song that surely had something to do with warding off evil spirits. No one bothered to complain or attempt to stop him.

The stable master had not let the seconds slip away unproductively. He had a plan: "Ernie, you need to hurry. Take the other mare—she's plenty fast—no time for saddling up. You just get on out there and you chase 'em down. They'll be heading east, along the creek. You gotta get the Herr off that horse. And you gotta do it anyway you can, ya hear?"

The twinkle-eyed lad flashed an eager grin. With a wink to Marlyse, and before anyone could say anything more, he was on his feet and out the door.

Buck wasn't done. "Zero, you hustle down to the barns and get us a buckboard hitched up. I'll bring a team over. We'll go after them. If he's hurt, we'll need to cart him back here. Somebody better find the doc and let him know."

Malgreete spoke up. "I coming too," she said, getting to her feet. She didn't wait for a response. Instead, she gathered the ruffled hem of her dress and marched for the door, adding, "I bring blankets, water, bandage."

"I will come, also," said Alfonso. "Perhaps there is something I can do."

Zero was already moving towards the door when he turned and addressed Marie-Claire. "If there are wounds to treat, we will need hot water."

No further explanation was required. Marie-Claire motioned to Lisa and Marlyse, and they, too, joined the exodus of personnel from the library.

In less than a minute, the room had emptied, leaving a self-conscious butler and an uninhibited gardener. Bob, still standing by the mantel, realized he'd just been relegated to a mere spectator—the only one. Worse, the featured act was this withered old man with long silvery hair, chanting indecipherable sounds while sitting cross-legged on top of a desk. Standing there, as he was, all alone, he couldn't help but feel rather foolish ... and somewhat useless in the wake of everyone else scrambling to save Horst while he, the evil-doer, stood by watching a display of limited cultural significance. It was time to vacate the venue.

Before he had managed to exit, however, Yuno ceased his wavering intonations. When Bob turned, he saw that Yuno had opened his eyes, and was now a witness to the hasty retreat.

"Where you off to, chief?"

"Well I—I rather thought I might ... I might just ... Dare! Yes, I thought I might inform the doctor ... of the situation, as it were."

"He knows already, anyway," said Yuno, pulling his pipe from his leather pouch.

"I see." Robert was unsure what he should add, if anything. He watched Yuno pack his pipe, thinking something would occur to him, something that would obviate a rude or abrupt departure.

Yuno put a flame to the bowl and puffed. He seemed to take pleasure in the great cloud of smoke billowing over his head, filling the air with an aroma that was both pungent and sweet. Head tilted upwards, staring into the cloud of his own making, he spoke. "The way I see it," he said, "you have two choices. You can go sit in the tool shed and do nothing ... feel sorry for yourself. Or you can go sit in your room and think about cleaning house."

"Here now," said the butler rather sharply, "there's no need for derogatory remarks. I may well have committed an unspeakable act insofar as the overseer is concerned. But as your superior, I daresay, you might still mind your manners, Mister ... Mister—and you needn't sit there grinning at me!"

"Sit and think, chief. That's what you need to do. You do that and it will come to you, you'll see."

Robert looked at the Paiute sitting on the desk, cross-legged, puffing on his pipe. If there was one thing he had learned of late, it was that there was often a profound truth to be gleaned from the old man's words; his were not the cryptic ramblings of a smoke-addled carnival sideshow freak.

Bosworth turned away. A moment later, he had vacated the venue.
Chapter Thirty-Five

Jump, Horst, Jump

Thunderheads towered over the western horizon, pressing into the valley. Currents of air blasted ahead of the storm like marauding hooligans, bending boughs and stripping leaves from branches. Barn boards clattered and creaked. Gusting winds lifted dust, straw, and loose debris into a swirling, twirling, dervish-like miasma.

All about the stables and barns, newcomers busied themselves with nervous animals. Some secured shutters and swinging doors, others, wayward items prone to topple or damage. In the midst of the commotion, Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo raced to fit a bridle onto the mare, the one that was fresh, fast, tried and true. Unlike the stallions, this mount was not easily spooked—a detail that flashed in Ernie's mind with the first crash of lightning to split the sky.

By the time the bulk of the rescue party exited the back of the manor, the lad had already bolted from the stables. He rode bareback, streaking across the glen, eastwards. Horst was out there somewhere, beyond fields and forests, loping along on his beloved Schatz. Of course, it was also possible the threatening weather had him hurrying back to shelter. Either way, Ernie knew once the locoweed took effect, Schatz would become as wild and unpredictable as an injured cat in a sack of rats. If Horst fell from his mount at full gallop, he might suffer a number of contusions or even a minor break—an arm or a leg. But, if then trampled, stomped, kicked or bitten repeatedly by a crazed beast the size and power of Schatz, he stood little chance of a swift recovery. He urged his horse on, straining for more speed.

As Ernest O'Boyo charged over hill and dale, the ground beneath his horse rushing past, he found the juxtaposition of his role in the overseer's rescue ironic. He'd forever been a thorn in Horst's side, bucking his every command with a barbed, derisive retort, usually muttered under his breath. But, in his mind, it was all in good fun. He didn't despise the man, not really; it was more a case of mutinous rebellion obligated by a youthful objection to authority. By his account, it was to be expected. Nevertheless, of all the estate's personnel, it was he who was best suited to race to the man's rescue, for no one could ride a fleet-footed horse bareback as fast as he. Horst Kunkle's life was in peril, and it fell upon the lad to do his utmost to save him.

He skirted a grove of aspens. Beyond, the meadow opened and the terrain began a gradual slope down to a brook, fringed on the far side by a forest of pines rising over the hilltops. Ernie spotted Horst. He was near the bottom of the slope, on a track that ran alongside the creek. And he appeared beset by difficulty. Schatz was acting erratic: tossing her neck, side to side, up and down; turning in tight circles, one way, then the other, stubbornly ignoring Horst's attempts to rein her in; she lifted off her forefeet and hind quarters as if about to throw her rider; she even began to mix a high-stepping prance with a loopy-lolling side-to-side motion. It was all the Herr could do to stay in the saddle.

The ground separating them spanned several furlongs, a distance O'Boyo estimated could be covered in under a minute and a half. But, as caprice has no master, that distance might just as well have amounted to leagues. For just then, a mighty bolt of lightning ignited in the heavens, fracturing into electric-blue streaks that ripped through the sky. The intense burst and shock of the ear-splitting blast caused the lad's mount to halt. It whinnied and reared up on its hind quarters. Ernie hung on and quickly gained control.

For his part, Horst was unprepared for what happened next. The instant the lightning erupted overhead, his horse ceased its mad gyrations. The flash, the loud report, like a starter's gun, set the horse off and running—not to win a purse, but to outrun death. Schatz, driven berserk, shot blind across the meadow in wild-eyed terror, the bit tearing at its mouth. The Devil's snare—locoweed, or moon flower, however named—created a fusion of fear and fantasy, and it drove the animal to flee as never before. Horst Kunkle clung to the flesh-and-blood cannonball for all his worth.

Ernie reacted to the swift turn of events in time to cut a diagonal trajectory, one that would intercept Horst's path. The lad steered to close the distance. Skies grew darker now and the first few fat, cold drops of rain splatted on horse and rider. Lathered sweat stripped away and flew from the flanks of the Thoroughbred. Frothing at the mouth, breathing hard, nostrils flared, the mare pressed, pushed, stretching for every slight increment of speed. Ernie crouched low, folding and unfolding, moving with the animal in a unified flow of motion. They raced. They reached, striving for the limitless.

In the narrowed world of elongated time, where seconds seem to stretch beyond what's plausible, the space between pursuer and pursued shrank. And then they were neck and neck, both mares running flat-out, hooves pounding the earth.

And the rain fell harder.

"HERRRR ... HERRRR ..." Ernie's screams to the overseer went unacknowledged.

Petrified by fear, Horst squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his teeth. His white-knuckled grip on the reins tore at the horse's mouth. His limbs, like a spike driven into a railway tie, were locked onto the runaway freight-train that was Schatz. Kunkle would not let go.

"YE GOT TO LET GO ... YE GOT TO GET OFF THAT HORSE!"

The lad's shouts fell away, unheeded, drowned in the onrush of wind and rain.

"YE'LL DIE ... D'YER HEAR ME? ... HORST!"

Horst cocked his head to the side slightly. He peered at the lad from one squinting eye. A stiff shake of his head obviated the need for anything to be said. He wasn't going anywhere.

"YE CAN'T FECKIN' HANG ON ... GIVE ME YER ARM ... JUMP."

The two mares thundered over the ground. Ernie was close enough to reach over. He tugged at Horst's shoulder, yelling at him to let go. "Common, drop the stirrup on the far side."

Horst screamed back. "Cannot ... cannot!"

Ernie loosed his grip from Horst's shoulder but maintained the break-neck speed, riding abreast. The lad was at a loss for what to do when the most baffling of sights to ever befall his tender years unfolded: A black object swooped into view from behind, crashing against the back of the overseer's head. A blustery feather-filled ruffle ensued before the bird managed to get a grip on Kunkle's collar. It was a crow—an angry crow—and it pecked, furiously and mercilessly, at the rider's hunt cap.

Horst panicked. He screamed. He twisted his head, contorting it from side to side, bunching his shoulders. The bird held fast, its beak pock-pock-pocking on the hard-shelled cap. Shredded bits of felt stripped away and disappeared. However fierce, however unrelenting, the Herr would not release his white-knuckled grip from the mare's mane. His only recourse, it seemed, was to beg for the lad's aid.

"Get it off," he shrieked, "get it off."

Ernie wound up to deliver a backhand blow. And although he only took his eyes off the menace for an instant, his follow-through swatted into empty space. The crow was gone, vanished, swallowed by the storm.

Horst chanced a look to Ernie and gave him grateful nod. The lad returned a smile, a sad smile, one that spoke to the helplessness of a soul laid bare to fear. It communicated compassion and understanding. Ernie recognized in Horst a kindred longing to be something other than ordinary. It was a sentiment that he shared through his smile, and it touched something in the older man. The look in Horst's eyes changed; he was no longer afraid.

Ernie slacked his reins. He grabbed the loose ends with his teeth. With both arms free, he motioned for Horst to make the jump. Their eyes locked. The overseer gave him another nod. He was ready.

Under dark skies, thundering neck-and-neck over the rain drenched meadow, Horst Kunkle let the outside stirrup drop from his boot. He closed his eyes and pushed off from Schatz, throwing himself across the void. Using both arms, Ernie grabbed at him and held him from falling. Although successful, the maneuver was far from the slick tricks performed by professional cowboys, or even the practiced stunts of clowns in a traveling circus show. The transfer from one horse to another—theirs—was not graceful, nor practiced. Though far from awe-inspiring, it was nevertheless successful.

With Horst safely flopped over on his belly across the mare's shoulders, the lad took the reins in one hand, veered away, and slowed. Schatz fled on, reins whipping in the wind, tormented by the tempest and the demons conjured from within its own mind. As Ernie's mount came to a standstill, Horst, aided by the lad, slid to his feet. He stepped back and sank to the ground, where he lay on his back in the rain, his chest rising and falling. He held his head turned to the side, watching Schatz fade into the obscurity of the dark, gray, late afternoon.

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo dropped to the ground, his heart pounding. He was out of breath, soaked, exhausted—they all were. He stood next to his horse, looking down at the overseer. The rain fell a little lighter now, and the wind began to ease. He crouched down and touched Horst's shoulder. "Ye did a brave thing, Herr," he said. "Ye did good."

Horst turned to the lad, his eyes searching. His pain, his concern, his dread, all of it plain to see, but Ernie couldn't find words to comfort the overseer. As Horst's gaze drifted back to the point where he'd last seen his beloved mare, he uttered her name, and nothing more.

Ernie wiped the moisture from his forehead. He looked around for a place where they might shelter themselves while they waited. He said to Horst, "D'ye think ye can make it over to that woodlot? We can rest a bit neath the trees til the others get here."

"Others? What is zis 'others'?" Horst rolled onto his side.

"There'll be a wagon coming up soon. We didn't know if ye might be hurt. Yer not hurt, are ye?"

Horst pulled himself to his feet. "No, I not hurt. Schatz ... we go to catch my horse, yah? I not want we leave my Schatz."

"Let's get under them trees, Herr," said Ernie, setting off for the grove. "The others will be coming along soon."

Horst followed. "Yah, but after, we go to find za horse, yah?"

"A spooked horse that's ..." Ernie's voice trailed off as it occurred to him to switch tack. Divulging details of the crime, at this time, would not benefit anyone. If anything, it would probably set the overseer off on a rampaging path to revenge. "She'll be a might hard to find," he continued, "at least til she calms some. By then, most times, a horse finds its own way back to the barns. Aye, best not to worry too much for now. Let's see what the stable master has to say when he gets here, eh?"

Horst followed along in silence for a while. Before reaching the edge of the clearing, he spoke up. "So, Herr Knowles comes on za wagon. And who is za others what comes with him?"

Ernie smiled to himself. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, "Alfonso's coming along for the ride. Zero too. Then there's a lady that seems to have yer concern in mind. Quite distraught, she was. Wouldn't be left behind by anyone's say-so."

The lad's allusion to Malgreete Van Bleake prompted an effusive and sudden change in Horst's comportment: A twinkle sparked to life in his eyes, his chest puffed up proudly, and his gait went from lagging to jaunty in space of only three or four paces. Horst Kunkle was—so it seemed—positively chuffed by Malgreete's anxiety over his well-being.

As Ernie had been walking ahead, leading the mare, he hadn't observed the shift in Horst's bearing. Nonetheless, he was certain he had heard the overseer whisper her name. And again, he smiled.

By the time the wagon crested the rise and began its decent, the rain had turned to drizzle and the wind had abated. Dense clouds, grim and pervasive, stalled overhead. Along the tree line, under outstretched boughs, the two men and the horse waited, watching the approach of the others. Zero drove the buckboard pulled by the mammoth jack. Beside him was Buck, and in back, wrapped in blankets and clinging to the driver's seat, stood Alfonso and Malgreete.

"Jaysus, now there's a welcome sight!" Ernie stepped clear to give them a wave. Buck's arm rose to acknowledge. Before long, they could all warm themselves by a cozy fire.

Horst cleared his throat. "I ... ya, Ernie, what you do for me, zis is ... well, I want for you know, I thank you. I thank you very much."

The lad moved back under cover. "Herr," he said, "I never taught I'd hear me self saying it, but I'm glad yer all in one piece. And yer welcome." Ernie offered the overseer his hand. Horst grasped it, and they shook. It was the first time, ever.
Chapter Thirty-Six

Think About It

Bosworth pushed through the door to his chambers and dropped into his armchair. He was bothered. The past couple of hours had promulgated a number of issues requiring deliberation. It crossed his mind, that in hindsight, being excluded from the rescue party couldn't have been more providential; he needed to be alone and he needed time to think.

He checked his pocket watch. It was coming up on five fifteen.

By now, he thought, Kunkle's nag should be approaching a state of irrepressible frenzy. O'Boyo's going to have to ride bloody hard if he's to intervene. And if all goes well, what then? Magnus, can he persuade Her Ladyship to stay on? Changing her mind as she did ... I mean really, from one minute to the next ... she sensed something was amiss. Even said as much. Still, strange bit of business that. Same with Dare—informs Magnus of her intention to leave, the blame squarely set on myself—and how the deuce does he know that? So then Magnus presents, ready to slap anyone and everyone silly; hands over a key—a duplicate—Bin holds a duplicate key. Why is that? And his note, bloody hell, no gold, no riches ... 'our collective wealth amounts to nothing more than our potential'. Right, and yours truly is assigned guardianship by virtue of holding the last key ... a duplicate of the last key. A key to a bloody box full of what? Potential. Wait, what was it Milady said, 'I believed in your potential.' Yes, that was it. She believes ... Oh what does it matter. I've let her down. I've let everyone down. Good lord, what have I done? Horst is innocent. He couldn't have been on the tower, not if he was with Malgreete. Malgreete, my dear sweet Malgreete ... to him, your heart; to me, a pledge of loyalty. But then ...

Robert Bosworth's unfocused gaze sharpened the instant the notion of the note and who wrote it popped into mind. His eyes shot straight to the mantel. He'd left it there a few days ago. After retrieving and unfolding the bit of paper, he studied the script. There was nothing more to be gleaned.

If Horst hadn't wrote it, then ... anyone could have slipped it under the door.

Bob lifted his eyes from the note. A niggling sensation trickled over his nerve ends, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something close to the surface.

Oboe. It was connected to Oboe. He'd said something when he barged in earlier, something—of course! He was angered, pushing to have Horst done away with. Marlyse interrupted. That's why the flowerpot slipped from mind. DeLouche mentioned the bleeding pot! No one could have known. No one knew. No one except the cad who wrote the note and who tried to bloody-well kill me. It all fits. But what's his angle? The estate's riches ... he thinks there's a treasure trove at the end of the blasted rainbow and he thinks he'll get to it through me. So why try ... Horst! DeLouche wasn't out for murder, it was a setup—he was setting up Horst to take the fall.

Robert crumpled the note and tossed the balled up wad in the fireplace. He crossed the room, parted the curtain, and looked out. The disturbance was moving up the valley. An amorphous black cloud hung over the manor, pelting the earth with a stinging rain. Without being aware, his eyes glazed over as his mind drifted between reflections of what was and what could be.

Horst was out there. Possibly hurt, face down in he mud. Maybe even dead. And Malgreete. She was out there too, soaked, worried to death. The lad, Buck Knowles ... Zero and Alfonso—all of them—out there, trying to right a wrong. And who's to blame?

Robert sifted through a clump of recycled discussions he'd had with Oboe. After piecing together snippets of relevance and analyzing the content for malevolent motives, he concluded that indeed the man was guilty of advancing the enmity that existed between Horst and himself. DeLouche was as despicable as they come. From the first day of their acquaintance almost eight months ago, the day he presented on the doorstep, Oboe DeLouche had contrived to disseminate doubt and incite conflict. He exploited weaknesses. He formed alliances in exchange for empty promises. He lied. He cheated. He took advantage of everyone in the manor, without exception.

At this juncture, it crossed Robert's mind that if Magnus—the true steward, a person of standing conferred by Her Ladyship—had come across DeLouche hawking stolen effects in a market square, surely he would have considered it ill-advised to return the thief to the very manor from which those household items were taken. The steward's stated reason for doing so, was not so that his victims might exact retaliatory measures, but rather, so that this scrofulous individual might dwell among those he'd duped, ostensibly acting as a "useful" advocate for higher learning. Absurd—a preposterous scheme, no matter how one chose to make sense of it. There had to be more to it, there just had to.

Bosworth let the curtain drop. Magnus! He had to find Magnus. If anyone held the key to solving the riddle it would have to be him. He marched to the door, determined to press the steward for answers. He swung it wide and would have collided with the person blocking the way if he hadn't first froze from shock.

"I've been looking for you," said Magnus.

Bob's mouth unhinged just long enough to cause the steward's lips to twitch—the flicker of a smile. As the butler stepped back, allowing room for Magnus to enter, he said, "I was just—well I mean if you can believe it, I was—it's not, um ... not very important. Please, make yourself comfor—yes. Fine. That's ... that's a lovely chair. It's just that I—usually I ... yes, well, never mind."

"Sit down," said Magnus. If the steward showed any sign of levity a moment earlier, his tone left no doubt of its absence now. "I left you to consult with your colleagues, to come up with a way to counteract or neutralize your misconduct. I've had a word with Marie-Claire, so I'm aware of the plan—Buck's plan—to save Horst. As it stands, people are out there in the rain, others are preparing for the worst, and you, you're sitting in here doing whatever it is you're doing."—holding up a hand—"Not now. You'll get your chance. Just hear me out.

"As you know, I was sent by Milady to help you take charge of this estate. What you don't know, is that this came about because she saw in you a potential deserving of direction, a mind open to guiding principles. But in this regard, Robert, you're failing. You've disappointed a noble, someone who believed you could conform to your purpose. You've disappointed me. The result is, she will be leaving ... and so will I. I can't help you."

"But you haven't—you haven't helped at all. Sir, at the risk of sounding accusatory, was it not you, who was responsible for bringing DeLouche back here?"

"What of it?"

"The man is an absolute menace to this estate. I'll have you know, if not for his meddling, I hardly think I might have been pushed to such extremes. It's pure sabotage, that's what it is. DeLouche is a saboteur. What manner of gentleman goes about suggesting—aiding and abetting, even—that another should commit murder? Oh yes, believe you me, this 'fine fellow'—already known for thievery—went so far as to insinuate Herr Kunkle had it in for me. Said he was plotting to kill me. And on more than one occasion, I might add. Then he planted the idea, the means, and the impetus for me to do likewise to him. All quite cleverly implemented, I must say. In my defense, sir, I hardly fine it relevant that I should accept the full blame for this fiasco."

"FIASCO? A man's life hangs in the balance here!"

Robert hung his head. "Of course," he murmured, "you're entirely right. I have no ..."

Magnus stood. Towering over Robert, slumped in an armchair, he asked, "Did any of your people suggest to you what you could do to help?"

The butler shook his head.

"No one. Are you sure?"

Bob recalled what Yuno had said after the others left the library. With a shrug that intimated he didn't think it important, he answered, "The gardener—Yuno—he mentioned something. But it was rubbish. He was being derisive."

"What did he say?"

"He said I should go and sit in the tool shed if I wanted to feel sorry for myself."

"That's it? Nothing more?"

Robert rose to his feet. He glanced at Magnus before starting for the door. "He said my other choice was to think about cleaning house." Robert didn't care to elaborate or frame the reply in any other way; he just wanted to be left alone.

Magnus looked around the room, and then remarked that it was a sound idea. His comment produced a sheepish grin on the butler's face. At the doorway he put a hand on Robert's shoulder. When their eyes met, he said, "Oboe DeLouche doesn't know it yet, but he may have already robbed you of whatever wealth existed in that box." The perplexity expressed in Bob's regard, prompted him to add, "Think about it, Robert. Just think about it."

Robert closed the door. He listened to the receding footsteps fade until they were no more.

Blustery puffs of air coming through the broken pane in the butler's bedchamber pushed on the heavy brocade. The billowing movement attracted Bosworth's attention and drew him back to the window. Outside, the squall had reached peak intensity. Below the rise and past the stables and barns, sheets of rain streamed down from the storm's dark underbelly. It would be over Horst, Malgreete, and the others by now. As the thought occurred, so too, did a flash of lightning streak across the eastern horizon. The sharp CRACK that followed arrived a split second later, inducing an involuntary shiver to run through Bob's bones. The corporal perturbation lasted but a moment, for it was the weight of his conscience that took precedence, demanding judgment.

Robert B. Bosworth, head butler, guardian of the estate's wealth—a wealth that exists not in gold and jewels, nor material objects, but rather, in a potential, ... but a potential for what? Right! And here, the man entrusted with the last key does not even know for certain what it is he safeguards. Does it matter? The threat, as has become obvious, is Oboe DeLouche. Our steward states if Horst sustains grievous injury or dies, DeLouche will have won. Regardless, Her Ladyship, the one person who embodies the future of the manor, has prematurely terminated her tenure. So perhaps that's it—DeLouche has already won. But ... no, that cannot be. Milady is still in residence and a concerted effort is underway to save Horst. There's still a chance. Should Horst survive, unscathed, and ... and what? Well what if the threat were removed, driven away? Might the noble entertain a change of heart?

Robert let the curtain drop. He spun on his heels and marched. He marched straight to the small apartment at the extremity of the first floor in the west wing. There, he met with an unanticipated occurrence, an oddity, really, one that set him back, gave him reason to pause. Affixed to the door was a drawing, an expertly rendered characterization. It depicted, him—Bob—on the foot of the steps to the manor, throwing out a bucket of water. Except that instead of water, a miniaturized caricature of Oboe was shown tumbling through the air. Bob stared at it, intrigued by the prescient significance. It was signed Dare.

Robert did not knock, nor did he care to loiter any longer than he already had. He pushed the door open and walked straight in.

Oboe DeLouche, crouching over his bed, looked up in surprise. He'd been gathering his belongings, readying them to pack into his bag which stood at his feet. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Have you forgotten your manners? Can't you be bothered to knock?"

"NO, I bloody-well can't." Robert came to an abrupt stop. Hands on hips, he scanned the room, then glared at Oboe through the entrance to the bedchamber. "I see you're preparing to leave. Perhaps after drugging the entire household and absconding with whatever loot you can manage to get your deceitful hands on."

Oboe straightened. As was apparent in the way his face clouded over, the intrusion coupled with the sniffy remark concerned him. He studied the butler for a moment before his features softened. "Come now," he said, "let's not allow past indiscretions spoil our newfound collaboration. But to answer your question, yes, I will be leaving. And no, I did not intend to run off with a bundle of trinkets while you all slept. After all, we did arrive at an equitable arrangement. Did we not?"

"Remind me. I seem to have forgotten that as well as my manners."

Oboe's expression hardened, the crimson welt on his cheek lending a sinister aspect to his already grim features. His telltale eye became agitated. He let drop the sock he held in his hand and slowly raised his arm until his forefinger pointed at the butler. "You," he said, "told me to poison the horse. You told me you wanted Horst to have an accident. You told me I would have his key if I did your bidding. And so now I'm telling you, you better stick to your word."

"Or what? You'll let everyone know I planned this unfortunate event?"

"Precisely. And I won't forget to mention it was you who put me up to carrying out your evil plan."

Robert sniffed in the way haughty butlers do when miffed with a subordinate's retort. He tugged at his waistcoat and delivered the final word: "You may be disappointed to learn, I've beaten you to the punch—everyone already knows."

Oboe's good eye narrowed; his other bobbled. "In that case," he said, leering at the butler, "do tell, what's become of our dearly beloved overseer? Has uncle Kunkle become the dearly departed?"

Robert did not offer an answer. Instead, he advanced until he, too, stood in the room. The two men glared at each other. All that separated them was Oboe's bed, his belongings neatly folded, arranged, and spread across the top. "Listen to me you cad, and listen well," said Bosworth. "Your departure from this estate shan't be met with anything less than unanimous approval. Now I don't know when you were expecting to leave, but I can bloody-well assure you, it shall NOT come soon enough."

"I'll leave when I please, when I am good and bloody-well ready. Or maybe I won't leave. Maybe I'll stay on. Maybe I'll devote my days to making yours miserable. Maybe—"

"Maybe nothing! You will leave, and RIGHT bloody now." Robert grasped two handfuls of clothing from the bed, took three long strides, and shoved them into the gaping mouth of Oboe's grip.

DeLouche stood flabbergasted. By the time he recovered, Bob had crammed three more fists full of personal effects into the bag.

"Stop it! STOP ... I demand you stop at once! You have no right ..."

Like a fiend bent on ridding himself of unwelcome parasites, Robert Bosworth paid no heed. He continued stuffing Oboe's things into the carpetbag. DeLouche tried to intervene by grabbing at the butler's wrist, but Bob rose to his full height and snatched it back with a jerk of his arm. Bosworth was obsessed, overcome with a single-minded aim. His look, harsh and menacing, carried sufficient threat to warn of dire consequence should his adversary persist. And when he spoke, his words were uttered through clenched teeth. "Make no mistake," he said, "you are leaving right-bloody-now."

Robert kept his eye on Oboe as he bent to gather more clothing. But the instant he diverted his gaze to locate the travel bag, DeLouche clubbed him on the back of the neck with both fists. Bob crumpled on the bed, dazed. Somehow he mustered the wherewithal to roll away. He felt himself falling, as if off the edge of the world instead of onto the floor, where he sprawled, struggling to fend off the darkness. He was on the brink of losing consciousness, fading in and out. A white-hot pain shot through his brain stem. Flecks of light pulsed on the back of his retina with fluctuating intensity. It synchronized with the throb of pain. There was the rise and fall. And then there was nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Slippery Slope

When Bob came to, it was to a room of indistinct shapes, a room swirling in patterns of shifting colors. Nothing was as it should be. Visual distortions aside, it was his head that commanded the greatest concern; it ached as never before. The pain rose in amplitude with every pulsing beat of his heart as he regained consciousness. He had the impression he'd been clobbered with a lead pipe and wasn't sure if he might walk again. Forcing his arm into motion, he reached around to the back of his neck to check the extent of injury. He flinched when his fingers pressed on the base of his skull, but when he withdrew his hand, he was relieved to see there was no evidence of blood. Yes, Oboe had dealt him a bruising blow to the back of the head—hard enough to cause him to black out—but it wasn't the end of the world, he'd live.

Once the room stabilized, Robert struggled to his knees and crawled onto the bed. He rolled onto his back, where he lay waiting for his vision to clear. His fingers felt for the chain attached to his pocket watch. He pulled it from his pocket and lifted it to where he could see the time. It was a quarter to the hour. Pushing himself upright gave rise to an agonizing groan. He hurt but there was no time to lose, he had to get to his feet. After a few unsteady steps, he managed to gain the entrance to the day-room. He leaned on the door frame. As suspected, DeLouche was gone, nowhere to be seen. Robert turned to verify whether the villain's bag was also gone, and it was. He could not have gotten too far. Only several minutes had elapsed from time they stood facing each other and now. Bosworth made for the hallway.

By the time he reached the grand entrance hall, he felt that his feet were more solidly under him. Even more bracing, was the sight of Oboe DeLouche, still within the manor. He stood before the doors, grip in hand, just about to reach for the handle when he hesitated. He hadn't seen or heard the butler who'd stopped short of exiting the corridor, so it was something else that gave him pause. Robert held back, watching from behind the corner, curious to see what DeLouche would do next.

A sack bulging with irregular shapes lay at Oboe's feet. He appeared to be considering a silver candelabra. There were two, each resting on a pedestal that stood either side of the great oak doorway. The thief put his carpetbag down and picked up the candlestick. He turned it over in his hand. He hefted it. He put it back, picked up his sack, and tested the weightiness of that. In conclusion, he glanced over his shoulder before adding the candelabra to the rest of his loot. DeLouche didn't bother with the other; he reached for the handle.

Before Oboe could make his getaway, Robert was running for the door, hollering. "THIEF! ... THIEF!"

DeLouche didn't look back. He bolted, leaving his grip behind.

By the time the butler crossed the vast expanse of the foyer and scrambled down the steps, the thief was already beyond the drive, scooting over the commons as fast as his stumpy little legs could carry him. Undaunted by the lead, Bob dashed over the sodden turf in reckless pursuit. Slipping and falling was a hazard faced by both, because, although the rain had stopped, the grass was still wet and slick. Robert felt confident his long unencumbered stride would win the day. A perspective bolstered by the fact that DeLouche was far from gaining ground, what with that gunny sack smacking his back and bobbling about like a demented troll. The distance between them closed.

On that late afternoon in June, with the worst of the storm passing to the east and patches of blue sky beginning to appear, the tides of misfortune turned. A wagon with a riderless horse tethered behind, rolled up the drive leading to the manor. It was the rescue party returning from a successful crusade; the overseer had been saved. And as luck would have it, the ordeal had left Horst no worse for wear. As for the rest, apart from being soaked to the bone, all were safe and sound as well. Despite being several stone throws away from the curious sight unfolding on the commons, all eyes were nevertheless fascinated by it. After all, how often might one witness the likes of Mr. Robert B. Bosworth tearing across a field in pursuit of a bowlegged ogre attempting to abscond with a sack full of trinkets. It just wasn't done. Yet here he was, Bob, blasting "slippity-slidey-like" over wet grass, hellbent on catching a despicable fiend. It was altogether engrossing.

The butler was almost close enough to reach out and get a hand on Oboe. He only needed a few more strides. He thought if he could just get hold of the sack, he might be able to wrestle it away. Then the unthinkable—Bosworth lost his footing. And as anyone who has ever slipped or tripped knows, in that fleeting moment just before the fall, a choice is made: succumb or overcome. Launching a final heroic effort, Bob lifted, stretched, and sailed through space. As his decent began, so too, did his fingers close on the sack. His clutch was strong. It held. His weighted follow-through, like a cannonball, hit Oboe's back, and the impact knocked him to the ground.

As with front-row seats at a circus, the wagon, which was much closer now, afforded its passengers an unobstructed view. Eyes riveted to the show, everyone watched as the two bodies tumbled down a gentle slope amid a scattering of pilfered bric-a-brac. Then, when at last the mangle of limbs and torsos rolled to a stop, there was a brief period where nothing moved, save for the odd nick-knack that hadn't yet come to rest. DeLouche budged. Robert followed, each vigorously attempting to extract their respective parts from the clump of human flesh. The thief got to his feet first, but before he could lift a foot, Robert swung his right leg in a sweeping arc that caught DeLouche behind the knee. The force caused Oboe to buckle and he dropped back to the ground. A cheer rose up from crowd. Not to be undone, Oboe's arm shot straight up and then came down. His fist landed like a hammer, delivering a stunning blow to Bob's groin. The crowd Ooohed, and their faces bunched up in vicarious pain. The actual recipient reacted much differently: He balled up in a fetal position and rolled onto his side, groaning. This allowed the other combatant a small window of opportunity to escape or to inflict further injury. He chose the former.

DeLouche scrambled to get on his feet while stuffing his coat pockets with whatever he could get his hands on. Once standing, he took a long look at the approaching wagon. Then he turned on his heel and fled in the opposite direction, westwards.

"Did ye want me to get after him?" asked Ernie, wrapped in a blanket and standing in the back of the buckboard. He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular.

Turning to look over his shoulder, Buck said, "It's your call, Herr, near as I can see."

The overseer replied, saying, "No, zis man, he not come back. We better to let him—"

"Look!" Malgreete pointed to what was already evident to everyone.

Bob was back on his feet, struggling after the fleeing villain. What his limping gait lacked in panache, his raw determination won in audience appreciation. Zero roared his approval. The others joined in. They all cheered him on.

But it was Nero blitzing onto the scene that then garnered the lion's share of encouragement. He came over the rise, from behind the manor, in a headlong rush across the commons. He flashed past the butler like a fur-lined projectile streaking over the wet, green grass. DeLouche glanced over his shoulder. The hound, right behind him, nipped at his heels. The piercing shriek that followed might well have been heard in the next county. For the black mongrel beast had sunk his fangs into Oboe's arse. A jubilant home-team crowd rose to their feet, shouting, cheering, whistling, and clapping. Even Robert, who'd relinquished pursuit, raised his fist to the sky in a victorious salute.

All eyes remained fixed on Oboe DeLouche, scurrying away into the distance. Nero allowed the thief to run, but his bark dissuaded any notion of a more leisurely pace.

Zero halted the buckboard on the edge of the grassy slope at a point near to Bob. He called out to the butler. "I salute your gallantry Mr. Bosworth. It seems you possess a warrior's spirit. Now if I may, I should like to offer you a ride back to the manor."

Robert began to hobble towards the wagon.

"Come Ernesto," said Alfonso, "we will offer the shoulders to lean on."

A minute or two later, the trio approached the rear of the wagon. It pained Robert to see his love's pitying eyes reflecting his heartbreak. He turned from Malgreete to the overseer. The relief at seeing him safe shone through; Horst had not suffered a grievous injury. Their mutual regard endured, and in it, there was neither sign of animosity nor aggression. Something had changed.

A disquieting silence settled over the group.

"Best we get you hoisted up there in back," said Buck Knowles.

Horst moved to the rear and offered his hand. Even with the combined effort of Alfonso and Ernie, the maneuver proved painful. Robert cried out, teetering on the edge of the buckboard. He felt nauseous and looked as if he might faint. Horst grasped him round the shoulders and held him steady while Malgreete rushed to assist. Thankfully, the acute pain was short-lived and the swooning subsided along with the nausea.

As Robert recovered, he found himself in the most unusual of circumstances: Here he was on verge of passing out, in danger of falling off the back of a wagon. And yet, two men, one of whom had never shown the least concern for his well-being, are reaching up, trying to steady his legs; the woman who'd broken his heart stands with her arms wrapped round him; and his sworn enemy, the man he'd tried to do away with, hugs him to keep him from falling. The dichotomous perspective proved confusing. What does one say to any one of the actors involved?

When his eyes finally focused, he tilted his head and looked down at the top of Horst's gray thinning hair. Without realizing exactly what prompted the reaction, Robert's limp, dangling arms began to lift. Malgreete relaxed her hold and stepped back. And then, before he became fully aware of what he was doing, Bob embraced Herr Kunkle like a long-lost friend.

"Oh my god," he said to Horst, hugging him even closer, "I am so relieved you're all in one piece. I feared the worst, the absolute worst. You could have died. You might well be dead by now. Lord! Thank god, we—you!"—looking to Malgreete, Buck, then Zero—"You were the ones braving the storm. Riding to the rescue." Robert released the overseer and turned to acknowledge Alfonso and the lad. "All of you went to extremes. I really must say, I'm relieved."

Horst Kunkle appeared out of sorts. He obviously hadn't expected such an enthusiastic and heartfelt reception from the butler. Even so, he quickly warmed to the gushing sentiment by proffering one of his own. "And you, za butler ... I call you Robert now, yah ... you make so we—all of us—we can be proud for you. We see you push zis Oboe character from za house. Zis is something, really something—you make zis dummkopf running for za hills." Horst landed a hearty clap on Bob's shoulder. "But now, you must sit down. Zis is best, yah? You sit now."

Horst and Malgreete helped ease Bob down to a sitting position on the floorboards. And while Maid Malgreete made him more comfortable with a blanket wrapped over his shoulders, Alfonso and Ernie clambered aboard. The wagon lurched into motion.

A pleasant surprise marked the final ascent to the manor. The skies, westward, cleared enough for the setting sun to spill through the clouds. It cast a golden glow that spread across the landscape. Rose, orange and purple hues contrasted against the deep blue of the heavens. To the east, towering cumulus clouds were lit in sharp relief, their tops, a creamy yellow, ranging in ever-deepening shades to a bruised plum-colored underbelly. The diffused light of that early evening was warm and rare. It imbued the old manor with a homeyness that conferred comfort and hospitality.

Three women huddled under the porte-cochère, looking out the front archway. Marie-Claire, accompanied by Marlyse and Lisa, had come to spectate. They had learned from one of the new housemaids that Bob had caught a thief running out of the manor and was in hot pursuit. As the wagon pulled up under cover, the ladies broke into an enthusiastic applause.

Marie-Claire raised her voice. "Bravo, Monsieur Bosworse, bravo!"

Lisa and Marlyse also expressed congratulatory exclamations. The exuberant attention had Bob feeling a tad inflated. That is until Magnus stepped through the doorway and demanded if Horst needed medical care.

"No, no, all is fine," said Horst, with a little wave from the back of the wagon. "Za overseer is good. All in za one piece."

"Good. Everyone else?"

A flurry of nods and murmurs affirmed everyone's well-being.

"Good," said the steward again, himself nodding this time. "So ... dinner is at eight. You will all be there. You will not be late. Take the next couple of hours to clean up and dress. Auxiliary staff will cook and serve. As you are your own guests of honor this evening, I suggest you try not to disgrace yourselves. Milady will be in attendance." Without further ado, Magnus turned and entered the manor.

For the moment no one moved. They glanced round, from one to another. The impact of the steward's invitation had left a pronounced impression, and it was unanimous; they were all flabbergasted.
Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Last Supper

A buzzing thrum of activity rose up from the kitchens and dining hall and every step and corridor between. There was the clatter and rattle and tinkle of crockery and cutlery, and glass; hissing, sizzling of steaming pots and fry pans; chopping, smacking, dicing sounds; sounds of rolling cart wheels; and, from a smorgasbord of human utterances, came laughter, shouts, and exclamatory outbursts. All of which intermingled deliciously with wafting aromas of meats and sauces and soups and baked goods. A bevy of new staff and servants were kept busy bustling between the kitchens and dining hall. Directing the entire orchestral movement: none other than Head-Chef Marie-Claire Contraire. Her principal players, Alfonso, Lisa, and Chin Cheong, provided lead roles in maintaining rhythm and pace. Maids Marlyse and Malgreete took command of the dining hall. They surveyed, consulted, and offered instruction on elaborate preparations, such as arrangement of cut flowers and placement of candelabras. Dinner was set to be nothing short of extraordinary.

Beauregard Knowles and Adolophles Izzero entered the dining hall, followed by the lad. Though not appearing entirely at ease due to stiff and constricting raiment, dressed as were, they nevertheless presented as proper gentlemen. Upon a cordial exchange of greetings with Marlyse and Malgreete, they threaded their way through the comings and goings of auxiliary personnel to an island of relative calm—the grouping of armchairs near the hearth.

Zero revived a topic of interest that had occupied their discussion since meeting earlier in the billiard room: "If not for the good graces of the gods, we'd probably not have seen her again. That much I'm fairly certain of."

"Too right," said Ernie, "and a good thing too, mind ye. I mean imagine if that lad hadn't gone out for a wee. We'd a never seen or even been aware of her nosing about like that. Who's to say if she'd still be here come morning."

Buck tugged at his bow tie. He summed up his personal opinion in a succinct statement of fact: "Reckon we got lucky is all."

"And therein lies the mystery of femininity." Zero's declaration marked the start of yet another patented, though often disjointed, discourse. "'Tis a rare and surprising force of nature. A thing that is at once unpredictable—and thus somewhat threatening—and yet, more often than not, bestows us ordinary men with an undeniable feeling of good fortune."

Ernie 'Lad' O'Boyo shifted his eyes to Marlyse. His gaze lingered, watching as she flitted about tending to this and that. His faint, seemingly-insignificant smile held. He was content.

Herr Kunkle poked his ruddy countenance through the doorway. It was as though he wanted to verify whether the venue was prepared for his presence before entering. Any reservations he may have had were nullified the moment he spotted Malgreete Van Bleake. For he immediately straightened and boldly strode through the entrance, chin up, head high. He nodded to Marlyse in response to her broad welcoming smile. To Malgreete, he bowed and brushed his lips across the back of her offered hand. She curtsied and the corners of her mouth lifted to form a coquettish smile.

Horst kept his voice low. "Liebchen, you are lovely more then ever I see you before. Zis dress ..."

"Ya, ya, okay Horst," whispered Malgreete. Her smiled endured even though her eyes now tracked anyone showing interest in their exchange. "There is much work I must do. We talk after, ya?" As she withdrew her hand from his, she added, "You look good. Very handsome. I see you change something, ya?" Her smile widened and a mischievous twinkle flashed in her eyes.

"You like?" Horst popped the monocle from his left eye and then made a display of polishing the lens with a silk cloth. Though she never lost her amused smile, the overseer's artificial nonchalance did cause Malgreete to shake her head in disbelief.

"Where is your riding stick?" she asked. "I see this change too."

"Yah, zis I feel I not want to take everywhere all za time. No need." Horst held his eye glass up to the light of the chandelier. Apparently satisfied, he then plugged it back into its socket, left Malgreete with a smug grin, and sauntered off in the direction of the other gentlemen.

An atmosphere of excitement sparked to life with his approach. The men suspended their conversation and openly welcomed him into their circle. Zero landed a hardy slap on Horst's shoulder and complimented him on his dress. Ernie looked to be busting at the seams. "Jaysus," he said, "I gotta say it. Jest can't keep it to me self a second longer."—eyes switching from Buck to Horst—"Herr, yer not going to believe it. Yer mare's back. She's in her stall, in the stable. She show—"

"Back!" Horst's wide-eyed disbelief allowed his monocle to drop. "Schatz, she comes back? Zis is fantastic, absolute fantastic!"

Herr Kunkle could not seem to care less if his monocle dangled inappropriately from his clothing; his effusive chortling and happy disposition would not be denied a full and unabashed expression. He was beyond thrilled—he was ecstatic. He even went so far as to suggest he would go to see Schatz without delay. However, his colleagues persuaded him to wait, explaining that the Thoroughbred was resting comfortably in the stables and did not require further attention. They told of how a young newcomer had found the mare behind the barns nuzzling a turkey with undue affection, and that a number of farmhands managed to restrain her. It was also reported that she was very docile, if a little confused, and that the turkey appeared much relieved once she was led away.

From the moment he appeared in the doorway, Itsqwatyoukno, the Paiute medicine-man, stunned all who looked his way. This was a transformation hitherto unseen in the manor. The man, who was habitually clad in denim and smoky leather, stood attired in full evening dress. His worsted tailcoat was as black as jet. Strikingly, so too was the rest of his ensemble, from trousers and patent leather shoes to silk-lined marcella waistcoat and evening shirt. Black cuffs, black wing collar, and onyx studs completed the unique departure from tradition. The single item in white: a bow tie. In a nod to his heritage, Yuno had stuck a glossy-black crow's feather into his braided locks. With his wizened and weathered facial features, the native looked primed to pose for a portrait entitled The Indigenous Dandy.

He joined the others, away from the swirl of servants coming and going, circling the table with push carts, laying out trays, platters, and pitchers. In all, there were six subordinate housemaids attending to preparations under the direction of Marlyse and Malgreete. The hall hummed with activity.

"Why, I don't believe I've ever seen you looking so ... so perfect," remarked Zero to Yuno.

"I'm a gardener," he replied, as if that sufficed to provide a reasonable explanation for his polished appearance.

"Mm-hmm, well you certainly have grown," said the farmer. Changing the topic, he added, "Have you been informed of the success of our operation?"

Yuno appeared to have ignored the question, because when he spoke, it was to Horst. "What took you so long, chief?" Horst was at a loss for how to answer. Buck, Ernie, and Zero looked equally confused. "Anyway," he continued, "it's good your spirit is stronger now."

The overseer nodded, though vestiges of confusion remained a part of his expression. And, as always, Buck Knowles curtailed the onset of an awkward silence by introducing a comment of his own: "I don't rightly recall if you ever told us, Yuno, but how is it a Paiute such as yourself finds his way to these parts?"

The old man settled himself on the arm of a chair. He began. "Too many wars and too many laws. Great white chiefs pushing my people away from our lands ... first here, then there, anywhere they want. Seed grasses ... pine nut forests, soon they all died. After the Snake War, I told Wodziwob to go into the world. Told him to teach the Ghost Dance to the people—anyone who'd listen. After that, I wandered into the rising sun. The great plains were too cold. Not much cover. The forest is better. And anyway, I like it here."

Maid Marliemon was about to sweep past with a tray of canapes when she stopped to present a sampling. "You fine gentry-mons care for a square?" she asked. Yuno abstained. The others offered thanks and helped themselves. Ernie wolfed the first tidbit and was looking to load his palm with more, but Marlyse whisked the tray out of reach before he could do so. She gave him a frown and made a comment to the others that conveyed her desire for the lad to be on his best behavior: "I truly hope this young gentry-mon here is minding his manners."

"He's doing fine, ma'am," said Buck, patting the lad on the back. "He ain't let a cuss word slip the whole time we been standing here."

"Well lordy, ain't that fine thing to hear," said Marlyse, moving the tray back within reach. "Ernie-mon, why don't you jest help you self to one more. One more." O'Boyo accepted the reward with a polite "thank you". Marlyse smiled, winked at her beau, and left. The lad grinned, evidently pleased with his achievement.

"Za butler. Robert." Horst motioned with his head to the main entrance.

Bosworth stood just inside the room, his presence marked not only by impeccable evening attire, but also by a pronounced change in his personal manner—he exuded an aura of self-possessed confidence. He seemed poised, dignified, ready to assert his authority.

Bob hobbled across the room to join the others, unperturbed by his ungainly stride. For he knew in his heart, the limping gait belied the strength he felt coursing through his being. There was a force, new and supremely powerful, arising at the center of his existence. He shook hands with his colleagues, greeting them in only the most cordial of terms. Young Ernest O'Boyo, presumably mindful of the butler's injury, invited him to take a seat, which he did. A conversation sprung up among them and burbled along in an amiable flow of associative babble. Now and again chuckles and snorts found their way into the stream.

Aside from appearing unseemly, Yuno's formal wear prohibited him from squatting on the floor, as was his wont. Still resting on the arm of the chair then, he took advantage of his position when all, save Bob, were engaged in jocular confabulation. The butler, perhaps disinterested in the topic, or simply taking a moment to himself, sat apart in an armchair next to the shaman. Yuno leaned towards Bob and quietly mentioned that he was glad the butler had taken his advice.

"I beg your pardon?" Robert hadn't a clue what Yuno was talking about.

"I said I'm glad you didn't go sit in the tool shed."

"Yes ... well so am I, frankly."

"Nice job, anyway."

"I say, my dear man, you really must endeavor to make yourself more clearly understood. I simply can't begin to fathom what it is you are go—"

"Cleaning house. You did a nice job, chief." Yuno grinned at the butler as a glimmer of conceptual understanding began to percolate in his previously vacant stare.

"DeLouche. You're referring to ..." There was no need to finish; Yuno was already nodding, grinning, baring bark-and-berry stained teeth. "Right, well, thank you, thank you very much."

"So the riding crop is lost, forever to be forgotten in the fields." Zero had been commenting on how Horst's crop had become lost in flight. "Not merely a whimsical switch in fashionable accessories then. You should know, my dear Herr Kunkle, the monocle really does present a superior refinement to your stature as a true gentleman."

"Speaking of which," said the stable master, with a nod to the opposite side of the room.

Magnus had entered the dining hall accompanied by the most unlikeliest of guests—the elusive Dr. Dare. To see Bin by the steward's side, and in the presence of so many people, astonished those who thought they knew him. Because until now, the general consensus held that he was a ghost, rarely seen, never heard, and always alone. His appearance prompted a round of hushed comments among the men. Marlyse and Malgreete exchanged a look of surprise.

After a word with Bin, Magnus disappeared through the doorway leading to the kitchens. In his wake, Malgreete and Marlyse had received nods of approval. To the men lounging by the hearth, he had accorded nothing more than a cursory glance.

The good doctor strolled through the dining hall. He stepped around servants and carts, stopping here and there along the way. He lifted covers on a variety of dishes and examined the offering. Now and again, he would lean close to savor an intriguing aroma. Presently he joined the group near the hearth.

Their conversation fell away with his approach. And as Dare did not immediately offer a greeting, nor make eye contact, a shroud of apprehensive uncertainty pressed down on them. Even Buck couldn't find his way out.

"Please gentlemen," said Dare, breaking the silence, "carry on if you like. Don't let my presence deter you from your discussion ... even if you are talking about me. You see, insofar as I may prove to be a topic of interest to you, the fact of the matter is, I'm not really much interested in conversing on the subject of myself. I'll just sit here beside Bob if you don't mind, and mind my own." He sat down in the armchair next to Robert. "By the way, you all look very elegant this evening." Bin smiled. The look on their faces resembled what one might expect from a group of boys caught peeking from behind curtains.

Soon the men standing resumed conversation. And although they chose an innocuous topic, the jocosity and boyish camaraderie of their previous dialogue was conspicuously absent. Robert, Bin, and Yuno sat quietly, each absorbed in their respective contemplation.

After a few moments, the svelte doctor leaned slightly towards Bob and said, "Why don't you just spit it out?"

The query caught Bob of guard. He was dumbstruck. Could it be Bin knew exactly what he was thinking? Even though Bin had posed the question quietly, Bob nevertheless snapped his head round to see if anyone else had heard. Satisfied no one showed the slightest interest, he turned back to the doctor.

"If you're referring—"

"Yes, I am. So why I don't just tell you." Bin glanced over Robert's shoulders. Only Yuno sat near enough to overhear. "You are entrusted with the key because, as head butler, you are meant to be rational, diligent, and honorable in the application of your judgment. I have a key—the second key—as a safeguard. This is because, aside from the attributes you are meant to possess, I am also intuitive; I can see trouble coming long before it gets here." Bin brushed a particle of dust from his trousers, looked back to Bob, and asked, "Does that answer your question?"

"It does, thank you. But I must say, I'm having a rather difficult time understanding why we have this elaborate chain of hidden keys, some entrusted to others, and which ultimately lead to an empty box."

"But it's not empty is it, Robert?"

"Fine, but I hardly think our 'potential' need be locked away in a strongbox, do you?"

"Anything worthwhile should be protected. How else would you keep it from being squandered, lost, or stolen?"

Robert was still looking at Bin, considering how he might frame his response, when Yuno interjected. "No tribe; no chief. You need your people." Yuno grinned at the butler's befuddled expression. He pulled a bit of mulberry bark from his waistcoat pocket, popped it in his mouth, and began to chew.

Bob turned back to Bin.

"Let me see if I can clarify," said Bin. "Itsqwatyoukno is correct. Without a compliant chain of command, you would not have anything to protect. The estate can only exist in one of two states: Either it is maintained, improved, and flourishing, or it is unattended, delinquent, and falling to ruin. If those charged with the estate's development do not reverse a tendency to dereliction, there comes a point where that potential no longer exists. This is key to your obligation for understanding." Dr. Dare let the weight of his words penetrate before adding, "Your decisions—all of them—must be balanced by bearing this in mind at all times."

Robert was nodding his head. It all made sense. He had long known the estate's welfare depended on his direction. Yet, he could never instill a cohesive desire for advancement among all concerned. It struck him that perhaps it was because he had always perceived staff and servants as subordinates rather than colleagues. Little wonder then that his own failings arose as grounds for the disrespect shown by those same people—the very ones he'd tried in vain to whip into shape.

Robert's observations were interrupted by a ruckus coming from the other side of the room. Magnus, Marie-Claire, and her three sous-chefs bustled into the hall. Wrapped in flowing silk and satin, tiaras, brooches and the like, the ladies looked magnificent in their formal gowns. As with Magnus, in white-tie, Alfonso appeared stately, Chin, distinguished. The steward ushered everyone towards the fireplace, collecting Maids Marlyse and Malgreete along the way.

Addressing all thirteen essential personnel, Magnus said, "Tonight we host a dinner in your honor. You have all performed your respective functions admirably. I'm pleased with your efforts. The supervision of this evening's preparations was exemplary. Kudos to the cooks. And, thanks to Marlyse and Malgreete, our dining-room is elegant, inviting—complete in every way. Beyond that, your attention to detail in your personal appearance is commendable. You all look as if you might belong at this table ... dining in the presence of a noble." A flutter of apprehensive excitement rippled through the group. Magnus continued, "Her Ladyship and Baron are expected momentarily. Lisa, Chin, I suggest you prepare. As for the rest of you, feel free to help yourselves to the hors d'oeuvres."

Lisa Zeppatini grabbed Chin by the hand. They broke from the gathering with the saucier tugging her protege to the nearest buffet counter. There, Lisa poured a little water and handed it to Chin.

"First you drink," she said. "A little ... not so much."—taking the cup back—"Now, just like we practice."

Chin began warming up his voice. He mee-mee-mee'd his way through scales, Lisa cuing him on successive keys within his vocal range.

The rest of the personnel mingled. And while some sampled appetizers and dipped ladles in a fresh mint punch, others contented themselves with idle conversation. A relaxed and convivial mood settled over the hall. Finishing touches in place, the six new maids took up their positions and awaited the dinner service.

Magnus stood by the mantel chatting with Dr. Dare. He kept a keen eye on the main entrance where he had posted a sentry; Dagmar, one of the new maids, peeked through the door, watching. The moment she turned her pretty face and nodded, Magnus clapped his hands for everyone's attention.

"Her Ladyship is here. Stand and face the doorway, put whatever you're holding down, and don't speak until greetings are concluded."

As soon as everyone had complied, Magnus nodded to Dagmar. The doors were opened wide.

Milady appeared on Baron's arm to a hushed room of watchful eyes. Baron's fierce and imposing figure contrasted sharply with the exquisite elegance of Her Ladyship's understated superiority. As with the most brilliant star in the heavens, eyes are drawn with little regard for others, no matter their number. Perfection reigned. Her beauty, her bearing, her aura of integrity, all shined with an unrivaled and scintillating clarity.

When Baron's booming voice formally announced Milady's arrival, men bowed and women curtsied. She smiled and thanked them all for their gracious welcome before inviting everyone to be seated. As a courtesy, they waited until she first took her own chair, which Baron held for her at the foot of the table. Bin sat to her right and Baron to her left, everyone else, as was customary.

The murmuring chatter that accompanied the guests settling into their seats ceased the minute Magnus stood up. He had an announcement to make.

"Before the dinner service begins," he said, "we have someone who would like to regale you with a debut performance. Mr. Chin Cheong ..."

Chin rose, blushing, to enthusiastic applause. He pulled his shoulders back. His hands gripped the lapels of his tailcoat as if he might suddenly tear it open to reveal a proud, beating heart. He took a deep breath. His eyes lifted to the chandelier. The audience sat on the edge of their seats, breath held in anticipation, waiting for the first note. Chin's mouth began to open. Then, inexplicably, he shut it, turned his head, and looked down at Lisa, sitting on his right. He was paralyzed.

Her wide-eyed shock at seeing Chin panic, prompted an effusive burst of Italian invective, uttered under breath and with an unparalleled rapidity, ensuring no one could possibly understand. It was Lisa Zeppatini's turn to be embarrassed. She stood and addressed the audience. "Please be—excuse me, I—I forget to tell a you ... Mr. Chin, he gonna sing the aria for you. Is a aria from Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto." All the while Lisa spoke, she held her arm across Chin's shoulders, patting him encouragingly, buying him time. "Is a aria ... singing by the Duke of Mantua. Is called 'La donna é mobile'."—looking to Chin while nodding effusively—"You are ready, yes?"

Chin swallowed hard and nodded.

Lisa sat down.

Two minutes later, the final note of the performance brought the crowd to its feet. A robust applause marked Chin's debut a resounding success. Some cheered, some whistled, others shouted BRAVO. Chin Cheong bowed to the left and to the right and back again. And would likely have continued had Lisa not hugged him to her in a warm embrace. Gradually, the felicitous adulation settled and everyone took their seats. Only Milady remained standing.

Looking to Chin, she said, "You are treasure, Mr. Cheong. Thank you so much for sharing your wonderful voice with us this evening. However, I have to say, your choice of this particular canzone—'Woman is Fickle'—leads me to wonder if there might just be a little cheek in your choice."

Chin's huge magnified eyes stared back through his lenses. His confusion could not have been more apparent. At length he said, "I did, did I?"

Magnus called out from the other end of the table, saying, "Drab as fool, aloof as a bard. Isn't that right Chin?" Without waiting for a reply, he added, "Or, how about: 'Reviled did I live,' said I, 'as evil I did deliver!' ... Ever hear that one?"

Chin smiled as most everyone else now assumed his earlier expression—that of confusion. Chin called back to Magnus: "Must sell at tallest sum."

Her Ladyship chimed in. "Are we not drawn onward to new era?"

Magnus responded with another: "Madame, not one man is selfless; I name not one, madam."

Baron, looking baffled by the spurious exchange, demanded to know what was going on. "Have you all lost your minds?" he asked. "I, for one, won't sit here and listen to this nonsense if you keep it up."

Milady patted his wrist. "Baron, calm yourself," she said. "Mr. Cheong is fond of palindromes. Nothing to get upset about; we're just having a bit of fun."

"Fine, now that you've had your fun, maybe we can have something to eat."

"Yes, dear, but first I have something to say." The noblewoman looked into each of the faces lining the table. She started with Bin, on her right, over Oboe's vacant chair, to Chin, Lisa, Marie-Claire, Alfonso, Magnus, and lastly Robert; opposite him, to Marlyse, Zero, Ernie, Horst, Buck, Malgreete, and finally, Yuno, sitting beside Baron. "As you are all aware," she continued, "yesterday I made a decision to leave. Now, at the risk of sounding fickle, I wish you all to know I've changed my mind—I'm staying on."

Everyone's face lit up with the announcement. Smiles, glad and happy, beamed round the room. A patter of excited clapping, a joyous squeak, a contented hand smack on the table, all acknowledging the universal appeal and satisfaction with the decision. In the midst of all the excitement, Lisa caught sight of Dagmar, staring at her. Their mutual regard held until Lisa's perplexity elicited a sly wink, followed by the hint of a smile from the younger maiden. And again, Lisa blushed, though no one much noticed. Baron tapped his fork against a wine glass, calling for everyone's attention.

Milady resumed: "There are conditions which will need to be adhered to if I am to remain. But before I get to that, I should inform you of your steward's imminent departure. Magnus will leave tomorrow, along with Baron, here."

A rumble of discontent and surprise rose round the table. Though Baron figured, he was not the subject of the protest—Magnus was. Who would provide direction, mediate, and advise? Magnus was a focal point, an instrument of progress, change, and inspiration. Again Baron tapped his utensil, though this time a little harder and on his plate. With everyone calmed, Milady nodded to Magnus.

The steward stood. He took a moment to look over the people he had brought under his sphere of influence. "You will be missed," he said. "But my work here is done, and it's time I left."

Lisa, unable to contain her disappointment, blurted it out. "Oh, no. Why you wanna go? No, please don't. Stay. Please. You can a stay, yes?"

Magnus's smile radiated a warmth and kindness rarely expressed. He looked to the saucier and said, "Lisa dear, if I could, I would. But Oboe DeLouche is out there, somewhere. And so long as he is, I'm duty-bound to track him down. If I can, I'll stop him from eroding and eventually destroy—what?" Magnus stopped himself and looked down at the butler, sitting next to him. "What did you say?"

Robert had murmured something but it was so soft as to be inaudible. He shook his head. "Nothing. It was nothing. Pardon me."

Yuno, even though seated at the far end of the table, furthest away, spoke. "He said 'potential'. The chief said 'potential'. Anyway, that's what I heard him say. Could be wrong ... but I'm not."

"Well," continued Magnus, "as it stands, the stewardship of this estate is now out of my hands, so allow me to wish you all the best in your future efforts. Now I believe Milady has something else to say."

"Thank you, Magnus. As I said earlier, there are conditions which have to be met if I am to stay." Milady paused before listing each item in turn: "First, you must never intentionally harm one another; second, lies are forbidden; third, you may not take what is not given; fourth, you will refrain from intimate misconduct; and lastly, the abuse of intoxicants by any one of you, shall serve as grounds for my departure."

Clear blue eyes peered into each of their faces, seeking truth and sincerity. When the noble's penetrating scrutiny fell upon Robert, he felt as if layer after layer of falsity were being stripped from his personality until all that remained was his bared soul.

When at last Milady concluded her investigation, she said, "It gives me great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to make this next announcement: I would like to introduce you to your new steward ... Robert Bartholomew Bosworth."

Not a sound, not a whisper, not even a flutter from an eyelash—the moment seemed frozen in time. Then the rustle of silk and lace. Her Ladyship rose to her feet. She began to clap. First, it was the sound of one hand clapping—Ernie. Then two—Buck. Marlyse. Then Horst, Malgreete, and everyone else. In the explosion of applause that followed, even the new household maids found themselves grinning from ear to ear, clapping ecstatically, madly, wildly, and without really knowing exactly why.

Once the commotion subsided enough to be heard, Baron thumped his heavy fist on the table, raised his voice, and said, "Now can we eat?"

Milady sat back down and patted Baron's wrist. She nodded to Magnus.

"In my last official act as your steward," said Magnus, "I ask that we observe our usual moment of introspection. Only now—because I believe we're finally ready—we'll join hands." Magnus leaned forward and winked when he caught Lisa's eye.

"Please, if you will," said Milady, "allow me first to suggest that from this point forward, you all consider that empty seat—there—at the head of this table. For it is only when the manor doors open to the master of our estate that the circle will complete. There is much to be done." Offering a hand to each side, Milady concluded by saying, "You may proceed."

About the Author

The first thing you should know is that I am not Donovan Brooks. And since he won't pretend to know what could possibly be of interest to you, I've been tasked by the publisher to sketch in some background. But before I do, let me just say, if you enjoyed the read, please be sure to leave a review and be sure to recommend Mind Your Manors to anyone you think may be interested.

Well then, what's to say about Donovan Brooks? Actually, not much; very little is known about the man. DB seems to be fairly reclusive. You can't connect on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn or any other social media platform that I'm aware of. Donovan Brooks doesn't have a web-page or a blog. About the only thing I can reveal beyond any mundane data point is that Brooks lives in a self-imposed exile in some far-off foreign land. And no, he's not stuffed himself into a garret in Paris overlooking the Seine—he's not insane so far as I know.

I realize it's not much, but then I don't know anything about him either. So if you really want to know something beyond the pale about this author, contact him, tell him a little about yourself. Maybe he'll respond to genuine curiosity or specific questions.

Donovan Brooks can be reached through BabblingBooks@protonmail.ch

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