Keeper of the House

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“I know everything that happens at Northwood House. That’s the first and most important thing to know about me.”

Shipley Sherwood, the man standing before me, wears a guileless smile. I don’t trust him.

I continue, “I have worked for the Wytecliff family for many years, and I know them well. They trust me to take care of them. Do you understand?”

Shipley nods, offering his hand. His handshake is exuberant, but flimsy. His smile hasn’t faded. “Of course, Maitland. And thank you for the tour of the manor. I look forward to working with you!”

He seems amicable enough, but it is my nature to be suspicious, and it is my duty to protect the Wytecliffs. Besides, I have my doubts about this man. His countenance is too cheerful, too...innocent.

I hold his hand a moment longer than necessary. “If you have any questions, doubts, or concerns, bring them to me right away.”

“Of course!”

I can’t tell if his smile is a mask, or if he is simply naïve and failing to understand my point. “The Wytecliffs are new to Salchester, and I’m afraid there are charlatans who would take advantage of their hospitality and their position in society.” I take a moment to glare into Shipley’s bright eyes. “You have the honor of being hired as the Wytecliff’s new cook. Do not make the mistake of being a charlatan. And do not try to hide anything from me.”

Shipley’s disposition is undamped. “Of course, Maitland.”

As I turn to leave, he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“And don’t worry,” he says, still genial. “I know it’s your job to be formal and serious, but it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

I hold his gaze. I take pride in my professionalism, my ability to remain unflappable, impassive. Never have I met someone so expressive, yet so difficult to read. “And you.”

* * *

The first few days pass without incident. I sneak tastes of all the food and drinks that Shipley makes before serving the Wytecliffs. There will be no poisoning in the Northwood House under my watch.

Fortunately for all of us, Shipley does not try anything so foolish.

He has worked at the Northwood House for almost a week before I notice anything suspicious. It could be nothing, but I will not take chances when it comes to ensuring the wellbeing of the Wytecliffs.

One afternoon, I’m heading to the kitchens to see if the cook needs any help preparing dinner. As I enter, I see Shipley lean against the wall, whistling. I am certain he wasn’t whistling a moment ago; I would have heard him, as I approached. It’s almost as if he wants to appear nonchalant...

“Shipley. What are you doing?”

“Oh, hi there, Maitland. I just started working on dinner. I’ll be roasting vegetables—do you want to try the dipping sauce? I’m reducing it now. It’s one of my favorites!”

Too much talking. He’s definitely hiding something. “Why were you whistling?”

“Oh, no reason. I can stop if it annoys you.”

I examine him for a long moment, but nothing seems amiss. I take a spoon to the bubbling mixture in the saucepan and hold it up to my lips, blowing gently to cool it off. Then, I present it to Shipley. He smiles and takes a taste. “Hmm, you’re right, not enough salt.”

He sprinkles a large pinch of salt into the simmering sauce. There’s nothing else of note in the kitchen—he hasn’t started on the vegetables yet. The oven isn’t on, but I look inside it anyway. It’s empty.

Keeping my voice level, I ask, “What are you hiding?”

Shipley blinks, as if realizing for the first time that I might suspect him of something. “Hiding? Why, nothing.” He spreads his arms wide. “What’s there to hide?”

Something about his mannerism makes me certain. The way he’s shuffled away from the wall, perhaps. Or the way he’s looking at me, like he’s afraid of looking anywhere else. He is hiding something. “I can tell you’re up to something, cook. I know everything that goes on in Northwood House. Whatever it is you’re doing, you won’t get away with it.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Maitland.”

Isolda Wytecliff, the young daughter of Lord Remington and Lady Gwendolyn Wytecliff, strides into the kitchen. Though not quite a teenager, Isolda has already begun rebelling against her parents, striking up a friendship with the new cook. Since Shipley’s arrival, she has spent most of her free time in the kitchen, learning from him. Her parents have tried to discourage her, telling her that cooking is servants’ work, but their displeasure seems to make her more intent.

“Don’t worry about us,” Isolda says, with all the confidence of a child. “Shipley and I can handle dinner. You can leave us alone.” I hesitate, and Isolda puts her hands on her hips. “You have to do whatever we tell you, right?”

I sigh. That’s not exactly true, but I decide to leave it be. I will need much firmer evidence of wrongdoing on Shipley’s part before taking my concerns to Lord Remington or Lady Gwendolyn.

Isolda is asking Shipley what’s in the simmering sauce before I leave the room.

Frustrated, I head outside for a walk. The air is cool, refreshing. I try to let it calm me, allowing my feet to carry me, aimless, through the beautiful apple orchards on the manor grounds. A delicate fog settles above the earth, enough to blur the trunks of the more distant trees into murky striations against the patchy browns and greens of the earth.

After a time, I find myself on the far side of the orchard, on the outskirts of the grounds of Northwood House, standing on the shores of the lake. I don’t usually walk to the lake; Lord Remington has always advised against it. I don’t know why. The lake is shallow, and its waters calm. But it is not in my nature to question orders from those I serve. That would make me a poor servant indeed.

I look across the gentle, misty, azure water.

I freeze. There’s a boat on the lake.

Acting on instinct, I crouch to my knees, making myself small as I look closer. It’s hard to see from this distance, but it appears to be a rowboat, with two people inside, though only one of them is rowing.

The mist shifts over the water, and my view of the boat becomes clear.

It’s one person, not two, sitting opposite a large bundle of some sort. Perhaps it’s a sack?

And that person...well, I recognize the suit, with certainty. It’s Lord Remington Wytecliff himself.

What is he doing here? Why is he rowing out on the lake?

And then—perhaps it’s a trick of the mists, but I think I saw the sack move. What’s in there?

I realize I’m holding my breath, and I let it out, scolding myself for my impudence.

Whatever it is, it’s none of my business—not unless the Wytecliffs decide to make it my business, anyway. Moving with care so as not to alert Lord Remington to my presence, I sneak away from the shore, back into the cover of the trees.

But by the time I return to the Northwood House, I realize I’ve been running.

* * *

The next morning, when Shipley announces he is going on a trip into town to buy some food, I decide to follow him. I have my own pretenses, of course—Northwood House is old, and there is always more work to be done around the manor. I tell the Wytecliffs I need to go into Salchester to buy supplies for repairs, and when Shipley leaves, I trail him.

The cook’s first stop is innocuous—the grocery store. I don’t think he has noticed me following him, and I expect he’ll spend a while there, so I swing by the neighboring hardware store for supplies for upkeep on the manor. I am quick, returning to the parking lot half an hour before Shipley.

Doubt creeps in as I trail him back on the road toward the manor. Perhaps my suspicions are misplaced. Or, perhaps I am right to suspect him, but wrong about how stealthy I’ve been. Perhaps he knows I’m following him, and he’s avoiding making any mistakes while I’m here.

But then, he turns into a small, decrepit parking lot that serves two small buildings. On one end of the lot is a beauty salon; on the other is what looks like a rundown pharmacy. And connected to the back of the pharmacy is a barren, undecorated storefront, with the word “Glassworks” painted in faded green.

I drive ahead for a minute and U-turn, stopping across the street, next to an old diner.

Shipley disappears inside Glassworks for quite some time, reemerging with a small cardboard box.

After he leaves, I circle back to Glassworks. A chime sounds above the door as I enter, but when I look around the shop, I seem to be alone.

There are dozens of wooden shelves lining the small store. Most of them are filled with glassware I don’t recognize—flasks in all manner of shapes, strange beakers, and other devices that look rather like chemistry equipment. A few shelves house more typical wares: smoking pipes, wine glasses, decanters and cups in elaborate shapes.

It’s possible all he wanted was to buy a new decanter to use for serving wine, but even that is the type of decision he ought to run by me. I know the Wytecliffs best, after all. I will have to search the kitchen this evening, to see what he bought.

A door swings open in the back of the shop, and a growling woman’s voice asks if I need any help.

 I want to ask her about Shipley, but decide against it. “I was just browsing, thank you.”

As I leave, my eyes scan once more over the unfamiliar objects that look more like chemistry equipment than kitchenware.

It’s still a long time before sundown when I return to Northwood House. I won’t be able to search the kitchen, yet.

Impatient, restless, I find my thoughts drawn to the lake that lies at the edge of the property, and the rowboat I saw.

I struggle with my curiosity. It’s wrong to spy on Lord Remington, of course. But it’s vital for me to know everything that happens at Northwood House, in order to keep the Wytecliffs safe. Besides, I won’t be able to search through Shipley’s things until much later this evening, when he has gone to bed, and though I bought materials for repairs around the manor, none of those repairs are urgent.

Perhaps it’s a rationalization, but it seems the best thing I can do now is investigate the lake, learn what Lord Remington was doing out on the water.

The mists around the lake are far heavier than they were yesterday, making it difficult to see. I walk along the shore, searching for Lord Remington’s rowboat, or perhaps the strange, large sack that I was certain I saw move.

A shadow congeals in the mist, from the direction of the water.

I freeze, my heartbeat rising, instincts screaming to run as it grows larger, as it takes a humanoid shape. If it’s Lord Remington, and if he’s angry, I will have to face him. I’ll have to be honest about why I’m here. I take a deep breath and straighten my sleeves and suit collar.

A woman emerges from the mist.

Her age is difficult to decipher. Perhaps forty, perhaps sixty. She wears a faded but bright-colored gown, sodden with water. In fact, she appears soaked through, water dripping from her face, her limbs. She is smiling.

Her smile is different from Shipley’s. The cook’s grin is innocent to a fault, a cordial, open book.

This smile is full of guile.

“Who are you?” My voice almost wavers when I speak. Almost.

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that.” Her tone is warm, endearing.

“You can’t be here. This is the Wytecliffs’ property. You’re trespassing.”

The woman laughs. “Oh, I know whose property this is. I’m here with Remington’s permission.” She hesitates and looks me up and down, still smiling. “Are you?”

A chill cuts through my body. My legs are shaking. I want to run away, but it feels as though my feet are rooted to the spot. I hate this lack of control, and despite myself, I begin to panic.

“I’m warning you—”

The woman scoffs. “No, dear, I wouldn’t if I were you.” She crooks her finger toward me, beckoning. Eyes wide, I let out a gasp as I stagger toward her, rapt.

When I’m standing just before her, she leans closer, water from her hair and face dripping onto the shoulder of my suit, the dampness soaking through to my skin.

“Fortunately for you,” she whispers, “I’m not hungry anymore. For now.” There’s a pause, and the hair on my neck stands on end. “You have Remington to thank for that.”

She leans back again, and I shudder beneath the strangeness of her gaze. It’s haunting, full, overwhelming.

She pats my shoulders. “Now, run along home, dear. And best do what Remington says. If he says to stay away from the lake...”

My body is frozen by fear and chill. Between faltering lips I whisper, “I’ll stay away from the lake.”

“Good, dear. Very good. Off you go, now.”

My limbs release, and I collapse to the ground, scraping my palms and scuffing my suit. I scramble back to my feet, turning to look over my shoulder at the woman, but she’s gone. The mists are thicker than ever. She has left behind a trail of puddles, settling between the damp rocks on the shore.

I don’t even realize I’m running until, breathless, I reach the Northwood House.

The afternoon passes in a blur. My memory of the woman at the lake grows nebulous. I know she was there, I know I saw her, but the details of her face have faded, uncertain in my mind. All I can remember are the unknowable depths of her eyes. All I can remember is the way I froze. The powerlessness I felt.

Fear pulses through me. Stay away from the lake. I wonder whether the order applies to my thoughts, as well as my physical presence.

As the day wears on, though, I regain control of myself. I find my limbs steadying, my heartbeat settling, my thoughts calming. There must be an explanation for the woman. An old friend of Remington’s, or perhaps a lover? Yes, perhaps he’s having an affair, and the woman...lives near the lake? Or perhaps they have an arrangement to meet at the lake?

Of course, none of this explains the sack.

Well, if my job is to protect the Wytecliffs, I will have to ask Lord Remington about it tomorrow. If he is angry that I’ve discovered this secret of his, I can explain that it is my duty to know these things. And, of course, he will have my discretion, if he desires it. He will understand that my motive is to protect his family.

And he will understand that, to ensure that protection, nothing can happen at the Northwood House without my knowledge.

I wait until after dinner to continue my investigation of Shipley.

Long after the Wytecliffs leave the dining room, after Shipley ought to be finished with the dishes, I sneak back toward the kitchens. There is no sound coming from the kitchens, so I assume he’s gone. Still, I move with caution, silence. If the cook is up to anything troublesome, it is of the utmost importance that he doesn’t catch me spying on him.

Right as I open the door to the kitchens, there’s movement inside. The kitchen wall folds open—or, rather, I thought it was the wall, but it seems to be a door, hidden in the wooden paneling—and Shipley emerges.

I duck back out of the kitchens, holding my breath, listening for the sound of Shipley’s approach. I can hear motion, but it’s just a few steps, and not in my direction. I must have been fast enough—he didn’t see me.

But what did I see? A door in the kitchens that I didn’t know about? Hidden in the wall? How is this possible? Do the Wytecliffs know about it?

And what is behind that door?

I take a deep breath and think through my options. I could confront Shipley now, but if he has malicious intent, he could be dangerous. No, it would be better to return to investigate the secret door later, after he goes to sleep in the servants’ house. Then, I can bring whatever I find to the Wytecliffs.

By the time I return, sneaking through the halls of the manor to the kitchens, the entirety of Northwood House should be asleep, Wytecliffs and servants alike.

It’s strange, examining the wall where I saw the door open. There’s nothing I can see to indicate a door is there, even now. Still, I am certain of what I saw. I run my fingers over the wood paneling, looking for an opening.

Finally, I find it. A crevice I can pry open.

The door swings free, revealing a large walk-in cupboard. How did I not know this was here?

The walls inside are lined with bricks. There is a wooden table and several shelves, filled with all manner of strange equipment. I’ve found Shipley’s glassware, and I dare say he’s not using it to make the Wytecliffs’ food.

There are dozens of beakers, flasks, and more complicated equipment, alongside scales, a mortar and pestle, and myriad jars filled with unlabeled powders and liquids I can’t identify by eye. On the table is a journal.

My hands trembling, I open the front page. Messy writing is strewn across the paper, and I force my eyes to focus on one line. “Alchemists study the nature of matter, spirit, and life itself.” I slam the journal closed.

Alchemists? What is all this?

Whatever it is, I need to tell Lord Remington and Lady Gwendolyn about it, now. It doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of the night and they won’t want to be disturbed, this is too important.

I stumble out of the room, closing the secret door behind me, and dashing through the manor. But as I run toward the stairs that lead up to the Lord and Lady’s bedroom, I hear a soft, chanting voice whisper through the halls.

I fight back against the fear that seizes me. The voice doesn’t sound like Shipley’s. I can’t tell if it’s just too quiet for me to comprehend, or if the words it’s speaking are in another language. I follow the chanting through the manor, to the bedroom of Isolda Wytecliff.

The door is closed, but strange sounds are coming from inside—not just the whispering voice, but a low whistling, almost like wind. Is her window open? Has someone broken inside?

I don’t want to infringe on Isolda’s privacy, but if she’s in danger, and I hesitate...

I open the door.

She sits on the floor beside her bed, with her back to me, cross-legged. A massive book is splayed open in front of her. She seems to be reading from it with great difficulty, and I’m sure, now, that she’s speaking in another language. It’s dark but for the lambent glow of a dozen small candles scattered throughout the room.

The pages of the book flutter as a gusting wind swirls around her. The flames of the candles flicker and dance, casting unsettling shadows over the girl. Her hair begins to rise from her shoulders as she chants, as if lifted by the wind. Still, the rest of her bedroom seems undisturbed. Now, rising, floating in front of her, glinting in the candlelight, is some sort of...jewelry, perhaps, a brooch.

When the brooch begins to glow an eerie green, I can’t help myself. I gasp.

Isolda whips around and the swirling wind comes to a halt. Her hair settles down around her shoulders, the fluttering pages of the book fall still, and the brooch stops glowing as it clatters to the floor.

“Maitland!”

I stagger backward a step.

“Maitland, wait!”

I want to run, but I trip, my knee slamming hard into the door frame. I try to stand, but pain overwhelms me, and I stumble back to the floor.

Isolda reaches my side. “Maitland, please, wait! Let me explain.”

“What is this?”

“It’s just magic, okay? It’s just a book I found, and I’m learning things from it, but I’m not hurting anyone!” Her voice is barely above a whisper, strained and desperate. She’s scared, I can tell, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to hurt me. It seems as though she’s afraid I am going to hurt her.

“Isolda—”

“Maitland, please, don’t tell anyone, Mother and Father won’t approve. They’ll make me stop. But I like it, and I want to learn more!”

Her voice fades, and the terror in her eyes begins to dissipate as she realizes I’m in no state to run and tell anyone anything. I’m still curled on the floor, clutching my knee.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yes. Or, I will be. I just hurt my knee.”

She grimaces, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make that better, yet. Can I get you anything? Maybe water?”

My heartbeat is still racing, the bitter taste of adrenaline singed in the back of my mouth. I take a deep breath to calm myself. Everything’s going to be okay. I still need to tell the Wytecliffs about Shipley, and I need to ask them about the strange woman at the lake. And, now, I’ll need to tell them about their daughter, too.

At least, thankfully, it seems she doesn’t mean any harm.

“Yes, please. Water would be nice.”

I want to get a closer look at the book on the floor, but it will have to wait. My knee won’t allow that much movement, yet. By the time Isolda returns from the kitchen, holding a cup of water, I have managed to sit upright against the door.

She hesitates as she walks into the room. “I know my Father hired you, but you work for the whole family, right?”

I pause. I think I see where she’s going with this. “I do.”

“So, you work for me, too, right?”

“Yes, Isolda.”

“Then, if I tell you to keep my secret, you’ll have to keep it.”

I take a deep breath.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please, keep my secret?”

I don’t like lying, but I’m beginning to feel as though this whole conversation will be easier if I pretend I’ll help her, for the girl’s sake. She may be angry at me later, but I have to tell her parents.

“Okay,” I lie. “Yes. I will keep your secret.”

She gives me a long look, then holds out the water cup.

I take a sip. It’s refreshing. I didn’t realize quite how dry my mouth was. I take a larger gulp..

“What...what were you trying to do?” I ask, my voice gentle. I want her to think that I’m showing genuine interest, not that I’m gathering information to report to Lord Remington and Lady Gwendolyn.

She looks down at the cup of water in my hands. “It was an incantation. The book said it could be used to imbue objects.”

“Imbue them?” I take another long drink. The water’s almost gone and, at last, the pain in my knee is starting to fade. I’ll be able to walk without too much pain, soon. “Imbue them with what?”

“Well, whatever I want. All sorts of properties.”

“So…it really was magic, then. What I saw you doing.”

“Maitland, please.”

“I won’t tell. But it was magic?”

She’s quiet for a long time. I finish the water. I’m starting to think she won’t answer, and I rise to my feet, testing my weight on my knee. It still hurts, but it’s bearable. I’ll be able to walk.

“Yes,” she whispers. “It was magic.”

“Fascinating,” I say. “May I...may I see your book?”

She hesitates, but she doesn’t turn to look at the book. Instead, she’s staring down at the water cup in my hands. The empty water cup.

I feel a chill wash over me.

Oh no.

“Isolda—”

“I’m sorry, Maitland. But I can’t let you tell them.”

“Isolda, what’ve you—” my words are slurred, and my vision is fading to nothingness. I’m not falling, I think, I’m still standing. But inside my mind, it feels like I’m—

Falling, falling, falling...

* * *

I wake in my room, before the sun rises.

As I get dressed, I gasp. My knee seems to be in a great deal of pain. Examining it, I find a large, purpling bruise. What could that be from? I don’t remember hurting it. I must have hit it on something without noticing, or perhaps I hit it on the bed frame in the middle of the night. Surprising, that I don’t remember what it’s from, when it hurts so much. Ah, but perhaps this is what happens as you get older. Things hurt more, and they take longer to heal.

Shipley is already in the kitchens, cooking breakfast.

I set the table, then return to the kitchens to test the food, to make sure it’s safe for the Wytecliffs. The new cook is likeable enough, but I don’t trust him yet, of course. My trust takes a long time to earn.

“Good morning, Maitland,” he greets me, all zest and vibrance.

“Good morning.”

I wander toward the tray of rolls that are cooling on the counter. When he isn’t looking, I pop one of them into my mouth. It’s delicious, warm and soft, stuffed with raisins, cinnamon, and cardamom.

“You know,” he calls across the kitchen, “if you want to try one, you can ask. You don’t have to be sneaky about it.”

I curse under my breath. He caught me. I whip around to face him. “There’s something I need you to understand.” My voice is firm, not harsh—but it’s enough to make him look up from his mixing bowl. “It is my duty first and foremost to serve the Wytecliffs. And I will do everything within my power to ensure that they come to no harm, and that no one under their roof takes advantage of their hospitality.”

I see, to my satisfaction, that Shipley’s smile has faded a little. Good. It’s about time he understood my solemnity. “Do you understand me?”

“Of course,” Shipley says. “I won’t do anything of the sort.”

“Good.” I pause in the doorway as I leave the kitchens. “If you ever try anything untoward, I will find out about it. I know everything that happens at Northwood House.”