Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

When Lucy turned to face the table he gave a start, for Klara and Mewe had snuck in and were sitting upright, hands laid flat before them, a portrait of obedience but for the hint of mirth clinging to their lips. Lucy suspected their sneaking in was a prank played on him, some bit of mischief for his benefit or at his expense. It was harmless enough, as pranks went; but why did his face burn so as he sat down? Klara, spoon in fist, covered her face and silently shuddered; Mewe produced a series of discreet snorts. Memel, sitting, took note of their good humour but had no inkling of its origin. He leaned forward on his elbows and asked hopefully,

“Is there a joke?”

“No,” said Mewe and Klara together.

“There’s not a joke?”

“No.”

Memel tried to let it go, but could not: “Oh, tell us the joke, already.” He was genuinely curious; he himself wanted to laugh with the others — he wore a smile on his face, in anticipation of the introduction of something amusing. But when they offered no explanation, he grimaced, and told Lucy, “This is rude behaviour.”

Lucy merely stared at his stew, waiting for the painful moment to pass. Quietly, he told Memel, “It’s something private between them, I suppose.” Klara sat up alertly when he said this, as if she’d been stuck with a pin, and now she scrutinized Lucy for such a length of time that he thought nothing else would do but to face her.

When their eyes met, and held, he felt once again the instance of import, only more powerfully than before. There was in him an actual reverberation, and his blood hurried every which way. He could not intuit what Klara was experiencing, if anything, but there was something in his expression which alarmed or startled her, and she suddenly looked away. When she did this, his heart caught, and he wished to reach out to her, to take up her hand in his own. Now it was her turn to blush, he noticed with satisfaction.

Lucy settled into his supper. The stew was deliciously spicy, so that sweat beaded at his temples under his cap, and his tongue was singed with a pulsing heat. Memel poured him a glass of water but Lucy, recalling what lay at the bottom of the barrel, opted for wine. He only rarely drank alcohol, and it birthed in him a feeling of jauntiness, and he decided he might have some small celebration with himself. By the time he had finished his stew he was working on his third glass, and a confidence or sense of ease settled over him. Mewe and Klara carried on with their private whisperings and gigglings, but Lucy wasn’t embarrassed by this; in fact he thought it just that they were devoting these attentions to him. Was he not a funny one, after all? This pale and underfed young stranger with a puppy in his pocket? He made no protest, he took no offence, but began to prepare his pipe, for now he finally had his audience, and they would witness his smoking and wonder at the complexity of his thoughts. Alas, when the sharp smoke jabbed at his naked throat he emitted a single cough which blasted the pipe’s contents fully over his head. Memel, Mewe, and Klara found this a glad event; the three of them laughed frankly, loudly, and for a lengthy period of time. Lucy knew, even while the tobacco was hurtling through the air, that he could never recover from this social blunder; he solemnly returned his pipe to his coat pocket, drained his wine, and poured himself another.

The room was in motion, lazily wheeling, bringing to mind the dizziness he’d experienced when climbing the stairwell to his quarters in the castle — a moderately unsettling yet not entirely displeasing sensation. He removed the puppy from his pocket and laid her on the table, tickling and teasing her. She reared and bit his hand, but she was so slight that this caused no pain, and he laughed at the futility of it. Klara’s features were blurred in the woozy candlelight; she was watching Lucy with seeming indifference. And yet she didn’t look away, either.

The wine was going down like water, and Lucy had arrived at the point of drunkenness where he couldn’t hold a thought. His lips became lazy and his words were slurred; this amused the others, who put any number of questions to him, that they might expose and celebrate his state.

An ugliness took shape in Lucy’s mind. It was obvious to him that these people would never welcome him into their society, and that they wanted him around only to make sport of him. When he saw the white-booted puppy peering out from behind the water barrel, he knew he had been tricked by Memel, and this was the final insult. He stood and lurched towards the door, with the others calling after him, their voices choked with cackling, gasping laughter. Memel crossed over, clinging to Lucy’s coat and imploring him to stay; Lucy pulled away, stepping clear of the shanty and into an oceanic windstorm which instantly plucked his cap from his head and gobbled it up. Realizing the puppy still was clutched in his hand, Lucy turned, thinking to return it to Memel, but Klara was standing in the doorway with a repentant look on her face and Lucy felt he couldn’t meet her again. He tucked the puppy away in his pocket and resumed his uneven snow-marching towards the looming, blacker-than-night castle.

His mood was profoundly resentful as he caromed off the walls of the spiral staircase, bumbling in the dark, hands outstretched like a blind beggar. He had had it in his mind that once he left Bury he would become a second man, and this man would command if not respect, then at least civility. But here it was much the same, it seemed: he was derided and made to look the fool; the villagers had identified him on the spot as one who could not be considered a serious person. In remembering his departure from the shanty, it occurred to him that Memel had stolen his pipe again. Checking his pocket, he found this to be so, and he paused at the top of the stairs to issue a hissing sound.

He fell into bed, not bothering to undress. The puppy crawled from his pocket and began nosing about under the blankets; Lucy watched the lump creeping towards this and that cavern and crevasse. He drifted into uneasy slumber, his dreams descriptive of impossible frustrations, a vanishing doorway here, a never-ending staircase there. This marked the completion of his first day at the castle.

In the morning there stood at the foot of Lucy’s bed a small round human woman wearing an exceedingly white smock and a look of displeasure. She had short grey hair and her face was also grey. Actually her hair and face were similar in colour to the point of being confusing, even jarring, to Lucy. Her hands, resting atop her stomach, were so deeply red as to appear scalded. This was Agnes, the cook.

“Were you not told to lock the door?” she said.

“Hello. Yes. Good morning, ma’am. I was.” Lucy’s head was throbbing, and his throat was so dry that it was difficult to speak. His boots were peering out from beneath the blankets and Agnes, pointing, asked,

“Is this the custom, where you come from?”

“I fell asleep,” Lucy explained, sitting up.

“That’s to be expected, when one is in bed. But why did you not take the boots off before sleep came, is my question.” Agnes drew back the blanket; the sheets were stained with earth and snow. When the puppy clambered out, Agnes gasped. “Goodness! I thought it was a rat.”

“It’s not a rat, ma’am.”

“That’s clear now .” She reached down and scratched the puppy’s chin. “Does Mr Olderglough know you keep an animal?”

“No.”

“And how long were you planning on hiding it from him?”

“It’s nothing I’ve been hiding, ma’am. That is, it’s only just come to pass.”

“It’s something he will want to hear about.”