Chapter Eleven
Alora felt disappointed by two things that evening.
First, the newspaper had absolutely nothing about the attack on the woman living behind Confectionary Delights.
Second, the potion created at Potions and Peculiarities tasted like sour, bitter water.
She was tired, confused, and terribly scared to sleep.
The walls of her bedroom were green again, but softer and darker than before. Probably because when she’d imagined the color to replace the mess she’d created, she’d thought of certain eyes instead. It soothed her now, though not nearly enough for sleep.
The wallpaper would be ready for Opulence Mansion by tomorrow; she’d need George and the cart to take it all that way.
Her stomach twisted at the thought of it, a tight bundle of nerves she couldn’t unknot, and thus must ignore instead.
William would be there. He was nice, she’d decided, and certainly nice enough to look at—his dancing in minimal clothing would be forever seared into her brain—but there was an intensity in his eyes that gnawed at her.
He didn’t feel quite safe, and not in a thrilling, unknown sort of way.
She thought, guiltily, that at any time he might grow bored of burning alone and so burn her with him too.
What a terrible thought. Of course he wouldn’t.
She might see Lennox, though. A bright spot. She wished to talk with her more, to see if they might schedule an outing or three. To see if they could be friends.
Friends. When Alora thought of friends, she thought of children with foul names on their tongues hurling insults in time with their parents.
Of a small rabbit, strangely shaped, and oddly eyed.
Of Eirian, a town nestled between green hills and endless space to run.
A broken leg needing mending. Her memories were all spice, some pleasant but still biting, but maybe these new memories, hopefully more vivid now, would be sweeter.
She glanced down at the potion-master’s handwritten instructions, smudged with ink and as messy as his shop.
One dropper-full every day. Preferably in the evening.
Her fingertip traced the postscript.
May you have more good dreams—
Later that night, Alora awoke from a nightmare of melted bones, screaming.
***
George had never been down Opulence Mansion’s lane before, and so Alora told him all about it as they neared. His ears continued to prick forward and back, listening to her prattle.
“Do you notice how thick the forest grows here? At night there are flowers, Moonflowers, which glow silver. It’s a different light than the moon, more magical, and they smell like—” Alora scrunched up her nose. “You know, I can’t remember. But it was lovely.”
She wore her cloak even though anyone who had dealings with her would recognize George and her cart should they see her upon the lane—which she didn’t see a way around. Master Merridon hadn’t told her what she should do with her bigger supplies, and so she’d decided to do what she’d always done.
She glanced back at the rolls of paper and the bucket of glue, all accounted for. “At night, the mansion opens for business, and members walk to it carrying lanterns to light the dark. There are many.” A frown creased her features beneath the cowl. “And I’m to be one of them…at the end of this.”
Would she use it? She didn’t know. She could imagine herself, she supposed, sinking into the curved tub hidden behind Door One, her image reflected back to her from every angle.
She could imagine focusing on that singular memory, the one that caused an entire town to shun her, that caused relief to enter her parents’ eyes when she'd announced she was leaving at just twenty-two. They’d been happy to see her go, both for her sake and their own.
She could allow that memory to siphon away, and then perhaps the shame would follow.
She’d think on it.
George slowed as the gate loomed. She scrambled from the cart when the guard stepped forward, pushing back her hood so he might recognize her.
“Hello, again,” she said with a smile, only for it to falter.
Distress showed plainly on the guard's face. “Miss Pennigrim. You’ve…returned.”
“Well, yes. I’ve a job to do.” When the painted guard only looked between her and the donkey with apparent unease, she began to feel uncomfortable herself, reaching into her satchel. “Lemonade today,” she said.
The guard took it, and she was thankful. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t. “You are too kind, Miss Pennigrim. You are...” Again his eyes shifted between her and George.
“What is your name? Are you allowed to tell me? You may call me Alora.”
Finally, a faint smile. “Reginald.”
Alora grinned. “Reginald. I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to bring the donkey, but I’ve a large supply of wallpaper and no way of transporting it.”
Reginald’s smile deteriorated into a grimace. “Yes. The correct thing to have done was to approach Master over the transport.”
Alora’s face fell to match. “Oh. What should I do?”
The guard appeared torn over her question.
He began to say something then stopped, changing course.
“Thank you for the lemonade, Miss Alora.” Then he turned his back to her, walked to the wall, and bent.
Alora watched as he spoke into a gold funnel, piped from the ground.
“Just a moment, please,” he said, facing her once more.
Alora nodded her appreciation, coming around to pat George on the nose. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Reginald take a sip of lemonade, smacking his lips at its end. “Reginald?”
“Yes?”
“Did you mean what you said the other day? That I might not be allowed to leave should I be too late?”
Opulence Mansion’s gate swung in.
Reginald stared at her in silence awhile, his face perfectly, maybe purposefully, blank.
“Yes, I did.”
Alora’s breath caught at his words. “But—” And then her heart stuck fast as well. For out of the gate came a great wheelbarrow, and pushing that wheelbarrow was the greatest man she’d ever seen.
Alora’s eyes refused to blink away the image of those same hairy, muscled arms raking a man bodily into the hedges, though she could see now how he managed it so easily.
The giant of a man glanced toward her, his sunburned brow lowered, his lips pressed closed.
He had long, gray hair down to his shoulders which were covered in a golden tunic stretched tight.
He lumbered over to her and coughed, clearing his throat.
“Mister Macaw is Opulence’s groundskeeper. Allow to him to unload the cart and carry it where you need.”
Alora swallowed, realizing she’d been staring with her mouth wide. “Thank you, Mister Macaw. I just have these things here.”
Mr. Macaw said nothing as he followed her around to the back of the cart. A man of few words, apparently. With two armfuls, he deposited all she had into the oversized wheelbarrow. When he was done, he stood there, watching her. Alora tried for a smile, though it shook.
“What should I do with George while I’m away?”
“Leave him with me, Miss Pennigrim. I’ll make sure no harm comes his way.”
Alora blinked at the guard, taken aback he’d felt the need to add that last bit. “Thank you.” She didn’t tack on his given name, taking his lead. Not in front of Mr. Macaw. “Shall we?”
The groundskeeper stared.
“All right, then.”
Together, they passed through the gate.
Madam Feebledire appeared apoplectic as she rushed toward them breaching the entrance. “Whatever are you doing!”
Alora thought the woman’s coloring matched her crimson vest exact, which didn’t bode well. Fighting nerves, Alora smoothed the fabric of her green dress. “I’m papering the walls today, Madam. Mister Macaw kindly offered to assist me.”
She didn’t need to glance to the large man to know his expression would say nothing of the sort.
“We do not bring wheelbarrows into Opulence.” A hand to her forehead, Madam Feebledire glanced all around the grand hall, then hissed, “You’re lucky Master isn’t here to witness this.”
Alora frowned at her words as the wheelbarrow wasn’t even dirty and opening was hours away yet.
Before she could say anything, however, she turned toward the sound of scraping.
Mr. Macaw stacked nearly all of what she’d brought along into his arms. Hurrying to help, she grabbed ahold of the bucket of glue and the brush.
“Madam,” grunted the man in a voice drawn out and impossibly deep. Then he looked toward Alora, who laughed in surprise.
Following his lead, Alora also said, “Madam Feebledire.” Then she inclined her head before walking away.
“You—you cannot simply leave this here!”
“Be back soon,” said the groundskeeper staring ahead.
“Mister Macaw!”
When the pair entered Door Twenty-five, Alora immediately set to lighting the lamp. She turned back when it was done and found the groundskeeper where she’d left him, standing in the doorway. A deep line had formed between his eyebrows as he perused the newly brightened space.
“I know. I haven’t done much to it yet. Nothing actually.
But half the work is in the planning, and that I’ve finished.
” Smiling like they were old friends, she began to unpack his arms. “Thank you for carrying these all that way. You’re so kind.
” The groundskeeper grunted, depositing what she hadn’t taken onto the floor.
“Though I’m not sure what Madam Feebledire has against the wheelbarrow.
What do you use it for? Carrying dirt? The grounds are very nicely kept. ” She began to unroll the paper.
“Dirt,” agreed Mr. Macaw. “Trimmings. Trespassers.”
Alora straightened at that. “Trespassers?” But Mr. Macaw, seeing her work, began to unroll alongside her.
“Oh, you needn’t do that. I don’t want to keep you from your obligations.
” She swallowed, imagining the darted man hauled away, limbs bent awkward and limp within the wheelbarrow. His work would scar her.
“You’re not tall enough.”