Chapter 9

Before

I am transported back to the tiny kitchen where Gran and I enjoyed so many meals together when I was a child. It’s the morning after I looked into the steely eye of the troll that lives behind the wall in the Grimthorpe library. Was I frightened? Yes. Did I run? I did. But the troll did not eat me. I did not turn to stone or melt on the spot. I faced the monster, and I survived.

I swing my little legs back and forth under our worn country kitchen table. Gran brings over two steaming bowls of cinnamon porridge. I take in the scent that to this day I equate with goodness and home.

“Gran, if you were rich, what would you spend your money on?” I ask between warm mouthfuls.

“A private school for you, with kind and patient teachers. And a small house we could call our own, with no bills or landlord, and two easy chairs by the fireplace.”

“When we’re rich, can we have tea with clotted cream every single day?”

“Every single day,” she replies.

“Tell me again, Gran. What happened to my mother?”

It comes out of nowhere, and it takes her by surprise. She puts down her spoon. “Your mother left us,” she says.

“I know that,” I reply as I try to conjure a memory of her face, but I draw a complete blank. All I can envisage is the framed photo of her that Gran keeps in the living room. That photo was taken when my mother was only a few years older than I am now.

“Your mother had demons,” Gran says. “She got lost in the labyrinth, as people sometimes do. By the time I realized she’d been wooed away by a fly-by-night, it was too late to save her.”

I think about the troll in the mansion. He seems not nearly as frightening as my mother’s demons or the winged fly-by-night that wooed her away. You can fight monsters you can see, or you can run away from them. But the invisible ones are inescapable.

I swirl my spoon around in my bowl. “Gran, what happens if you die?”

Her eyes grow two sizes. “My dear girl, I’m not going to die.”

“That’s a lie,” I say as I plunk down my spoon in protest.

“You’re right. I will die one day. But not soon. And besides, even when I’m gone, I won’t leave you. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there with you, always.”

“Like a ghost?”

“Yes. Like a friendly ghost haunting you for the rest of your days. And reminding you to brush your teeth when you’re done with your breakfast.” She smiles and grazes my cheek with her palm.

I pick up my empty bowl and place it in the sink, then rush down the hallway to our tiny washroom, where I brush my teeth as instructed. A few minutes later, I meet Gran by our front door.

“To the mansion we go,” she says. She’s crouching down, tying her right shoe. When she’s finished, she gazes up at me. “Molly, promise you’ll tell me if you’re unhappy at the mansion?” Her eyes are scrunched and glassy.

“Unhappy? Gran, I love it there. I love to clean.”

“You certainly made a good impression on Mrs. Grimthorpe with all that silver you polished yesterday. She called you ‘obedient and compliant,’ which from her is as high a compliment as they come. She has a surprise for you today.”

“A surprise?” I ask. “What is it?”

Gran stands and pinches my cheek. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Together, we head out on our long commute. I spend the entire journey imagining what surprise a woman like Mrs. Grimthorpe could have in store for me. Used gray pajamas? A lump of coal in a darned stocking? A hairy spider in a jar?

But when Mrs. Grimthorpe opens the heavy front door to the mansion, she announces it right away. “Your grandmother and I had a chat the other day while we were shopping. We’ve come to a conclusion,” she says.

“About what?” I ask.

“About you,” Mrs. Grimthorpe replies, as her eyes narrow to pinpoints, sticking me to my place like a butterfly affixed to a board. “Mr. Grimthorpe and I have always maintained that bad habits can be broken, and that a mannered, well-educated child is preferable to a lazy ragamuffin.”

“R-A-G-A-M-U-F-F-I-N. Meaning: a gadabout?”

“Or a ne’er-do-well,” says Gran.

“The great unwashed,” Mrs. Grimthorpe adds with grave finality.

“What Mrs. Grimthorpe is saying,” Gran explains, “is that all children—and even adults—are capable of learning; it’s just that some need to learn in their own ways, and an institution, such as a school or other facility, is not the place for everyone.”

“But no person, be they adult or child, should waste a chance at betterment,” Mrs. Grimthorpe adds.

“Including you, Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask.

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s hands spring to her waist and her pointy elbows jut out dangerously. “I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “that there are two women standing before you who have sacrificed greatly for the betterment of a loved one, and someday, you will come to understand that, though it’s clear that at present your mind is so filled with childish poppycock there’s not much room for anything else.”

“What Mrs. Grimthorpe is trying to say,” Gran cuts in, “is that you did such a good job cleaning the silver yesterday that she, in her infinite kindness, wants to reward you. Isn’t that what you’re getting at, Mrs. Grimthorpe?”

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s face contorts as though paying me a compliment might very well send her into paroxysms. “We have a library upstairs,” she eventually says. “It is filled to the rafters with books. Mr. Grimthorpe and I have always maintained that books can rehabilitate anyone. I understand you enjoy reading.”

I nod repeatedly.

“Very well. From now on, you will polish and clean for half the day, and you will read for the other half. If you can’t attend school, then the least you can do is self-educate.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It sounds too good to be true. I look at Gran for confirmation. She smiles and nods.

“Follow me,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “To the library.”

“Oh, I know where—” I stop myself just in time. “Yes, madam,” I say.

Mrs. Grimthorpe heads up the main staircase, which creaks and groans under every footfall. I trail close behind her. At the first landing, I look out the window and see the lady in blue walking toward the side of the mansion just as she did yesterday.

“Where’s her office?” I ask Mrs. Grimthorpe.

“Whose office?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks as she pauses on the landing.

“Hers,” I say, pointing to the elegant lady in the blue kerchief and gloves pushing through the side door.

“That, young lady, is categorically and conclusively none of your business. Understood?”

In the interest of keeping the peace, I nod and keep my mouth firmly shut.

Mrs. Grimthorpe starts up the next flight of stairs and I follow behind her. Once we make it to the landing, we head down the long corridor that I’ve traversed on my own once before. The lights overhead track us as if by magic, turning on as we pass and illuminating the damask wallpaper. How strange that the pattern, which was full of watchful evil eyes the last time I was here, has transformed into a refined and pleasing paisley. We pass bedroom after bedroom after bedroom—but no office—until at last we’re standing at the threshold of the breathtaking library.

Mrs. Grimthorpe enters and pulls back the heavy velvet draperies from the long window on one wall. Daylight streams in and dust motes dance like sprites in the air. My eyes turn to the crack in the wall near the floor in front of me. There’s no light beam coming through today, and not a sound can be heard on the other side of the wall. For a moment, I wonder if my mind played tricks on me yesterday. Maybe there’s no troll after all. Maybe it was all a figment of my overactive imagination.

“What you are seeing in this library is one of the finest private collections of leather-bound rare editions you will ever encounter in the English-speaking world,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “Mr. Grimthorpe has personally studied every facet of every book in this room, and each one has inspired his literary pursuits. He is an erudite man who has earned his sterling reputation through serious scholarship. It is a privilege for a girl like you to even be allowed to step into a room like this. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I understand.”

“Your grandmother seems to think you’re a gifted reader, though I suspect her of being prone to overweening filial blindness and general hyperbole.”

I scan the shelf on the wall in front of us for a dictionary in which I can look up several of the words Mrs. Grimthorpe just used. I spot one and reach for it.

“No!” Mrs. Grimthorpe snaps. The caustic force of her rebuke sends me hurtling backward.

“You are not allowed to take any books from the fourth wall,” she commands. “You may take books from this wall, that one, and the other, but you are never, ever to touch the wall in front of you. Is that clear? Those volumes are precious collector’s items, and I won’t have you ruining them the way you ruined our Fabergé.”

I stare up at her pinched face, which resembles a crumpled paper bag. I can’t find my voice, so I nod in response.

“You may read in here for a few hours. After tea, you will return to your duty of polishing silver downstairs. Make use of your time, Molly. A good mind is a terrible thing to waste. Opportunities for self-improvement are precious.”

With that she turns on her heel, marches down the damask hallway, and descends the main staircase as the lights above dim in her wake.

Once she’s gone, I survey the luminous library. I can’t believe my good fortune. How is it that I’m allowed to sit here and read? I walk over to the far wall, one of the three I’m allowed to touch. I run my hands along the spines. Murder on the Orient Express,The Hound of the Baskervilles,Great Expectations. I pry out Great Expectations with my index finger and carry the heavy indigo tome over to the chaise longue, where I sit down, crack open the cover, and begin.

I’m acquainting myself with an unfortunate young orphan named Pip when I hear it—creaking footsteps from beyond the fourth wall. There’s an audible click, and then light spills through the crack in the wall, throwing a long shadow on the floor in the library.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

The sound of a typewriter yet again.

“Bloody bugger and tarnation! Rubbish and gibberish!” I hear, the growl of a hungry troll on the other side of the forbidden wall.

I put down my book and tiptoe toward the voice. I know I shouldn’t. I’ve been told not to touch that wall, but I lay my hand on the Oxford dictionary and press my ear against the Atlas of the World so I can hear the troll more clearly. No sooner does my hand make contact than something gives way. The wall springs open.

“AHHHhhhhhhhh!” I scream as I jump back in surprise.

“Wahhhhhhh!” I hear in deep echo.

Before I can even process what’s happened, I’m standing in front of a lean, rickety man seated at a colossal mahogany desk between two looming stacks of Moleskine notebooks. His salt-and-pepper hair is wildly unkempt, his steely blue eyes are drilling into mine with a look that, if I’m not mistaken, betrays either cannibalistic intent or abject confusion.

My hand trembles on the Oxford dictionary, but I cannot let it go because the entire bookcase is in fact a hidden door that I’m propping open with my hand.

“Who in the dickens are you?” asks the being before me as he clutches a black-and-gold fountain pen, wielding it above his head like a knife. I cannot quite tell if he’s going to stab me or take notes, but when I look at his hand, I notice I’m not the only one trembling.

“Speak!” he booms. “What are you doing here?”

I fear my very life depends on my answer, and yet I’m not sure what to say.

“I’m…I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” I say. “I mean no harm.”

“Who are you?” he growls. “To whom do you belong?”

“To my gran?” I say. “She works here.”

“The maid?” he asks.

“Yes. The maid. I’m her granddaughter. My name is…” I suddenly remember that Gran expressly forbids me from telling strangers my name.

“Call me Pip,” I say, punctuating this with a wobbly curtsy.

“In that case,” he replies, “I shall expect great things from you.”

I look at him for a moment, afraid that doing so might convert me to dust. “Are you a troll or a man?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“How refreshing. Never have I been asked that question so directly. I’m a bit of both, I suppose,” he says. “I’m what’s known as a misanthrope.”

“Misanthorpe,” I repeat. “M-I-S-A-N-T-H-O-R-P-E.”

“Incorrect. You’ve confused it with Grimthorpe. You’ve reversed two letters.”

I look carefully at the being before me. He’s thin and lithe, with no facial hair at all. His skin is pale and smooth. His teeth are straight and clean, not pointed, bloodthirsty fangs. His hair is unruly and might be possessed, but he himself is dressed neatly in a button-down blue shirt, pressed slacks, and monogrammed corduroy slippers. My eyes flitter around the spartan room, taking in the details. There’s a reading chair in the corner piled with newspapers. There’s the desk, with the looming piles of black Moleskines stacked on top. There’s also a bookcase on the far wall, every spine sporting the name J. D. Grimthorpe. Though the study is far from tidy, there are no bones of children or other small mammals strewn about. There is no evidence whatsoever of overt monstrosity.

“You’re not a troll,” I say. “You’re a man. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe, the very important writer who should not be disturbed.”

He crosses his arms and scrutinizes me. “Is that what she told you? My wife?”

I nod.

“Well, then,” he replies. “What an enormous privilege for you to be in the presence of such hallowed greatness.” He stands from his desk and offers a bow. “I suppose she also told you never to come into my study.” He slaps his pointy pen down on his desk, much to my relief. Then he walks in front of his desk and perches on it, right between the teetering stacks of black monogrammed Moleskines. He glares at me with his two steely blue eyes, one of which I saw yesterday through the crack under the door, though I can’t be sure which eye it was.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I explain. “I heard a voice. I didn’t know your study was behind the wall. I was sitting in the library reading a book.”

“Reading? What were you reading?”

“A book about a child with no mother or father, just like me.”

“Ah yes. I see. Great Expectations. Precocious.”

“Precocious,” I repeat. I know this word. I’ve been called it before. “Meaning: clever, intelligent. Ahead of one’s peers.”

“Evidently,” he replies.

He starts to pace in front of his desk, occasionally glancing at me with those piercing eyes. “So you like to read,” he says.

“Yes, I do,” I reply. My knees are shaking, but clearly they’re not connected to my mouth after all, because despite my terror, I’m still capable of speech.

“Why do you like to read?” Mr. Grimthorpe asks.

He’s so tall and knobby it’s as though he’s formed entirely of acute angles, and yet he moves with stealthy grace. He awaits my answer to his impossible question.

I search my mind for what to say and eventually an idea bubbles to the surface. “Reading helps me understand things,” I say. “And people. I also like to visit other worlds.”

“Don’t like the one you’re in?”

“Not always, no.”

“Hmm.” He huffs as he rests an elbow on one of the Moleskine stacks on his desk. “So the misanthrope and the child have something in common.”

Suddenly, his face clouds over like the sky before a summer rain. It takes me a moment, but I work up the courage. “I told you why I read,” I say. “So why do you write?”

He scratches his head, pauses. “I write to prove that I can, and to exorcise my demons. My name will live in infamy the way the names of all those writers in my library do—in perpetuum.”

“Meaning?”

“Forever,” he replies.

“But you’re already a very famous writer. Isn’t that enough?”

His arms cross against his spindly chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a disturbingly acute ability to rub salt in a wound?”

“My gran says that must be done to clean it.”

“Hmm. She’s said the very same thing to me,” he replies. “They don’t know you’re in here, do they? Your grandmother and my wife?”

I shake my head.

“They won’t like it. The Great Writer is not to be disturbed. He’s mercurial. Unpredictable. An angry, middle-aged, newly teetotaling creative tyrant with a penchant to fly off the handle for no good reason. Furthermore, he’s busy redefining the mystery genre for the contemporary age.”

“So you’re writing a new book?”

“Of course I am. What on earth do you think all these Moleskines are for?” He grabs one from the looming pile, strides my way, and places it in my hands.

I gingerly open the notebook to a random page. It’s filled with messy, smudged scrawl. I focus on the words, but I can’t make head or tails of what’s written. It’s either penned in another language or written in some kind of code I can’t decipher.

Before I can ask about this, he snatches the notebook from my hands, slams it shut, and places it back on the teetering stack.

“It’s not easy, you know,” he says. “To conceive a masterpiece, a book that withstands the test of time.” His voice has lost all its growl and bite. He suddenly resembles a petulant, overgrown child. I’m reminded of the moment when I first laid eyes on the Fabergé in the parlor downstairs—a jewel-encrusted treasure concealed under centuries of grime, and yet I saw it for what it was.

“It’s a matter of polish,” I say. “With most things, especially masterpieces, it’s about removing the tarnish to reveal the shine.”

He stares at me through narrowed eyes. He takes two loping steps my way, then crouches to meet me at eye level. He’s an arm’s length away, and yet I’m not afraid. Not anymore. I see him for what he is. He’s not a troll or a monster. He’s just a man.

“Are you a child philosopher?” he asks. “A court jester? The palace fool? She who can say what others don’t dare to?”

“Gran says I have wisdom beyond my years.”

“The maid who knows all. There’s shine under her tarnish, too.” He hoists himself to a stand. “You’re welcome to visit me anytime, provided you don’t get underfoot.”

“Your feet aren’t nearly as large or hairy as I imagined they’d be,” I reply. “Mr. Grimthorpe, may I ask you one more question?”

“Ms. Pip, you may.”

“Where is the woman in the blue kerchief and gloves? Your personal secretary.”

“In her office, doing my bidding,” he says.

“Does she type up your Moleskines? I always hear someone typing.”

“Naturally,” he replies.

“And is that all she does?”

That’s when it happens. His face clouds over again and his eyes turn to slits. “Who exactly do you think you are? Of course that’s all she does! Now get out!” he roars.

I’m glued to my spot. I want to run, but it’s as though I’ve been turned to stone.

“Did you hear me or are you an imbecile? I said get OUT!” he growls.

My feet untether from the floor, and I rush out of the room, the secret door slamming shut behind me and becoming a wall of books once more. I stand breathless and alone in the library, my heart pounding in my ears. I have no idea what I’ve done wrong or in what way I’ve caused offense.

“Molly?” I hear. It’s Gran’s singsong voice, echoing up the stairs.

“Sorry to interrupt your reading, but can you come downstairs? It’s teatime!”

“Coming!” I call down.

I grab my book from the chaise longue and put it back on the far shelf. I take one last look at the shaft of light spilling onto the floor from the hidden study behind the wall. Then, with a sick feeling in the base of my stomach, I rush out of the library and hurry to the safety of tea and my gran.