Fullepub 
Chapter 5
Before
Do you ever wonder what it would be like to go back to places you remember from your childhood, to see them again through adult eyes? Would they look the same or would they appear smaller, like objects in a rearview mirror, not because they have changed but because you have?
In my mind I hear the mechanical grumble of a black wrought-iron gate closing behind me.
“One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life,” Gran says. She places her warm hand on my back and urges me up the rose-lined pathway toward the Grimthorpe mansion.
“Are you sure it’s not a museum?”
“It’s a private residence, my dear,” Gran says. “Though I hesitate to call it a home.”
“Why?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
As we walk, I reach out and touch the soft, satiny petals of the resplendent blood-red rose blossoms.
“Careful,” Gran says. “You must always watch out for the thorns.”
I retract my hand and find Gran’s once more. “Are there other maids and workers in the mansion?” I ask as we reach the halfway point on the long path.
“Not anymore,” Gran replies. “Most have been…dismissed. There’s a gardener and the security guard in the watchtower by the gate. Inside the house proper, they trust almost no one. It’s a massive residence, but I’m nearly the only one allowed inside these days.”
“Nearly?”
“The point is the house is not exactly brimming with social activity. The Grimthorpes keep to themselves.”
“It sounds perfect,” I reply.
“You’ll soon meet Mrs. Grimthorpe, who demands loyal subservience at all times, but her husband, Mr. Grimthorpe, is largely invisible these days…except when he’s not.”
An eerie tremor runs through me as I imagine a miasma, a human specter, a partially invisible man. “Is he a ghost?” I ask.
Gran chuckles. “In a way,” she says. “He’s a writer who locks himself in his study most of the time. Mrs. Grimthorpe insists his foul disposition is a sign of artistic genius and that he’s above us common folk. We are to serve him and her both without question. Whatever you do, Molly, do not disturb his writing. I’d advise keeping a safe distance since he’s a bit of a troll, with a temperament that ranges from melancholic to diabolic.”
A new image of the man takes shape in my mind—a stout, hirsute bridge troll with red, beady eyes, a hunched back, and a carnivorous underbite. “And Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask hopefully. “Does she have children of her own?”
“She does not,” Gran replies. “She has devoted her entire life to the welfare of her husband, and to protecting the family’s good name.”
“Does she at least like children?” I ask.
“I highly doubt it,” Gran replies, “but we’re about to find out.”
We have traversed the long, winding path and now find ourselves in front of the immense front door with its menacing brass knocker in the shape of an angry lion’s head.
“Go on, then,” Gran says. I take the heavy mandible in my tiny hand, knocking it twice against the hard wood.
High-heeled steps are heard behind the door, then the knob turns. I hurry back to my safe place by Gran’s side.
The door creaks open to reveal a woman about Gran’s height and age, her face long, her lips a thin, downturned pout.
Gran puts one foot behind the other, lowers her eyes, and curtsies, something I’ve never seen her do before.
“Flora?” the dour woman says, her voice crackling like a scratchy phonograph record. “What on earth is that?”
The woman’s squinty eyes turn upon me as I press into Gran’s side.
“This is Molly, my granddaughter,” Gran says, her voice steady and strong. “I humbly request your permission for her to stay for the day.”
“Stay where?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks.
“Madam, there was an issue at her school today, most unexpected. There’s no one else for her to be with while I work, so I’m begging your permission for her to stay here during my shift. She’s a good girl. She never makes a fuss. She’s…she’s my treasure.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe huffs, then puts her spindly fingers to her forehead as though this news has caused the onset of a terrific fever. “The maid seeking childcare from her employers. Ridiculous in every conceivable way.” She shakes her head. “I’ll extend my generosity for today, but just know, my beneficence has a limit, and that limit is five p.m. today.”
“Beneficence,” I say. “B-E-N-E-F-I-C-E-N-C-E. Meaning: kindness, mercy, charity.” I curtsy and bow my head, just like Gran did a few moments ago.
“What on earth was all that?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks.
“Spelling bee,” Gran explains. “She’s very good at it.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe’s black-hole eyes drill into mine. “There are rules in this house, young lady. And you shall obey every last one of them.”
“I like rules,” I say.
“Good. Rule Number One: children are to be seen and not heard. Correction: children are not to be seen and not to be heard.”
I nod, afraid to speak since doing so contravenes Rule Number One.
“Rule Number Two: no shrieking, no yelling, no whining, no running, no sound at all.”
I nod again.
“Rule Number Three: you are not—under any circumstances—to disturb Mr. Grimthorpe. He will not take kindly to it, and nor will I. His literary endeavors are of the utmost importance, and his work cannot be interrupted. Do you understand?”
I nod yet again as my fingers tighten in Gran’s hand.
“Molly is exceptionally polite and well behaved,” Gran says. “She will be content to sit quietly in the parlor.”
“And how will she entertain herself?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks. “Idle hands are the devil’s plaything, and I’ll not have her destroying the house out of boredom.”
“I’ll entertain myself with my rich imagination,” I reply, realizing too late that I’ve just broken a rule. I add a “madam,” hoping this cancels out my mistake.
Mrs. Grimthorpe sighs, then steps aside, allowing us to cross the threshold to the mansion.
The foyer is grander than anything I’ve ever seen, with a polished black marble floor inlaid with intricate geometric patterns and a dark oak staircase winding up to a high second story. A full-length gilded mirror on the wall to my left reflects my shocked face back at me. The mirror’s frame is so golden that I’m certain it’s the magic one from Snow White. When I look up, the ceiling is so sky-high that I get a crick in my neck. Hanging from an impossibly thin filament above our heads is a sparkling modern chandelier made of thousands of icy crystal shards. Down the hall, I spot paintings on the walls, and they really are as Gran said—not images of any figures I recognize, but bold, abstract blobs of color that appear thrown onto the canvas rather than brushed.
Mrs. Grimthorpe shuts the door behind us with a hollow thud.
“I’ll set you up in the parlor, Molly,” Gran says. “You can work on my needlepoint. How does that sound?”
“Get to it quickly,” Mrs. Grimthorpe commands. “The conservatory windows won’t clean themselves, Flora.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe turns on her heel and click-clacks down the hallway, disappearing into the mysterious interior depths of the mansion. Gran gives me a little pat on the shoulder, then leads me through double-glass doors into the first giant room on our right. “The parlor,” she announces.
I feel dizzy and giddy as I take it in—the royal-blue high-back chairs, the ornamental moldings that resemble icing on a cake, the classical paintings that fill every inch of wall—ships and shipwrecks, ladies billowing in pretty petticoats, hunting parties advancing on wide-eyed foxes in verdant forests. And finally, on the mantel above the dark mouth of the fireplace, set dead center, is the most striking object I have ever seen. Resting on an intricate tarnished pedestal, encrusted in diamonds and other fine jewels, sits a glowing, pearlescent ornamental egg. It is not large. It would fit in the palm of my hand. It’s so hypnotically beautiful I cannot look away.
“Best close your mouth, dear, before the flies get in,” Gran says.
I do as I’m told, but I cannot take my eyes off the enchanting object on the mantel.
“Mrs. Grimthorpe claims it’s a Fabergé,” Gran says. “A precious antiquity passed down through generations. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“A treasure,” I reply breathlessly.
“I’ve always loved this room,” Gran says. “They’ve modernized the entrance and some of the other salons, but I love this parlor best of all. Come now.” Gran pulls me from my reverie toward one of the royal-blue high-back chairs. “You sit here and work on my pillow. You can stitch the little pink-and-blue flowers. Remember how I showed you?”
I do remember. The needle is a rabbit—you loop it down the hole, then once it’s under, you tie a knot to keep it safe.
“I best hurry to the conservatory. If you think Mrs. Grimthorpe’s grumpy now, believe me, you won’t want to see her if I don’t start those windows soon.”
Gran does a funny thing then. She crouches in front of me and grabs my hands. “I’m so sorry,” she says as her eyes fill with tears. “You deserve better, but I don’t know what else to do.”
I have no idea why she’s upset. My stomach curdles as I watch her tears fall. “Don’t cry, Gran,” I say. “Don’t you remember what you always say about me finding my happy place?”
“Once you find it, all will be well?”
“Yes,” I reply. “And, Gran?”
“What?” she asks.
“I just found it.”
—After Gran leaves the parlor, I spend a long while sitting in that royal-blue high-back chair, taking in every fine detail of the majestic room, studying and memorizing, recording each object in an imaginary ledger in my mind. This way, even if I never return to the Grimthorpe mansion, I can always revisit it in my memory.
This is a technique I learned on a school field trip to the national gallery not so long ago. Though I was laughed at by my classmates and scolded for reading every descriptive tag on every exhibit, I didn’t care. Nothing mattered more than what I was building in my mind—not just a happy place but a happy palace.
Once I’ve enumerated every painting, tapestry, and piece of art in the Grimthorpe parlor, I re-create the details with my eyes closed, and only after I have a complete picture stored do I pick up Gran’s needlepoint pillow. I start with a pink-and-blue flower, but before long, my eyelids feel heavy. I rest Gran’s embroidery in my lap and allow my eyes to close.
“Teatime!” I hear, and my eyes startle open. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Gran is standing in front of me. I check the clock on the coffee table and am shocked to see that the minute hand has made more than a full rotation.
“I see you got some rest,” Gran says. “No wonder you’re tired, Molly. You’ve had quite a morning.”
Beside her is a cart on wheels containing a steaming pot of tea, a robin’s-egg-blue teacup on a delicate porcelain saucer, a basket of fresh-baked currant scones, clotted cream in a pretty pink bowl, lemon slices in a yellow one, cucumber finger sandwiches on a side plate, crusts removed, and one ornate silver spoon.
“Who is all this for? You said the Grimthorpes never entertain guests,” I say.
Gran laughs. “I assure you they don’t. This is all for you.”
I can hardly believe it. On Saturdays, Gran prepares us a special tea with crumpets, which we eat at our small secondhand kitchen table in our cramped apartment. Once, for my eighth birthday, Gran bought clotted cream, which was so delightfully delicious I’ve never forgotten the taste. I asked if we could have it every weekend, but Gran shook her head. “I wish we could,” she said. “But the cost is too dear.”
Now, Gran prepares my tea just the way I like it—two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk. She fills a side plate with delectable treats and places it on the bowlegged side table next to me. She folds a clean cloth over the arm of my chair, presumably for crumbs and spills.
“Won’t you join me, Gran?” I fully expect her to pull up a chair. I can’t wait to tell her all about my mind palace, how I’ve committed every item in this room to memory, from the pheasants in the hand-woven rug to the assortment of fine jewels on the Fabergé egg, just in case I never come back to this glorious mansion.
“Molly, I can’t join you. I’ve got more windows to clean,” Gran says. “But I’ll check in on you later. Today is dusting day—so dust we must. Later, you can keep me company while I clean this room. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Gran,” I reply.
Her hand grazes my cheek. Then she leaves the room.
I marvel once more at the tea cart. I prepare one scone with clotted cream and marmalade, then another. I devour both, washing them down with tea that tastes like citrus and roses steeped in sunshine. I pour myself a second cup using two hands, just like Gran taught me. I’m proud of myself for not spilling a drop.
I try to pace myself, chewing every bite at least twenty times, but before long, the basket of scones is empty and all that’s left on the sandwich plate is a sprinkle of crumbs. I return my dishes to the tea cart. It’s then that I spot the cloth Gran left on the arm of my chair. It gives me an idea. Why should I spend my time enjoying tea and embroidering when I can make myself useful?
Do a good deed for someone in need. Gran taught me that.
I pick up the cloth and start by wiping the crumbs from my chair. Then I continue Gran’s chore by dusting and polishing the side table until it shines. I move through the room, wiping every surface, not just tabletops and chairs but also the frames on the wall, at least the ones I can reach. I dust the clock on the coffee table and the leather-bound books on it, too. I dust trinkets and statues, lamp bases and shades, windowsills and sashes.
There’s only one item in the room left to polish—the stunning but tarnished Fabergé egg. I pick it up off the mantel and carefully carry it to my chair. I sit and rest the precious objet in my lap. It’s heavier than it looks and even more beautiful up close. The arching legs of the pedestal are decorated with intricate garlands, the fine diamonds and opalescent pearls on the egg itself are inlaid in perfectly symmetrical rows. The gold pedestal may be dull and discolored now, but I know just what to do to fix that.
I grab a couple of lemon slices from the tea cart and squeeze the liquid onto the stained legs the way Gran showed me when we clean our secondhand silver at home. Using her cloth, I rub and polish, I buff and scour. When I’m finished, my hands and fingers are tired, but there is not a single spot on that golden pedestal that doesn’t glint and glimmer. I bring the egg to the mantel and put it back on its base, where it shines like a miniature sun.
That’s when I hear it, a raspy voice behind me. “What have you done?”
I jump and turn around.
Mrs. Grimthorpe stands at the entrance of the room, one bony finger pointing at the glowing Fabergé. I hear rushed footsteps, and then Gran appears at the threshold as well. She looks at the cleaning cloth and the bowl of lemons I left on my chair.
“Molly,” Gran says. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d get a head start on your cleaning chore,” I reply. “Dust we must. I’m polishing, too. The Fabergé was so dirty, Gran. I don’t think it has ever been cleaned.”
I’m expecting Gran to compliment me on my initiative, but instead she puts one hand over her mouth.
“You wretched girl!” Mrs. Grimthorpe shrieks, thereby breaking her very own Rule Number Two about raised voices in the house. She turns to Gran. “She’s just stripped the patina off a priceless antiquity!”
“I didn’t harm it,” I say. “Look, it shines.”
“You’re an imbecile!” Mrs. Grimthorpe screeches, her bony finger still pointing at me as though I’m a five-legged toad or a two-headed calf, or some other unnatural abomination.
“She was only trying to help,” Gran offers.
“She’s a half-wit! She destroyed the value of a Fabergé! If I told Mr. Grimthorpe about what you just did, young lady, you and your grandmother would both be frog-marched out the door.”
“But Gran didn’t do anything,” I say. “It was all me.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Grimthorpe orders. “Do you not understand what it means to be quiet?”
This is exactly the kind of conundrum that cracks my brain in two. How am I to stay quiet when asked a question?
Gran intervenes. “Madam, I can restore the patina. There are tricks any good maid knows. Mr. Grimthorpe need not find out. Don’t dismiss me. You know how hard it is to find reliable help these days. As you always say, Thingscan and willget worse.”
“You’ll never find a better maid than Gran,” I say. “Not ever.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe looks from Gran to me through angry, slitted eyes. “Your grandmother is loyal, sometimes to a fault. Unlike other maids who have passed through this house, at least she understands duty. But you, young lady, do not.”
“Please,” says Gran. “Molly made a mistake. That’s all.”
“If your granddaughter is to make it in this world, she needs to learn there are consequences for her actions,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “The girl must be punished.”
“I agree entirely,” Gran replies. “She deserves a harsh punishment. The most severe.”
“Gran!” I say. I’m shocked that she should suggest such a thing when she knows I was only trying to help. But when I look at Gran, she puts two fingers to her chin, our secret signal meaning everything will be okay and that I’m to follow her lead. I stop speaking instantly.
“What I propose,” Gran says, “is that Molly work to pay off her debt to you. Children must learn their lesson, and what better lesson to learn than hard work, don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Grimthorpe’s face changes. “Hard work?” she repeats. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Molly will put her talents to good use. She will clean. At no cost to you.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe smiles, but it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. “I suppose the punishment does fit the crime. She’ll polish the silver in the silver pantry,” she commands.
“All of it?” Gran asks.
“All of it,” Mrs. Grimthorpe replies.
“But that will take weeks!” Gran says.
“Yes,” Mrs. Grimthorpe answers. “It will.”
Gran looks at me in a peculiar way that I cannot comprehend. She’s glowing as brightly as the Fabergé. “Come, Molly,” she says. “Let’s go to the room where you will endure your severe punishment.”
My head is spinning. I don’t understand anything that’s happening, but I follow Gran and Mrs. Grimthorpe as they lead me out of the room and down the long corridor deeper into the labyrinthine belly of the mansion. We pass a massive ballroom on the left, a formal dining room on the right, a billiard room, and more than one washroom. Finally, the ample corridor opens into the largest, cleanest, most magnificent kitchen I have ever seen, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glass conservatory and gardens beyond that are so green and manicured they look like something out of a fairy tale.
“Keep up, child,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says as she stomps to the far end of the kitchen. She opens a door and flicks on a light. The room is twice the size of my bedroom at home, with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with silver chargers, silver plates, silver bowls, silver teapots, silver platters, and countless sets of silver knives, silver forks, and silver spoons. This cannot be. How can one couple own so much silver? Have we just entered a pirate’s trove or a dragon’s secret lair?
“This is the silver pantry,” Mrs. Grimthorpe announces. “The silver is tarnished. Filthy, all of it. I once fired a maid because she refused to polish it, said it was a waste of time. Apart from other ridiculous assertions, she also claimed the lye in the polish ruined her hands. Well, I never.”
“Gran,” I say. “Why is it you haven’t polished the silver?”
“Because your grandmother has other duties,” Mrs. Grimthorpe exclaims, “including taking care of the entire mansion and seeing to the copious needs of my husband. Do you understand that it’s a privilege just to be near an artistic genius such as he? By serving him, we serve creativity itself.”
I nod repeatedly to show understanding, then I raise my hand the way I would in the classroom when I have a pressing question.
Mrs. Grimthorpe sneers. “What is it now?” she asks.
“Does this mean I get to come to this mansion every day instead of going to school? And does it mean I get to clean this silver?”
I look at Gran, and she gives me the chin signal again. I stay statue-still and press my lips shut.
“You are a terrible, undisciplined child,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “But I hope that unlike those who’ve come before you, you will turn out better. In my beneficence, I’m offering you a second chance. For the foreseeable future, you’re to come here every day and work to make amends for the harm you’ve caused to one of Mr. Grimthorpe’s priceless antiquities. You’ll recompense me by cleaning and polishing all of the silver in this pantry.”
I cannot believe my good fortune! I start to jump up and down on the spot. I look at Gran, who appears to be eating her own grin.
“This is so delightful,” I say. “But I have one more question.” I look at Mrs. Grimthorpe, then ask, “May I begin cleaning right away?”
