Chapter 7

Before

I recall it in my mind and can relive it as though it were yesterday. It’s the night after the first day I spent working beside Gran at the Grimthorpe mansion. I’m back at our apartment. Gran has tucked me in and given me her usual caution about bedbugs and sleeping tight. I close my eyes and fall into the deepest, most exquisite sleep of my life.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not plagued by nightmares about the tortures that await me in the schoolyard the next day. Instead, my dreams sparkle and flash, visions of silver and Fabergé eggs dancing in my head. I wake up in the morning refreshed and excited about spending another day at the Grimthorpe mansion.

Gran and I set out at quarter to eight. No expensive taxi today. Instead, we are powered by our own feet, and then a city bus and then another bus. On the long commute, I tell Gran the big revelation I had before falling asleep the night before. “I’ve made up my mind. I know what I want to be when I grow up.”

“What’s that?” Gran asks.

“A maid, just like you.”

“Oh, I don’t recommend it,” Gran says. “The job has many hidden perils. And I think you can aim higher, what with that sharp mind of yours.”

“What do you mean ‘aim higher’? I want to be a maid,” I say.

Gran sighs and pats my hand. “Very well. For now, you can be my Maid-in-Training at the mansion. How does that sound?”

“Like heaven,” I reply.

An hour later, we arrive at the mansion gate. Gran buzzes the hidden intercom to announce our arrival, and the invisible gatekeeper in the tower opens sesame. We’re walking up the cobblestone path flanked by fragrant roses. At the entrance to the mansion, a contorted face I did not notice yesterday stares down at us from above the door.

“Gran, is that Mr. Grimthorpe?” I ask.

“No,” she says with a little laugh. “That’s a stone gargoyle, though I admit the resemblance is uncanny.”

I step up to the door, grab the heavy lion mandible, and knock hard three times. The knob turns, and Mrs. Grimthorpe appears in a beige blouse and a gray skirt, her mouth a tight pucker.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grimthorpe,” I say. “I’m ready to polish and shine,” I say, proud of my new distinction as Gran’s official Maid-in-Training.

Mrs. Grimthorpe does not reply but steps aside to allow us to enter. She crosses her arms and stares at us as we stand in the foyer. Gran removes a cloth from the front vestibule and instructs me to take off my shoes. She vigorously wipes the bottoms of both of our pairs before placing them inside the closet separate from all the other fancy shoes.

Mrs. Grimthorpe sniffs, then leads us down the main corridor, past the bourgeois blobs, and into the house. We arrive in the glorious, sun-filled kitchen, which smells like lemons and spring-fresh air.

“I have shopping to do and errands to run in town today,” Mrs. Grimthorpe announces. “The gatekeeper will drive us to town. Flora, you’ll accompany me and carry my bags. The girl will stay behind and work.”

“Madam, I can’t leave Molly,” Gran says. “Who will look after her?”

“Surely she can look after herself. Also, Mr. Grimthorpe is upstairs in his study and Jenkins is right there in the garden.”

I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows and spot a ruddy-faced man with bulbous eyes and a back as straight as an exclamation point. He’s staring at us as he slices through the hedges with razor-sharp clippers.

Mrs. Grimthorpe checks her watch, then says, “Chop, chop, Flora. Set the girl up in the silver pantry while I gather my things.” Then she click-clacks down a corridor and out of sight.

The minute she’s gone, I feel Gran’s hands come down on my small shoulders.

“Molly, I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you? Sometimes I just don’t know what to do,” Gran says, her eyes crinkling up in that way that makes my stomach hurt. This happens sometimes between Gran and me. I feel what she feels; her emotion passes through my skin and burrows right into my being. I make a mental note to look this up in the anatomy book at the library, because even if the Skeleton Song doesn’t say it, there must be an explanation for how Gran’s eyes connect to my stomach.

“When in doubt, clean inside and out,” I tell Gran. It’s a jingle that, like so many others, we sing together when tackling cleaning chores at home.

Gran hugs me to her, then holds me at arm’s length. “If you need anything while I’m gone, you go to Jenkins the gardener, okay? I know he looks a fright, but he’s soft as a jiggly pudding. I’ll tell him to watch over you. You’re not to disturb Mr. Grimthorpe upstairs for any reason, do you understand?”

Before I can answer, I notice a woman marching up the path toward the side door of the mansion. She’s wearing a blue kerchief tied around her head and matching blue gloves. She waves at us through the window and nods at Jenkins before continuing on her way.

“Gran, who is she?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary. Mrs. Grimthorpe forbids her from mixing with the rest of us—says it’s to preserve the privacy of Mr. Grimthorpe’s work. Come,” Gran says. “To the silver pantry.”

I trot beside Gran to the room I dreamt about all night long. It’s exactly as I left it, filled to the rafters with silver heirlooms, all in need of attention. On the large table, the pieces I cleaned yesterday twinkle like bright stars.

Gran rummages through a cupboard, removes two pairs of rubber gloves, a large jug, and a wide-mouthed basin. She turns to me, hands on her hips. “I can’t have you polish all of this silver using elbow grease alone. At some point, your arm will fall off.”

Yesterday’s exertions used all the grease from both of my elbows, so they do feel a tad stiff, but as of yet I don’t think I’m in danger of dismemberment.

Gran dons gloves and carefully pours liquid from the jug into the basin.

“This is silver polish, Molly. It contains minute amounts of lye, which is corrosive to the skin. In the olden days, when I was a Maid-in-Training, we mixed the solution ourselves. Once, a maid I worked with quadrupled the lye in the recipe and left the basin by the back entrance of the estate. His Lordship walked in with dirty hands after a hunt. He saw the basin and plunked his fingers right in. Had I not doused his flesh in water immediately, the acid would have eaten clean through his bones.”

“What a terrible accident,” I say.

“Terrible, yes. An accident? I’ve never been quite sure.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Fate, Molly,” Gran says. “It works in mysterious ways. That’s why it’s important to treat others with respect at all times,” she says as she passes me a pair of gloves. I put them on.

“This modern polish is not like the rough stuff we used years ago. It’s very gentle, but you are still to wear rubber gloves when you work.”

Gran picks up a tarnished silver candlestick, dips it in the solution, and wipes it with a cloth. After a bit of buffing, the silver is polished to a high shine.

“It’s magic!” I say, clapping my gloved hands.

“Flora!” we hear from somewhere deep in the house. “Chop! Chop!”

Gran peels off her gloves and places them neatly beside the basin. She plants a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be back faster than you can spell ‘serendipitous,’ ” she says and then rushes out of the room.

I listen to Mrs. Grimthorpe ordering Gran about at the entrance. Then the door shuts with a hollow thud, and I know they are gone.

This is it, I think to myself. I’m on my own in the mansion—no Gran. Rather than frightening me, the prospect fills me with pride at my newfound responsibility. I spell out “serendipitous” five times, then come to the conclusion that Gran meant what she said figuratively (meaning: not really) rather than literally (meaning: precisely and exactly).

In the silence, a new sound echoes through the hollow mansion.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

It’s the sound of typing. So many noises bother my ears, but I don’t mind this one because it’s rhythmic and predictable. It must be the woman in blue, Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary, typing in an office somewhere deep within the mansion.

As I look around the silver pantry, a feeling of rapture overtakes me. I’m on my own. In a mansion! I’m a grown-up entrusted with grown-up responsibilities. I skip around the room, then put on my apron and my fresh rubber gloves.

Dip in the brine, then polish and shine.

I get to work, polishing piece after piece, placing each glimmering object in a perfect line on the table. As I work, I imagine I’m setting it for a regal banquet hosted by Gran, also known as the Duchess of Apron, and me, Maid Molly of Fabergé.

Our guest list is the crème de la crème. Robin Hood is seated at the head of the table in a green crushed-velvet suit. By his side is Columbo in a brand-new trench coat, his hair combed neatly for once, just as Gran would like it. Across from them are Badger and Mr. Toad, then Sir David Attenborough in a safari suit, a wobbly Humpty Dumpty in short pants and suspenders, and Sir Walter of Brooms, my school’s janitor, and the only person there whom I liked.

There are still a few seats to fill, so I populate them with the Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. I add the Cheshire Cat, who is curled up on a chair smiling and smiling at the far end of the table. There’s one empty chair left, and that one is for me. I’m wearing a pristine white gown with cap lace sleeves and petticoat ruffles to my ankles.

I call for a toast by tapping my porcelain teacup with a freshly polished silver spoon. The high-pitched tinkle is a delight to my ears. “To Gran,” I say. “And to my finest storybook friends. Thank you for being loyal and true, from the first page to the last.”

We drink tea and eat scones with clotted cream. We have a spelling bee, and I spell “stupendous” correctly on the very first try. We are the True Silver Knights of the Table Rectangular, kindred spirits, the only friends I’ll ever have.

A small sting rips me from my daydream. A single drop of silver polish has landed on my forearm just above my glove. I rush to the sink, where I douse the burning spot in cold water. It relieves the sting, but when I turn back to the tea party, my friends have vanished into thin air.

“Wait, come back!” I say, but my imagination fails me. I look down at my tatty apron, no ruffles and cap sleeves, just the threadbare truth.

It’s then that it strikes me. I realize with some urgency that I’m in need of a washroom. I take off my rubber gloves and exit the silver pantry. Yesterday, Gran showed me the washroom I’m to use. It’s not the visitors’ powder room near the entrance, which Gran calls the “gold de toilette.” And it’s not the washroom off the kitchen, the one with the massive whirlpool tub. And it’s certainly not the washroom upstairs. I’m to use the servants’ washroom, which is downstairs in the basement, where the walls are dank stone and where every nook and cranny houses a hairy spider with terrifying, beady compound eyes.

“It has the bare necessities,” Gran said yesterday as she pulled the cord on the naked bulb and led me down the creaky, slippery stairs.

Now, I stand in front of that basement door just off the kitchen, steeling myself to open it and descend, but my legs are stuck to the floor. I cannot move.

Knock, knock, knock,I hear.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to see Jenkins’s protruding eyes staring at me through the glass of the kitchen windows. He shakes his head several times and says something I don’t understand.

“I can’t hear you,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Jenkins moves from the window to the glass door. He opens it, but he doesn’t step inside. Rather, he shoves his head through and whispers, “You don’t have to go down there.”

“I do,” I say. “I need the washroom.” I remember what Gran said, how Jenkins looks a fright rather than like a pudding, which would be preferable. He’s covered in little scratches, presumably from rose thorns, and he carries a menacing array of sharp tools in the leather belt around his waist. The sight of his razor-sharp clippers sends a shiver down my spine. Still, he’s better than spiders. And he’s my only hope right now. “Please, sir,” I say. “Will you accompany me to the cellar?”

“I wish I could, Little Mite,” he says, “but I’m not allowed inside the house. Dirty workman and all that business. If the Madam caught me, she’d tan my hide. Then she’d kick me to the curb. Just use another loo. If you’re neat about it, Mrs. Grimthorpe will never know,” he says with a wink.

I nod and swallow.

Jenkins closes the door quietly, then removes the hedge clippers from his belt and begins to savage a hedge by the window.

I breathe deeply a few times to steady myself. Gran told me explicitly that the main-floor washrooms are off-limits, and the last thing I want is to anger Mrs. Grimthorpe by breaking the rules and thereby cause the tanning of my own hide, which sounds horrifically unpleasant.

I head to the front of the house and stand under the icy shards of the modernist chandelier. Perhaps if I use an upstairs washroom, evidence of my presence will be attributed to Mr. Grimthorpe or his secretary. I tiptoe up the main staircase, the treads creaking under every footfall. The stairs wind to a small landing with a window and then up another flight to the second story. I make it to the top and am peering down a long, cavernous corridor wallpapered in a dark design that’s meant to be brocade but looks to me like hundreds of squinty eyeballs watching my every move.

I traverse the hallway, and the lights overhead turn on as if by magic. I pass bedroom after luxuriously appointed bedroom, taking a quick peek in each—the four-poster bed in one; the brass bed in the next that looks straight out of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. At last, I find a washroom. I close and lock the door behind me. After taking care of my necessities, I lather and bathe my hands under water from the gold taps, then I dry them on a hand towel so plush it might be a cloud. I unlock the door and exit, much relieved.

I know I should creep down the stairs and get back to work on the silver, but as I stare down the hallway, I see that a door is open to an expansive room that takes my breath away. It’s the library, which Gran has described to me before, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of it in real life. Even from a distance, I can see that it’s filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and sumptuous leather volumes in red and blue, gold and green.

There are times when my feet have a mind of their own, and this is one of them. They tiptoe all the way down the hallway, the overhead lights beckoning me forth. Before I know it, I’m standing on the threshold of the awe-inspiring library. There’s a velvet chaise longue in a corner by the window, and beside it a reading lamp, the shade held by a brass nymph frozen in mid-frolic. A tall ladder with wheels on the bottom leans against the far wall. It can reach the highest volumes all around the room.

Entranced, I step past the threshold. Some of these books I’ve heard of or seen at the public library. Others are new to me, including the ones with J. D. Grimthorpe’s name on the spines—Dead Man’s Secret,Poison & Punishment,The Mystery Guest. I reach out and trace a shelf of jewel-toned leather volumes with my fingertips—The Count of Monte Cristo,Grimms’ Fairy Tales,TheTurn of the Screw. I want nothing more than to fish out a book, curl up on the chaise longue, and lose myself in the pages.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

The sound of typing again, much closer now. It’s then that I see it, a thin shaft of light coming from a crack in the bottom of the nearest book-lined wall. I move closer to the beam.

Then I hear footsteps. Someone is walking on the other side of the wall.

“Confounding! Rubbish, all of it. A pox on every word!” It’s a man’s voice, a dark and husky growl. The footsteps become stomps, and then something thuds against the floor. I can feel the vibrations beneath my own feet.

A shadow falls across the shaft of light on the floorboards. I take a few tentative steps closer, but as I do, the boards creak beneath my feet.

“Who’s there?” I hear, a thunderous boom.

To my young ears, it’s unmistakable—the ornery, bloodthirsty voice of a troll.

“Answer me!” the troll demands.

I begin to tremble because I can see him in my mind’s eye—hunchbacked and hairy, with protruding fangs and bloodshot eyes. He’ll pick me up by the strings of my apron and pop my wriggling body straight into his gaping, voracious mouth.

I don’t move or run away or even investigate further, because Gran always says that curiosity kills cats, and in this case, I do not wish to be a feline.

The room goes quiet, and I’m terribly relieved. But then my feet disobey me again. Suddenly, I’m creeping forward and crouching down. I can’t stop myself. I’m lying horizontally on the floor so I can look through the ominous crack in the wall and into the room next door. I’m on my side at eye level. I pull myself, closer, closer to the crack until…an eye—a steely blue troll’s eye—is staring back at me from the other side of the wall.

“AHHHHHHHHhhhhhh!” I scream, which sends adrenaline coursing through my entire body. I hurry to my feet and run out of the library and down the long corridor just as I hear the front door of the mansion opening and Mrs. Grimthorpe ordering Gran to bring in all the bags from outside.

I hurtle down the main staircase, taking the steps two by two until I’m standing breathless at the entrance, trying to appear perfectly ordinary in every possible way.

“Molly?” Gran says as she puts an armful of shopping bags on the floor. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I cling to the banister in a valiant attempt at normalcy. “Not a ghost,” I reply. “Not that exactly.”