Only, I’d already made my way through half of the first floor, and I hadn’t seen any of my eight-legged nemeses. I stood in the foyer now, examining the various surfaces for anything that might need cleaning. Not a single cobweb stretched across the high corners of the ceiling or up in the skylight.
As far as dust, a yellow rubber glove test across the entryway tables had come away clean.
Which was great. I was not complaining. Mr. Tom had clearly been looking after the place, or had hired someone else to do it. Upkeep would be easy.
But instead of moving on like I’d planned, I stood transfixed. I hadn’t noticed at first, but the high wooden archway in the first floor landing hosted some intricate carvings. Scrolls and artistic designs caught and trapped the eye. Little faces popped out here and there. A horse’s head seemed to neigh from one corner, while a goblin-looking thing, with long claws and pointed fangs, sneered from another.
Everywhere I looked, a new image manifested, creating an exquisite sort of tapestry. Part of me wanted to pull up a chair and stare at it.
“MADAM!”
I crinkled my brow, coming out of my appreciative daze. “Mr. Tom, why are you yelling?” I said in my “patient” mom voice. That voice delivered all kinds of warnings, hinting the patience was just a façade.
“I apologize, madam. I knocked on the wall, called you a couple times—you didn’t seem to hear me.”
“A good ol’ tap on the arm wouldn’t go amiss.” I tore my gaze away from the images, which almost looked like they were turning and twisting within the frame. Flying through the air, or galloping through the fields. It sort of reminded me of those posters of computer-generated patterns back in the day—when you looked through them, an image popped up. Except this was carved wood.
“Madam!”
“Oh my God, Mr. Tom, what do you need?” I turned to him slowly.
He flinched and took two steps back. My expression clearly wasn’t advertising the patience I’d tried for.
“Pardon me, madam—”
“Please stop calling me madam.”
“Yes, miss”—I sighed—“I went and got this for you.”
He held out a travel mug with the lid closed.
“Oh, thank you, but I’m okay. I’ve had four cups of coffee. I’m buzzing on caffeine just fine. I should probably stop. But thanks for thinking of me.”
“It’s not coffee, miss.” He hesitantly took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “It’s to help chase away the hangover. I have a friend that specializes in…draughts.”
“Draughts?”
“Modern-day elixirs. Not at all like the witch brews in storybooks. That’s…false, those stories. Very unpredictable. This is…medicinal. From…doctors. Doctors without…licenses.”
“Are you trying to say herbalists? Like Chinese medicine?”
Relief crossed his face. “Yes, of course. Yes, herbalists. That’s it, exactly. We have a few in town. One creates potions—I mean…elixirs that work. One is a useless Jane who is living a lie. Like those storybook writers that go on about superheroes.”
I eyed his ratty cape, attached to a freshly pressed black suit that made him look less bony, somehow. “Right.”
“It’ll help.” He stretched his arm toward me but didn’t take another step.
Amazing. My son had gotten to a point where he’d started ignoring my mom voice. Also my mom look. Also the classic mom-ready-to-charge-at-him-with-a-paddle-and-get-him-to-see-sense voice/look combo.
That had driven me crazy, because while I wasn’t above a swat on the butt, at some point you had to refrain. Like when they were fifteen and in public. Teenagers were the absolute worst. It was like an alien had come to earth one day, picked up my loving boy, and replaced him with a stinky, hairy mutant. Someone should’ve warned me.
“Miss—”
“Yes, yes, okay.” I took the travel mug, pulled off the lid, and looked down at the green liquid. “Is this wheatgrass or whatever that is?”
“I couldn’t say, miss.”
“Are you trying to kill me, Mr. Tom?”
“No, miss. And you can just call me Tom. I think you’ve earned it.”
He wasn’t helping me put the brakes on weird. He really wasn’t.
I remembered the body Edgar had dragged across the grass. The kid hadn’t been dead, sure, but I did not want that to be me. Those rocks had felt bad enough on my feet. “You take a sip, then.” I handed it back.
He took a sip and grimaced before reaching it toward me again. “It doesn’t taste good, but it’ll do the trick. She is really very good.”
I resumed care of the travel mug and turned to look at the scene carved into the landing as I took my first sip. The bitter taste made my face screw up and my stomach swim, but I finished it before handing it back. Time would tell if I’d chugged poison. Given the way I was already feeling, the end might be welcome.
“What room will you move on to next?” he asked, stepping back.
I shook my head, pulling my gaze away again. I couldn’t just stand in the foyer and stare at the carvings all day. I had to get moving.