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, The Turn 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.