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I stare wordlessly at Uncle Dervish. He speaks so honestly, so matter-of-factly, that he could be explaining a math problem. There's so much I want to ask, so many questions. But this isn't the time. I'm not ready.
I scratch my head and pluck a long ginger hair from behind my left ear. I rub it between my fingers until it falls, then face Dervish and grin shakily. “I'll agree to stay out of your study if you'll do something for me in return.”
“What?” he asks, and I can tell he's expecting an over-bearing request.
“Will you call me ‘Grubbs’? I can't stand ‘Grubitsch.’”
The cellar's full of wine racks and dusty bottles.
“My other great love, apart from books,” Dervish purrs, wiping clean the label of a large green bottle. He advances, lights flicking on ahead of him as he walks. I wonder if it's magic, until I spot motion-detection sensors overhead.
“Do you drink wine?” he asks, leading me down one of the many rack-lined aisles of the cellar.
“Mom and Dad let us have a glass with dinner sometimes, but I don't really like it,” I answer.
“Shocking!” he tuts. “I'll have to educate your palate. Wine is as varied and unpredictable as people. There are some vintages you just won't get along with, no matter how famous or popular they are, but you'll always find something you like — if you search hard enough.”
He stops, picks out another bottle, appraises and replaces it. “I roam around for hours down here some days,” he sighs. “Half the pleasure of having such a fine collection is forgetting what's here and rediscovering it by accident years later. The choosing of a bottle can be almost as much fun as the drinking of it.” He snorts. “Almost!”
We return to the steps leading up to the kitchen and he pauses. “I have to ask you not to come down here either,” he says. “But this has nothing to do with spells or magic. The temperature and humidity have to be maintained just so.” He pinches his left thumb and index finger together. “I'm fairly easygoing when it comes to material possessions, but where my wine's concerned I'm unbelievably cranky. If you caused an accident …” He shook his head glumly. “I wouldn't say much, but I'd silently despise you forever.”
“I'll steer clear,” I laugh. “I'll find a different source if I want to go boozing.”
Dervish smiles and leads the way up. The lights switch off automatically behind us, plunging the cellar into cool, precision gloom.
“And that's it.”
Back where we started, the main hall, beneath the giant chandelier. Dervish checks his watch. “I usually have dinner anywhere between five and seven. You can eat with me — I'm a nifty little chef, if I do say so myself — or do your own cooking and eat whenever you like. The freezer's stocked with pizzas and microwave dinners.”
“I'll eat with you,” I tell him.
“Then I'll shout when it's ready. In the meantime, feel free to explore, either inside or out. And remember — you can't come to any harm here.”
He heads for the wide set of marble stairs leading to the first and second floors.
“Wait!” I stop him. “You never showed me my room.”
Dervish slaps his forehead playfully. “You'll get used to that,” he chuckles. “I'm forever overlooking the obvious. Well, there are fourteen bedrooms to choose from — any except mine is yours for the taking.”
“You don't have a room set aside for me?” I ask, surprised.
“I thought about it,” he replies, “but I decided to let you choose for yourself. You can test out as many as you like. If you want to stay on the upper floor, close to me, you can — though the rooms there are quite modest compared to those on the first floor.”
He tips an imaginary hat to me, then trots up the stairs to his study.
Standing alone in the vast hall. The house creaks around me. I shiver, then recall Uncle Dervish's promise — I can't come to any harm here. I shake off the creeps before they have a chance to take hold.
Picking up my bag, which I dropped by the front doors when we came in, I climb the ornate stairs and go searching among the beautifully kept, expansive array of rooms for one that I can dump my gear in and call my own.
PORTRAITS
I DON'T expect to get much sleep the first night — new surroundings, new bed, new life — but surprisingly I drop off within minutes of climbing underneath the covers of the small first-floor bed I chose, and don't wake until close to ten in the morning.
I feel good as I use the en suite bathroom. Refreshed. The sun's broken through the clouds and is shining directly onto my bed when I come out of the bathroom. I lie on the covers and bask in the rays, smiling softly. For a moment I think of Gret's en suite … the rat guts … the start of the nightmares. But I'm in too good a mood to dwell on all that. Shaking my thoughts free, I head downstairs for a late breakfast.
I'm finishing off my cornflakes and munching my third slice of toast when Dervish enters through the back door. He's been jogging. Red-faced, sweaty, panting.
“I looked in … on you … earlier,” he gasps, rolling his neck around, jiggling his arms and legs. “Didn't have the heart … to wake you.”
