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“I don't normally sleep this late.” I grin guiltily.
“I should hope not.” He stretches, holds his hands over his head while he counts to ten, then relaxes, pulls up a chair, and sits. “Any plans for today?”
“I'm not sure,” I admit nervously. “I'm used to having nurses plan my days for me.”
“I've been thinking about sc
hool,” Dervish says. “Ideally I'd like to get you started quickly, but they're midway through the semester. You'd be playing catch-up from the second you sat down. I think it'd be easier if we waited until after the summer, when you can go in fresh with the rest of the class.”
“OK.” I'm relieved — I was dreading the return to school.
“If you want, I can give you some lessons, or we can enroll you for private tutoring,” Dervish continues. “You've missed a lot, and I suspect you'll have to repeat a year, but if you work hard over the summer …”
“I'm not worried about repeating,” I mutter. “If I was at my old school, I'd want to move up with my friends. But since I'm starting fresh, it doesn't really matter which class I go into.”
“I like the way you think.” Dervish smiles. “OK, we'll lay off the heavy grind, but fit the odd bit of learning in along the way — you'll get rusty if you don't keep your brain sharp.”
“What about today?” I ask. “What should I do?”
“Get the lay of the land,” Dervish suggests. “Explore the house. Have a look round the grounds and neighboring fields — you won't get in trouble for trespassing as long as you don't mess with the livestock. Maybe take a stroll to the village and let the gossips have a gawk — I'm sure they're dying to check out the new boy. You can start on the household chores tomorrow.”
“Chores?”
“Sweeping, cleaning, stuff like that.”
“Oh.” I glance around. “I thought … a place this big … you'd have a maid or something.”
“No maid!” Dervish laughs. “I have a woman who comes in every other week to dust the bedrooms, but that's it as far as outside help goes. You'll have to earn your keep here, Grubbs m'boy! But we'll start with the slave labor tomorrow, like I said. Find your feet first. Take it easy. Enjoy.” He rises and his expression saddens. “Hell, you're due some enjoyment after all you've been through.”
I do the village first. Carcery Vale is quaint, quiet, picturesque. Nice white or creamy houses, smiling people, the occasional car puttering down the main street. I walk through the village, familiarizing myself with the layout. I pass the school — larger than I thought. It's lunch and the students are in the yard, shouting, laughing, playing football. I don't get close. Nervous. I've had months of dealing strictly with adults. I've almost forgotten what people my own age are like and how to
get along with them.
Not many shops, and a very limited selection of goods. I need new clothes, but socks and underpants are all the local stores have to offer. I suppose there's a town within easy driving distance where Dervish can take me. I'll ask when I get back.
The people in the shops and on the streets eye me curiously but without suspicion. I keep expecting them to ask for my name or pass a comment — “You must be Mr. Grady's new house guest,” or “You're not from around here, are you?” — but they just nod pleasantly and let me go about my business.
Early afternoon. Wandering around the mansion. Checking out the rooms.
I knew the instant I arrived that this was a monster of a house, but it's only today that I realize just how enormous it is. It doesn't have a single modest inch or nook to it. Everything's overblown and over-the-top. I feel out of place. I'm used to ordinary houses, wallpaper from chain stores, furniture bought from glossy catalogues, paperback bestsellers, and brand-name reference guides on the bookshelves.
But as awkward as I feel in this massive, ornate old house, I'm not scared. Although it reeks of history, and is full of barbaric weapons and grotesque items like the piranha tank, I'm not frightened. I don't get shivers down my spine strolling through the corridors (some longer than the street where I used to live). I don't imagine monsters lurking under the beds, or demons cackling in the shadows.
This house is safe. I'm protected within these walls. I don't know how I know — I just do.
The hall of portraits. I've been here fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, studying the faces of my relatives. Most are strangers, faded faces from the long-forgotten past — many of them young, just teenagers — but some are familiar. I spot Grandad Grady, my great-aunt Martha, a few cousins I met when I was younger — all of whom have died during the course of my short life.
I look for my picture but I'm not among them. Dad and Gret are though, in new frames. Recent photos. I remember the day they were taken, last summer, when we were on vacation in Italy.
No photo of Mom. I go through them all again, but she isn't here. The two of us are missing.
Shopping for clothes, twenty miles from Carcery Vale, in a large mall. Lots of people and noise. I feel lost in the crowd. Dervish sticks close by me, sensing my nervousness.
Kebabs when we've finished shopping. Hot and juicy. Dervish nibbles slowly at his, delicately. I finish long before him. Slurping down the last of my Coke. Studying him as he eats. Wondering if I should mention Mom's and my absence from the hall of portraits.
“An unasked question is the most futile thing in the world,” Dervish says, startling me. Doesn't look up. Swallows his food. Waits.
“I was looking at the photos and portraits in the hall today,” I begin.
