The master of Dross Manor was dead. How, was not of great import, nor were the hoards of owls that gathered along power lines and the sloping manor gutters to pay their final respects; nor even the odd cracks which had spontaneously appeared in the cypress trees around the property—all bleeding red. At least, young Rose Cible took no note of these signs as she trudged the foggy cobbles that lead up to the house balancing a massive cherry pie.

  “Take this straight to Mrs. Kettleburn. She’ll know what to do with it,” Rose’s mother had said, whilst doing the myriad unnamed things that mothers do to keep houses standing.

  Rose’s mother had been anxious over something, because Rose had been shooed out the door with dishrags biting at her ankles as her mother threw them in the general direction of the laundry.

  Stepping through the last gate, the manor’s spires loomed into view above the crumbling hedge maze. Three stories high—well, if one counted dark attics as a story—the old Victorian home stood, paint peeling, against a dreary sky. Its pointed black turrets might have been striking against thunderclouds or frenzied pipe organs, but as weathered as the vine-covered exterior was, it seemed suitable that on a day like this, all that could be managed was a few gray clouds, and a heavy dusk that seemed late in coming.

  Rose picked her way around the thickest growing parts of the garden, which unfortunately led through the dastardly rose bushes. Thorns pulled at her hair and threatened to send her and the pie tumbling to the ground. She’d always hated those bushes—their scent, their clawing prickliness, and the way they always seemed to reach for her as she passed. At last she reached the side of the house, its large bay windows twinkling dustily as she kicked at the back kitchen door.

  Rap! Rap-rap!

  A bustling sound, pots and pans clanging, and familiar footsteps clomped across the hardwood kitchen before the door slammed open. Ruddy-cheeked and hair pinned tightly into submission, Dross Manor’s cook, Mrs. Kettleburn, was a cheery sight even when she was flustered—which was most times.

  “Rose, dearie! What’s this? What—George! Come and light the lanterns! The garden’s fading already!” Mrs. Kettleburn shrieked over one shoulder. “Come in, Rose! Come in! Don’t just dawdle on the step!”

  Rose hardly had time to comply before George grumbled into the walkway, fumbling with his threadbare cuffs, and grumbling under his breath.

  “Don’t know why I should still be doing this. It’s not as if the old man will put up a fuss,” the old butler tutted as he hobbled past Rose, narrowly missing her and her heavy dish.

  Mrs. Kettleburn scooped the oversized pie from her hands before she could fall back completely, and the kitchen door slammed closed on George who left a scent of mothballs and lighter fluid behind him.

  “Don’t mind him, Rosie,” Mrs. Kettleburn said, giving her one of her usual ‘looks.’ “He’s in a mood. Old Georgie has been on the phone with cemeteries and graveyards and even the mausoleums all across the state! Nowhere between Shreveport and Houma will have the Master. I never! It’s just petty, is what it is!”

  Rose tucked herself in a corner between the ancient stove and a rack of copper pans as the maid came hurtling in.

  “Another call’s in, Ms. Kettle.” Louise was shaking her head, mussing her dark curls with one hand. “It’s another ‘no.’ That’s the last one in the state!”

  Mrs. Kettleburn said a word that made Rose blush. Then, heaving a sigh, said, “I thought that might be the case. We’ll have to go north, then, unless you think he’ll let us set him in the Mayan grounds.”

  Louise laughed, though Rose couldn’t see what was funny. “He’d be back up and after us after one night if we put him there.”

  Mrs. Kettleburn sunk a fist into one generous hip, tutting, at about the time that Louise noticed that Rose was in the kitchen.

  “Oh, hallo, Rosie!” Louise’ smile was forced—the kind that adults wear when they think that children don’t understand—which, to be fair, Rose didn’t. “Dear me, that is a gorgeous pie. Your mamma send it to us?”

  “She did, Miss Louise. Um—how are you doing?” Rose ventured from her corner to stand more properly in front of the maid. Louise’ tension melted a little at her question, but she clearly wasn’t ready to divulge more than she already had.

  “I’m doing just fine, Miss Rosie. Just fine,” she said, her smile a little more real. “And goodness knows we could all use the sugar. Funerals are just tricky sometimes, that’s all. We want to give the old master a proper send off, see?”

  Rose nodded. She did not see.

  “The cemeteries are giving you trouble?” Rose asked politely.

  Mrs. Kettleburn coughed, and she and Louise shared a quick look.

  “Well, everything is going alright, sort of,” Louise said carefully, checking with Mrs. Kettleburn as she did. “We’re just having complications with the funeral planning. Everything’s set except for finding a plot of land for him.”

  “You can’t bury him here? There’s enough land.” Rose asked, confused. She’s seen graveyards and cemeteries before, but had never put any thought about how people actually got into them.

  It would be a better use of land than roses, she thought grudgingly.

  Kettleburn and Louise shared another one of those…looks.

  “Well, there are laws and things like that over where we can put graves, sweet thing, although at this point, I’m halfway tempted to just do the deed myself and leave it unmarked! It would serve him right!”

  “Ms. Kettle, you don’t mean that,” Louise said firmly.

  The cook produced a ladle from her apron, and waved it about as she was wont to do when matters in the old house were pushing her ‘to jitters.’

  “I’m starting to! Here I’d thought there was at least one place in the state that didn’t know the master’s name, and here I thought wrong! That boy’s mischief gone and put all of us in this mess. ‘Won’t let him be buried in consecrated ground,’ my hat! I should take this ladle and shove it—oh, sorry, Rosie dear.”

  Rose shook her head, eager to distract them before they got the idea that her being there was a nuisance and asked her to leave. The old master had been eccentric, but, mischievous? Bad enough to warrant a reputation this widespread? Never. She had questions, and she wasn’t quite ready to get sent back through the maze, or the roses.

  “Sounds stressful. Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Kettleburn? Miss Louise?” she asked quickly—innocently.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The two servants chuckled.

  “Where’d you go and learn a word like that? You’re hardly past ten, Miss Rosie,” Louise laughed.

  Rose tried not to scowl. “Fourteen, Miss Louise. But even if I was ten, l’d be old enough to help you sweep the side rooms.”

  “You must really want to see what’s going on, if you’re offering to go through those dusty old corners, Miss Rose,” the cook leaned on the counter, eyeing Rose like she could see right through her.

  “So… you want to sweep them yourself?” Rose asked innocently.

  Louise rolled her eyes. “Oh, she’s fourteen alright. Got some ginger in her tea, too.”

  The doorbell saved them all from what any of them would have said next.

  “Oh, that’ll be the local minister,” Mrs. Kettleburn straightened her hair, and gave her already-ruddy cheeks a good pinch. “I’ll talk to him, Louise, thank you. I might be able to at least convince him to let us have a backyard plot. A familiar face, and such—”

  “Yes, Ms. Kettleburn,” Louise backed out of the cook’s path, giving her chest a pointed sort of smirk. “Familiar faces indeed.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!” Kettleburn tutted, hands still in her hair, and already making for the swinging kitchen door. “No need for sweeping, Rosie, dear. Why don’t you go and pay your last respects to the old master. He’s in his office. You know the one. Once I’m done chatting with Reverend Collins, it’ll be a done deal. We’ll have Master Dross in the ground before day’s out tomorrow.”

  Kettleburn was gone in a flurry of skirts and flying hairpins before either of them could utter another word. Louise pulled the apron from her head where Kettleburn had tossed it.

  “Ooh, I hope this works,” she sighed after her. “If it doesn’t, we really will have to go upstate to some big city where they don’t believe in any of this anymore.”

  “...This?” Rose prompted.

  Louise only tutted, and shook her head. “Go on, Rose. I know you didn’t know the master well, but, if you have anything to say, here’s your chance. Wait around a bit and ole Kettle will fix you up a slice of pie when she’s done, too—although—” and then there was that pointed smirk again, “—she might take her time, the old fox.”

  Rose waited a few more seconds to leave through the swinging door after Mrs. Kettleburn, until the sounds of her boisterous laughter and Reverend Collins’ answering snivels could be heard down the hall.

  The inner foyer boasted an empty sweeping staircase with dark green carpet, which led to a labyrinth of rooms filled with antique furniture, lace curtains, and the faint scent of old books. Over time, dim electric candles had replaced their original wax versions along the walls. Rose picked her way up the steps, nodding to the other two maids, who avoided her, gossiping under their stacks of laundry, until she reached the drawing room door.

  It was the only door in the house that wasn’t in need of a good repaint or polishing. It was also the only room which, being the Master’s private space, Rose had never been allowed to enter.

  She felt a thrill of other-ness as she pushed it open, and walked in alone.

  If she had been expecting the old master to be lying in some elaborate coffin in the middle of the room, she would have been drastically disappointed. The room was still lived-in as it likely had always been when Master Dross was alive, and there wasn’t a coffin, or eerie piles of funeral flowers anywhere.

  Instead, the same plush green carpet and faded cherry wood as decorated the stairs covered the floors, giving the room a warm, homey feeling. A faded, plush settee and armchairs had been arranged in front of a marble fireplace. Every single wall was lined with shelves for books, and…a highly odd collection.

  One wall had a shelf with nothing but glass water-globes full of scenes from different terrains. One contained an underwater palace. Another, a desert plain whose dunes looked as though they would fall any moment if the glass were knocked. Still another contained a maze, tiny and detailed, with levels and turns that spanned all the way around the globe so that she couldn’t see into its center.

  “Beautiful…” Rose whispered, reaching out to touch a sphere that contained a perfect copy of a babylonian garden, but thought better of it, snatching her fingers back before they could make contact. These were not her things, and they had been so obviously treasured.

  She paced the room, reading a title or two from the books on Master Dross’ shelves.

  How to Prevent Explosions, Dueling for the Drastically Dunderheaded, Jared’s List of Things that are Inedible, How Not to Die at Dinner, and on one particularly worn tome that looked handwritten: Dreams of Her.

  Another shelf contained a row of mirrors, all too scratched to be properly reflective anymore. In a glass case in the corner, a pristine bow and quiver of at least twenty types of arrows was on display. Tucked between books was a stack of wires with teeth marks in the steel, and a jar of dried pumpkin seeds displayed like a trophy.

  Odd…

  “So many things. So many memories,” Rose found herself saying out loud as she reached the sooty fireplace.

  On the mantle itself, sat an old crystal ring, side by side with a clamshell so monstrous it could have been used as a coffee table, and a box of snapped piano keys. None of the items fit together. It was as though Master Dross had selected them out of attachment rather than for actual decor.

  Then, unable to stare any longer, Rose found the old Master Dross—what was left of him.

  The old gentleman sat peacefully, in an ornate, antique chair, his posture relaxed and dignified. Dressed in his best tailored suit, his lap was draped with rabbit furs and sable. His posture was sunken, but calm, as though he had just taken his last breath.

  Curiosity pulled Rose forward. She had never seen a corpse, and it was so much different than she’d imagined. It seemed so… empty.

  Master Dross was perfectly still. No breath escaped his lips. His eyelids were pale and glistened with slight condensation. His white hair had been combed to sit how it should, but had obviously been done by someone other than himself. Most of all, his skin was waxy and lifeless. It was very clear to Rose that this person—this shell—in front of her, was a man no longer. The soul that had been here, that had filled this room with such wonderful stories, was irrevocably gone.

  Seeing the many tales and memories that had once lived in this room, she was struck by an inexplicably sadness—no, it wasn’t sadness. Not quite. What she felt was intrigue. Curiosity. Longing. How many times had she entered this house before, and had never even asked who the Master was?

  From a corner unseen, a ticking sound reached her ears, reminding her that each second passing was carrying her further away from the time that she could have asked him her questions, and perhaps, a time when he might have answered.

  Tick.

  It was frustrating.

  Tick.

  No, it was wrong.

  Tick.

  But though she wasn’t sure where the strength of those feelings was coming from, there was nothing to do now, and even at fourteen, she knew that.

  Taking the seat across from the corpse, Rose paused. She had nothing to send him with. No farewells to say. As often as she’d visited the house, she hadn’t really known the man beyond passing greetings. Even so, she should say something, like Louise had directed.

  Right?

  “I wish…” she breathed. The air was heavy, and stagnant, and oh, how she hated that sound.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “I wish I could have known you,” she said to the shell in the chair, and to her surprise, she found that she meant it.

  The room descended into true quiet, and though she wasn’t sure why the ticking had ceased, she certainly didn’t miss it. It had been long enough that perhaps Mrs. Kettle was finished speaking to the reverend. She’d wandered the office long enough. There was no harm in checking…

  Rose stood to leave, but the corpse in the chair held up a hand to stop her.

  She froze.

  “I thought you would never ask,” said Master Dross.