The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(6)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright
Daisy shivered.
She had never appreciated spirits, and she much preferred that Festus would have brought her to a less lofty abode. One with a cot, a small dresser, a black-scarred mirror, and maybe, for a bit of luxury, a pillow.
But he hadn’t.
Tonight she would sleep with spiders and spirits, the visions of Miss Havisham, and the terrors of echoing castle walls. All in the woods, in a place where a castle didn’t belong.
She’d slept on the floor last night because she had no desire to snuggle beneath the dusty coverings on the canopy bed. When Daisy inspected the mattress, it seemed comfortable enough, but the layer of dinge was enough to curl her lip—and she wasn’t spoiled or snooty like Estella, the girl in Dickens’s novel. She just appreciated not feeling like her skin was crawling, or that during the deep hours of sleep, a spider was caressing her cheek while cackling under its breath to itself. Spiders were, after all, the worst of God’s creations. Daisy had said as much to the orphanage mistress whom she’d lived under from ages seven to ten, and she’d received ten whacks with a switch and an hour-long bonding moment with the corner of the room for her sacrilege and ungratefulness to God for His creation.
Daisy hadn’t blamed God. She believed He understood her repulsion to the eight-legged terrors, also her repulsion to the mistress. They were most likely from the same family, spiders and orphanage mistresses—and God, according to the reverend at the small church they attended, was there to rescue her.
And He had rescued her from the orphanage mistress when the Greenbergs took her in as their daughter—as a replacement for their dead daughter. Cursing the fever that had taken her, Daisy had slipped into the deceased girl’s position, yet she had never actually measured up to the girl’s legacy. She had the scars to prove it.
Still, God, in Daisy’s opinion, was a rescuer, and all the others were the evil ones from which she needed rescuing. Including, but not limited to, spiders.
Daisy tied the strings of her apron around her waist, assuming she would need to wear one. It was yellow and had a small patch of violets embroidered at the bottom. The apron had been Mrs. Greenberg’s, but Daisy had stolen it the night she’d abandoned her guardians once and for all. Castle Moreau might not provide uniforms, and Daisy wanted to be outfitted as appropriately as possible. While God was her rescuer, He didn’t rain down aprons on escaped orphans who had barely reached the age of twenty and one, but He did promise forgiveness. So Daisy took comfort in the thought God forgave her as she ran her hands down the stolen apron to smooth its wrinkles.
Without a mirror of any sort, Daisy could only hope that her hair, which rivaled strawberries with its color, was tucked into its bun as well as it could be. That it was curly was an understatement. Usually it was fuzzy.
She was still concerned over Festus’s declaration last night that if they had someone for her to report to for duties, they wouldn’t have needed her. It seemed, aside from Festus, she was all on her own, the sole member of Castle Moreau’s staff. Surely there had to be a cook! She felt a deep pit of dread in her stomach at the idea that she might have to cook and clean as well as pretend to know what she was doing for the rest of it. Daisy was woefully unprepared to clean an entire castle with a feather duster, let alone manage the place. In fact, she didn’t know the first thing about being a housekeeper, or a maid, or whatever fell below a maid on the household scale of servants.
“These aren’t the days of Charles Dickens,” Daisy told herself, her voice splitting the dank silence of the massive bedroom. “This is the late end of the century, and it is America.” The castle was wreaking havoc on her imagination. If she didn’t remind herself, one look at the woods outside the window would convince her she had traveled back in time to the days of knights and chivalry, and that the old woman who occupied the castle was a countess, not a writer of novels that would make even the likes of Mary Shelley wince in fear.
Thinking of Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, Daisy squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, to curl up with a book—it was a luxury she’d always had to sneak and steal time for.
“Stiff upper lip,” Daisy mumbled to herself. Mr. Greenberg used to say those three words through gritted teeth just before whipping her backside with the strap. He probably meant it to intimidate her, but Daisy found it was quite useful in shutting out the evil world around her.
Daisy made her way into the maze of hallways, surprised at how dramatically the lighting had changed in the morning hours. The castle was a bit brighter and felt more appealing the closer she got to the south wing, where the bulk of daily activities took place. She was thankful she had an excellent memory and could find her way without too much trouble. As for Festus, the man was nowhere to be seen this morning.
Her footsteps echoed on the dull wood floors that once had to have been richly polished. The hallway opened onto a balcony that overlooked the main hall. A large chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling at eye level with the balcony, though its crystal pendants no longer dazzled due to dust and time, the candles cold and unlit.
Daisy moved to the banister of scrolled wood, thicker than the circumference of her hands as she gripped it to peer over the edge. Below, in the hall, the floors were tiled in an intricate design that reminded Daisy of a peacock in full pride. Deep blues and emerald green with scattered hues of gray created a burst of color, muted only by what had to be months of grime being tracked through the great hall.
Two tall windows flanked the main entrance, their stained glass of blues and greens matching the tile floor. Daisy could imagine a fine masquerade or promenade taking place here, with guests arriving in full regalia with pompadours and wigs, silks and satins, buttons of brass and cravats of crimson. Today, though, the hall’s beauty and color had been dimmed by age and lack of care. The castle was shrouded now in something dark, like a cloak that had fallen over its glory days long, long ago . . .
Shaking herself from her musings, Daisy drew a deep breath and moved to the stairway that wound its way to the floor below and the rooms where, according to Festus, Daisy would find some form of humanity. More than likely the castle’s only occupant, Ora Tremblay, the authoress of horror.
A door to her left at the far end of the balcony caught Daisy’s eye as she prepared to descend. She hadn’t noticed the door until now, as its molding blended with the pattern on the wall. If it wasn’t for the brass doorknob, she would have missed it altogether.
Distracted, she abandoned the stairs and tiptoed toward the mystery door. Curiosity was a dreadful thing, and she’d been filled with it for as long as she could remember. A wayward curl of red frizz dangled over her right eye, and Daisy pushed it aside as she twisted the knob.
The seal between the door and its frame groaned stubbornly, making her think it had been a long time since this door had been opened. She hesitated. Servants shouldn’t snoop. Most definitely not. Mrs. Greenberg would be swatting her at this very moment in rebuke. “Young ladies do not go where they are not invited!” Mrs. Greenberg would snap.