Dear Miss Zita Brydgeborn, the letter began, and again my heart gave a strange little lurch. That name was secret. Everyone knew me as Ingabeth, because that was the name the great wimpled nun had given me upon my arrival at the orphanage. I’d been two, and according to orphanage lore, had been left on the doorstep precisely at sunset, my hair full of twigs and the rest of me entirely covered in soot.
“Think you’re the queen of everything, do you?” the nun had said, while I’d sat on a chair in the front hall. “Zita, indeed . . . what a frivolous name for a little girl no one wanted!”
And so I’d tucked the name away, a little treasure all for myself. No one else should have known it. And yet someone did.
Dear Miss Zita Brydgeborn,
I write to you as the solicitor of the Brydgeborn estate. I have reason to believe you are the sole heir to Blackbird Castle and its environs, as well as any monies, accounts, lands, and property within. I bid you come at your earliest convenience to Blackbird Castle, north of Hackenden village, in the Westval, where, if it can be proven you are the heir, we will complete the paperwork posthaste.
Your humble servant,
Charles Grenouille, Dubney & Sons, Esquire
Of course, I hadn’t believed the letter right away. I’d walked to the post office and asked about the address. “From the Brydgeborns of Westval,” the clerk had said, looking down at me incredulously from behind his desk. “Very great family. Very important. Whyever would the Brydgeborns send a letter to you?”
I’d told him I had no idea. I still had no idea. But I was not about to let such an invitation go unanswered, and so twelve hours later I left Mrs. Boliver and set off on the steam train to Hackenden, my wages inside my coat pocket and a new hat on my head.
It had been a much longer journey than I had expected. Steam train turned to donkey cart, which turned back to steam train, until at last, three days later, I’d boarded the post coach in Manzemir. I had been ready to burst from my skin the entire way, the excitement dulling every jolt and rattle. It was a lovely thing, feeling that perhaps I had my own door and welcoming embraces waiting, that perhaps I was going home.
Chapter Two
THE woods reared up above me, wild and twisting, a dark mass of evergreens and gnarled oaks. Night was falling quickly, and I could hear the infinite layers of sound from the forest’s depths, the hoot of owls, the whispering of leaves, the creak of branches . . . the rustle of small paws in the undergrowth, and then a sudden cry as the creature was caught.
Well, better get on with it, I thought, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. And shrugging off my weariness, I began to climb.
It was a steep, tiresome journey. The steps were made of coiled roots. Rocks jutted overhead and shrubs pressed close on either side, but the path wasn’t quite overgrown. At least that meant someone lived up there. I had begun to wonder if perhaps this was all an elaborate scheme to get a foolish servant girl into the middle of nowhere to rob her. Then again, the joke would be on the robbers, going through all this trouble for the contents of my carpetbag. It contained everything I owned in the world, which was hardly anything—a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a wooden comb I had been given upon leaving the orphanage. My friends had put together their pennies and bought it for me the day I left, scratching their names into the bone handle with a pin. Other than that, there was only a threadbare nightgown and a Sunday bonnet with a large purple flower on it. If the robbers fancied the bonnet, I’d let them know they could have it.
The sun was completely gone by the time I reached the top. The moon, red and rusting, seemed to watch me from between the snow-covered peaks. I passed under an eerie Gothic archway, all twisted vines and goblin faces, and trudged up some steps.
I could make out the house more clearly now. It was not exactly a castle, though it had towers and battlements, and not precisely a palace or a mansion either. It might have been all of those things at one point, but parts of it looked abandoned, and parts looked as if they had burned down, and so there were grand bits, and fancy bits, and ancient, pagan, strange bits, all sewn up with copious amounts of black ivy. Only one or two windows were lit, very high up, and curtains were drawn against the panes, giving the light a red, warning hue.
I climbed the steps, past several terraces of overgrown shrubbery and a fountain, now quite dry. At the front doors, I set down my carpetbag with a gasp. I smoothed my coat, arranged my hat, took a deep breath, took another deep breath for good measure. . . . Then I gripped the great brass knocker, which had been wrought to look like the nose ring of a scowling three-toothed ogre. “Sorry, old chap,” I said, letting the knocker fall against the ogre’s chin.
The sound it made was not at all what I had expected. It was like a bell, far off and mournful. It tolled once, and even the woods seemed to go still, as if they too anticipated whatever lay behind these doors.
Would a butler answer? Or a footman? Or a shrunken housekeeper with a single candle illuminating the grooves in her face? I had been the only servant at Mrs. Boliver’s and was hardly an expert in grand houses. But I didn’t expect nothing, and nothing was exactly what happened.
I waited. I walked around a corner to peek in a darkened window. I stood back, hands on my hips, to survey the towers and roofs. . . .
Behind me in the woods, I heard the trees creaking, boughs whispering in their cunning language. When I spun to face them, I could have sworn there were eyes among the branches, dark and cold, watching me.
Just when I was sure I had made a terrible mistake and I’d better run back down the mountain, carpetbag flailing, and beg Mrs. Boliver to hire me again, I heard the sound of many locks being unlocked and bolts being drawn back, and a much smaller door swung open in a corner of the great doors. A lit candelabra floated in the dark beyond, clutched in a plump, pale hand.
“Oh!” said a voice, presumably belonging to the hand. “Oh, it’s you! Come in, come in, quick!”
I ducked in gratefully, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw the candelabra was held by a maid. Like me! I thought, feeling instantly more at ease. I smiled at her, and she smiled back and curtsied. I’d never been curtsied to before. I curtsied too, not wanting to be rude. This only made her giggle, until another figure emerged from the shadows and poked her shoulder. This person was a very tall boy in a black uniform; it looked like a cross between a soldier’s and a footman’s.
“Minnifer!” he scolded under his breath. “Are you seven?”
“It’s all right,” I said, glancing between them. The boy was melancholy looking, his brows dark. Minnifer was short and round, and she had little twinkling eyes and a neat bun of brown hair.
“We’re so glad you came,” said Minnifer. “We hope you’ll love it here.”
“We do,” said the boy, in a very soft, very polite voice.
“I’m Minnifer,” said Minnifer. “And he’s Bram.”
She curtsied again, and Bram bowed, and they reminded me suddenly of wooden dolls on strings, standing there in their neat black clothes.
“I’m very pleased to meet both of you,” I said, shaking their hands. “I’m Zita.”
Bram and Minnifer continued to smile awkwardly, as if they weren’t quite sure what to do with me.