“Yeah,” Vic responded.
Chapter 5
We stumbled down the Pink Stairwell, bumping into an older, severe woman who glared at us and scowled.
“What are you two doing above stairs?” she shrieked.
Vic and I stared at one another.
“A whole party is starting soon, with four of Master Tremblay’s special guests, and here you two are futzing about star-gazing. Get your arses down to the basement and change into your serving clothes! Or I’ll dock your pay and your ears!”
“Sorry,” I said. “What was your name?”
“Gladys Cantwell,” she snapped, gray hair shaking like her voice. “I’m the one that hired you two, ain’t I? What are you thinking? I don’t know how things went at your prior residence, but here, you’re Upstairs or Downstairs, and I’ll be damned if the two of you are Upstairs. Go! Before I throw you out myself!”
“We got lost,” I said.
Her face changed, then, and she nodded.
“Yes, well, I can see that. This is such a grand estate and all. Very well. Come along, duckies, and Mother Cantwell will show you where to go. You really ought to have found me first.”
“This isn’t going to work,” Vic whispered to me.
“Look, we’re in,” I said. “We solve this case, we get out of here. Bada bing, bada boom. That’s it.”
“You don’t understand,” Vic said. “And you don’t have the authority to use that line.”
“Bite me,” I said.
“I don’t do sloppy seconds,” he retorted.
“Come along, duckies,” Mother Cantwell snapped, and off we marched behind her, like mollified children.
“This is dangerous,” Vic whispered as we walked. “I think this is a… well. I’ve not really dealt with Land Wights before, to my recollection, but this is clearly a third-dimensional retelling of the night.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It’s a simulation,” he said. “It’s real, but not real. Land Wights are big. They capture things—like he was saying, the house is a spider web. I don’t know how much of it he has access to, but he can replay events. These are real fragments of consciousness here. Real people. They may not know they’re dead. If you tinker with things too much—interject too much outside information, the collective subconscious rebels. We wind up getting attacked. Like we’re viruses in an ecosystem.”
“So we’re going to have to be servants,” I said.
“Pretty much. Welcome to your own episode of Downton Abbey.”
“I do not like that show,” I said.
He sneered at me.
“Figures,” he said. “Look, just keep your head down and your ears open. We investigate these new house guests here at the party—and we try and figure out what happened. Or. What will happen. Or whatever. You know what I mean.”
“Right,” I said.
We followed Mother Cantwell into the kitchens. Another young woman locked eyes with us—she was the youngest here, and looked a startling amount like Mr. Tremblay if his face were leaner, more feminine, and framed by a big wash of blonde curls. She was man-handling some dough and seemed a bit distracted.
“Down this way, duckies.”
We turned down a set of stairs into a sub-basement behind the kitchen. There was a series of cots in the room, alongside a bunch of chests.
“The two of you are on canape and drinks service,” she said. “Appropriate attire is located in your changing chests at the foot of your stations. Make yourselves presentable and come back to the kitchen if you will. We have much to set up in the dining room, and we need as many hands as possible to take care of it all.”
