The full scale of the maze indiscernible from this angle, Percy sighed and waved the man on. Maybe he’d get lucky and find himself lost in the maze for the next decade, where he couldgrow monstrous and wild. A damning Minotaur let loose to pass judgement on unsuspecting heroes. Not that baring his torso and legs would work. He was far too fond of his toes to skulk around naked when the snow hit.
No, he would be a wraith, darkness lingering in the shadows of his victims. He nodded to himself, sure if any of these refined servants were privy to his thoughts, they’d run screaming for the hill of stairs before disappearing into the house. An option for later if the staff became unmanageable.
He smiled. Yes, he would do nicely as the ghost of...
“What is the name of the house?” he asked.
Mr. Brinkley pushed aside a low-hanging vine to reveal a small opening between the hedge, where a neat, wooden gate stood open in invitation. “Fellow Hall, Your Grace. Though the parks on the grounds all have different names.”
To make it easier to identify to which their lord and master referred when demanding trimming or sprucing, no doubt.
Percy rolled his eyes. “Fellow Hall.” That wouldn’t do at all. No one would flee in terror fromthe Ghost of Fellow Hall. Not when it sounded like an advertisement for recruiting militia.
“Any way to change the name?” Percy asked, three darker, albeit inappropriate for society to mention, descriptors coming to mind.
The older man scratched his head, displacing his cap and revealing disheveled, greying hair.
“Not sure about any of that. My knowhow is for greens and horses. You got questions about those and I’m your man. The rest...” Mr. Brinkley shrugged. “Seeing as the place is yours, don’t see why you couldn’t call it anything you like.”
Percy spied another door at the far side of the entrance to the maze, impenetrable walls standing seven feet on all sides in spiny-looking shrubbery sharp enough to draw blood. Renaming the maze ‘Fellow Prison’ wouldn’t be out of the question.
“If you’re up for suggestions?” Mr. Brinkley said.
Percy cocked a brow, hoping he hadn’t imagined the spirited tone in the other man’s voice. “Eh?”
Mr. Brinkley nodded in the direction of a stone statue of a woman tipping an urn, the contents a mystery.
“That there is calledThe Grieving Woman.”
Not so mysterious, then. How gothic and morbid. Perhaps the place wouldn’t be so insufferable. Percy asked, “The previous duke commissioned it?”
“Nah.” The other man rubbed his chin. “Been here since the original construction.” He shuddered. “Always gave me the creeps as a kid.” Mr. Brinkley ducked his head. “Pardon, Your Grace. I was raised on the grounds. Took over from my father when he passed.”
Percy waved his apology away, along with an unpleasant sense of kinship to the man’s circumstances. “No need to placate my sensibilities, Mr. Brinkley. The whole place looks like a marble mausoleum.”
The older man grinned. “Not a bad name there.”
Percy’s smile was a surprise, as was the man’s informality. “Shall we compromise? How about ‘The Woman’s Crypt’?”
Mr. Brinkley returned the smile. “I’m partial to the Grieving Mausoleum myself.”
“Then ‘The Grieving Mausoleum’ it is! Well done, Mr. Brinkley. I say, you’ve a new skill to add to your repertoire. I shall have you rename all the parks on the estate by the end of the day.” He twirled his hand to encompass the whole around them. “I assume they’re all just as bad?”
In his element or finding solace in the new duke’s relaxed demeanor, Mr. Brinkley leaned in conspiratorially and said with no shame, “Wait until you visit Fellow Pleasure Park. It has so many nude sculptures, the name is justified.”
Wondering if any of the sculptures depicted a goddess in a tight-fitting dress with hair that looked like coiled silk, Percy inclined his head. “Lead the way, good man. Daylight is wasting.”
