In the sleepy town of Slaughtavery, all is not as it seems.
In 1745, boys began to disappear, leaving no trace behind. The town was trapped in a hush of anxiety, gripped by fear too profound to express. After beautiful Madrigal Byrne ran away on her...
The man opening the door when I'm about to knock seems older than the mansion, with his grey hair perfectly combed above his bony face and pale, long-fingered hands. He cocks an eyebrow when startled by the opening door, the handbag strap slips unchecked from my shoulder, and I drop my bag, scattering its contents over the patio.
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"Oh! I'm so sorry," I mutter, hurrying to gather lipstick, sanitary ware, hairbrush, and wallet, stuffing them back into my purse before he can even react to my clumsiness. I would run out of fingers if I had to count on my hands the number of times this has happened just in the last couple of weeks.
I'm oddly saved from feeling too embarrassed by the stoic expression on the old man's face. He is dressed in a rather formal black suit and white shirt, the collar starched quite stiff, standing away from his throat above a black bowtie. He suits the mansion and the antique entry table I can glimpse past him.
"Duke Alaric Slatherty?" I hurry to greet him, extending my right hand, desperate to start over and create a better first impression of myself, but the man merely steps back into the foyer, fully opening the section of the double door he still has a hold of and indicating for me to enter.
"I am Leopold, Miss. The Butler."
"Oh, I beg your pardon! Pleased to meet you, Mr Leopold."
"It's just Leopold, Miss."
I'm not used to butlers. Of course, I know of their existence, but I did not grow up surrounded by wealth and servants; I have no idea how I'm supposed to treat a butler. When I try to grab some of my bags, Leopold informs me quite formally that he will take care of them, his stark expression not wavering for even one second.
"Please, Miss, if you would be so kind as to wait in the parlour, I'll announce your arrival," he says in a dry, humourless voice, gesturing across the breadth of the foyer.
I follow the angle of his extended arm with my eyes and discover an open door, which presumably leads into the parlour. Many lamps light the foyer, yet it is dark and sombre, devoid of warmth despite the rich browns of the décor. My thin jacket remains inadequate even when Leopold closes the door behind us. The marble floor is polished to a shine, and in the centre, a wide staircase covered in beautiful dark red carpeting leads to a landing, where it branches off into two separate staircases leading to the floors above.
I'm impressed by how well-maintained the place is. I've visited many Old Money homes to appraise furniture and artwork, mainly because the inhabitants struggled financially and their estates were crumbling around them. They needed to sell whatever they could to survive. It always pained me to see chipped floors, peeling wallpaper, and leaking ceilings in places that must've been breathtaking in their prime.
That is not true of Slaughtaverty Manor. This place is definitely still taking my breath away. I follow the stiff man across the floor to the parlour, my anxiety slowly draining away as I marvel at the paintings adorning the walls, the Persian rugs scattered on the floor, and the intricately carved staircase. I hope the Slatherties aren't broke. It would be a tragedy if this place went to waste. Well, they have a butler, which is a sure sign that they're not on the brink of bankruptcy, eager to sell their possessions.
