The Gallows Mansion

Chapter 1

It was quarter past eight. A Sunday. The middle of winter with all the blizzards blowing on outside. The maids are in a flourish about all the snow and ice we are bringing into the house which is melting onto the floor. The red rug absorbs most of it but they still bicker on about our lack of housekeeping. They even went so far as to muster us all and take us outside to look at the doormat, used for wiping feet. After three years here I laugh to myself at how little we actually do that the maid request.

It wasn't until quarter past twelve that same day that the maids began their quarrelling and bad mouthing of the inmates.

Then she opened the door and let the cool breeze in. A chill was sent through every spine within the hallway. Not only because of the temperature of the icy wind but because of the blood splattered on her and her unsheathed weapons. There was too much blood for her usual night and she was here at such a peculiar time. Her bow and arrow that was slung across her back had accumulated icicles and snowflakes, unused. It had been a blade fight. She walked past me and glanced once in my direction, her the dark black eyes trying to pierce me with very little affect.

The hallway was clear and she strode right on through. She was almost knocked over by the cook's son. Who had climbed and unlocked the stairs to exclaim that lunch was served. She merely flicked the thought away with her hand, although remained polite to the boy apologising for her missteps.

As she reached her quarters of the Gallows, she turned to see if she still held anyone's attention. When satisfied she unlocked her door and walked in. Today however closing the door behind her with extra caution raising little alarm. The rest of the inmates of the Gallows had already dashed down stairs to the prepared meal. Ensuring to look the door after the last went through. Standard procedure.

I follow the hungry party downstairs, although having to unlock every door for myself. When I enter the dining room they have all taken their spots at the table. The house owner sits at the head of the table watching over proceedings. He nods in my direction. A clear appreciation of my presence and tendency to just watch. The other's won't look his way until he speaks up. They pay most attention to the food or perhaps the new scars, garments or trinkets someone has acquired.

"So I here Princess is here today. How nice, and on a Sunday too. She must be in a good mood." Boggsworth, the owner of the Gallows stands at the table to reach for condiments of some description. His short and stout build brings him only to my seated height. He must have seen her enter or felt the reaction everyone has given her at her unusual appearance.

Boggsworth is an odd man, he somehow just knows things. And although he does well at hiding it, he is terrified of only two people in this house. A house of criminals and he only fears two. Myself and her. He is afraid of me because he should be. But her, I think he is just scared of her because she's a woman and one of the moodiest people. And even worse when it's her time of the month. There is only one other woman staying here that holds criminal tendencies, although she merely trades in illegal markets or dealings, regardless of the knife she displays she is little threat to anyone here unless she has time to alert an accomplice. Although we rarely see Princess enough for others to truly fear her, she seems to gain the most clients on her time of the month though, or perhaps she likes to fake it that way.

I hear the door open multiple times but it is on the third one that Boggsworth tenses and becomes fixated on his food. I've spent years sitting in the seat to his left of this enormous rectangular table. He's planning what he is going to say, he's pepping himself up. Now he's counting himself in with each of her steps towards the table. Three, two, one.

"Nice of you to join us today, what did we do to deserve your company on a Sunday." Right on queue. His voice is strong and confident, if only his hands would remain still.
"Thank you, and you did nothing of the sort I just thought it time I join you all for a Sunday lunch." She speaks far too eloquently for the raise on the street attitude she holds when we all spend time together on the odd occasion. But none the less I do not ask questions.