The Ringmaster's Revenge

The Ringmaster's Revenge: Phase Ten

Phase Ten

19 days: 6hours

Until the Ringmaster’s Revenge

Grift

While bouncing nervously from foot to foot, Grift held down the buzzer for the second time.  Butterflies had been fluttering in his stomach the whole eight days of hitchhiking it had taken to reach Quill Hollow but, as he’d wandered its mournful streets looking for the right house, Grift imagined the butterflies had turned to dingy closet moths.  Steadily throughout the morning, while picking his way over puddles of human waste, dying dogs, and beggars, Grift’s excitement had given way to foreboding which was encouraged by the shade’s shifty sideways glances into every dank alley.  Yet unlike the boy’s dwindling enthusiasm, Aviraz maintained his suspicious air right up to the gate of 372 Crowsong Avenue.

“I know they’re awake.  The lamps are still on,” Grift growled, punching the buzzer once again.  “And will you stop looking over your shoulder like that?  It makes me nervous.”

“I hate this place,” whispered the shade.

“You been here…?  Thank God!”  A pool of light washed over the porch as a straight backed gentleman appeared, candle in hand, and walked the length of the driveway to the gate where he stopped and regarded the guests.  Though his face was marked from one pock or another, he was of the fine servant stock expected of such a grand manor.

“We don’t cater to drifters here,” he said.

“Ain’t a drifter, sir, but a Grifter.  That’s my name, see.  And I am looking for the lady of the house, Silvia Wellbourn.  Got some secret information she’s certainly dying to hear.”

The servant gave a snort and started to walk away but Grift called him back, waving a considerable sum of stolen copper.  With a nod, the man unlocked the gate and led Grift inside.  Though it was dark, the night was young, and the lady had not retired to bed but sat in the study to work on her embroidery.  Grift could just see the top of her gray streaked head over the back of the plush chair before the fireplace, as the servant closed the door to speak to the mistress in private.  Squeezing the tattered sales agreement in his fist, Grift mumbled to himself.  “Alright, Ol’Grifter.  Your mother is on the very other side of this door and when you meet her, you aren’t gonna yell.  So she sold us to the circus.  I’m sure there was a fine reason for it.”

“Maybe she needed the money,” said Aviraz, sarcastically.  Grift ignored him. 

There came the quiet shuffle of feet then the servant eased the door open, ushered the pair of travelers inside and left them facing the mistress alone.  She was clearly furious, sitting rigid with a handkerchief strangled in her hand while her fingers worked at bending the needle.  Her hair was in a proper bun at the base of her neck, which pulled at her already long face and stretched her sagging jowls.  And on her chin was a hideous wart with a full head of its own wiry hair.  Grift hoped he took after his father’s side.

“Humph.  Well, what is it?  Who sent you and who is that thug behind you?”  The wart bobbed when she spoke and her words were hard.  Grifter had never seen such a cold woman.

“Pardon, ma’am, but do you recognize this?”  He held out the document and she snapped it out of his hand.  When her eyes skimmed it, they grew wide with shock.  She knew what it was, alright, which meant…  “You are my mother!”

Before he could stop himself, Grift leaped on the woman, hugging her tight.  He didn’t care how she struggled or that the needle was poking him in the ribs, he would hold her all night if he could.  His smile was so wide his face hurt.