Free A Pretty Mouth by Molly Tanzer Page A

rather an agitated state, too—I could stomach only the vegetable courses.
     
    ***
     
    Late Afternoon— Something strange is going on, I am sure of it. Orlando must be ill. Before going down to tea I knocked on the door of his room, and heard nothing. I raised my voice and told him it was tea-time, and I heard a faint moan from within. Who declines tea? Even invalids must have their refreshing cuppa and hot buttered toast, surely.
     
    ***
     
    After Tea— I went to consult with Lizzie about Orlando, though I hated to disturb her again after her earlier sternness with me. It is funny, as I approached the kitchen-door, I am sure I misheard her, but before I knocked, I heard her conversing with Bill. He said, “that he will not stir is a good sign,” and I thought I overheard her say “Soon will come the hour of the tortoise,” which made Bill laugh, a harsh sound. Then I knocked; they fell silent as I entered.
    “I fear the Lord Calipash may be ill,” said I.
    “As I said, he was up late last night,” said Lizzie. “When I retired he had called Bill to bring him another bottle of wine. Have you never had a hangover?”
    “Even if he was up late—”
    “Likely he’s a cold upon him,” said Bill. He had obviously been doing something that required his high boots (come to think of it, he could have been the source of the shadow, as he is tall and thin, too). Mud plastered his feet and calves nearly to the knee, but he had not shed his footwear before coming to sit at the table. Lizzie, I was surprised to note, did not chide him for this; indeed, she seemed hardly to notice his mess. This was quite a change from the attitude she used to take when I came in from outside without a care!
    “A cold!” I exclaimed.
    “He went outside last night, in the storm,” said Bill, and shrugged at me as he put his boots up on one of the kitchen chairs, fouling it horribly. “I tried to speak reason to him, but he would not listen. Said he wished to keep vigil by the side of his dead father. Heathen notion—perhaps it is as you say, and the Lord has punished him with an ailment.”
    “Then he must be in need of at least a cup of tea,” I said, exasperated. “Let me bring it to him, you needn’t trouble yourselves.”
    “Oh, go on then,” said Lizzie, pouring some liquid the color of wash-water into a chipped cup. “Take him this, if you must be meddlesome.”
    It was in low spirits indeed that I went up to Orlando’s room, tea in hand. I have rarely felt so depressed. This slapdash housekeeping and surly language would be understandable, of course, if Bill and Lizzie seemed distraught over my guardian’s death, but neither seem to care tuppence about it—they have not even mentioned it to me! And come to think of it, the house was topsy-turvy when I arrived. From what I saw, taking care of the former Lord Calipash would not have occupied the whole of their waking hours, so how can they account for how decrepit Calipash Manor has become? It pains me to write this, but I feel as though the two of them have no emotion whatsoever as regards their former master; I get the strange feeling if no one would notice the irregularity of it, they would not even attend to the funereal arrangements. When I was a girl neither one of them seemed the sort of servant who would take a “when the cat’s away” attitude toward their duties, but perhaps I was not a perceptive child?
    Well, regardless, I went up to Orlando’s room and entered without knocking, only to find him prostrate on the bed, sheets wound around him like a shroud. The curtains were drawn and I could barely see my way over to him.
    “Lord Calipash?” I whispered. “It is I—Chelone, your cousin, come to see if you need anything?”
    He groaned and stirred, and I took this as a good sign. Setting the cup of tea down beside him, I took the liberty of seating myself on his bed and patting his shoulder.
    “It is after tea-time, please—won’t you take a bite