The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

“Let’s go. The two of us, together, let’s leave, go somewhere and never look back.”

“What about your interview?” he said.

“What interview? Who?”

He could hardly remember himself. They were in this archaic parlor filled with artifacts, books, carved fireplace, stern portraits, and that faded tapestry, which hardly seemed a setting for passion—his heart was suddenly filled with fragrant gardens and winding paths where he could hold her hand and walk with her for hours.

He took both her hands and pulled her toward the door. “You’re right, let’s go.”

A wide, glorious smile broke on her face, a flower unfolding, opening to him, filling him with joy, unbridled and bursting. Hand in hand, they left the parlor, breezed past the scowling housekeeper, and burst through the front doors to the outside, where the sun was shining gloriously and the shrubs seemed filled with singing larks. Jerome had an urge to sing along with them. Elaine was grinning just as wide as he was, and he’d never felt so much . . . rightness in being with someone.

They had to step aside for a passing car filled with countless children, whose screams were audible through the glass.

“Can I ask you a question?” Elaine asked.

“Of course.” He would do anything for her.

“Do you want children?”

He thought a moment; he’d never really considered, and found he didn’t much need to now. “No, not really.”

“Good. Excellent.” She smiled at him, and his heart nearly burst.

At the end of the drive, the boundary to the property, Elaine stopped. Her tug on his hand made Jerome stop as well. He blinked at her; her frown gave him the sense of a balloon deflating, of a recording of birdsong winding down to the speed of a dirge.

They dropped each other’s hands. He was rather startled that he’d been holding it at all.

“What are we doing?” she asked. “We can’t just run off like a couple of teenagers. This isn’t like me at all.”

“Nor me,” Jerome said. “But . . . perhaps if you think that I simply couldn’t help myself.” That was true enough—whatever had happened, it was a surge of passion that seemed to have vanished, much to his regret. He wanted it back.

He tried on an awkward smile for her, and if she didn’t return it, she at least didn’t scowl.

“There’s something really weird about that house,” she said, looking back to the manor.

“Agreed,” he said. “I find I don’t want the interview so much after all.”

“Yeah. You said it.”

“Elaine, would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked impulsively, sure she would rail at him for it and not caring.

She studied him a moment, then said, “You know? I think I would.”

The Hunt

The doctor’s manor was an edifice of terror. The foundation stones exuded a fog of trepidation. Knowing that the children would be horrible would be easier than not knowing at all what they would do this time.

For yes, Doctor Lambshead had sent a note to Lady Smythe-Helsing, apologizing profusely for cutting short their previous tour and offering a second opportunity, which the lady accepted. Once again, Sylvia rode in the Bentley with the angry chauffeur and four screaming children. The housekeeper was waiting for them at the front doors. Once again, she directed them to the parlor. The children lined up next to her, and the doors closed.

Sylvia closed her eyes, held her breath. Waited for screams or sighs or giggles. Or quiet, obedient breathing. As it happened, she didn’t hear anything. So she opened her eyes.

The children were gone.

She had no idea where to look for them, and studied the walls as if the children had melted into the wallpaper, as if she might see their faces staring out of the portraits or stitched into the threads of the tapestry, among the hunters and their spears surrounding the poor unicorn at bay.

A snap of a breeze touched her, and she flinched as something tugged at her hair. Reaching up, she picked at the curl tucked behind her ear and felt some foreign object. She untangled it and looked—a toothpick, perhaps. Or a tiny dart.

She looked to where it had come from and saw Andrew, the older boy, with none other than a blowgun in his hands. And the empty spot on the wall where he’d taken it from. Dear God, the heathen had fired at her.

He ducked behind the sofa and ran.

That was it. She’d had enough. She went after him, with every intention of laying a hand on him—only for as long as it took to throw him out of the house. All of them. Let Lady Smythe-Helsing fire her. Let the doctor report what an awful governess she was.

As she chased Andrew through the doorway from the parlor to the library, she tripped. Looking back, she saw why—Alice and Arthur, crouched on either side of the doorway, had pulled a length of rope across the passage, just as she stepped into it. Good heavens, what had gotten into them? They’d always been holy terrors but never truly malicious. The injuries they inflicted were usually accidental.

The two of them scrambled to their feet and ran back toward the parlor.