“Where will I meet you?” Josephine asked.
“Back here at this dead tree. If I’m not here by midnight with Ida and Fargus, then you have to go to the Institute. Bruce, can you lead her to the Higgins Institute?”
“Over in the plains?”
Ned nodded.
“Yeah, I suppose I could find that,” Bruce answered, happy to be needed.
Josephine said to Ned, “But you’ll be here. I know you will.” She walked over and gave Ned a hug, so startling him that he nearly fell over. She then stood on tiptoe and gave Bruce a hug too. “I’d better get going.”
They both wished her luck and forced smiles, but Josephine could see the worry in their eyes.
She turned from them and walked toward the manor, her blood running furiously through her veins. What have I got myself into? She crossed the field and practiced her greeting under her breath. “Hello, my name is Josephine Russing. . . . This food is just delightful. . . . Mama sends her love from the South.” Surely he would know she was full of lard.
And would the Master be able to explain why he and her father shared the same name? Josephine knew there was part of her that was afraid to know the answer.
She looked down and saw she was still wearing her shiny gloves. She stuck them back into her pocket and then tried to smooth her blue dress. Ever since Ned had thrown her into the spring, it had been in desperate need of a wash. It was wrinkled and sad looking. And after that horseback ride, she knew her hair must look a fright. She patted down her tangled tresses and tried to retie her headband. Unfortunately, there was not much more she could do.
She approached the manor and suddenly the drawbridge began to lower, as if it had known the precise moment she would be arriving.
As Josephine grew closer, she could make out a crouching figure in an orange hat who seemed to be waiting for her. He was old and looked as if he was in pain. Nevertheless, he offered her a warm smile, and as she crossed the drawbridge, he put an arm around her shoulder.
“Welcome, miss. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Yes. My name is—”
“Miss Josephine Russing. We know, dear. Perhaps a nice cup of tea?”
Josephine was terribly confused. This man seemed so gentle. “Are you the Master?”
The elderly man let out a hoot of amusement. “Gracious no, miss. I’m Mr. Seaworthy. I am here to make sure you are comfortable. Won’t you come in?” He stepped back and motioned her inside. Josephine tentatively walked forward, and although she was tempted to look back toward the dead tree, she was careful not to give Bruce and Ned away.
Mr. Seaworthy led her into a small courtyard filled with marble statues of men of enormous height and strength. Curiously, the heads were missing from nearly all of them, and some arms and legs had gone missing from others. Mr. Seaworthy caught her perplexed look. “The Master likes to use these for sword practice when he is feeling a bit . . . youthful.” He unbolted one of several doors opening onto the courtyard and waved Josephine inside.
She found a study of sorts, with a warm fire in the corner and overstuffed chairs made of fine leather. There was a substantial library, and against one wall there were many clocks of various shapes and sizes, although none of them appeared to be working. On a high shelf, looking lost and maudlin, were the marble heads of the statues outside.
“Monstrous,” Josephine mumbled.
“Do you think so?” A small voice startled her. She turned to see a boy, a few years younger than herself, dressed in some sort of maritime uniform. Had Morgan said anything about the Master having a family?
“Excuse me, I didn’t hear you enter. My name is Josephine.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I believe I’m here to see your father.”
“That would be difficult. He’s been dead for fifty years.” He walked over to the fireplace and took a crystal decanter from the mantel. “May I offer you a brandy?”
Brandy? This boy was no more than ten! “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. Please sit down.”
Josephine was completely befuddled. This boy spoke with authority but looked as if he were playing dress-up. She tried to hide her discomfort. “You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”
The boy laughed. “You are wildly polite, aren’t you? My name is Leopold Reginald Russing, but you can call me Master.”
Josephine had to steady herself against a chair. This was the same evil boy whom Morgan had told her about—the one that shared her father’s name—and he hadn’t aged a day in twenty years. She had no idea how it was possible. It felt like madness, and yet a tiny relieved voice in the back of her head was saying, “At least it’s not my father.”
She attempted to collect herself and said casually, “So you’re also a Russing? I do think it is great fun to have discovered a new relative, don’t you?” She tried smiling.
The boy grinned back, enjoying her distress. “I thought everyone was dead!” he replied. “And yet here you are. . . .” His eyes turned dark. “And how is that, Josephine? How did you come to be in Gulm?”
“I d-don’t know,” she stammered.
“Not good enough, I’m afraid. Try again.”
“I don’t know, really.”
“I’m going to tell you a little story over dinner, and we’ll see if it helps to jog your memory.”
Josephine stared at the boy and now saw nothing but malice in his plastic grin.
FORTY
Ned and Bruce quietly approached the west side of the manor. They had watched the drawbridge lower to welcome Josephine, and as soon as it had closed again, they’d started running across the field. Ned concentrated on stepping lightly, painfully aware of how exposed they were in the daylight. There was a small cluster of trees next to the rear of the manor that would provide some cover, and Ned was about twenty yards away when a small shoe hit him square in the face.
Ned yelped in pain and Bruce froze in his tracks. Soon another shoe came flying from the trees and caught Bruce in the shin. Next a sandal grazed Ned’s ear.
