Curse of the Midions by Brad Strickland Page A

then Jarvey asked, “What is this place we’re going to?”
    â€œPalace has servants, right?” Betsy whispered back. “Some of them, the la-di-dah ones, lives right in the palace, but most don’t, cleanin’ maids and that. Well, within a short walk of the palace is a kind of flats block—you know what that is, a flats block?”
    â€œWhat we call an apartment house,” Jarvey said. “Yes, I know.”
    â€œRight. Well, this one has about a dozen flats in it, for the women servants. Every flat has three girls in it. But it’s like most buildings—it has an attic, and the attic is empty. And we can stay there because servant girls is superstitious, and from time to time they hear a ghost up there.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, a—”
    â€œOoooooooo,” moaned Betsy, her voice rising and falling.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œCome on. Ain’t no way up to the attic from the outside, though you can climb out onto the roof from there and get away in a pinch. Got to go in through the building before first light, when one of ’em goes to the pump to fetch water.”
    They crept through the night until at last they reached a two-storied house, dark and silent. Ahead of them, gas lights made ruddy wavering circles in the fog. “The palace gates,” Betsy whispered. “Guards there, but what with the weather and the dark, they’ll pay us no notice. Come with me.”
    The stone house lay surrounded by hedges, and Betsy led the way into a narrow clear space between wall and hedge. The front door was at the top of a short flight of six stone steps, and Betsy and Jarvey crouched beside these for what seemed like hours, until Jarvey’s knees began to throb. The fog had just begun to turn a paler shade of gray when lights came on inside the house. A moment later, Jarvey heard the click of the front door being unlocked, and then two girls, each with a yoke over her neck from which dangled two big empty pails, came out, sniffing the morning air.
    â€œGoing to be a wet day,” one of them observed.
    â€œWe’ll have to hang the clothes inside, then,” the other returned.
    Chatting, the two of them clanked off into the gloom, and as soon as they had gone, Betsy tugged at Jarvey’s sleeve. “Now.”
    They climbed over the step rail and ducked inside. The house was as silent as could be. Betsy led Jarvey up a dim stairway, illuminated only by a low gas night-light at each landing. The last stretch of stairs ended at a trapdoor in the ceiling. Betsy shoved at it, and it creaked open. She climbed through it, beckoning Jarvey to follow.
    He pulled himself through, and together they let the trapdoor drop down silently. Jarvey fought an urge to sneeze. The air in the attic drifted thick with dust. “Don’t move now,” Betsy said. “Get into a comfortable position and stay that way until all the maids leave for the palace.”
    He stretched out, more or less, and soon dozed off. He didn’t know how long he slept, but when Betsy shook him awake again, he could see. Thin daylight filtered in through ventilators in each gable of the steep roof. It didn’t help much. Close to the trapdoor, a rampart of trunks and boxes stood, evidently hauled up to the attic in years past and then forgotten, for all of them wore furry coats of gray dust.
    â€œThey’re out,” Betsy said. “I think they’ve all gone. Sometimes one of them is sick and stays behind, and then you’ve got to be really quiet. Today, though, it sounds like they’ve all left for the palace. We’ll hole up behind the trunks and things. I’ll go down to their kitchens and slenk some food for us.”
    â€œOkay,” agreed Jarvey. He stretched and then explored. If they had everything behind the trunks to themselves, they had most of the attic. It felt warm—warmer than the old Den in the alley, anyway—and seemed dry