the continuation of the family line. Lysandra suited both Mandibles’ purposes eminently, and vice versa, and they were married while Bovrik, as Gulliver Truepin, was still selling hair restorer elsewhere.
It was at the Annual Northside Late Summer Ball that Bovrik was introduced to Lady Lysandra. She, having heard much about this charming and popular foreigner, thought it would be both practical and amusing to engage him to help with the Midwinter Feast. And of course she knew how it would gall so many society ladies if she was to have the delectable Baron all to herself. Bovrik, for completely different reasons, was equally happy to accept the position and lost no time installing himself at Withypitts Hall.
‘Ah,’ murmured Bovrik, running his hand over the crisp linen sheet. ‘This is living!’ This was certainly the most enjoyable and profitable swindle he had ever undertaken. He had already recouped all the money he’d spent to get here by pilfering Mandible trinkets, and he was able to do it in such style and comfort. Even if he only stayed at Withypitts until the Feast, he was sure to have significantly increased his wealth.
With a self-satisfied smile he took an engraved rectangular box from beside the bed and opened it to reveal a red velvet-lined interior with seven deep depressions, four of which were occupied with false eyeballs. There they sat, side by side, all staring the same way. At first glance they looked identical – made from glass, off-white with a jetblack pupil and a pale blue iris. Upon closer inspection, however, it could be seen that each had a jewel or precious stone in the centre of the pupil, winking in the light, and that each jewel was different: a ruby, an opal, a pearl and the most recent emerald.
‘Hmm,’ he thought, snapping the box shut. ‘Three to go, and then I will have one for every day of the week.’
He sighed deeply. Regardless of his heart’s desire, he had decided that when he had his final eyeball – by the Feast, he hoped – he would leave. Years of swindling had taught him never to push his luck in one place too long. It was a rule he prided himself on. He screwed up his face. But it pained him to think of walking away from such a wonderful meal ticket and, against his better judgement, recently he had found himself wondering if he could postpone his departure. Lady Mandible, in some ways such a kindred spirit, certainly seemed to enjoy his company. She liked his suggestions for the Feast (it was he who had first mentioned Trimalchio), and with the somewhat unseemly connections he had made over the years he was able to help her with some of her more ‘unusual’ ideas about decor and entertainment. She was obviously delighted with the so-called butterfly boy too. That had been a stroke of luck. Until his encounter with Hector Bovrik had been rather stumped as to where to find hundreds of butterflies in winter.
‘Oh, surely there is a way . . .’ he mused. He stroked his cloak thoughtfully again. The fur seemed to represent everything that was important to him.
‘And why should Jocastar not be for the likes of me?’ he thought with some bitterness. ‘I’m worth it.’
He looked out across the grounds and down the hill to the ancient oak forest and he remembered once again a day long ago when he was still young Jereome Hogsherd, son of Tucker Hogsherd, a lowly forest dweller . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Thanks for the Memory
. . . That autumn morning, young Jereome sat by the stream watching his father’s pigs (he always referred to them as his father’s, distancing himself from their ownership) rooting about and chewing on acorns. He was deep in thought as usual, lamenting his life of drudgery and pig filth, and it was some time before he realized that he was no longer alone. A solitary traveller, a rangy man with a narrow head and high cheekbones, had managed to come unnoticed up to the stream and stood quite close to him. Jereome said
It was at the Annual Northside Late Summer Ball that Bovrik was introduced to Lady Lysandra. She, having heard much about this charming and popular foreigner, thought it would be both practical and amusing to engage him to help with the Midwinter Feast. And of course she knew how it would gall so many society ladies if she was to have the delectable Baron all to herself. Bovrik, for completely different reasons, was equally happy to accept the position and lost no time installing himself at Withypitts Hall.
‘Ah,’ murmured Bovrik, running his hand over the crisp linen sheet. ‘This is living!’ This was certainly the most enjoyable and profitable swindle he had ever undertaken. He had already recouped all the money he’d spent to get here by pilfering Mandible trinkets, and he was able to do it in such style and comfort. Even if he only stayed at Withypitts until the Feast, he was sure to have significantly increased his wealth.
With a self-satisfied smile he took an engraved rectangular box from beside the bed and opened it to reveal a red velvet-lined interior with seven deep depressions, four of which were occupied with false eyeballs. There they sat, side by side, all staring the same way. At first glance they looked identical – made from glass, off-white with a jetblack pupil and a pale blue iris. Upon closer inspection, however, it could be seen that each had a jewel or precious stone in the centre of the pupil, winking in the light, and that each jewel was different: a ruby, an opal, a pearl and the most recent emerald.
‘Hmm,’ he thought, snapping the box shut. ‘Three to go, and then I will have one for every day of the week.’
He sighed deeply. Regardless of his heart’s desire, he had decided that when he had his final eyeball – by the Feast, he hoped – he would leave. Years of swindling had taught him never to push his luck in one place too long. It was a rule he prided himself on. He screwed up his face. But it pained him to think of walking away from such a wonderful meal ticket and, against his better judgement, recently he had found himself wondering if he could postpone his departure. Lady Mandible, in some ways such a kindred spirit, certainly seemed to enjoy his company. She liked his suggestions for the Feast (it was he who had first mentioned Trimalchio), and with the somewhat unseemly connections he had made over the years he was able to help her with some of her more ‘unusual’ ideas about decor and entertainment. She was obviously delighted with the so-called butterfly boy too. That had been a stroke of luck. Until his encounter with Hector Bovrik had been rather stumped as to where to find hundreds of butterflies in winter.
‘Oh, surely there is a way . . .’ he mused. He stroked his cloak thoughtfully again. The fur seemed to represent everything that was important to him.
‘And why should Jocastar not be for the likes of me?’ he thought with some bitterness. ‘I’m worth it.’
He looked out across the grounds and down the hill to the ancient oak forest and he remembered once again a day long ago when he was still young Jereome Hogsherd, son of Tucker Hogsherd, a lowly forest dweller . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Thanks for the Memory
. . . That autumn morning, young Jereome sat by the stream watching his father’s pigs (he always referred to them as his father’s, distancing himself from their ownership) rooting about and chewing on acorns. He was deep in thought as usual, lamenting his life of drudgery and pig filth, and it was some time before he realized that he was no longer alone. A solitary traveller, a rangy man with a narrow head and high cheekbones, had managed to come unnoticed up to the stream and stood quite close to him. Jereome said
Similar Books
