Max thought it a rather conspicuous address for a smuggler. The house was by far the largest and most luxurious residence they’d seen, a pale yellow Victorian with three stories, a dozen gables, and a half-dozen chimneys poking from its slate roof.
Situated on a sloping, pastured outcropping, the estate boasted its own herds and a private dock that Max could glimpse through occasional gaps in the hedge. A white fence bordered the property, and Toby drove the mules within its broad gate and down the gravel driveway to the main residence.
“I thought we’d be knocking on a door in some alley,” said Max. “What’s Petra’s legitimate business supposed to be?”
“Furs mostly,” replied Toby. “And land. You can’t build anything on Piter’s Folly without going through her, and she wrings out every last copper. Speaking of which, I’ll need more money—at least fifty silvers’ worth. Gold is better if you have some.”
Max counted out the money and handed a small pouch to the smee, who weighed it lovingly before reining the mules to a halt on the circular drive. The front door opened and a young girl in a green smock slipped outside, twirling a paintbrush between her slender fingers. Leaning out over the porch, she gazed down at them disdainfully.
“What do you want?” she said, speaking English and sounding bored.
Whipping off his hat, Toby stood and bowed. “Greetings,” he croaked in Kolbyt’s hoarse voice. “We beg an audience with Madam Petra.”
“You’re supposed to go round back, you know,” sniffed the girl. “The service entrance.”
“Very sorry,” said Toby, reaching for the reins.
“Don’t bother,” she scoffed. “Madam Petra’s busy and cannot possibly see you. Try again in a week.”
Toby seemed to anticipate this. The ensuing negotiations were swift and exceedingly expensive. When the girl had weighed Max’s purse in her hand and counted every last coin, she turned on her heel and walked back to the front door.
“Don’t shout, dear,” came a silky voice from an upstairs window. “Take them around back and Dmitri will meet them in the rose garden. Offer them something to drink.”
The girl fixed them with an acid stare. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Wine if you have it,” said Toby cheerfully. “Water if you don’t.”
Rolling her eyes, the girl shooed them impatiently toward a garlanded gate that led around the house. Once Skeedle started the mules in that direction, she stormed back inside and slammed the door shut behind her.
“She’s pleasant,” muttered David, ducking a low-hanging branch.
“This isn’t quite what I expected,” whispered Max, gazing through the house’s windows as they wound around toward the back. Inside, he saw maidservants dusting and cleaning rooms whose rich appointments evoked a tranquil estate rather than some secret smuggler’s den. Passing by one broad window, Max spied the easel and canvas where the girl had been working on a still life in the style of the Dutch masters. He saw no evidence that Madam Petra’s household was in a state of alarm or intended to flee before Yuga or Aamon’s armies.
The lane ended in an impeccably manicured lawn that sloped deeply down to the lake and a small boathouse. Several groundskeepers were already at work, picking up broken branches and twigs and retying oilcloth covers that protected the rosebushes. They glanced up at the visitors with only mild interest. Apparently goblin caravans were nothing new.
It was almost a minute before Max observed the heads.
There were seven of them in total, each spitted on tall poles placed throughout the gardens. They were in various states of decomposition, some little more than skulls while others were jarringly fresh. Four of the heads had belonged to goblins, two were human, and the last possessed the feral, wolfish face of a vye. When Toby finally noticed them, he nearly fainted.
“Here’s your wine,” said a voice behind them.
The three turned to see the girl bearing a silver tray with three goblets of red wine. Setting it on a small table near the roses, she whispered something to the nearest gardener before turning to stare at them.
“My mother’s secretary will be out shortly,” she announced. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
And with a strange little smile, she hurried back to the house, skipping over the shallow steps of the back patio to slip inside the door.
“Something isn’t right,” hissed Toby. “They know something. We should go!”
“Try to relax,” whispered David. “Let’s drink the wine and wait for our hosts.”
“D-didn’t you see the heads?” stammered the smee.
“Of course I did,” replied David evenly. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be perfect. You know what to say?”
Nodding weakly, Toby climbed down from the wagon. Taking seats around the table, the trio sipped the strong red wine while the wind blew wisps of cool mist off the lake. They sat in silence, each watching the house and trying to ignore the seven grisly shadows on the lawn.
Almost an hour had passed when the back door opened. A young man emerged, fine-featured with a slight build and black hair that was combed back from a widow’s peak. He wore an embroidered waistcoat over a black shirt and plum-colored pants that were tucked into Hessian boots. His smile was prim, his manner formal as he came to a halt before them.
“I am Dmitri,” he said. “Madam Petra’s secretary. And who are you?”
Toby stood and bowed. “Kolbyt of the Broadbrim clan,” he announced. “I have traded with Madam Petra before.”
“Yes,” mused the man, plucking at his goatee. “I seem to recall your face … and who are the others? We do not like strangers unless they bring us very pretty things.”
“My kinsman Skeedle and our servant, Hrunta,” replied the smee, gesturing at each in turn. “We have brought oil and iron, coffee and sugar to please the Great Piter Lady and beg an audience to discuss a proposal.”
“What is your proposal?” inquired the secretary pointedly. “You may tell it to me and I will relay it to Madam Petra. She is very busy.”
“I am sorry,” said Toby, shrugging. “But my news is for Madam Petra’s ears alone—the great Plumpka would have my skin if we should tell anyone else.”
This did not please the secretary. His eyes grew hard. “Plumpka might take your skin, but Madam Petra will have your head should you waste her time. Look about you, goblin. Better that you tell me your proposal and let me decide whether it is worth intruding upon my lady.”
“Kolbyt must humbly refuse,” said Toby, bowing low and offering the man a handful of silver.
“How crude,” the secretary muttered, pocketing the coins nonetheless. “And why did Plumpka not come? If the proposal is so valuable, surely the chief of the Broadbrims would make the journey himself.”
“He is unwell,” explained the smee, bowing another apology. “And the Ravenswood Spur has grown very dangerous. A mighty battle was fought not two days’ journey from here.”
“Yes,” mused Dmitri, frowning. “Lord Kargen’s lands. He shall host no more parties, I hear. A pity, but so be it. You may see many more battles ere long. King Aamon’s armies are swift.” The man squinted past them at the broad lake where the sun was peeking through the haze. “Very well, you and I will continue our conversation inside. Your companions must wait here. I make no promises, but if you are who you say you are, I may be able to secure a brief audience.” Gesturing for Toby to follow, the secretary flicked a parting glance at Max and David. “If we do not return within the hour, your friend will not be coming.”
The smee’s shoulders drooped as though he were marching to his own funeral. Clearing his throat, he ordered his companions to wait for him before following the secretary up to Madam Petra’s house.
Max squirmed as he watched them go. There was something profoundly unsettling about this immaculate house with its pristine grounds and quiet, watchful servants. It set him on edge more than any of the black markets and seedy dens he’d visited in Zenuvia. Plodding behind the secretary, Toby looked so alone and helpless. Max prayed that he remembered everything Kolbyt had told him; he also prayed the brutish goblin had not played them false.
As Toby disappeared into the house, the groundskeepers set down their tools. They walked single file up the garden path, a silent procession that slipped inside after the secretary. When the last had entered, the door was closed and locked.
