No one knows what happened to the king of Stratford-Ward's Private Academy.
His mutilated body is weeks after his disappearance, barely alive, in the cottage basement of his best friend's house. His acid-soaked eyes were impaled by two of the most...
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Florence closes the front door behind him before leaning his back against it, absorbing the complete silence radiating from the vacant foyer. The grand entrance has never felt air quite as thick as today. Especially not after his father disappeared a week ago. The cold chestnut floor absorbs the weak lights glowing from the tendrils of crystal hanging from a centre of the vaulted, wood panel ceiling. The mirrored charcoal staircase hangs quietly against the walls, boxing Florence against the door. The soldered, bejewelled metal railings have been polished today—the room smells of oil and bleach and every sapphire embellished in the metal blinks in light like dry eyes.
He leans against the glass door behind him gently, imprinting a spot of light gloss on the glass where he rests his head. "Mother?" he calls into the house. He is replied with echoes of his own voice. He fiddles with the keys of his car for a second before straightening his spine. If his mother is not working on another new hobby in her hobby room or trying to utilize the gadgets in the kitchen, she must be in the living room or asleep somewhere in a sunroom or library. From experience, Florence guesses the latter is more likely.
He pockets his car keys and hikes a grained leather briefcase he uses as a laptop back higher over his shoulder. Beneath the staircase balcony, where a glass showcase of awards and medals stands like Juliet, is an alcove closed off from the foyer with French doors. The doors are sealed tightly, blocking the flow of oxygen-rich air that bursts from the foyer every time the front door opens. The only time air passes through the French doors to dilute the poisonous air, is when George Berkeley is in there with his colleges to smoke cigars over a casual transaction or when he practices his national address. The manor house is five years old and for five years, Florence has not once seen the inside of the room. Father's sunroom was yet another Florence-forbade room in the house.
Like two arms stretching, two hallways reach out on either side of the foyer. The left hallway leads to the west wing of the house, where in the labyrinth an office, numerous hobby rooms and libraries hides. The west wing of the house is quiet, like a graveyard, where the ghosts of thoughts hover. The hallway ends in another staircase that leads up to the bedrooms. The right hallway leads to the east wing, where most of the entertainment areas are located. This side of the house only awakens when there is a birthday, anniversary or an award. It is also the hallway Florence follows to find his mother.
First, he passes a large, empty room inspired by Victorian era ballrooms, with a gorgeous Michelangelo inspired fresco and grotesque wall panels that do not belong in the modern farm style house. Tall windows cast bars of light inside the room, making it feel like jail more than a dance of a celebration. Florence's birthday parties were held in the room against his will. The next few rooms include a few formal sitting rooms each with a different function like reading or meditating and extra quarters for staff if they needed a place to stay—none of them rooms used. The end is top heavy with an intersection. Two gaping, doorless mouths sit, waiting to swallow you into the next room. It has always reminded Florence of a hammerhead shark—unbalanced and ravenous. If you go right, you find the kitchen, but if you go left, you enter the family room tucked away at the back of the room.
