The boy ascends the slope's overgrown, corkscrewing track while light still dusts the sky. It's lovely and bright now, but the sun faded so quickly yesterday. Best not to loiter lest he's left to wander among the trees in the dark. He won't risk another shortcut while the night bears down on him, nipping at his heels. He can't see it yet, but he feels it a short half hour out of sight, eager to clutch him and never let go until the far-off dawn beats it back.
The leaves rustle. The boy freezes. Are there wolves in this forest? He's never seen a wolf before. He doesn't know much about them either, save that they eat boys wandering in the woods. Alone. At night.
He swallows around the knot in his throat and strains his ears harder than he ever did. Harder than the many times he hid from a bobby after being scapegoated. Harder than when he picked the lock to and pilfered the pantry of St. Andrew's (or was it St. Anthony's?). Harder than this morning with his pockets weighted down with guilty silver. He listens and he waits.
He doesn't hear anything. Not a cricket. Not a breath of wind. He takes off running regardless. He runs from hot eyes on his back he's likely imagining, but real or not, he doesn't care. And he runs. And runs. And runs from the night, from swelling shadows hiding wolves and god knows what else. He runs the whole way to another home that isn't home.
Sunset splatters the manor in scarlet strong enough to make the church's windows look pink in comparison. The boy wonders if he took a wrong bend somewhere and arrived in hell by mistake. The sun dips over the earth's edge a minute later and the house turns back to its decrepit, old self; caked in dust, veiled in its permanent shades. Home, sweet home.
Just being here soaks him in the gloom that drips from the building's every window. He does what he can to lift his mood. At least it's not so drafty as the other homes were, he muses, reaching for the door. There's no curfew. He peers inside and sees no one and nothing but the dark hall yawning before him. The sconces aren't lit. His only lights are what edges around the closing door and the faltering glow emanating from the sitting room.
Who could be there? His uncle? The foreigner? Whoever it is, he'll avoid them. There's just one little problem with that plan: 'whoever it is' is currently charging towards him. Weighty footfalls signify a heavy temper guaranteed to be made worse by antics like sneaking. Or having silverware stuffed in one's pockets. Hardly ideal circumstances for a meeting, but is there an alternative?
No time to think. Steps come ever closer. Get rid of the evidence!
The boy feels his way to a nearby pot of a mummified house plant. He empties out his trousers, dumps everything in his pockets amongst dead leaves and stems. Good god, the jingles better not carry. He scrapes up what little fossilized dirt he can to bury the shine. He sees the halo of a candle approach the corner. He stops dead and brushes his hands on his trousers. Done. Fingers crossed it'll do. He doesn't have enough time to do more with his uncle storming through the main hall toward him.
Now that his pursuer has rounded the corner, the boy can see that this is, indeed, his uncle. The twisted expression on the man's face is thrown into chasmed relief by candlelight. He gets a look too close for comfort when Myr grabs him by the collar and screams in his face.
"Wot the fook you doin' 'ere!" Myr spits. Literally. He sends spittle flying everywhere as he shouts.
The boy is both choked and soaked. Whatever he was expecting from Myr, it wasn't this. He grabs at fingers, vainly attempting to pry them away. He wants to talk. He'll talk as much as Myr wants. And he tries, he really does, though all that comes out are gasps and sputters. No words. Nothing that can possibly be heard over Myr's yelling.
"You permitted him entry." The new voice booms deep. It wasn't loud, but the boy heard it, could feel it thrumming in his chest.
He shivers. He won't forget this voice even after the day he dies. It's the other person he was hoping not to run into. Was. His present entry is welcome because Myr loosens his stranglehold to look at the foreigner. The boy catches his breath. He doesn't move besides, hoping Myr forgets he's here for a spell so he can make a break for it.
"The fook did you say?"
"I said, you invited the boy inside."
Myr redirects his rage. His grip slackens a touch more. It's not much, but it gives the boy enough leeway to be able to peer around his uncle. He doesn't spot the foreigner down the hall where Myr is facing. The candle light barely reaches past the staircase, much less the rest of the corridor. Outside their little, lit circle, the house is drowning in a sea of pitch.
Myr continues to address the dark. "When was this?"
Meanwhile, the boy searches what he can of the branching corridors. He checks the stairs and balcony too. He finds no sign of him until his target comes close enough for the light to barely touch him.
"Yesterday, a little later in the evening than it is now." What the foreigner says isn't jogging Myr's memory. "You were drunk," he explains.
The boy gapes at the foreigner. How did he not hear him? The floor cracks like gunpowder if you even think of moving, yet the foreigner strolls through the hall's center, where the boards are noisiest, without the old wood making a peep. The boy would be terribly unnerved if he wasn't deep in awe. What a thief the foreigner would be. Would he be willing to take on an apprentice...?
The sound of Myr talking shakes the boy out of his daydreams. "Tha' still don't tell why 'e's 'ere. Or why the 'ell you're lookin' like tha'." Myr gestures at the foreigner with the candlestick.
The foreigner sighs. "Firstly, you were very drunk. Secondly, they were your orders."
"Wot orders?"
Myr's barely paying attention to the boy at this point. His hold on him has loosened accordingly. The boy might be able to bolt, but the drama on hand... He looks at Myr and the foreigner in turn. Against his better judgement, he'll stay to see what happens.
"Your orders were to, and I quote, 'dun look so debil-like so I dun spook the stipen' man... or 'is boy.'" The emphasis on the last three words is slight, but it's there. Is the foreigner mocking Myr?
"Wot's a stipen'?" Myr comes close to letting go of the boy entirely.
"A stipend is the sum of money you will be receiving for services rendered."
"Wot bleedin' services?" Myr's lost what little patience he has for the foreigner's nonsense.
The foreigner says nothing. He merely looks at the boy. Myr follows suit and refastens his grip. The boy should've run when he had the chance.
"'E's services?" Myr studys him.
The boy considers which he dreads more, the feeling of the foreigner's eyes on him or Myr's. Neither is pleasant.
The foreigner slowly nods. "The stipend is compensation for services rendered in the care of your nephew, apparently."
Myr goes quiet. He begins to shake and before long he's belting out coarse laughter. He lets go of the boy, who steps away and backs himself into a corner. Just in case.
"You, you're tellin' me tha' the pup," Myr jabs his thumb at the boy, "is supposed ta be a relation o' mine?" He goes off howling again. "As if! 'E dun look a thing like me! Ugly as 'ell 'e is. Pro'lly simple ta boot. No, nuthin' at all like me." He chortles on.
The boy pulls a face behind Myr's back as the man struts away, still gabbing to the foreigner. For all intents and purposes, he ceases to exist.
"Shall we send him back and order another?" The foreigner asks.
"Bah! Why bother? One's as bad as the other. So long I get me money, I dun care which it is. And you," Myr points at the foreigner, "take care o' 'im, 'cause I sure as 'ell ain't."
"... 'Take care of him?'"
"I dun mean like tha'! Nothin' permanent mind you, jus' keep 'im outta my hair." And with that, Myr goes back the way he came, still chuckling to himself. He takes the candle with him. The boy and foreigner are left in the pitch dark.
The boy rubs his sore neck; that'll leave a bruise. He releases that cough he's been holding back. It hurts, but he breathes easier. He carefully steps away from the wall. His eyes haven't adjusted to the dark yet. He can't run around without running the risk of crashing into something. He'd better stay where he is and wait until he can see.
He feels a sigh of movement ghost in front of him. He rasps out a curse and trips back into the wall.
"Apologies. It was not my intention to scare you." The foreigner's voice comes from too damn close. Close enough to touch if he wanted.
The boy presses further into the wall. It's not far enough. "Then don't sneak up on me!"
The foreigner quietly rumbles. Is he... laughing? "As you wish." The words drift from farther away, or it could be wishful thinking.
In any case, the boy scrapes himself off the wall, but keeps one hand touching so he can feel his way for an escape. "What do you want?" He asks the dark.
The dark answers. "By your uncle's orders, I am required to 'take care of you', as it were. I shall assume that means showing you to your chambers."
The mere thought of anyone in the house knowing where he sleeps, where he's vulnerable, makes the boy goose pimple. Like hell he'll let the foreigner take him anywhere. Not without a lot of kicking and screaming. "I can show myself. I don't need your help." (I don't need you.)
"Are you quite sure?"
The boy nods before he remembers the other can't possibly see him in the gloom.
The foreigner responds anyways. "As you wish."
Another swish of air. The boy assumes the foreigner's left. He waits a minute more just in case. It's impossible without the footsteps he relies on. The earlier awe has worn off. The foreigner's silence is officially unnerving.
The boy can spot a few faint silhouettes, those of the stair banisters and walls. He finds none that could belong to the foreigner. He's safe. For now. He feels his way down the hall. He makes as little noise possible. As far as he can tell, he's alone, yet he feels something watching him. Again. That's been happening a lot tonight. Hopefully it won't become a regular occurrence.
He touches his way to the first corridor on the right, follows this bend and the second he finds shortly after. Voila, he's back in the hall of doors with the closed kitchen looming at the other end. He can see clearly by the light that's spilling through the one open doorway on the right... That's the door to his room.
He frowns. Was it closed before he left? He pokes his nose into the bedroom. Not a dust mote seems out of place. Satisfied with the uncompromised state of his sleeping arrangements, he steps inside. He checks the hall one last time, though he can barely see a thing. He closes the door carefully and checks if it shut properly this time. (It closes fine.)
He turns back to his bed. The air through the open window has dusted off most of the room throughout the day. It's less musty, but the room could still use a good sweeping (like that'll happen). He trudges to his bed and shakes out the covers, pleased at how little grit swishes about this time. He plucks off his shoes and settles into bed.
...
He can't sleep. Not with the window panting cold air in his face. He keeps thinking something's breathing on him when he closes his eyes. He dreads more splinters, but that window has got to close. And so he endures, grabs the stupid thing, and wrenches it down. Yup. One fresh batch of splinters like promised. He pulls out as many as he can and leaves the rest for Alicia.
He glares at the sill and the notch he left there last night. He leaves another beside it out of spite. Now they number the days passed since his arrival. What a wonderful way to keep a calendar. That way he'll have a number to judge the toff by when he comes. If he comes. The boy sighs. Most likely all it will be is a crude record of his existence, proof that he was here and nothing more.
He stews on the fragile nature of his life as he falls asleep.
END OF DAY TWO.