THE KEY-BEARER. BOOK I. Ferrals

“Do you know Latin?” the strange woman asked as soon as the girl arrived.

“Yes,” the girl replied.

“Greek?”

“Not much practice.”

“Which dialect?”

“Attic and Ionic, a bit.”

“Hebrew?”

“No.”

“Why am I not surprised,” the woman muttered, her voice dripping with judgment and disgust. The girl sensed the comment wasn’t meant for her.

“Do you know herbs?”

“Herbs like sage and rosemary?”

“Herbs that u r not use for cooking!”

"Not necessary for cooking" girl thought to herself, but instead of arguing just calmly replied.

“No.”

“Follow me.” The woman grabbed a chain of keys from her wide leather belt and headed toward the West wing. The girl struggled to see, as heavy curtains blocked the windows and unlit candles lined the path. She steadied herself by touching the wall. “Stop crawling like a snail, I don’t have time for you!” Suddenly, the woman’s eyes glowed in the dark: eerie orange circles with wide black pupils, like an owl’s. The girl’s heart skipped, a cold shiver ran through her, and she froze.

Was she dreaming, or were the strange smells around her causing hallucinations?

“Do you want me to hold your hand?”

The idea of the woman’s touch was even scarier. The girl shook her head nervously, certain the woman could see her in the pitch-black.

“No, I’m coming,” she said. Her voice was shaky.

It was unsettling how the girl couldn’t sense the woman’s presence, as if no one walked ahead. Yet she felt the woman’s eyes tracking her every move.

A metallic scrape echoed. The door must have been heavy or its hinges rusty, as it creaked loudly when opened.

A beam of light appeared from nowhere. One step forward, and the sight made the girl forget everything from the past few days.

It was a massive library—not a modern small one but a two-story, ballroom-sized space, sparkling under art deco-style electric chandeliers. Books lined open and closed stacks on the second floor. Wooden lecterns with carvings and a long, heavy table with seven chairs filled the ground floor. Old, pricey-looking maps and paintings hung on the walls.

“You’ll stay in the guests’ quarters,” the woman said. “Servants wake at 5 AM. By 7 AM, all daily preparations must be done. You’ll handle the garden and the conservatory in the East wing. After breakfast, you can work outside or inside, your choice. But if I catch you slacking, you’ll be punished.”

“What more can you do?” the girl asked.

“Don’t play smart with me, girl.” The woman turned, her eyes were normal now —brown with white scleras, framed by thick black eyelashes. The girl wondered if the glowing eyes were just a vision. “This is where you’ll study.”

“Study what?”

“Herbs, obviously. New plants arrive every month, and you’re responsible for them. My master needs fresh herbs and greens. Start with Section One, Botanical Latin, then move to Section Two, Botanical Greek.”

“Why?”

“Because my master needs it!”

“What’s in the other sections?” The girl glanced curiously at the closed stacks on the right, which seemed more protected.

“That’s the forbidden section.”

“Erotics?” the girl tried to eas the amosphere.

“It has nothing to do with your duties. Touch it, and you’ll lose your fingers.”

“Then how will I help with the garden?” Another joke—she always hid nerves with humor.

“Exactly,” the woman said coldly, no hint of amusement. “You’ll be useless.”

Before giving the full house tour, the woman led her to her quarters.

The girl’s bedroom was medium-sized, bigger than her old one at home, wrapped in deep forest-green wallpaper. It was striking, with traditional raised paneling and a high ceiling with fancy molding, like something from a nineteenth-century period drama. The room’s ugly centerpiece, an iron chandelier with candle-style lights, gave off a warm but dim glow.

The bed was a dark wood four-poster with carved details, covered in cream and taupe linens. Textured pillows were neatly arranged. The bedding looked freshly prepared for her arrival.

The flooring caught her eye because of a carpet: dark hardwood planks topped with a beautiful Persian or Oriental rug in greens, creams, and burgundies. She decided to walk in socks or barefoot.

Fresh plants near the window and fireplace were well-kept.

An adjoining bathroom had mosaic tiles, a traditional bathtub with cream curtains, and a marble or stone countertop. Small glass bottles lined the corner. The mirror above had decorative molding.

“This is nice,” the girl thought, then laughed at herself. “Nice? She grew up in a three-room flat with a shared bathroom and used furniture.”

After passing a damp corridor along the greenhouse wall, smelling of soil and wet leaves, a left turn led to the “Agrippa Room.”

“Nothing for you here. Don’t enter,” the woman warned.

Beyond the Agrippa Room, the narrow passage continued, squeezed between walls, until it opened into the entrance hall. A grand curved double staircase stood out, the mansion’s architectural centerpiece, grabbing the girl’s attention instantly.

The staircase had ornate wrought-iron balusters with decorative patterns. Burgundy carpeting with gold trim ran up the center, held by brass stair rods. The girl had seen something similar only in the National Library, over a hundred years old. She couldn’t shake the image of Kate Winslet in a stunning gown at the top, gazing down at an awestruck Leonardo DiCaprio.

Another old-timey feature hung above: a huge crystal chandelier, its thousands of crystal drops and beads cascading in elegant tiers, casting prismatic light across the foyer. The girl’s neck ached, but she couldn’t look away.

“To the left is a waiting room for guests and, farther down, the kitchen,” the woman said.

They passed the living room quickly, but the girl glimpsed a marble fireplace with carved details, surrounded by furniture centered on a modern ultramarine-blue sofa with a glass-top coffee table.

It felt out of place— as it was the newest thing that she had seen so far.

The kitchen revolved around a large, rough wooden farmhouse table with matching benches, built for group dining and food prep. The girl didn’t know how many people lived here; not all seats were likely used. Open wooden shelves showed off copper pots and pans, while stone countertops and rustic cabinets offered plenty of storage and workspace.

Large windows with stone frames opened to a courtyard or garden, letting in light and air. Potted herbs and plants dotted the space.

“We value fresh ingredients here. If the kitchen staff is busy or someone’s sick, it’s your job to step in. Understand?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” the girl replied.

A back door led to the servants’ wing, where narrow halls smelled of soap and burnt wood smoke. The girl saw smaller doors, likely servants’ bedrooms.

“Farther down is the laundry room; staff will show you when needed. There’s also a cellar. That’s all, except…” The woman’s predatory glare sent chills through the girl. “You’re not allowed on the second or third floors, filthy creature. Got it?”

The girl could only nod.

Each morning, the girl woke exhausted. Her heart felt heavy as stone, her head ready to hatch another goddess. Was it caffeine withdrawal, or was she falling apart?

She got up, showered, and used handmade-looking soap. She brushed her hair with a sandalwood comb, likely from a vintage sale. She brushed her teeth with paste from a glass jar—white powder mixed with crushed clove and mint. At least the toothbrush looked modern, though it was dark wood with harsh bristles.

Her room had no electrical outlets—no plugs, no switches. The light went off at sunset, came on when everyone was up, then off again at 8 AM.

The girl couldn’t figure out where the hot water came from.

She stared into the mirror, condensation uncleared, for a few minutes, maybe more. Her brain kept switching on and off, making it hard to tell.

The tall wooden closet, topped with carvings and anchored by a wide drawer, held two sets of uniforms: one for inside, one for outside. The girl’s uniform, like the others’, was linen and felt a size too big. It had a dress collar and golden buttons with engraved daffodils, hidden by a gray floral apron with ruffled hems and front pockets, tied at the waist. It was May, and the heat hadn’t hit yet; she wondered if there was a summer version.

For outdoor and garden work, she had loose tan and brown trousers, overalls with wide shoulder straps, and long-sleeved shirts in gray and beige. She wore knee-high rubber boots.

Inside, she wore thin leather shoes with laces and a small heel.

The girl left her room at 6 AM for breakfast with the other servants: a cook, an old man with thick, curly gray hair and olive skin; a curvy middle-aged woman, probably handling laundry, with clothespins always on her apron; the driver, the only one who greeted everyone; and a young girl, likely the cook’s daughter, who seemed scared of his expressions.

They ate a quiet breakfast of yogurt with honey or fruit, cheeses, olives, fresh bread, butter, eggs, and sometimes pastries with buttered phyllo layers filled with cheese-egg mix, spinach, or cabbage. No coffee—just juice and teas. After thirty minutes, they split up. The girl went to the greenhouse; the others handled their tasks.

No noise was allowed: no chatting, no sitting, no daydreaming until work was done. Fear, mixed with odd moments of worship (the girl saw the maid kneeling before Apollo statues before dusting them), made the place feel like a Victorian asylum hospital.

After checking the greenhouse, her schedule was: morning cleanup, shower, change clothes, lunch. Lunch was the main meal—soups (lentil, bean, chickpea) or baked stuffed dishes, with salad, fresh bread, and olives always on the table. It felt like a Greek household.

If no one needed her, she went to the library to rest and prepare for tough garden work. She had a light supper, left dirty clothes in the laundry room, and went to bed.

The greenhouse had high glass ceilings in a metal frame, which should have let in lots of light. But the glass was filthy, so sunlight came in patches. The humid, misty air filtered it through condensation. The space was packed with plants—the girl was sure they were invasive, left to grow wild. Ferns and blackthorn ruled the place. She didn’t know much about gardening beyond planting vegetables or plowing—skills from village summer vacations—but she knew this mess needed clearing.

Her bedtime routine now included disinfecting scratches and pulling splinters from her skin. Her back and neck hurt, and she had no energy for anything else.

Studying was easier and less painful. The girl had lied about knowing nothing of herbs. Her godmother, an amateur botanist and the smartest person she knew, loved plants. Every hiking trip with her was like flipping through an herbal guide. She taught the girl Latin, Greek, and other odd skills for a twenty-first-century kid.

The outer garden, which she hadn’t described earlier, wasn’t a simple front-yard setup with marigolds or geraniums. It was like a fourteenth-century French aristocrat’s garden, with pathways and statues among trimmed trees. The layout was still visible but neglected. The stone fountain at the center was dry and cracked, its basin filled with stagnant rainwater, fallen leaves, and green moss creeping up the worn stone. Symmetrical rose beds were choked with weeds and brambles. Stone paths were barely visible under moss, weeds, and debris.

The background archways were weathered, stained, and half-hidden by ivy and wild vines, but still beautiful to her. The trees—apple with small fruits, lots of lemons and oranges, peaches, and a couple of cherries—didn’t fit the formal garden. Someone had mixed beauty with utility, planting them for flowers, scent, and fruit.

Peaches and lemons were her favorites.

A month passed in a half-asleep, half-awake haze, unlocking new tasks. Four times a month, the woman woke her at night to gather herbs, tree bark, roots, mushrooms, and berries in the wilderness. Sometimes, she made the girl collect odd things like insects, river rocks, or spider webs—as if her hands weren’t scratched enough. A red rash appeared now and then; that’s when the girl knew she’d dug up something poisonous. “You’d know if you studied harder,” the woman said, glaring down.

From a distance, they probably looked like witches heading into the woods to summon dark spirits. Cloaks looked cool only in movies. Try walking through bushes and branches, crossing a river, unable to lift the heavy, pleated fabric. The girl dragged it through leaves and stones. The King George-era lantern and wicker basket, woven from soft wood and strapped with worn leather, didn’t help