Stormy Nights at Seventh House (Hardback)

Far from anywhere you know—farther, even, than you can easily imagine—a lone spit of land floats in a moat of roiling flame the colour of emeralds. Beyond these borders lies nothing at all; a vast emptiness lit only by distant motes that might be stars. The void is screaming, as always, a faint cacophony rising in volume every time the wind gusts.

It is no deserted spot, this island, though it likely ought to be. A house looms there, poised in that ring of freezing fire, that black nothingness, with a grim determination—or perhaps merely a weary resignation. Nothing could choose such a spot, surely? Not even a great, black house, improbably large and sprawling, its walls gleaming as black and bleak as the void that surrounds it.

There’s a moon out, which is nice. Its soft, silvery glow is at least inoffensive.

‘There’s a storm coming up,’ groused somebody within. ‘Looks to be a bad one.’ No surprise there: all storms in this wretched place are violently tempestuous, as is fitting, for this is Seventh House, deep in the depths of Hell.

We are down in the kitchens, now, where a withered old retainer is peeling black-shelled eggs just baked in a great, iron pot half full of embers. This is Jessop, a chef (of sorts); having spent his morning preparing the usual fare of glistening carpaccio his once-white apron is much besmeared. It is a wonder there is life enough left in him for such a duty, for he is as shrivelled as a prune, stooped with the weight of far too many years, his head as bald as the peeled eggs at his elbow.

His remark about the storm fell on deaf ears, at first, for his companion merely turned a page of her cheerful fashion paper, which she has spread over the end of Jessop’s cold stone table. ‘Hm?’ she said, vaguely, her attention chained by a chic figured ensemble illustrated in shades of ruby. Amphelise Vexx was perfectly turned out, despite her station at the kitchen table. A sultry beauty with a lustrous tumble of auburn hair, her smooth copper complexion expertly powdered, her large green eyes lined in kohl, she would turn heads wherever she went—if she were ever to go anywhere at all.

‘Storm!’ repeated Jessop loudly, and waved an arm in a gesture vaguely illustrative.

Amphelise—or Phel, as she would be known if she had any friends—looked up. ‘Oh,’ she said; then, ‘OH,’ as an agonised howl of wind battered the walls, and the void shrieked curses. ‘Not again!’

‘It’s getting worse,’ Jessop agreed, and popped an egg into his near-toothless mouth. ‘I did say it would,’ he further observed thickly, mashing egg pulp between his gums.

Phel closed her magazine with a sigh. When the storm whipped itself into a frenzy like that, it was wont to get into the House, where it was bound to cause havoc. She had but just got the scream out of the walls from the last time. If only Markus was here, she could send him to test the windows, and the wards. But he had gone up to Third House and never come back—like several others before him—leaving Seventh almost devoid of staff. She would have to do it herself, which was a bother, for she had achieved an arrangement with her hair which could only be described as Perfection, and now it was bound to be destroyed.

She stormed out of the kitchen, setting Jessop’s racks of copper pans rattling as she passed in some dudgeon. She ought to go up to Third House herself, and... well, she would not beg for assistance, pride revolted against that notion with as much violence as the growing tempest. But she might contrive to recruit one or two; they always had staff to spare, while it had been a positive age since anybody had arrived at Seventh House.

For the moment, though, the storm pressed; an infernal wailing assailed her ears as she made her way at a smart pace through the dark and echoing structure. Honestly. Could nobody simply be contented with their lot, and go about their business quietly? ‘I dare SAY,’ she snapped, as a fresh tumult of torment rattled at the black marble walls and rippled through the dark, polished floor. ‘But this comes of your own choices, you know, and it is far too late to complain about it now. Ah, Molly,’ she added, coming into a long and airy gallery, its many large windows offering a clear view of the rage-tossed void beyond the glass. ‘We are in for a fair bout, I’m afraid. Is everything secure?’

Molly had been a great painter in her day, and kept up the conceit now. Some half, or near it, of the dark-stucco walls had been covered in an intricate mural by her hand; nicely painted, really quite attractive, though Phel wondered at the subject matter. There were trees in it, for goodness’ sake; quantities of apple-blossom; a trio of demons were having some sort of picnic in the emerging section, seated upon a serene river-bank. Molly stood with paintbrush in hand, her comfortable bulk swathed in her customary loose layers, and a painter’s smock over it all. Her grey hair was a nest of tangles, with a dirty paintbrush stabbed through it to keep its coils in place. She was as oblivious to the storm as Phel had been, engaged in adding a silver platter to her fanciful scene, with tartlets arranged upon it.

‘What?’ said Molly, glancing up. ‘Oh. Can’t you do something about it?’

‘Such as?’ said Phel, with deceptive politeness.

Molly waved her brush, spraying paint everywhere. ‘I don’t know. You’re the Countess, aren’t you?’

‘For my sins,’ answered Phel. ‘Yes.’

Molly nodded placidly, and turned her attention back to her mural. ‘I’m sure you will get it all sorted out.’

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