Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle

He had already turned his attention back to Agatha. There was a new gleam in his eye. “But you, my lady—you are something quite special.”

Agatha blinked. “You…you believe me?”

The old man tapped a fingernail against his teeth. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but I will listen.”

With that he swept off his flat cap, revealing a pattern of odd scars upon his head as he bowed. “I am Carson von Mekkhan. Former seneschal and keeper of the keys to Castle Heterodyne. Welcome home, my lady.” He straightened up and his gaze sharpened. “If my lady you be.”

Wooster had started at the old man’s name. “Von Mekkhan…von Mekkhan was the name of the seneschal. But—he died in the attack upon the castle. The family is extinct.”

“You’re remarkably well informed, young man.” Carson’s face grew older. “Yes, I died a bit that day…” He straightened up. “But the Masters always considered that a poor excuse. For the last several years I have been going under the name of Carson Heliotrope.”

Wooster waved a hand. “The records clearly show—Lady Heterodyne, this can’t be the seneschal!”

Carson pointed with his bony forefinger. “And I know, personally, that this young lady cannot be who she says she is!”

He then regarded Agatha with uncertain eyes. “But.” he continued slowly, “I’m an old man and I’ve lived in Mechanicsburg my entire life. One thing I’ve learned is that just because something is ‘impossible,’ doesn’t mean that it cannot happen.”

Agatha frowned. “Yet you say you don’t believe me.”

Carson grinned an evil grin. “This is a town built by science, my lady. Mad science, I’ll concede, but science still. I’ll entertain the idea that you are an impossible thing, but belief requires proof.” His grin faltered. “You… you don’t have any proof on you, do you?”

Agatha thought about the locket at her throat. It contained pictures of Bill and Lucrezia, but no doubt so did a thousand others for sale less than a hundred meters from where she was standing.

“Nothing concrete, sorry.”

The old man clearly didn’t seem to know if he should be disappointed or relieved. “Well, you could still be useful,” he mused.

Agatha raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“You don’t act like the usual bogus Heterodyne heir,” Carson explained. “You’re too low-key.”

He offered Agatha his arm and the little group continued onward. They crossed another bridge and entered a neighborhood that displayed no tourist paraphernalia. The shops and cafés displayed markedly cheaper prices, and while everything still had a feeling of slow decay, the people here were more personable.

Krosp glanced upwards at the hovering dirigible. “Ah, so the one who entered the castle—”

Carson interrupted him. “No, she doesn’t fit either. We get fake Heterodynes through here every year or so, sometimes more. Fewer these days than we used to, but they still come. They’re either con artists or deluded, messianic crazies.” He sighed. “The tourists love it, of course, and that’s good for business. The townspeople…” He checked himself and continued on a different tack.

“But the one now in the castle—she’s different. She has an armed staff. She has an airship. She has funding.” He prodded Agatha in the arm. “She is being managed.” And at this, Carson’s face grew dark. “And that means someone is trying to take over my town.”

At this point, they stopped walking, and with a sigh, Carson indicated they should enter a small shop. Agatha glanced at the name over the door: The Sausage Factory. However, when they entered, she was surprised to find not a butcher’s shop, but a café. It was large and well lit with high, arched ceilings and the walls and furnishings were covered in decorative woodwork carved in the Art Nouveau style.

The gold and red tiled floor was crowded with small round tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. Cozy booths with tall wooden backs and scandalously carved privacy screens lined the walls. Along the back ran an elaborate glass-fronted counter, behind which were a number of intriguing machines as well as shelves crammed with bottles and row upon row of porcelain mugs in a variety of sizes. Within the counter were long glass shelves displaying assorted pastries and cakes, pies and quiches, sweet cheeses and blocks of halvah, and marzipan molded into trilobites and other festive shapes.

An amazing smell hit them as they walked through the door, combining the odors of fresh baking, warm butter, chocolate, nutmeg, cinnamon, and fresh coffee.

Zeetha stepped through the door and stopped dead. She took a deep, appreciative sniff, and declared, “I am living here now.”

One of the waitresses, a plump girl with a dazzling smile, laughed. “Sorry, Mademoiselle, but there’s a waiting list.”

Krosp’s face settled into a frown. “I don’t smell any meat. Or even plants. What kind of restaurant is this?”