The Devil's Workshop

“Take him into the parlor,” Jack said. “Put him in a chair and find something to tie him with.”

“Why not finish him and be done?”

“Always in such a hurry, Peter. You have much to learn about art. Now do as I say.”

“I think it’s a mistake to leave him alive for any length of time.”

“Tell me you aren’t arguing, little fly?”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Jack said.

Cinderhouse frowned, wondering who Jack was talking to.

“You must never contradict me,” Jack said.

“It’s only that I don’t like it when you call me an insect.”

“Then I will stop.”

“Thank you.”

After that, Cinderhouse went quietly about his chores as Jack watched. He lit candles all through the house, then dragged the man through the inside door and down the hall to the parlor, propped him up, and levered him into a plush armchair piled with embroidered burgundy pillows. Jack surmised that the man was married and that the wife was currently away. Why else the burgundy pillows? They were not the sort of thing a man would choose for himself. Jack wondered if the man had children, too, and how old they might be. And what the insides of their bodies might look like. Jack shrugged. There were things even he wasn’t meant to know.

While Cinderhouse went looking for twine or wire, something to tie the man with, Jack cast his eye about the house, his gaze finally coming to rest on the attaché case. It was unlikely the case held clues to the man’s home life. It was probably full of business papers, which would be completely boring. Jack kicked the case under a settee. The man wouldn’t need it again. He wouldn’t be returning to work. Jack had already liberated him from the humdrum life of the worker bee.

There was a silver letter opener on the mantel over the fireplace and Jack picked it up. It was well-polished and gleamed in the candlelight. Jack tucked it into the sleeve of his shirt, holding it against his arm with his fingertips, relishing the cold metallic feel of it. He decided to add the letter opener to his collection of instruments in the black leather bag. But it occurred to him that he needed pockets. He needed a decent pair of trousers and a waistcoat and a long jacket, all of them with loads of pockets.

The rest of the house was drab and ordinary, but with those occasional women’s touches he had noted. Floral-patterned draperies and gilt chandeliers. Nothing expensive, and nothing too terribly tasteful, either.