annotated floorplan - simple floorplan

The kitchen was warm and bright and everything in it was spotless—cookware of copper and of stainless steel all gleaming, every surface impeccably clean. It smelled wonderful, too. Thriving pots of living herbs stood on the ample windowsills and on shelves across them. The same massive work table dominated the room, the one he’d sat at to meditate, but it was now in pristine condition. Both it and the counters looked higher than Leo was used to, though there were several sturdy-looking stepped boxes around that might help.

The cook had to be seven feet tall, maybe more.

And had skin of a deep cherry red that looked virtually black in some areas.

And had six arms.

And thick waist-length ice-white hair in half a dozen braids, each ending with brightly-coloured beads, but the braids were currently bound back with a yellow scrunchie.

And was wearing, over what looked like a black leather utility kilt, a startlingly frilly apron that covered everything from collarbone to knees, complete with ruffled straps over both shoulders, in an even more astonishing buttercup-yellow and sky-blue flowered pattern. Any kind of shirt under the apron would probably have been incredibly problematic with those extra arms.

And Leo would not have had the faintest idea what pronouns to use even inside his own head.

“Nothing to fear,” the cook said cheerfully. “Nothing personal, but you wouldn’t taste at all good in stew. I’m Tarragon. What’s your name?”

“Leo.” He watched as all six hands, plus a prehensile tail, made swift work of cutting up onions and garlic to throw into a pan.

“Have a seat, Leo.” Tarragon gestured to the table with one hand, the other five still busy. “There we go, let’s let those start for the moment. There’s bread fresh from the oven, barely even cool, and butter there on the table. If you’d like some tea, there’s a pot here on the counter—I expected the lady of the house to want it but she hasn’t asked for it, and it’ll be getting too cool soon. Sugar and cream are on the table.”

It struck Leo as rude, possibly even dangerous, to decline hospitality, and the smells in the kitchen were rather appealing, so he accepted.

“This bread is amazing.” The stools at the table were high enough that he felt like a child perched on adult furniture, but the flavours made up for it. How could anything as simple as bread and butter taste so wonderful?

“Always good to hear.” Tarragon bustled back over to the counter to chop up more vegetables, one hand stirring the onions and garlic on the stove.

“I... I’m really sorry, but can I ask you a possibly rude question?” He wasn’t even sure why it was high on his current list of priorities, or why he was willing to risk being offensive.

“Sure.”

“I, um, because of something that happened, I try not to make assumptions about how people see themselves, but sometimes people get majorly annoyed by questions like that. Too bad. Maybe someday people will find a way to make things clear in advance or something.” Maybe someday people would just generally have more flexible ideas of gender and exploration. He hoped it got better on the other side of the new millennium. “But... if I were to tell anyone later I met you, would you rather I said he or she or something else?” Maybe phrased like that it wouldn’t be too bad.

“Ah. I was wondering where that was headed. Family all know about each other, and we don’t meet new people very often. I don’t generally fuss much about pronouns and gender, but for tonight, mm, I suppose we can go with ‘he.’ Another night I might say something different.”

That was a fascinating answer, but it fit with what Leo was seeing. “Right. Thanks. Uh... another question? Also possibly rude?”

“Go for it.”

“What are you doing in an abandoned house that’s supposed to be haunted?”

Tarragon glanced in his direction, and laughed, a big booming sound that filled the whole room. “No ‘supposed to’ about it. ‘Abandoned’ depends on where you stand, since some of us call it home all the time. But ‘haunted’ is as good a term as any, considering the family. Came here looking for ghosts, did you?”

“I, um, when I can I go to places that are considered haunted to see if I can do anything to help any ghosts that are trapped. People who died with something unfinished or didn’t realize they died. That kind of thing. I’m generally pretty good at listening for very subtle signs. Um, I’ve never come across anything like this before.”

“Very thoughtful of you. But are you sure? There are ways of making sure that visitors simply forget that they had encounters with the rest of us. Tell you the truth, most of you are downright eager to forget, and you’ll cooperate enthusiastically with forgetting and rationalizing and whatever else it takes to make it not have happened.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“You might be right. You’re sitting here pretty calmly right now.”

A rather cute dark-haired young woman, in a fetishy maid uniform and catgirl ears and tail, white with black tips, came into the kitchen. She glanced curiously at Leo, then shrugged. “Master wants tea with cookies, for two, for the music room.”

“The kettle’s already hot,” Tarragon said. He fetched a teapot of a warm yellow with white musical instruments on it, and turned to prepare the tea. Chocolate chip cookies were neatly arranged on a matching plate. The feline maid had already fetched a tray, and had added matching cups and sugar bowl and cream pitcher, along with spotless white linen, from the room linking the kitchen to the breakfast room, the one Leo had concluded was a butler’s pantry on his initial explorations. Leo figured the wisest course was to stay out of the way.

“Got it, Maggie?” Tarragon asked, when she picked up the full tray.

The maid nodded. “Of course. Thank you!” She left.

Tarragon turned away from the counter, wiping his hands on a very busy dish towel, and came over to stand in front of Leo. “Look at me. Meet my eyes. Not going to hurt you, just want to see if your memory’s been messed about with.”

It was reckless, but Leo obeyed. Every instinct insisted that no matter what he looked like, Tarragon meant no harm.

Big black-nailed red hands cupped around his face from either side, steadying him. Leo tried not to look away from those eyes, which were a rather startling gold.

Then Tarragon let go. “Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’ve had nights edited out before.”

“What? Why?”

Tarragon shrugged, and went back to the counter. “I don’t know. There are no notes attached with explanations. When it happens here, it’s for safety. Either to keep the house safe from a threat, or to protect a visitor from the knowledge we exist. Like I said, it’s not something you tend to take well. There are other houses out there, and probably others not in houses, and I have no way of knowing what their rules are.”

“Is there a way to get those memories back?”

Tarragon didn’t answer immediately. “Not under current conditions,” he said finally. “How badly do you want them back?”

“Extremely!”

“And you’ll trust me to give you some advice?”

Leo paused to think. Could Tarragon be lying about the whole thing? He was used to trusting his intuition, and it said that the cook was for real. “Yes. I’m not going to promise to follow it, but I’d like to hear it.”

“Smart. You’ll see Ségolène, the house’s Mistress, at sunrise, but that’s a very long time from now. You have, ah, nearly thirteen hours. If you want her to do anything other than erase tonight as well, then you’d better impress her. Go wander around the house. Explore the space and meet the family. Show her you aren’t scared. Between us, there isn’t much to be scared of, really. None of us would welcome anyone who got off on killing or causing real pain or distress. But most of the family is pretty... playful. Embrace it without fear, and ask the Mistress at sunrise.” He shrugged, a complicated gesture with all those arms. “Or hang around here in the kitchen. Wouldn’t be the first to catch a nap on the bench under the windows, and I don’t mind company. You’ll see Ségolène at sunrise anyway.”

“But she’ll be less likely to listen?”

“For what you’re asking, yes.”

“Just explore.”

“And try to be open to whatever happens. You’re not really in danger. The worst that happens is that come sunrise, you leave, with no recollection that you ever saw anything in the house except spiders and dust.”

“That’s bad enough.” Leo hopped off the stool, and retrieved his messenger bag. “Thanks for the bread and the tea.”

“Come back when you can. There’s always soup simmering, and the soup of the day is tomato vegetable.” He grinned, which showed very white teeth. “Have fun.”

This was insane. He was taking the word of someone who looked remarkably like a genuine demon, which was definitely not a costume considering the way those hands all moved, not only that previous memories had been stolen from him, but about the best way to retrieve them and not forget what he was seeing here.

He always trusted his intuition. It had gotten him out of situations repeatedly. He was absolutely sure that Tarragon had told him the truth. It might not be all the truth, and he did need to be careful, but in some way, it was the truth.

Which meant that he needed to leave the kitchen and explore.

“Servants’ quarters upstairs?” he asked Tarragon.

Tarragon laughed. “Go to it. Most people start in the big public ground-floor rooms. Upstairs will be delighted. Back out the door you came in, and the stairs are right across the corridor.”