Ward of the White Worm

The man’s hand finally released Olli’s arm from its death grip once they had all hurtled right into the middle of a large and moderately well lit room with three long wooden tables with covered dishes of food, a wall completely covered in bookcases that the smell of old paper and leather warred with the oddly cheerful smell that came from a fireplace at the other end of the room which was flanked by several portraits and paintings on a green wall.

Olli stood still for a moment while the adults around her chattered quickly as chairs were pulled up, sofas moved from away from the wall, fancier sofas were occupied, and food was uncovered while conversation drifted pleasantly if tensely up into the air.

Where was she?

The girl had no answer to the question and turned around immediately for the door, only to find a gaggle of men and women coming in so tightly packed with bodies and wide dresses there was no room for her to slip through and once it seemed clear the doors were then shut tightly by the now red-faced and sweating driver from earlier.

Olli turned around, and around, on her heel as she fully took in her surroundings and the people within the room. She saw no light switches, nobody had a phone out, the clothing looked like things she vaguely recalled from television shows. Big dresses with large skirts, fancy coats and vests on men. Even stranger was despite being inside, she still felt cold, her teeth knocking around her head. Then another startling realization came to her.

There was not a single window in the room.

“What’s going on?” Olli finally asked, or rather muttered to herself in increasing disbelief between her chattering teeth.

The large woman from earlier was beside her, smoothing out her patchy apron, “oh dear, you should know! It’s Saint Clara’s Day,” she said. “You look old enough to have seen it a few times already. Where did you-”

The pale man seemed to emerge from nowhere, taking Olli’s wrist once more, “forgive her, she had taken a bad fall on her head while in the workhouse.”

“The workhouse!?” The woman exclaimed, shocked. “Why, no wonder the creature is so wan! And her clothes! I assume they just shoved the poor girl in whatever rags they could find.”

“Yes, yes,” the pale man nodded. “She’s the daughter of a distant cousin who fell to destitution-”

“Why didn’t they send her to you before the workhouse?”

“Paperwork,” the pale man replied flatly.

The woman scowled, “ah of course, the damnable paperwork. Always some excuse to put wee things to work at mills.”

“It’s a terrible thing, I need to speak with her in private though,” the pale man said.

“Ah, yes, of course m’lord! Forgive my chatter. I believe I got a shawl to give to her somewhere in the room. Poor things’ been shiverin’ since she stepped out.”

“But I’m not-”

The man yanked her, nearly off her feet once again as he dragged her away from the adults in the room and into a somewhat dusty corner overseen by a stern portrait of a man with a thin nose. “Listen to me,” he rasped in a low voice. “Listen to me and keep your mouth shut at any questions, do not say anything about where you come from-”

“Why!?” Olli asked, raising her voice, “why sh-!?” A cold hand covered her mouth, muffling any other sound as bone thin fingers squeezed.

“If you do not listen to me, you will die. You will die painfully. Do you understand? You are going to die if you do not listen to me,” the voice was cold and raspy but hard as steel. The pale eyes stared at her with the same sort of feverish intensity she recalled seeing only once before and yet the memory slipped out of her mind just as quickly as the obedient fear in her heart spread as those eyes bored into her like worms in a corpse.

So Olli simply nodded, a clammy chill settling into her bones.

“What is your name?” He asked, or rather demanded with less steel in his voice.

“Uh, Olli-”

“Olli?”

“Olivia.”

The man stared at her for a long moment, there was the sound of a piano being played somewhere across the room. “Saint Clara, who by the neck once did swaaay…” sang a set of cheery voices. But the man’s face was unmoved, still, staring at her from over those small glasses.

“M’lord, I found the shawl!”

A thick lumpen patch of dingy blue fabric was suddenly thrust out, and the man stood up to take the fabric. “Thank you Motzy,” he said softly. He then held it out to Olli, “put it on, Olli.” His voice was curt, but now soft.

Like a beaten dog, she flinched and pulled the shawl around her shoulders. It smelled a little bit like a petting zoo, but the chill was mostly dispelled around her upper body.

Suddenly a rather stocky man in a thick coat with gold buttons ambled over to them, smiling a big grin nearly hidden beneath a large mustache and barely tamed beard. “My lord Earl Graef, you’ve been quieter than usual. Have you tired of the gathering before it even begun?”

The pale man turned on his heel to regard the approaching man, “Mister Greene, I see your wife and the other ladies have taken fine control of the gathering so far and I saw no reason to intrude.”

“Ah, well, that’s my Beth!” The man smiled, “and who is this youngster?”

“Distant relation, her parents fell to destitution and she was put to a workhouse,” he replied steadily, “that is all I would really like to share at the moment. Private matters are best kept private.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me for prying, my lord,” Mister Grene bowed his head apologetically.

“Harold!” A woman’s voice called shrilly. “Harold! Come here!”

“Yes dear!” Mister Greene sighed with resignation. “I will take my leave of the moment.”

Graef gave Mister Greene a curt nod and the other man walked back to the crowd which had now gathered around one table that held food which as far as Olli could tell from brief glances was mostly small cakes or bits of meat.

“...Earl?”

He looked down at her, a slight frown on his face. “There’s no need to call me by my title,” he sighed. “Theodore works just as well-actually,” he glanced over at the crowd. “Uncle Theodore would work best.”

“You aren’t-” Olli swallowed the rest of the words when she realized what she was going to say.

Theodore walked towards the crowd, and inclined his head for Olli to follow. She eyed the group around the table, then at another group that stood around a piano singing a morbid song, while another group mostly comprising of men had sequestered themselves in a corner close to the fireplace.

All she had wanted to do was run away.

She had no real destination in mind, just the idea of fleeing. To be somewhere, anywhere at all, other than home.

Now Olli knew she was so far from home that her parents would never find her even if they cared to look. But rather than freedom, she felt like she had just found another prison, with windowless walls squeezing tighter around her, pulling her closer to the strangers in their strange clothing.

Olli almost wanted to go back.