Do you like stories with mystery and suspense? Strange and “wyrd” ones? Well, if you do, keeping reading and enjoy Eggcentricsagas. If you are just joining Eggcentricsagas, you might want to start from the beginning: A La Mano: The Treasure
Exhausted from my menial clerical duties, I left my place of employment and made my way home through the quiet streets. The leaden sky and the onset of twilight cast a gloomy spirit over the few passersby. I had chosen the circuitous route to avoid the shortcut through the graveyard. Fingering the golden treasure in my pocket, I wondered about its history. Tomorrow, I would seek out a jeweler to tell me its value. Tonight, I would discover the name imprinted on the back.
“You’re late,” announced Mrs. Tilsby curtly as I appeared on the threshold. “Wipe your feet.” This admonition was issued by her every time as if the threadbare mat would prove efficient. Complying before entering her boarding room house, I looked for Mr. Fu. Not present, he must have been in the tiny backyard. The other two occupants looked up from the dining table; their disappointment with the fare obvious. Ignoring them, she pointedly told me, “The mutton stew is on the stove. You can serve yourself.”
The smell made me understand my household companions’ downcast faces and I resigned myself to another bad meal. Speculation that our landlady’s distasteful cuisine was the cause of Mr. Tilsby’s premature passing ran through my mind. Removing my coat, I suppressed my chuckle as it would elicit questioning as to the cause of my humor.
After my unsavory dinner and cleaning my dishes, I bade my companions good night. Both were still at the table with looks of indigestion. As I retired to my room, I walked by the sitting room. Mrs. Tilsby, already having shed her calico apron, had settled into her shabby armchair. Mr. Fu, her Pekingese, was laying at her feet. He perked up at my passing and lifted his head. The little bell on the leather strip about his neck jingled as it brushed up against the pearl pendant next to it. No one, not even Mrs. Tilsby, dared to touch that gem as Mr. Fu was prone to snapping at available fingers and unsolicited fondling. Rumor had it that the late Mr. Tilsby had acquired him from a Chinese necromancer and that Mr. Fu’s collar adornment was a magical Chinese charm.
Whatever was Mr. Fu’s history, he was not one to be taken lightly as I discovered when first introduced. Thankfully, I was left unscathed but always made sure to keep my distance. Mr. Fu delivered his usual growl as Mrs. Tilsby glanced up at me over her wire spectacles and gave me a cursory nod, her jowls quaking ever so slightly. She was already hard at work knitting another dull-colored scarf.
I climbed the stairs carrying my coat, entered my room, and closed the door. Making my way to the bed, I sat down and laid the coat across my knees. Rummaging in the pocket, I removed the mysterious golden leaf and placed it on the small bedside table. Tossing the coat aside, I stood up and turned on the wall sconce. Then opened the drawer of the nightstand, reached in, and pulled out my magnifying glass. Marveling at the brooch’s intricate workmanship again, I placed it face down on the table and scrutinized the mark on the backside. Peering through the magnifying lens in the flickering light, I could just barely make out a name: Ysabel. There was a small mark beside the name that I could not discern. It would have to wait.
Next: Part 3-The Iris
