Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 5.

Chapter 5.

 

Navigating by Lavender and Blue.

 

Amanderella followed Avarine up the stairs, noticing at once that every door on the landing was painted a different colour. A soft green, a sober maroon, a hopeful yellow, and one rather determined shade of blue. Each had a small wooden label fixed neatly at eye level.

Morning Room.

Linen.

Osric’s Papers, Do Not Move Anything.

Blue Room.

Amanderella paused. “How very organised.”

Avarine gave a small, matter‑of‑fact nod. “It’s for Uncle Osric. He knows where he is by the colours. We tried labels alone, but he can’t read them when he’s lost his glasses, and he loses his glasses most days.”

Amanderella regarded the maroon door. “And the colours work?”

“Mostly,” Avarine said. “He still wanders into the linen cupboard when he’s thinking about Roman roads, but he comes out again once he realises there are no footnotes.”

They reached the blue door at the end of the landing. Avarine opened it in her usual quiet manner. The room was modest and tidy, the wallpaper faded to a gentle cornflower pattern that matched the door without quite meaning to.

“This is yours,” she said. “The colour helps Uncle Osric remember not to walk in by mistake. He thinks blue rooms are for guests.”

“A practical system,” Amanderella said.

Avarine allowed herself the faintest smile. “Aunt Honoria says it’s either this or keep him on a string.”

She set the luggage down, straightened the jug on the washstand, and stepped back.

“Tea will be ready shortly. If you hear a bell, it’s probably for something else, but we’ll find you.”

She hesitated, not awkwardly, but with the air of someone deciding whether a remark would be helpful or intrusive.

“I should say, “she added, “I have heard of you. Not in any grand way. Sybil Scriptor, she keeps the accounts at the Antiquarian Society in the city, mentioned you once. She said you were the only lecturer she’d ever seen who could keep the back row awake.”

Amanderella smiled. “That is high praise from Miss Scriptor.”

Avarine nodded, satisfied that she had neither overstepped nor under‑explained. “I thought it best to mention it. It’s a small world in some directions.”

With that settled, she gave a small, approving dip of the head.

She withdrew, closing the blue door with the soft, decisive click of someone who had long ago learned how to keep a household running without alarming anyone.

Amanderella crossed to the window. The village lay below in its quiet, undisturbed way, and the moor rose behind the house like a folded blanket. The coloured doors along the landing stood in a neat row, each one a small act of domestic navigation.

It was, she thought, exactly the sort of arrangement a house like this would devise for itself. She removed her hat and gloves and   had a wash before unpacking her night clothes.

When the bell rang, a few minutes later, she came downstairs following the faint, clatter that suggested a kettle was being persuaded to boil. The coloured doors on the ground floor were just as varied as those upstairs, a deep green marked Morning Room, a cheerful red labelled Dining, and a pale lavender one that simply read Quiet.

Honoria stood in the doorway of the green room. “This way, Amanderella. Tea’s nearly ready.”

Inside, Cassiana was already seated at the small table by the window, her notebook beside her teacup as naturally as another person’s embroidery. She rose at once, smoothing her skirt with a practised hand.

“Lady Amanderella,” she said, with a polite inclination of the head. “I’m Cassiana Wocal‑Eardew. I keep the household accounts and most of the lists.”

“A pleasure,” Amanderella replied.

Cassiana gave a small, approving nod, as though Amanderella had passed an unspoken test of good manners.

Honoria poured the tea with her usual brisk precision. “Cassiana knows everyone who keeps a proper ledger. It’s her way of keeping the world in order.”

Cassiana accepted this without embarrassment. “It prevents confusion.”

At that moment, the lavender door opened and Osric stepped in, looking faintly puzzled.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at the tea table. “I was looking for the pantry.”

“This is the morning room,” Cassiana said gently. “The pantry is yellow.”

Osric looked at the lavender door behind him. “Ah. I thought it seemed unusually civilised for a pantry.”

Honoria pointed with the teapot. “Yellow, Osric. You know that.”

“I do,” he said, already halfway back through the wrong door. “I was thinking about the alignment of the Roman ridgeway. It must have distracted me.”

He disappeared, leaving the lavender door ajar.

Cassiana rose, closed it neatly, and sat down again. “He’ll find the pantry eventually. He always does.”

Honoria handed Amanderella a plate of biscuits. “Now then. Tell us what happened to your motor‑bicycle. Joe Pye sent word, but his messages are rarely complete.”

Amanderella settled into her chair, the house quiet around them in a way that suggested it was listening with interest.

It was, she thought, a very correct beginning.

Honoria passed Amanderella the plate of sandwiches. “Do take one before Osric returns with something unsuitable. Last time he brought a jar of pickled walnuts and insisted they were traditional.”

Cassiana poured the tea with her usual neat precision. “He read it in a footnote,” she explained. “He trusts footnotes more than people.”

Amanderella smiled. “A reliable habit, in moderation.”

Cassiana approved of this remark; it showed a proper respect for order. She set the teapot down and folded her hands. “Avarine said you were acquainted with Miss Scriptor. She keeps the Antiquarian Society’s accounts in very good order. I’ve always admired that.”

Before Amanderella could reply, the lavender door opened again and Osric reappeared, this time holding a tin of something that looked suspiciously like birdseed.

“I found the pantry,” he announced. “Eventually.”

“That’s the seed tin,” Cassiana said gently. “The biscuits are on the second shelf.”

Osric looked at the tin as though it had betrayed him. “Ah. I wondered why everything looked so… granular.”

Honoria relieved him of it and set it aside. “Never mind. Sit down before you wander off again.”

Osric obeyed, folding himself into a chair with the air of a man who had been rescued from his own thoughts.

Tea continued in a calm, orderly fashion. When the last cup had been poured and Cassiana had made a discreet note about replenishing the sugar, Honoria rose. “I wonder if you would enjoy a walk around the garden? My Dahlias are looking very good at the moment.”

Amanderella followed her out through the back door, Avarine joining them with the quiet readiness of someone who knew when an extra pair of hands might be useful.

The garden lay in a long, tidy strip behind the house, bordered by a low stone wall and a row of gooseberry bushes that looked as though they had been there since the previous century. Honoria’s dahlias stood in disciplined ranks, each one staked and labelled in Cassiana’s neat hand.

Amanderella admired them. “They’re beautiful.”

Honoria accepted this with a small nod. “They behave themselves. That’s all I ask.”

Avarine pointed out the blocked‑up well in the corner, the odd thickness of the kitchen wall, and the path that led toward the paddock. “Uncle Osric says the ridge behind the house follows an ancient line,” she said. “He has theories.”

As if summoned by the word, Osric appeared at the far end of the garden, notebook in hand, prodding the hedge with the end of his pencil as if trying to tickle a secret out of it.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. “Ah! Amanderella. Excellent. You see this hedge? It aligns perfectly with the Roman ridgeway, well, one of the possible ridgeways. There are several candidates. I’ve drawn diagrams.”

He approached with the air of a man who had been waiting all afternoon for someone to ask about Roman trackways, though no one had.

Amanderella regarded the hedge with polite interest. “And you believe the road passed through here?”

“Oh yes,” Osric said, brightening. “Or very near. Or possibly not at all. But the evidence is compelling if one ignores the contradictory parts.”

Honoria gave a small sigh. “Osric, don’t keep her standing. She’s had a long day.”

Osric looked faintly surprised. “Has she? Oh. Yes. Of course.”

He stepped aside, allowing Amanderella a clearer view of the garden. The late afternoon light lay gently across the beds, and the house behind them seemed to settle into its evening shape.

Avarine said, “Dinner is at seven. Nothing formal.”

Honoria added, “And there’s something we’ll mention then. Nothing alarming.”

Amanderella, who had already noticed the slight exchange of glances, simply nodded. “Very well.”

The house, which knew perfectly well what would be mentioned at dinner, kept its counsel.