704 Saun 19
Mister Barnelby’s office smelled live cloves and horseradish. On their own, they were pretty pungent aromas; together? They were Barnelby. Whatever produced the disharmonious mix of scents, it was as much a part of the room as the large oil portrait of Barnelby’s cat, Whiskatz, who sat demure upon a silken pillow with bulging eyes and a slightly gaped mouth. His desk, a once exquisitely carved rosewood now bearing the brunt of wear and tear over the years, was perpetually stacked with papers and files of all sorts - some of them pertaining to the children, some of them pertaining to questionable trades that no one but he ever saw.There were cabinets that lined the wood paneled walls, purportedly filled with important information, but it wasn’t uncommon to find some of the drawers left open and a dour looking ball of grey hairs that stuck out in every direction like some horror cloud of razor sharp claws and teeth might be slumped inside. The floors were covered with a lush, green rug that had most likely been quite expensive before Whiskatz had discovered it to be a prime practice tool in preparation for cutting the children into ribbons at his leisure. Now, it was little more than a mess of fibers that loosely resembled the intricate woven patterns of its youth.
To be called into Mister Barnelby’s office was never a good thing. Most times, it was a matter of severe reprimand - though usually the punishments had already been doled out and his role was more as the final, verbal statement that one had done something wrong. Occasionally, it meant that one was being considered for adoption - though if one was called to his office, it was usually to conduct an interview with the would-be caregiver; which might have seemed a pleasant enough thing, but was both terrifying and almost always ended in disappointment.
Odd, however, had been called for neither of those things. As he stood, cautiously aware of the leering, wild eyes of Whiskatz perched at the top of one of the cabinets, he ventured a clarification, his small voice making him seem all the more miniscule. “You… want me t’show some bitch-”
“Language, Mister Odd.”
“Some girl ‘round the house?” He blinked, unfazed by the requested correction but clearly confused by what it was the man had asked him to do. “Why?”
“Because I told you to, Mister Odd, and when I tell you to do something, I expect it to be done-”
“Yeah but-”
“But what, Mister Odd?”
He hesitated, brow furrowing. “But why me? Why not- why not Beetle or Brows?”
Mister Barnelby quirked an eyebrow. “I do not recognize these self-appointed ‘street monikers’, Mister Odd.” he said, every word a renewed disapproval.
He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. The irony was not lost on him that the man used the name the other orphans had come up with easily enough for him but refused the names the children chose for themselves. “...Vernon or Dudley. Sir.”
“That’s better. Vernon, as you well know, has temperament issues that we are doing our utmost best to correct.” Odd grimaced at the gross understatement. “He is not a suitable candidate for the tour. Dudley.” Mister Barnelby paused, passing a hand through the strands that still clung to his steadily balding dome. He pursed his lips, and Odd knew he was trying to frame what he was about to say in as polite a manner as possible. “Dudley is behind in his classes. His extra time has and will continue to be spent catching up on his studies. That is, after all, the point of school: to prepare you all for the real world. Mister Odd, you have neither a temper-”
Lies. Bullshit. He just didn’t hit hard enough for anyone to care.
“-nor are your lagging behind. You have no excuses that will free you from this, Mister Odd.”
