Leda

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I profit from, the Harry Potter universe as created by J.K. Rowling.


Leda - Chapter One, The Interview

The strange flyer in the Soho phone box said only “Work” followed by an obscure address in the East End. The words were written in an oddly ornate script, and Leda could have sworn that she saw them tremble a little on the well-worn parchment paper. Leda scribbled the address on her palm before beginning the long trek to the other side of London.

She had no money for a cab or the tube. She had no money for anything. Her grand plans to backpack and baby-sit her way through the British Isles had quickly fizzled and she found herself scrounging for any work she could get as she desperately tried to scrape up enough money to get back to America. She was humiliated that she had allowed herself to get into this predicament. No money, no friends, no family she could call back in Ohio--no one would even miss her if she disappeared.

“Well,” she reminded herself as she finally neared her destination, “at least there’s always prostitution.”

Leda would have laughed at this notion a few months ago when she still retained enough optimism to imagine that real work was a possibility. But now selling herself seemed less like a private joke and more like her only hope to get home. She ruefully consoled herself with the knowledge that she was still a virgin and in all the trashy novels she ever read, virginities always sold for big money. Maybe, she thought, I’d only have to do it once.

She turned down the alley where an eccentric, ancient bookseller had told her she would find the address she was looking for. Shivering suddenly, she remembered the slight spark of electric fear she felt when the mysterious little man had turned his violet eyes on her and said, “If you can see it, my girl, it will be the second alley after my shop. Look for a black door by a black window. Knock on the door. Go through the window.” She thanked him for the directions, illogical as they were. After all, he seemed to be the only person in the neighborhood who had even recognized the address. But as she was leaving the store, the old man had called out after her, “If I were you--I’d consider selling my body before I sold my soul . . .”

When she turned to ask him what he meant, she found he was gone.

Shaken by the old man’s words, Leda followed his directions anyway. She told herself that if the work involved anything improper she would refuse it. But the fact that she had only enough money for one more week at the youth hostel weighed heavily on her mind. She was afraid she might have to change her definition of “improper.”

Leda continued trudging down the alley, hoping that no one lurked in the dank shadows. But the alley seemed oddly deserted. No homeless people. Not even a stray dog. Leda recalled the bookseller’s enigmatic words: “If you can see it . . .” She quickly shook off the shiver that caressed her spine like an unseen finger then hastened her pace once again.

Coming at last to the end of the alley, Leda saw the black window and door the old man had described. She stared at them a moment taking in the bizarre view. The door was raised over four feet off the ground and was only the size of an average house window. But the window, paned with black glass that offered no reflection, was nearly seven feet high and stood where the door should have.

“What the hell . . .?” Leda said as she studied the surreal scene. Intrigued, she walked to the door and rapped swiftly on the black wood. The window opened with such a sudden snap that Leda jumped nearly two feet back. She wanted to run from the alley but her desperation outweighed even her fear. A cold wind rushed past her as she crossed the threshold of the window into the blackness inside.

Leda found herself standing in a scene from an early twentieth century telephone company. A slim, prim woman with a perfect blonde bob haircut was sitting in a swivel chair in front of a large panel of phone jacks. She took no notice of Leda standing in the dingy, poorly lit office as she continued incessantly inserting and removing her headphone jack from each tiny, illuminated hole. It sounded as if she were saying, “What numina, please?” but Leda knew she must of misheard.

“Um, excuse me, Miss?” Leda said to the woman trying to avert her attention from her obsessive plugging and unplugging.

“In here, young lady!” came a man’s friendly voice from a second office that Leda had not noticed. The window slammed itself shut behind her leaving her no option but to follow the beckoning voice.

She opened the door wincing as its heavy mahogany frame creaked raucously on its ancient hinges. Her eyes passed over the tarnished, brass plate on the door barely taking notice of the words engraved on its blackened surface--Machie A. Vallian, Traders Est. AD 1666, “We Serve To Live.”

“Come in, come in. Don’t be afraid.” The voice that beckoned her belonged to a portly, red-faced man sitting at a large, battered desk. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and could have easily passed as any middle-management businessman. Leda smiled at his broad, open features and his casual, affable manner and began to relax a little. He looked like every dad she had ever met.

“Um,” Leda stammered, “I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment or anything. I just saw this sign . . .”

“Runaway, are you? Sounds like you‘ve spent too much time in the States, right?” he said coming around to sit on the edge of his desk. “I bet you’ve been missing our world something terrible.”

“No, I’m not a runaway,” she answered him unsure of what he meant by “our world.”

“Fallen on hard times, then? Must have been very hard for you to try your luck in the Muggle world.”

“Um, actually I’m from Ohio.” She nervously tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “I’m supposed to start college in September and I wanted to see England before I did. My grandmother died and left me a little money, but I’ve sort of run through it all and she was my only family so I really just need enough money for a plane ticket to get back . . .”

“Plane ticket? Airplane?” he asked, looking up at her with a fierce furrow of his brow. Leda took a step back at his sharp manner. “You’re a Muggle, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me, I’m a what?” she replied warily.

“That settles it,” he answered with a heavy sigh turning to sit down at his desk again. “Only a Muggle wouldn’t know what a Muggle was.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sir. I just saw this sign that said ‘Work’ and I really need to work.”

“You saw the sign?” he asked incredulous.

“Yeah, it was in a phone box on the other side of town.”

“And you say you don’t know what a Muggle is? Well, I’ll be damned.” Suddenly he laughed at some private joke of his. “I’ll be damned . . .”

“Sir? Uh, Mr. Vallian?” Leda asked softly hoping to return his attention to her predicament.

“Yes, dear, terribly sorry. Well come here. Let’s get a look at you.”

Despite his easy manner, Leda stood frozen in her spot on the floor.

“I’m not going to bite you, girl,” the man said laughing. “We just need to see what kind of work you’re cut out for.”

Encouraged a little by his use of the word “work,” Leda reluctantly walked to the side of his desk. She felt foolish just standing there while the man looked her up and down appraising her appearance.

She knew she what she must look like to him. Two months of rationing food and money had left her thin and tired-looking. She was only of average height and her features were pretty if not remarkable. Only her black-red hair and creamy, pale skin dusted with russet freckles elevated her appearance from passable to striking. Unfortunately, it had been necessary for her to sell most of her clothes. The weather was particularly warm, even for June, so Leda was wearing only her favorite knee-high black leather boots, a short black pleated skirt and a black, sleeveless camisole. Her sweater was tied around her waist and she knew she looked more like a Goth club-kid then a serious job applicant.

“Let me see your hand,” he said abruptly reaching out to take her right hand in his.

She thought he wanted to examine her hands for any signs that she was capable of manual labor. Instead, he turned her hand over and studied her palm. Fascinated by his strange behavior, Leda just watched as he traced a finger over the lines on her hand murmuring incoherently to himself.

Apparently satisfied, he dropped her hand and smiled up at her.

“That certainly explains a lot. I’ll be damned,” Mr. Vallian said again still without explaining what he meant.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I just need a job.” Leda felt her frustration begin mounting.

“Of course, of course,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Have a seat. No family, eh? We’ll see what we can do for a girl like you.”

Leda sat down gingerly in an ancient folding chair as Mr. Vallian hopped out of his seat and began tearing through a dull gray filing cabinet on the opposite wall. She watched, enthralled, as scrolls of parchment paper sealed with various colors of wax shot over his shoulders onto the desk and floor. One landed in her lap and she furtively unsealed it. The scroll was written in a language she did not recognize, but the writing was similar to the writhing, ornate script she had seen on the flyer.

“Ah, look here, we’ve got a new one in. Just came in today actually, Miss.”

“Oh, by the way, my name is . . .”

“Don’t tell me!” he snapped.

Leda jumped at his sudden change of tone. But he recovered himself quickly and beamed an apologetic smile at her.

“Terribly sorry, my girl. Didn’t mean to shout. We just have a policy here about names. Legal stuff you know. I’m sure you understand.”

She didn’t understand, but Leda nodded anyway now a little afraid again.

“Now here we are,” he said as he settled back into his desk chair holding a large scroll sealed not with wax but tied with an elegant black ribbon.

“Well, this is your lucky day. One of our oldest and most respected families is in need of a replacement servant,” he explained as he studied the open scroll. “Apparently, they’ve somehow lost their house-elf and the master of the house needs someone right away.”

Leda thought he had said “elf” but she told herself that it must have been “help.”

“So they need a domestic servant then?” she asked. “Like a maid or something?”

“Or something . . .” he smiled tightly. “Yes, it is domestic sort of work. You will be working in a domicile.” Mr. Vallian laughed coldly before resuming. “No pay of course except room and board. Of course living in a manor as magnificent as that should be payment enough for anyone.”

“A manor house?” Leda asked as visions of Pemberley and old-world nobility danced in her head. “A real manor?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t an imaginary manor, girl. Are you interested?”

Leda was silent for a moment. She had hoped for a job that paid more than room and board. But as she was facing imminent homelessness the thought of knowing she had a settled place to sleep and food to eat seemed too good to pass up. And that it was a manor house . . .that was the reason Leda had come to England in the first place. It seemed like a good temporary solution. Beside, this Mr. Vallian person had said the family was well respected. Maybe they’re real English aristocracy, she thought. Who else would use such an eccentric employment service?

“Yes, I’m interested. Actually, I’m just desperate,” she confessed.

“Desperate, huh? He’ll like that,” Mr. Vallian answered cryptically. “Ready to start?”

Stunned, Leda asked, “What, you mean right now? What about my stuff?”

“Oh yes, right now. If you find you need your things, we’ll send them to you. Besides, your employer is not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”

Leda sat silently for a moment still toying with the little scroll in her lap.

“Okay,” she replied, turning her eyes resolutely to his. “I’ll do it.”

The middle-management smile Mr. Vallian wore as his default expression quietly faded from his face.

“You accept then? Of your own free will?” he asked softly, but sternly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Leda replied, confused his constantly changing expressions.

“That’ll do.” Mr. Vallian sighed heavily.

Taking a fresh piece of parchment paper out of his desk, he scribbled something on it in that same strange language and tied it with the black ribbon off the other scroll.

Mr. Vallian stood and took Leda by the arm. He ushered her into an antechamber and through a series of doors and stairways that seemed to Leda to be leading them deep underground. Yet when they passed through a final doorway, she found herself standing on an open-air platform next to an ancient tunnel that looked like it had been built during the Roman occupation.

“Here, girl,” Mr. Vallian said handing Leda the scroll, “take this and keep it. You’ll take the train to the sixth stop. A carriage will be waiting to take you to the manor. Don’t ask any questions when you get there. Don’t ask any questions when you are there. Keep your head down and do whatever he says. You’ll be fine.”

Before Leda could ask him to elaborate further, a deafening whistle roared from inside the cavernous tunnel. With a horrible screeching of steam and wheels, the train emerged and ground slowly to a shaking stop.

Leda turned to back to Mr. Vallian. He stood there wordlessly staring past the antiquated steam engine at a distant something she could not see.

“Remember,” he said finally, “get off at the sixth stop.”

The train door opened and a blue-liveried porter stepped onto the platform. Leda felt Mr. Vallian’s hand on her back coaxing her forward. He escorted her to the door and flashed his usual, unctuous smile. “Sixth stop,” he mouthed as he backed away from the train.

“Thank you,” she called out over the steaming whine of the train.

Leda entered the train and quickly found a seat. She seemed to be the only passenger in her car. She studied the plush, crimson velvet interior and wondered briefly what line this particular train belonged to.

“Oh shit, my stuff!” she cursed suddenly realizing that she hadn’t told Mr. Vallian where she lived. She rushed to the train door but it slammed shut just as she reached it. Leda ran to the nearest window and tried to open the latch but found it would not budge. As she looked around desperately for the porter, Leda was nearly thrown to the floor when the train shuddered violently and pulled out of the station.

Making her way back to her seat, Leda told herself that her new employer, whoever he was, would be able to contact the employment agency with her information. But as she sank into her seat, Leda realized that right now no one except Mr. Vallian knew where she was. And, she told herself as she nervously fingered the delicate black ribbon, he’s the only one in the world who knows where I’m going.