The Case of the Spellbound Child Page 11

  “We met a lovely teacher and her daughter while you were playing,” Sarah finally told her to distract her. “I think they might be good at the school. What do you think?”

  Suki pondered that for a while. “Is they like the Watsons or like Memsa’b?” she asked—meaning, of course, Are they magicians or psychical?

  “Like the Watsons,” Sarah said promptly. “Only the little girl is Earth and her mother is Air.”

  Suki tugged at her earlobe while she thought, which was a much better habit than the one previous to it, which had been to stick her little finger into her ear. Sarah was now trying to get her to select a strand of hair on that side and twirl it around her finger. “Well,” she said, finally. “Suzie Higgins, what went to a hoity-toity school afore this, an’ Jess Masterson, what had a governess, says we need more teachers what can teach stuff universities want, on account of universities are likely to start lettin’ girls hev degrees soon.”

  “Suzie and Jess are very intelligent girls indeed, and observant as well.” Nan was pleasantly surprised by Suki’s very mature answer. It seemed as if it was only yesterday that Suki’s answer would have been something like, “On’y if she’ll he’p me kick them boys in th’ arse when they needs it.”

  “Do you think you’d like to go to uni, Suki?” Sarah asked curiously. “I’m certain it can be managed if you think you do.”

  Suki thought about that some more. “Dunno if I’m smart ’nuff,” she said at last. “Leastwise, not book-smart.”

  “You can make yourself that smart, if you decide that’s what you want,” Nan said firmly.

  “You can ask Peter about it if you like,” Sarah added. “He can tell you how much work it will be, and also what benefits there are. I know he is enjoying himself.”

  Suki nodded.

  “If you chose, you could even go to Oxford or Cambridge, and live away from home with other girls.” Nan could tell Sarah had made that observation to see if Suki might be more receptive to the idea than she would have been before she started attending the Harton School.

  Suki continued to tug on her earlobe. “Thet might be fun,” she admitted. “But whut if I make a slip-up in talkin’? They might make a guy outa me.”

  Nan laughed at that. “When women can get degrees, girls will come from all over England. The first time a girl from Yorkshire says Eeh I’ll go t’foot of stairs! when she’s surprised, they’ll forget all about you.”

  Nan was rather proud of her Yorkie dialect; she’d been studying it at the feet of their dustman, who was only too pleased to earn a couple bob a week for the privilege of teaching her.

  Suki laughed at that. “Mebbe I’m better off findin’ people t’teach me that!” she pointed out. “’Specially if I keeps on doin’ fer You Know.”

  “You have a point,” Sarah acknowledged. “But at least keep the idea in mind. You might discover something you want to study more than you want to do for our friend.”

  Suki laughed, but promised she would.

  They arrived home about sunset, and Mrs. Horace had left a cold dinner for them—some lovely fresh veg for Grey and raw meat for Neville. After the long walk through the gardens and the equally long walk from the ’bus stop to their door, everyone was pleasantly tired. One of the great benefits of having this flat was an en-suite bathroom—this had been a new house when Mrs. Horace’s husband had bought it, with all the modern conveniences.

  In fact, now that Nan came to think about it, the mere existence of not one but two entire bathrooms in what should have been a middle-class home was yet another hint that Mrs. Horace and the late Mr. Horace had been more than they seemed, and another possible suggestion that Lord Alderscroft knew them.

  Most houses on this block still had outdoor privies. And the ones that had indoor, flushing toilets didn’t have bathtubs with a water supply and a linkage to the drains, nor a gas-fired copper to heat the water (though, to be fair, you had to be incredibly careful with that, and watch it every minute just in case, as they were known to explode if left untended). There were so many things about this place that only someone rich could afford—so either Mr. Horace had had some source of wealth that dried up on his death, or Lord Alderscroft was somehow involved.

  And I’m betting on Lord Alderscroft.

  Well, all this meant that she and Sarah and Suki enjoyed an unprecedented level of comfort, especially when it came to bathing. So one by one, they took their turns at having a nice cold bath before bed, both to sponge off all the sweat and dirt of their trip, and to cool off to get to sleep easier.

  Nan was the last, and she didn’t consider it that much of a chore to pump up the water from the basement cistern to give herself a few inches of cool water in the bottom of the tub to sponge herself with. But once again, she found herself thinking longingly of Criccieth, where they all could not only have had refreshing sea-baths, but there was a cool running stream near the cottage they had rented for a refreshing dip.

  Well, refreshing if you don’t mind being fully clothed having a dip in it. One can’t run about the hills of Wales starkers, even if you think you’re alone. This might be much better, after all.

  Bathed and dried and feeling much more comfortable, she put on her nightdress. Sarah had made her nightdress out of nearly transparent cotton muslin. Nan had gone a different route, getting her hands on an old, worn silk sari that one of the ayahs at the school had been willing to sell her, and stitching up a scandalously bare-armed shift out of the least worn part of it, and a patchwork dressing gown out of the rest. She rather thought her solution was superior.

  She strongly suspected that Suki was continuing the practice of her childhood and stripping naked to sleep when it was hot. But Suki never appeared in the morning without one of the shifts she and Sarah had sewn for her, so at least she no longer graced the breakfast table wearing nothing but air.

  She left the bathroom feeling deliciously cool, and settled into her bed with a book. But she kept looking out the window at the slumbering neighborhood, which looked so very peaceful, and wondered about Puck’s warning.

  What can he have been talking about?

  The papers were full of war, but it was all distant. Uprisings in India and China, war with the Boers in Africa. The closest was so far away—Egypt and the Sudan—conflicts she and Sarah had carefully managed to skirt around when they had visited Sarah’s parents in Africa. Thank goodness they’re not in the Congo anymore. The South Sea Islands seem much safer, and a great deal more pleasant. She felt frustrated with her own lack of information. I don’t know nearly enough about things outside our borders, she thought, ruefully. And yet, isn’t there trouble enough here already?

  But Puck’s ominous words had seemed to speak of something coming that was much, much larger, something that would erupt to engulf even peaceful England. It seemed impossible. And yet. . . .

  Puck was not given to exaggeration. Nor causeless warnings.

  But he also said it was nothing that would come any time soon. I’ll just have to remember this and watch for signs. And maybe get Lord Alderscroft to find someone who does understand all those complicated international politics to keep me informed.

  It was about as peaceful out there tonight as it ever got in London. Only the occasional passerby or cab; a few carts out making late deliveries now that the streets were clearer. Music from the pub on the corner, but distant enough that it was muted and softened into something that gave her a bit of a chuckle rather than something annoying. Puck’s warning seemed like a faded nightmare, something to be dismissed as nonsense on awakening.

  But I know better. And I’ll be on the watch. And I’ll make sure anyone else likely to listen to me is, too.

  7

  ELLIE still didn’t know their captor’s name. She didn’t even know if it was male, female, or a monster. It never removed its long robe and hood, and spoke only in a harsh whisper. She was
utterly terrified every time it put in an appearance, and so were all the other children, even though so far nothing worse had happened than it snarling at them to be quiet. When the Dark One opened the door, they all shrank back to the wall and tried not to be noticed.

  Once, and only once, Simon had tried to flee to her for protection. The Dark One had come all the way into their room, snatched him up by his collar and flung him back onto his own mattress. Simon never tried that again.

  She and Simon had been here for four days now, and every day had been the same. It started at dawn, when the thing brought a basket of bread and a fresh bucket of water, and directed one of the children to bring it the slop bucket, grumbling under its voice the entire time. At noon, the thing brought a basket of raw garden produce, one of bread, another bucket of water, and took the slop bucket away again. At dinner time, it was bread and a hard-boiled egg apiece. No one went hungry—at least not as far as she knew. Robbie saw to it that everything got shared out alike, and if someone had more than he or she could eat, it got passed on to someone else so nothing was wasted. Robbie confessed that he was afraid that if they left anything, they’d get less food the next time.

  There was one window in their room, shuttered close, so all they saw was thin lines of daylight between the boards and around the edges of the shutter. She thought that the walls were solid stone; the floor was definitely pounded earth. There was no doubt that the roof was slate; she heard mice over the top of it all the time, and occasionally something larger walking about on it.

  It was hard to make out what the other children really looked like, and not because the light was so dim. They were all filthy and dirt-caked, their hair was all mud-colored, and they cried so often there were runnels down their cheeks in the dirt.

  Their mattresses were nothing but grain or flour sacks stitched together and stuffed with straw, and whoever had been doing the stuffing hadn’t made sure the straw was completely dried when he’d done it. That was why they smelled like mildew. They each had one “blanket,” which could be anything from an actual scrap of a blanket to someone’s old coat. Their chains were fastened to iron staples driven into the earthen floor; Ellie tried, and failed, to pull hers loose. She couldn’t understand how that was possible; it was as if they’d been driven into stone, not earth.

  It was hard to sleep. Not only was she plagued with nightmares of her own, but all night long the other children whimpered and cried in their sleep. During the day, they didn’t have the heart to do much except huddle on their mattresses, talk very quietly, or cry softly to themselves. They tried to keep every sound at the level of a whisper; anything more brought the Dark One in, and if the monster was able to tell who the offending party was, there would be a beating.

  But Ellie woke up with the feeling that today was going to be different. And a few moments after she woke, the Dark One entered the room. As always, it hurled the door open so that it banged against the wall. As always, it set down the basket of bread and the bucket of water. But this time it looked at her. Straight at her. Even though she had no idea how it could see her in the darkness.

  “Ellie,” it rasped, as the hair stood up on her head and she was struck with such fear that her teeth chattered. “Come ’ere.” And it pointed at its feet. Or where it would have had feet, if it hadn’t had a robe on so you couldn’t see feet.

  She couldn’t move. Every limb was frozen. She started to cry, to sob helplessly, as her entire body seemed to turn to stone.

  Impatiently, it strode over to her, as every other child in the room tried to press itself into the wall or somehow become invisible. It grabbed her by the forearm, hauled her to her feet, and shook her like a dog would shake a rat. It smelled, oddly, of sweat and beer, and its breath stank. “When Es say, then tha’ll do, an’ tha’ll do now!” it snarled in that whisper. Then it threw her onto her bed, bent, and unlocked the shackle around her ankle with a huge iron key.

  Suddenly, at the feeling of that shackle falling open, she could move again. She had just enough wit left to try to make a bolt for the open door, but it caught her before she got off the straw mattress, hauled her up off her feet, and dragged her out the door, by one arm. Behind her, she heard Simon wailing; no words, just a terrified, anguished wail.

  She only got a glimpse of the next room before the Dark One threw her down on the hearth. There was a good fire going in the fireplace, and a pot full of pease porridge over it, rich with bacon by the aroma. Her first thought when the Dark One let go of her was to try to run again, but before she could scramble away, it knelt beside her, seized her left hand by the wrist, brought out a giant knife from under its robe, and splayed her fingers out on the hearthstone. He raised it high, and she froze again, eyes fixed on the shining blade. In an instant, the knife had come down, and she stared in horror at the end of her little finger lying on the hearthstone, detached from the rest. And then came a fountain of blood and pain.

  Screams of agony and terror erupted from her as she writhed, still held fast by the wrist. The Dark One seized a poker that was in the fire and applied it to the wound, searing it off, and blinding her with redoubled pain. The Dark One let go of her and she fell on her side, vaguely aware that it was chanting something over the little piece of flesh. Then it lifted the hearthstone and dropped the finger-end into the hole, and put the hearthstone back.

  She fainted.

  When she came to herself again, she was lying on her mattress, and Sam had dragged himself and his chain over to her and taken her wounded hand in his. It was the pain of that that had awakened her. She whimpered, wanting to beg him to kill her, but she couldn’t articulate anything but moans.

  “’Eh, lass,” he crooned. “Tha’ll be areet. ’Ush ’n less ’un work.”

  She couldn’t help it, she wailed softly in agony, tears streaming down her face, her nose running, and her hand throbbing so badly she prayed for darkness to come again and take her, this time for good. Beside her Simon whimpered and called her name.

  And then . . . a miracle.

  A sensation of cool came from Sam’s hands, centered around her wounded finger. Then her whole hand began to tingle and numb. And the pain began to drain away.

  She sucked in her breath, unable to believe what was happening. But it was true; the pain ebbed with every passing moment and with every heartbeat. Each throbbing stab was less than the one before it. In the dim light all she could see was that he was bent over her hand as if he was praying over it, but the hands holding hers had started to shake.

  Finally, as the pain dimmed to a dull and distant ache, like a bad bruise, he dropped her hand with a gasp. “Sorry, lass,” he said. “That be all us can do fer ’ee.”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore!” she exclaimed, still not able to believe it. She was afraid to move her hand lest the pain start again.

  “’Twill if tha’s bump it,” Sam warned. “Best get rag an’ wrap tha’ oop.”

  There was a sound of ripping, and a moment later, as Sam crawled back to his mattress and his bread, Rose brought Ellie bread and a strip torn from her petticoat, and Simon brought her the cup filled with water. After thanking both of them, Ellie carefully wrapped the abused finger—and Sam was right, it did hurt if she bumped it, but by the feel, the burn and the wound had somehow half healed and scabbed over.

  “’Twas witchery, that, wut ’un done to ’ee,” Ben said, darkly. “The Dark One’s th’ Divil’s own witch, certain-sure.”

  Ellie certainly didn’t see any reason to argue with him, although what purpose cutting off her finger and burying it under the hearthstone could have, she had no idea.

  It was only when she had finished her loaf, picking off bits and eating them slowly, along with sips from the tin cup of water, that she realized there was something missing from her leg.

  The shackle.

  The Dark One had taken it off, and had never put it back on.

&nbs
p; Carefully she felt for it, with her good hand, and found it lying beside the bed, still open.

  For a long moment, she sat there; her mind, numbed by pain, took a while to take in what that meant. Then elation replaced fear. She could escape!

  Or at least, she could, if the Dark One ever left the cottage. But surely the creature did at some point. It would have to leave to gather the stuff it brought from the garden. There were no sounds out there like there would have been in a village, so this must be some place far out on the moor. Maybe even the very cottage she and Simon had found in that lonely combe.

  She looked up after a moment. The door to their prison was closed, and she couldn’t make out any sounds on the other side.

  Her hand throbbed; she cradled it in the right as she stared at the door. Not really thinking, just gathering her courage. She didn’t dare think past escaping. This might be her only chance.

  She slowly got to her feet, a moment of light-headedness stopped her briefly, then she made her way to the door and put her ear to the crack between the door and the frame, trying to hear.

  “Ellie, don’t!” Robbie hissed, urgently. “When t’ Dark One catches ’ee, ’e’ll ’urt ’ee bad!”

  Someone else whimpered. “’E’ll ’urt usn’s too,” spat Colin.

  She turned her head. “’Ee wanter go ’ome?” she demanded.

  There was no answer to that. Of course they all wanted to go home. Of course they wanted to get away. And of course they all knew that the only way that was going to happen was if someone escaped and brought help back. Right now, the person who had the best chance at that was her.

  There was no sound of anything on the other side of the door. Now she moved to the other side of the room, where the slop bucket and the window were. Moving with great care for her hand, she tried to open the shutters, only to find them nailed shut, with great, huge iron nails rusted into place. Not even a miracle would give her the strength—much less the tools—to pry those out.