The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle

by Janet Fox

  “I’m not happy sending you off. It’s because your father wants it.” Mum fiddled with the buttons of her coat. “Please don’t fuss. It’s only for a little while. Just until the war is over.”

  Nothing that Kat had heard or read convinced her that the war would be over in a little while. “Why can’t we all stay together? Why can’t you and Aunt Margaret come away?” Kat bit her lip. Her words sounded small and selfish.

  Mum frowned. “Kat. I’m needed here. And your great-aunt insists upon staying. You understand.”

  Yes, Kat understood. But she needed her mum, too, and with Father on a mission so delicate he couldn’t reveal his whereabouts even to Mum, what if . . . Kat swallowed her protests past the lump in her throat.

  Mum reached for Kat’s hand, holding it tight. She said softly, “You have your great-aunt’s gift? I’d hate for you to lose it.”

  Kat nodded. The chatelaine was pinned to her waistband and stuck inside her pocket.

  Mum’s face relaxed into a smile, and she sighed. “I’ll miss you all, my little sweets.”

  Robbie, sitting across, looked up from his reading. “When we get back, we won’t be little or sweets. We’ll be knights.” He was putting on a brave front.

  “I’ll still be sweet,” said Ame, her voice plaintive, “and I wish we didn’t have to leave.”

  In the station they jostled among the troops and travelers, lugging their trunks behind. Thick steam twined hissing around them, shuddering engines roared to life, brakes squealed, whistles sounded, and the ground shook with the thunder of trains coming and going. Kat clutched her sister’s small hand tight.

  “Ah, there they are!” Mum said, and walked forward, waving.

  “Ow! Kat, you’re squeezing,” said Amelie.

  The boy stood with his parents. He wore a tweedy jacket, his hands jammed in his pockets. His hair, browner than Kat’s, was straight and brushed to one side, where it rebelled from its slicked-back situation. He had a narrow face and brown eyes, and was taller than Kat, which was a comfort, as she was usually the tallest in her grade.

  “All here, then,” Mum said with forced cheer. “Kat, Rob, Amelie, meet Mr. and Mrs. Williams. And you must be Peter.”

  “Hello, there.” Mr. Williams stuck his hand straight out at Kat. “Pleased to meet you all.”

  “Ruddy Americans!” said Robbie, catching the accent at once. “Wow!”

  Mr. Williams let out a deep laugh. “I am, anyway, and Pete’s spent most of his life stateside.”

  Kat tried not to stare at Peter. She shook hands with his father and nodded to Mrs. Williams.

  Mrs. Williams sniffled, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “Here we are in London because I insisted, although who could have known the war would come to this? And now to have to send him away. . . . Oh, I know it’s for the best, but I do so wish . . .”

  “Mom. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  Kat didn’t know what she’d expected, especially of an American boy, but Peter’s voice, despite its flat twang, was gentle and soothing. She straightened and lifted her arm to place it over Amelie’s shoulder.

  “Besides, my dear,” said Mr. Williams. “This whole war business will be over in no time, and we’ll all be back together again. Think of this as a little holiday for the children. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Bateson?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Mum murmured.

  The conductor approached. “Need help with the trunks?”

  Mr. Williams stowed the trunks, and the conductor helped them into their car, latching the door behind. They all leaned out the windows, hands reaching down. Kat held Amelie by the waist so that she could grasp Mum’s uplifted hands. Ame stifled a sob, and Kat’s throat swelled. Rob’s eyes glistened as he pressed against the glass.

  “Bye, my loves, bye!” Mum called as the train lurched away. “Stay safe!”

  Mrs. Williams burst into tears and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. The train tunnel closed in and curved away from the platform, and their parents slipped out of sight.

  Long after the others had settled into their seats, Kat pressed her face to the rain-streaked window as the warehouses and rugged outskirts of London melted into a gray haze. The multiple tracks skinned down to one and the city thinned away. Kat clutched the watch on her wrist, pressing the snapshots of home into her memory.

  The three Batesons sat on one bench in the rocking train car; Peter sat across from them, jacket off now and shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair trying to fall from stiff confinement.

  “So!” Robbie rubbed his eyes hard, then bounced up and crossed to perch next to Peter. “You’re a ruddy American! Do you know any cowboys?”

  Peter grinned.

  The boys talked (well, Robbie jabbered on and Peter responded in friendly fashion), and the train pulled north into the creeping shadows of a countryside blacked out in the face of war.

  Kat shoved her hand into her pocket and clutched her great-aunt’s chatelaine. Her fingers kneaded and worked at it, the three items rubbing against one another like the bones of a bird, and she squeezed so they made imprints in her palm.

  In times like these, according to Great-Aunt Margaret, magic bubbled up, rising out of the confusion and strife of war. Troubled times stirred up magic like dumplings in a stew. “And one must be prepared,” she’d said, folding Kat’s fingers over the chatelaine, “with appropriate countermeasures.”

  In times like these, thought Kat, magic—if such a thing were real—wouldn’t help. War was a dark fog covering everything. Kat could wish for the war to end all she wanted, and it wouldn’t do any good. Really, even Robbie’s attempt at swordplay was more useful than this chatelaine. Kat sighed. Poor Aunt Margaret, spouting nonsense. Her sharp mind was withering away.

  This chatelaine was just one more thing for Kat to worry over.

  She stood, swaying with the train’s motion, clutched the edge of the brass luggage rack above, and pulled down her valise. With her back turned, Rob and Peter and Amelie couldn’t see Kat as she unfastened the chatelaine from her waistband and dropped it into the dark well of the open valise, watching as it disappeared underneath the more practical things, the sweaters and hats and mittens, that Kat believed were truly important to their well-being.

  For an instant, she caught a dim light emanating from the chatelaine, a soft blue glow, but then decided it was only a reflection off the silver.

  Cold. At that moment Katherine Bateson was certain that the chill and drafts of a Scottish castle would be their greatest threat.

  3

  Claw

  DEEP iN THE dark well Kat sees something shiny. Glowing. Faintly blue, like hard-packed ice.

  It moves, creeping, and she backs away until her spine is up against the cold stone wall of the well, backs away as it creeps closer, and then she sees. It’s a hand, but not a normal hand. It’s a claw hand, sharp, curving, wicked, crawling on knife-edge fingers straight toward her, one scraping shiver at a time, and she wants to scream but she can’t, oh, she can’t . . .

  4

  The Number Thirteen

  THE TRAIN LURCHED and the lights flickered and Kat woke up with a jolt, her back pressed against the cold hard corner of the bench. The muffled scream died in her throat as she remembered that she was on a train, Ame’s head across her lap, Rob and Peter talking, London far behind, and the northland still far ahead in the dark night.

  Kat clutched her book of math games, searching for the page she’d been working on before she’d drifted into the nightmare.

  “Never mind Los Angeles,” Peter said. “New York, that’s the place.” His elbows rested on his knees, Robbie fixed on every word. “The city that never sleeps. Skyscrapers and shows. And lights. It sparkles. New York is lit up day and night.”

  Kat slapped her book shut. Amelie stirred and whimpered.

  Peter caught
Kat’s sour expression and looked stricken. “Oh, gee. I’m sorry.”

  The blackouts had spoiled her for lights, and the only kind of sparkle she knew now was the kind that preceded a blast. Even the windows of the train had blackout curtains, the conductor coming through at dusk to make sure they were all drawn good and tight.

  It wasn’t Peter’s fault.

  Ame whimpered again. “Bad dream,” Kat said. Peter bit his lip and nodded.

  “At least it’s a castle,” Robbie murmured. “If we have to leave home, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” said Peter. He looked away, fidgeting. “What time is it?”

  Kat wrapped her fingers around the watch on her wrist. “I forgot to wind it,” she lied.

  “Ah,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Must be late. I’m going to try to catch some shut-eye.”

  “Me too,” Robbie said, yawning wide and leaning back.

  Peter reached up and dimmed the lamp, and the green velvet and mahogany and brass sank into dusky darkness. Kat didn’t fall back asleep for a long time, not wanting to return to the well and the claw-fingered hand.

  They changed trains in Edinburgh in the wee hours. Peter carried the sleeping Amelie through the station, and Kat silently thanked him for it.

  Their second train was only two coaches long and threadbare. There was no brass or velvet, just muslin curtains tacked over the windows. The four sleepy children were nearly the last left aboard when the engine crawled to their stop at Craig Station.

  It was a gray dawn, thick with mist, and there was no one on the platform. They hauled their trunks from the luggage car to the middle of the waiting room and heard the train as it roared to life again and made away, leaving them alone on the raw eastern lands of Scotland, the smell of the sea heavy in the air.

  Regret and worry filled Kat as the train’s clacking faded into the distance.

  The waiting room, no bigger than a small parlor, was silent and empty and dimly lit. Kat and Peter exchanged a look. He raised his eyebrows, and she lifted her shoulders. “We’re supposed to be fetched from the station, that’s what Mum told me,” she said, uncertain.

  At that instant the outer door opened, the overhead bell jingling, and the smallest man Kat had ever seen blustered in, slamming the door behind him. The thin windows rattled in their frames. He paid the children no notice as he marched across the waiting room to another door that led into the darkened ticket office.

  Open, slam, rattle-rattle.

  Amelie tugged at Kat’s sleeve; Kat leaned down. “He’s such a wee man,” Ame whispered.

  “A dwarf, I think,” Kat whispered back, and Ame’s eyes went round.

  “Ah,” Ame said, nodding. “There’s always a dwarf in the best magical stories.”

  Kat was about to correct her—this wasn’t a story, and there was nothing magical about to happen—when the wooden ticket window shutter, which had been drawn down behind the bars, slammed upward and Kat jumped. Lights buzzed and blinked and brightened.

  “Can I help ye?” The dwarf’s voice, belying his size, boomed through the waiting room, his accent a strong brogue.

  His head was now of a height with theirs. He’d changed into a proper cap with a badge on the brim: STATIONMASTER.

  Peter and Kat stood side by side at the counter. Kat put on her most grown-up expression. “We’re to be met,” she said.

  “We’re on our way to Rookskill Castle,” Peter added.

  “Refugees,” Kat said. “From the Blitz.”

  The stationmaster looked from one to the other. Then he shook his head. “I shouldn’t, if I was ye.”

  Kat wrapped her fingers around the edge of the ticket counter. “Shouldn’t what?” A chill crept up her spine.

  “It’s a peculiar place,” the stationmaster said, rolling his Rs. “Been so forever. Hainted, that’s what they say. By ghostlings. You bairns, you childlings, oughtn’t be going there. Don’t like it, and now all you childlings coming up from London regular . . .” His words trailed off as he pursed his lips. “Odd noises, specially at night, like grindings, and screeches, and whatnot, is what I’m told, though I try to steer clear, I do, specially at night. When I have to go up there on business I make it quick-like. Not a one wants to go near the place. And poor Lord Craig, bless him, not seen these many months, not since just after . . . well. Peculiar, that’s what.”

  “Odd noises?” Peter asked.

  “Grindings?” Amelie asked from below. “And screeches?”

  “Haunted?” Rob piped in from behind, sounding not so brave.

  “We were told he’s taken ill. Lord Craig, that is,” Kat said. “So maybe that’s why—”

  “Hainted, it is, with grindings and screeches,” the stationmaster put in darkly. “I count three bairns from down south before you lot.” He shook his head. “Came in last week. Haven’t seen ’em since, neither.” He shuffled a stack of papers. “Next train back to Edinburgh leaves at noon. You want tickets?”

  Before they could answer, from behind them Kat heard the outer door open again.

  “Are you here for Rookskill Castle?” This man was as large as the stationmaster was small, almost a giant, filling the door frame only because he was bent at the waist. “Let’s go then.”

  Amelie tugged at Kat. “See? A giant. Just like—”

  “Yes, I know, Ame,” Kat interrupted. “The old magical stories.”

  “I shouldn’t, if I was ye,” came the low voice of the stationmaster.

  Kat glanced back at him; he was frowning behind his bars. The giant took her trunk in one paw and Robbie’s in the other, and said to Peter, “You take that ’un, now.”

  Off they went. Keep calm.

  What waited outside was not a motorcar but an open-seat wagon drawn by four black draft horses. “Yer too many for her Ladyship’s horseless,” the giant mumbled. He threw their trunks into the back and lifted Amelie up by her waist to sit at the front; the rest of them scrambled up to find seating on the bench behind him.

  Kat’s heart thumped something dreadful.

  There wasn’t a proper dawn; it was too foggy. The cold fog beaded on Kat’s beret and wrapped the wagon and the road ahead in gloom, and she couldn’t get the lay of the land. Kat tucked her gloved hands into her armpits. The wagon jostled and shuddered. Kat was sitting between Peter and Rob so that her shoulder bumped against Peter’s. It couldn’t be helped, and though she wouldn’t admit it, it gave her some comfort.

  As did her sensible packing. She wore warm woolen trousers; yet, even so, her knees were knocking.

  She saw something of the village, wreathed in mist, as they passed through—small and silent, no souls strolling among the thatched-roof cottages or in and out of the shuttered pub with the sign of a spread-winged blackbird: THE ROOK. The road wound upward from there, back and forth, like a hawk hunting, turn and turn again, the wheels making a hawklike squeal as they rotated in the muddy ruts. The drays puffed steamy breaths as they hauled their load up the hill. The smell of damp decay filled the air.

  All of a sudden they were at a gate. The giant, who hadn’t said a word since the station, got down and opened the gate on its grating hinges, then pointed at Peter. “You,” he said, “close it behind.”

  When Peter climbed down Kat missed his shoulder at once, and then dismissed that thought right away and clutched at the watch on her wrist.

  The gate was an iron monster with crossbars, and at the very top of the arch she could make out an odd symbol. It was the number thirteen inside an ornate circle, with the letters RC flanking it.

  Kat guessed that the RC stood for Rookskill Castle, but the thirteen? Maybe it was the house number. Did castles have numbers? And if so, who would choose the unhappy number thirteen?

  Silly, she scolded herself. Numbers weren’t happy or unhappy. Numbers were solid things, things you could depend on.
<
br />   But as the wagon passed under the gate, she couldn’t suppress a shudder and wouldn’t look up at the thirteen that stared down at them like a winking eye.

  From somewhere in the misty wood came the echoing off-off of a rook.

  5

  Rooks

  THE CIRCLING BIRDS of Rookskill Castle could tell a tale. Back and back—time weaves a tapestry. It is 1746, and a terrible conflict lays waste to the land and people.

  A girl, Leonore, contemplates her misfortune. She has not been able to fulfill her marriage vow. She holds her chatelaine, a wedding gift of mysterious origin, dangling it from her fingers. It dances in the firelight of her room, the most beautiful thing she has ever owned. Even in the utter dark it casts a faint blue light. Touching it sends a shiver, a cold spike right through her heart.

  She cannot deliver a child to her lord. He plucked her from nothing for this alone, having disposed of the three unfortunate wives who came before her—he picked her for her peach-cream skin and thick black hair and her youth. Picked her from the village, after the other lairds refused him any more of their daughters. At least she has escaped her father’s fist, the bruises and the fearful hiding.

  The chatelaine. Finely wrought of silver, jewelry to hang from her waist. Wrapped in velvet inside an inlaid coffer and placed upon the marriage bed, resting on the white linen beside an inky feather that drifted in with the breeze. No one, not her lord nor the servants, could tell Leonore who placed the coffer there. The only precious thing her new husband gave her was an engraved thimble, a thimble that now lies within her embroidery box.

  She plays with it, the chatelaine, its thirteen charms twisting and clinking, and she wishes she could trade it for the one thing that would save her. Even a healthy girl-child would buy her time. She fears the fate of her lord’s former wives. And she wishes he would view her with sincere affection.

  Leonore is lonely and frightened, her only friends the birds she feeds from the sill of her high window overlooking the wild waste that stretches toward the sea, the birds that cackle and caw.