The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle

by Janet Fox

  “I didn’t sleep well. And it felt wrong, that kind of sleep.”

  He pursed his lips. “Why would we be drugged?”

  She placed her hands on her hips. Bad dreams and poor sleep made her shyness give way to irritability. “I don’t know. Because we’re in the house of a spy, maybe? Maybe someone is using us as a cover for spying, and when that someone wants us out of the way, we’re drugged.” That, or we’re in a house haunted by evil magic, and we’re being enchanted, she thought, but didn’t want to say that out loud.

  She wanted to pry the puzzle apart, piece by piece, attack it logically. But what if there was no logic to it? What if this castle was haunted and there were ghosts?

  For once, Peter said nothing. She didn’t want him to think she was being silly, with her imagination running wild.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she said. “You just don’t see how important it is because America isn’t in the war.”

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I get it. If there is a spy about, we’ll unearth something eventually. Then we can make your Mr. Churchill happy.”

  Marie appeared at the end of the hallway and began knocking on doors. “Breakfast. Come at once. Come along, now, all of you.”

  As a still-sleepy Isabelle, silent Colin, and staggering Jorry joined the other four to troop downstairs, Kat whispered to Peter, “I wouldn’t drink any chocolate.”

  “I don’t think . . .” he began, but when she cast a look his way, he shrugged and said, “Okay, fine.”

  At any rate, there was no chocolate at breakfast, and no Lady Eleanor, either. Mr. Storm was there, however, heaping food from the buffet onto his plate.

  “History lessons straight after breakfast,” he said in a blustery voice, sounding every inch the tutor. “The other instructors will be up later today, and then we’ll fix our permanent schedule.”

  It was Robbie who spoke up. “You have the strangest accent.” When Mr. Storm turned his head sharply toward Robbie, Robbie added more softly, “Sir.”

  Mr. Storm smiled with his teeth. “I’m Welsh. But I was raised in a far corner of the country, so my accent is unusual.”

  “Mr. Storm lost his small sailing vessel on the rocks off the point.” They all turned as one as the Lady Eleanor entered the hall. “It was quite propitious. I was seeking instructors as I set about to open my little academy, and the sea brought us Mr. Storm. He was on a circumnavigation of the British Isles at the time. A naturalist’s hobby. Quite extraordinary that he should wash up here, and that he should have this expertise in history and natural sciences,” the Lady continued. “Later this afternoon, thanks to referrals from Mr. Bateson, a Miss Gumble and a Mr. MacLarren will be arriving to instruct you in grammar and maths.”

  Robbie raised his hand. “Will we be learning any fighting skills?”

  The Lady looked puzzled. “Fighting skills?”

  “You know, fencing and archery, that sort of thing. We need to be ready for the Jerries.”

  “I don’t think—” she began.

  “Just the thing!” spouted Mr. Storm. He grinned like a madman, and once again Kat had the feeling that he was in on some private joke.

  “Well, perhaps,” said the Lady with a dark sideways glance. “Maybe Mr. MacLarren—”

  “Nonsense! I can assist. Fighting the Jerries, eh? I have all the necessary skills,” said Mr. Storm.

  Robbie grinned and shot a look at Kat.

  The rest of the meal was conducted in silence. The Lady didn’t appear to touch her food. The same could not be said of Mr. Storm, who ate like a trooper.

  Straight after breakfast they were shown into the morning room off the entry hall. It was made up to serve as a classroom, with a handful of desks and a chalkboard up front. They chose seats and they found small notebooks and pencils ready, but no textbooks.

  “Right, then,” said Mr. Storm, rubbing his hands and marching back and forth at the front of the room. “Who can tell me something of the geography of Scotland?”

  After geography Mr. Storm gave a rambling lecture on recent history of the British Isles, and then more ancient history, and then he launched into something more than a little unexpected.

  “I should like to discuss historical artifacts,” Storm said. “As part of our lessons touching on archaeology, yes?” Storm smiled with his large teeth. “My area of expertise is in the realm of artifacts that may have peculiar properties. Magical properties, as evidenced by the association of these artifacts with mysterious and unexplained events.”

  They all waited in utter silence; even Jorry was still.

  Storm held up a small black-and-white photograph. “Who can tell me what this object is called?”

  Kat almost fell out of her chair.

  Isabelle raised her hand, and Storm said, “Yes?”

  “It’s a chatelaine,” Isabelle said. She glanced sideways at Kat, who was trying to keep her face from showing her surprise. Another chatelaine?

  The chatelaine in Storm’s photo held a large number of dangling charms, and Kat strained to see them. Without thinking, she blurted, “But I have one that’s nothing like that.”

  “Yes, Miss Bateson?” Storm said, watching her carefully. “You have such a thing? A chatelaine?” He tucked the photograph away.

  Kat’s face went hot. “Ah, well . . . my aunt, she, um, has one.”

  Storm stared at her for another minute before saying, “Miss LaRoche is correct. This is a chatelaine. But this one has a special place in history. This chatelaine is said to have the power of enchantment. It once fell into the hands of the cruel prince Vlad of Romania, who used it to overpower his enemies before he sent them to their gruesome ends, and perhaps it explains the rumors of his longevity. But Vlad lost it, alas for him.” Storm smiled, toothy. “Some archaeologists in the service of the Reich should like to find it.”

  Kat was stunned. Her teacher, in his first lesson, claimed that he knew of a chatelaine with the “power of enchantment.” She looked again at Isabelle, who was now taking notes as if her life depended on it and avoiding Kat’s glance.

  “Yes, many people would like to get their hands on such an object.” He paused, then went on. “After Vlad lost it, this chatelaine was next seen in Scotland some two hundred years ago. This report is one reason I was circling the coastline until the loss of my sailboat.”

  “But if this chatelaine thing is found by the Germans, sir,” said Jorry in a buttery voice, “Germany might use it the way Vlad did, to overpower their enemies.” Then Jorry muttered under his breath, “Not that I believe in such nonsense. Utter rot.”

  Kat wasn’t sure she liked having anything in common with Jorry.

  “Ah, yes,” said Storm. “Having that kind of power in Germany is something England and her allies would not like. If it is indeed in Scotland, it is possible that the hunt is on. A scavenger hunt of sorts. We can all keep our eyes open, yes? At least in our own little corner of Scotland.” He paused. “It’s what Mr. Churchill would want, eh?” And he stared hard at Kat.

  She squirmed.

  They were dismissed, “until the other instructors arrive.”

  “Good grief,” Kat said to Peter when they were well out of earshot. “What was that all about?”

  Robbie, who had hung back in the classroom, ran up, gleeful. “Mr. Storm will teach me sword fighting! Starting this afternoon, right after lunch. He’s going to take me out to the courtyard and give me a real sword and everything.”

  “Robbie, I don’t think—” Kat began.

  “Don’t be stodgy,” Rob interrupted, glowering. “You’re not Mum.” He stuck his tongue out and turned and ran on, whooping, to tell Colin.

  Kat clenched her fist.

  Jorry, catching up with them, said, “Storm is ridiculous. Why in the world would he mention magical artifacts?” Storm emerged from the
room, and instantly Jorry’s expression changed. “Interesting lesson, sir,” he said.

  Kat bit her cheek.

  “Ah, thank you, Mr. Phillips,” Storm said. He turned to Kat. “You have one, then? A chatelaine?”

  “It’s my aunt’s,” Kat said, which was true enough. “A family heirloom.”

  “It must be very old, yes?”

  “I guess.” Kat fidgeted.

  “Perhaps you have a picture?”

  “It’s not like the one you showed us. It’s much more simple.”

  “If you should find an image, I should like to see it. These antiquities collect magic just as they collect dust.” Storm smiled his toothy grin.

  Collect magic? Kat searched for words. “I’m sure my aunt’s is only a piece of jewelry.”

  “Indeed,” Storm murmured, narrowing his eyes at her. He turned back to Jorry. “Keep an eye out for anything unusual, eh, Mr. Phillips?”

  “Oh, I will keep an eye out, sir.” Storm retreated down the hall. As Storm disappeared around the corner, Jorry muttered, “Completely daft. Artifacts collecting magic? Bonkers.”

  Peter and Kat watched in silence as Jorry marched away.

  Kat twisted the watch on her wrist. “I hate to admit it, but Jorry’s right. Storm’s crazy.” As loony as her great-aunt.

  Peter said, “I wouldn’t mind having an object with magical power. But here’s what I think: Storm is a treasure hunter.”

  “Treasure hunter?”

  “Yeah. One of those people who hunts for valuable artifacts. He may be an archaeologist or historian or maybe not, and he may or may not be crazy. But I don’t think he’s done much teaching.”

  “That seems certain.” Kat chewed her lip, then shook her head and sighed. “Well, at least Robbie’s getting his wish.”

  “And it’s a sunny day, and we’re out of school for a few hours. We can go for a walk and explore the grounds if we get Storm’s okay. Maybe we’ll uncover some of that spying you suspect is going on.”

  “Spying? That I suspect? What about you? Don’t you suspect something peculiar’s going on here?” she asked.

  Kat blushed furiously as she swore Peter was trying not to laugh.

  It was a brilliant, blustery day, and Kat’s nightmares had begun to fade in the sunlight. Maybe the other children they’d seen were from the town, and the Lady was unaware of them wandering about the grounds. Maybe the Lady was unused to children and put off by Kat’s blunt questions. Even Isabelle’s mention of the hand sign charm had taken on an innocence in the light of day. After all, the Lady’s charm was to ward off evil, wasn’t it? Not to invite it in.

  But it was odd that the chatelaine, such an unusual piece of antique jewelry, had begun showing up over and over. It was almost as if Great-Aunt Margaret had known.

  Colin begged to join Kat and Peter on their walk. He reminded Kat of a puppy, dogging their heels and panting a little, nosing off from side to side as they made their way down the allée of trees behind the castle.

  Rookskill Castle was a hodgepodge of buildings, as they could see now from the outside. The moat ended halfway around the older buildings, so that the imposing and ramshackle ruin out front, the one that seemed so frightening when they arrived, was the ancient—mostly abandoned—part of the castle, and the grand house the Lord and Lady lived in and where they were all staying was a much newer addition opening onto the formal garden behind.

  As they wove through the garden now they passed the small pond where Kat had seen the girl. The pond was dry. A little tickle ran up Kat’s arms as she thought of the girl’s invisible fishes.

  As they entered the allée, they turned back to look at the castle.

  “That should be your room,” Peter said, pointing, “and I think that’s where the stairwell would be. Looks so normal from the outside.”

  “But it’s so confusing on the inside. There’s nothing that would show up as a hidden room,” Kat said. “But then, this place is not what it seems. From the outside,” she added.

  “Hidden room?” Colin asked eagerly.

  Peter coughed. “Just imagining there might be some in that old place,” he said, and Kat knew what he meant. Best not to alarm susceptible Colin until they understood what was happening.

  “Maybe we could explore inside the old castle, too,” said Colin. “I love the idea of finding hidden rooms. Can we?”

  “Maybe,” Kat murmured.

  The sun was fine, although a snapping breeze came up off the ocean, and it carried a sound. They stopped at once, straining to hear.

  “What is that?” said Colin.

  “It sounds like singing,” Kat said. “Like it’s coming from the sea.”

  They walked, quickly now, all the way down the allée to the cliff edge, where the land fell into the rocks and surf, but there was nothing, just the crashing of waves, and over them barely, a sound like voices, a wordless song in harmony.

  “I’ll bet it’s some hollow in the rocks where the wind is whistling through,” said Peter.

  “Of course,” Kat said, relieved. “That’s what it is. Why, in my great-aunt’s attic, when the wind blows hard, it sounds like a whining voice. Amelie thinks it’s her ghost friend, Mr. Pudge.”

  “But what if it is ghosts?” asked Colin. “The villagers think the Lady Leonore haunts the castle.”

  Kat put her hand on Colin’s thin shoulder. “There are no such things as ghosts,” she said as firmly as she could. “So you needn’t worry.”

  The space between his eyes was occupied by a deep furrow.

  “Look, Colin. There’s a logical explanation for everything,” she said.

  Yet, as they made their way back toward the castle, the singing followed them, mournful and filled with longing, making Kat sad.

  18

  The Third and Fourth Charms: The Boot and the Chest

  IT IS 1820.

  Ah, the cruel, cruel sea. As the years pass, the villagers think the caves along the coast house mermaids. They hear sweet, sad voices that lift and swell and ebb like waves. They leave the caves alone, not wishing to disturb the sorrowful selkies.

  But the voices belong to girls charmed by Leonore.

  After years of hiding in the keep, haunting Rookskill Castle and terrifying the human residents who come and go and live and die, Leonore craves again the feeling that comes with charming children. She has taken care of these first two, Rose and Tim. They have not suffered the loveless anguish of a childhood like her own.

  When the fire—such a tragedy!—consumes the timbered house on the village square, it leaves twin girls orphans. Leonore can rescue them from fear and sad memories. She can give them bliss. That she feels bliss as well . . . that’s an added sweetness.

  Her rooks tell her that a ramshackle hut sits again on the bones of a ruin at the edge of the village. She seeks out the magister (does he live forever?). For the girls he asks Leonore to sacrifice one hand and one leg, and she does not hesitate.

  Blood and bone.

  They cling to each other, Alice carrying a single boot and Brigit clutching a small locked chest. The twins wander to the cliff edge. Leonore follows them and gives them each a charm from her chatelaine, the boot and the chest.

  The rooks pick the ashes for flesh and bone.

  The magister stands before the great hinged box. The box glows with a pale blue light. It holds the parts of Leonore; it waits. He waits. He has waited for many years. Magic bides its own time.

  His fingers are skilled at making. He can make mechanicals, unearthly creatures that are beautiful but dreadful. He adds the still-beating heart of a once-living thing to a clockwork creation that blinks and moves. He invents a creature made from tiny gears and pulleys and gives it a fleshy foot.

  He ponders the capture of souls.

  When he gave the new bride Leonore the cha
telaine those years ago, he knew he had found an unwitting partner to aid him in practicing the blackest of magical arts. He is patient and waits for the right time. He knows the time will come when he can make something of dreadful beauty.

  He will make life where none existed before.

  With the charming of the twins, Leonore expands with happiness. She also bends with the added weight in her chatelaine, and about this she returns to the magister to ask.

  “Souls,” he answers. “That weight is the weight of their souls.”

  Leonore is staggered, sinking to the wooden stool.

  The magister drones on, his back to her. Within her thirteenth charm she can hold twelve souls altogether. But oh so slowly, cautions the magister. Too many at once will weaken the magic. She must be patient, remain at the castle, and more children will come in time. And in time, when she carries all twelve souls, she will own a magic greater than love itself.

  Leonore stares silently at the flames dancing on the magister’s hearth. She carries the souls of four children in her thirteenth charm. She has watched as they cry out in pain and afterward go vacant. Was her lord right—has she become a witch?

  But then she feels that bliss. She has lived long. She owns powerful magic. And she’s saved them, those lonely children. She is heroic, for childhood is a terrible burden. Their souls lie within her thirteenth charm? So be it. She does, after all, sacrifice pieces of herself.

  The magister does not tell Leonore what he does with her body parts.

  The twin girls, together with Rose and Tim, for the next century and more, haunt the castle and the grounds and sing wordless songs. Leonore swells with the power she sucks from the souls of the four children. She later adds the fifth, the lonely cat-boy John, telling herself that this is good, this is right, this taking of children’s souls.

  Leonore is no longer fully human, but has become a witch and a monster (will she live forever?) made from the magister’s superbly crafted mechanical parts.

  19

  Wish Upon a Star