The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle

by Janet Fox

  It’s perfect: she slips the silver chain with its small dog charm over Colin’s head and whispers the accursed words.

  Your life will linger dark and deep.

  She’s seen the change six times before: the cry of pain and then the jaw gone slack, the eyes that dull, the vacancy as the boy’s soul leaves his body and becomes hers.

  Hers.

  Her chest grows tight and she closes her eyes. The boy’s soul is joined to her thirteenth charm, held there with a bond formed of dark spells. Eleanor swells with the power of it, feeling the bliss surge through her as it has before, each time more strongly, and she tilts her head back and laughs out loud.

  Her laughter rolls through the barn, shrill and piercing. The living things scatter before the sound as if it contaminates the very air.

  The hound bares her teeth again and her throat fills with a growl, as the boy Colin sinks to his knees, clutching the pup, sinks to the mother and her other babies, and becomes one with them, acting like a whining, whimpering puppy, accepted by the hound as another of the forlorn creatures of the barn.

  Eleanor draws herself upright, her metal arm’s gears whirring and clicking. She points her claw finger at the hound and says, “I will take care of you before the end.”

  Her thirteenth charm now carries the weight of seven souls, and Eleanor bears it, limping, staggering, bending, but also with dark joy.

  38

  The Cave of Plato

  “JUST WHAT YOU’D expect from a ghost,” said Rob when he and Kat and Peter gathered in the hallway before breakfast.

  “I don’t want to scare them,” Kat said of the younger children. “I don’t want them to know.”

  Peter and Rob, who didn’t drink the chocolate either, had heard it in their room, too. “Pretty awful,” was Rob’s understatement.

  “It makes me feel like I can’t move,” said Peter. “And I don’t want to open my eyes. And it gets so cold in the room.”

  “I think it’s using secret passageways,” Kat said.

  “I know what I have to do,” said Rob, straightening his back. “I’ve got to go back for my sword.”

  And Kat had to find her chatelaine. She’d had time when waking up to take her room apart piece by piece. But after a fruitless search Kat sank back on her heels, exhausted. Her room was a shambles, all of her and Amelie’s clothes dumped on the floor and the bedclothes rumpled and every object turned upside down or inside out, and still no chatelaine. She wanted to cry, but that wouldn’t do any good.

  Stolen, was her next thought. Someone must have taken it from her dresser. But who? And did they know that it might contain magic, and how to use it?

  As they sat down to breakfast, Rob asked, “Where’s Colin?”

  “In his room?” Isabelle said hopefully.

  But after breakfast he didn’t answer the knock on the door, and his room was locked.

  “He must be here,” Kat said, a knot of worry forming in her stomach. “Maybe he’s getting some extra sleep.” They were all exhausted.

  Miss Gumble told them they were taking a test and had to compose an essay on the spot, and she handed around a paper with a question at the top. Kat hoped she had enough energy to write something decent.

  And then she read the question: Compose a three-page essay on the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s Republic, and, using examples, relate the allegory to your own efforts to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

  Kat sat back in the chair. This question was far too close to her recent experiences. Was it coincidence? She looked up at Miss Gumble and was met with a hard stare.

  “Miss Bateson, do you have a question?” Miss Gumble asked.

  “Um,” Kat said, “well, I guess that I’m surprised, because we read that section about Plato’s cave a while back.”

  “And?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “You thought I was going to test you on more recent reading. As in something you should have read last night.” Miss Gumble seemed to be trying not to smile. “You all need to think about deeper meanings. Plato, of course, in Aristotle’s voice, was addressing ideas about illusion. What might be real and what might not. That seems to me a worthy exercise. Now, please begin your essay with a précis.” Miss Gumble picked up a book and buried her face behind its covers.

  Kat and Peter exchanged a glance; the others were already writing. Kat set to work, and decided not to hold anything back.

  In maths MacLarren changed focus entirely from what they had been working on for the past weeks.

  “Something a bit different today,” he said. He handed each of the children a stack of puzzles, of varying degrees of difficulty according to each student’s abilities, and asked them to solve the puzzles during class.

  The puzzles he’d given Kat were difficult mathematics equations that worked on permutations of numbers to letters. The question posed on each of the five puzzles was the same: Given the variables, how many different solutions are possible?

  MacLarren stood over her with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, lassie? Are we having difficulty?”

  “It’s just that this looks like, well, it’s a bit like . . .”

  “A code?” he prompted, his voice unnaturally soft. He’d leaned over her so that none of the others could hear.

  She nodded.

  “Then best get to it, eh?”

  She nodded again.

  Kat finished in record time, and she approached the desk where MacLarren sat with his feet propped up, his head back against the chair, and his eyes closed. She coughed.

  He opened one eye. “Let’s see, lass.” He reached out his hand.

  He took her papers, glanced through them, and nodded. “Care to try the next step?” he asked.

  Kat lifted her brows and smiled.

  The next step was a translation exercise involving one of the puzzles. Kat was given a key and had to create the algorithm that would translate the numbers to letters.

  She didn’t move away from MacLarren’s desk this time, but pulled a chair up and created the equation while he watched. “Good,” he said softly. “Very good.” It was the first time he’d praised her skill. He raised his voice, the old MacLarren back in full force. “Now, lass, go work on those algebra problems you got wrong last week.”

  Kat smiled to herself as she returned to her desk. One small victory in the midst of confusion.

  “They know,” said Peter. “Gumble and MacLarren. That’s the only explanation.” Peter and Kat had lingered behind the others after lunch. “It’s like Gumble knows we’re trying to work out what this terrible dark magic is.”

  “And MacLarren has some idea there might be an encryption machine,” said Kat. “Father suggested them to the Lady. Maybe they really work with him.”

  “With him? What, MacLarren and Gumble, spies?”

  Kat chewed her lip. “Even if they aren’t, they seem to be on our side.”

  “Wonder what they’d think if they heard those sounds,” Peter said with a shudder.

  “I wonder what they think of Lady Eleanor.”

  Peter grabbed Kat’s elbow and gave her a look.

  From behind her Kat heard, “You two. Don’t you have another class?”

  The Lady. Kat and Peter hustled to the classroom.

  “How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!” Kat heard her father’s voice in her head, repeating one of his maxims. He would then put one finger to his forehead, while pinning Kat with his stare. “Caution, my dear. Keep calm.”

  In history, Storm acted as if he was tipsy. He staggered from topic to topic, lecturing randomly, referencing everything from the Napoleonic Wars to the Russian Revolution. Kat stopped taking notes when she could no longer make sense of the line of discussion. Storm walked back and forth, faster and faster, sweating. He’d lost so mu
ch weight in only a few weeks, and he was pale, and even his hair had changed, now dark and sparse. He paced and wheeled and paced as the sweat dripped from him; at one moment when his back was turned, Isabelle, who had been sitting in the front, moved into a seat a row back, as if fearing that he might drip directly onto her.

  “Disgusting,” Isabelle muttered, wrinkling her nose.

  “The artifacts!” Storm said abruptly. He stood still, his eyes darting from one corner to the other. “Where did it go, that chatelaine?” And he glared at Kat so fiercely, she shifted away from his glance.

  Kat waited for more, but with a blink Storm looked confused, and then moved on to some obscure and random historical details.

  Except that when his gaze had stopped on Kat, she’d remembered, a sudden sharp realization. She’d seen Storm in the hallway outside their rooms, and wasn’t that just after she’d last seen her chatelaine?

  Could Storm—a treasure hunter, according to Peter—have stolen her great-aunt’s chatelaine?

  When the children were dismissed from history, they had about two hours before dinner. Kat, Peter, and Rob made for the kitchen.

  “Don’t know where Hugo went,” said Cook. “It may be that her Ladyship went off on one of her errands in the village and needed him to drive.” As she said this, Cook’s face went dark.

  Peter asked for some rope, and Cook bustled out to one of the storerooms.

  As the three of them left the kitchen, Peter said, “I think I’m tall enough to get down that cliff face and up again.”

  Kat hoped Peter was right.

  He was.

  Peter’s long arms were just long enough so that he could lower himself over the edge of the cliff onto the ledge.

  “Wow! What a cave.” Peter’s voice came up as a thin echo. “It would be a great hiding place.”

  “No time to look around,” Kat called. “Get those things out so we can get back.”

  The hard part was hoisting the two machines up the cliff, but Cook had given them stout ropes.

  Kat and Rob pulled the first box over the edge. It was polished oak with brass hinges and latches, and she had to open it. Inside was an encryption machine.

  She could have run her fingers over the mechanism for hours, but there was no time. The wireless came up next, and then the sword, and then she and Rob had to lie on their stomachs to help Peter gain footing so he could climb back up.

  They’d also brought a pair of backpacks, and were able to shove the encryption device and the wireless inside. Rob carried one backpack, and his sword, and Peter carried the other.

  They bolted across the landscape, already shadowed with the approaching sunset.

  “We’re late,” Peter panted. “And we’ve got to hide these before we can get in to dinner.”

  Rob stopped abruptly. “What’s that? It’s not Colin, is it?”

  Kat and Peter drew up, Kat squinting against the shadows and the setting sun. Rooks circled high above them, calling, Off, off, off!

  At the far end of the allée of trees someone—something?—was moving back and forth, directly in their path, and dancing like the devil.

  “What is that?” Kat whispered.

  “I think . . . ” Rob began, his hand shading his eyes against the red strip of sunset. “No, it can’t be.”

  “What?” Kat pressed. She wanted to run backward, away. Whatever it was, it was moving, agitated, like a puppet, shadowed black against the light.

  “It looks like Jorry,” Rob said.

  “Jorry!” said Peter. “Jorry? After all this time? But what in the heck is he doing? Dancing?”

  Kat moved forward, toward Jorry. The boys followed her. “I think he’s exercising. But it’s a weird form of exercising. Like he’s a puppet. You know, like he’s hanging from strings.”

  “Hey,” Rob called out. “Jorry?”

  Jorry froze, midleap, one foot still up. His head swiveled in their direction.

  “You all right?” Peter called. “You’re not sick anymore?” He dropped his voice so that only Rob and Kat could hear. “Something’s not right. He is sick. And it’s not spots or influenza.”

  They’d drawn within a few yards of Jorry, where they paused.

  Jorry was definitely not all right. His eyes were blank, black holes. His face was a mask. His mouth formed an O. His right foot was still suspended in the air, as if he’d been frozen in place.

  “Oh, my,” said Kat.

  “He’s a ghost,” said Rob.

  Kat did not contradict him.

  Without warning, Jorry turned and ran, fast, across the expanse of lawn toward the old keep, speeding away in the blink of an eye and disappearing into the shadows.

  They couldn’t chase after Jorry; they were already late.

  The three made for the kitchen. Cook was not about, although some things were laid out for dinner, ready to be taken to the table. They stashed the backpacks with the wireless and encryption device in the pantry, in one of the low cupboards that held large flat baking pans, shoving the packs and the sword into the corner.

  “Jorry couldn’t be a ghost,” Kat said, panting. “He just couldn’t be.” That would mean he was dead, Kat thought but couldn’t say out loud.

  “Whatever he was, he wasn’t himself,” said Rob.

  They ran back to the main stairwell so that they could enter the dining hall in the usual way.

  “We’re ten minutes past time,” Peter said, glancing at the great clock on the mantle. The eyes in the painting of the Lady Leonore glared at them as they passed.

  As they came in, everyone went still. Dinner had begun. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling of the fires.

  The Lady rose from her chair. “This lateness is intolerable. This is a school, not a playground. Lessons must be learned. I believe a punishment is in order.”

  Kat’s heart pounded in her ears.

  “Marie?”

  Marie appeared out of nowhere, standing before them.

  “Take them upstairs,” the Lady commanded. “Lock them in. No supper.”

  Rob groaned. Marie began to usher them out.

  “And Marie?”

  They stopped.

  “Move one of the boys. Separate rooms tonight.”

  From where she stood, Kat could see the Lady’s cold smile.

  On the way up the stairs, with Marie leading the way, Rob whispered, “Colin still wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the dining hall.”

  Kat and Peter exchanged a glance. “I’m sure he’s here somewhere, Rob,” Kat said in a low voice. “He turned up the last time, remember?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Enough chattering,” Marie called. “The Lady’ll have my head if you go on scheming. You’re lucky it’s just supper.”

  At that moment, Kat didn’t feel lucky.

  39

  Hand

  WHEN THE NOISES come, the room grows so cold that Kat shivers even under all her blankets. If only she had her great-aunt’s chatelaine. She lit a fire in her fireplace before climbing into bed, but it goes out with a snuff as the shadows begin to descend. The only light comes from the waxing moon.

  She’s pinned to the bed, her legs and arms useless dead weights, her right arm trapped outside her blanket. The smell of cold steel rubbing against cold steel fills her nostrils.

  She has a hard time keeping the tears from filling her tightly closed eyes.

  She imagines Rob, in a separate room, alone. And Amelie and Isabelle, oblivious. Keep calm.

  Something scrapes along her cheek, something smooth and sharp, so sharp she doesn’t dare move for fear of slicing her cheek open, her eyes shut tight. And then it scrapes down her right arm to her hand, where it stops.

  Her right hand makes an involuntary fist, and she can hear wheels turning and gears
meshing, and she realizes with a shock that those noises come from her.

  And then she hears an intake of breath, as if whatever is hovering over her has seen her hand and expressed surprise. She cannot open her eyes.

  The monster hovers, and then cold steel presses on her right hand, and then with a hiss and growl the monster moves off and leaves Kat alone with her fear and her spinning mind.

  Kat flexes her fingers without opening her eyes and hears it again. Feels the strength of her hand, an unnatural strength.

  What is inside her hand that sounds so much like the monster itself? She opens her fist, and there it is yet again, the faintest sound of cogs and gears.

  Is this something growing inside her, a disease? What has she become?

  And then anger surges. This is Father’s fault. If he hadn’t gone, they never would have had to leave London, despite the Blitz. If he hadn’t suggested Rookskill Castle, they would not be here. How can she protect her brother and sister from something that might eat them away from the inside? That may already be working inside her like a poison?

  Is she, Kat, turning into a monster?

  The tears stream down her face as she chokes back sobs. What should she—what can she—do? Her chatelaine . . . If only she hadn’t lost her chatelaine.

  “One must be prepared,” Great-Aunt Margaret had said, “with appropriate countermeasures.”

  What countermeasures can I take now, without the chatelaine?

  Sleep comes over her suddenly and without her will, like a drug.

  40

  Lost

  TIM HAS NOT seen the lady saint in a long time, but he so wants to make a gift to her of his chatelaine that he ventures out at night, hoping to find her. He doesn’t like the dark of night, but he’s willing himself to search the castle for her even so. He’s holding the chatelaine in his fist when he wanders into an empty room on a high floor and hears a noise.

  Tick, tick, tick.