by Janet Fox
Tim shakes all over, for he thinks he knows that noise, that terrible clockwork noise, that nightmare noise he has heard only in the black of night. He does not link that noise with the saint but with a dreadful monster. After all, how could a saint make such an evil sound?
Tim goes rigid until his slow mind twists and he sees the clock upon the mantle tick, tick, ticking, something it has never done before in his long memory of Rookskill Castle.
He flees the room, running silent in the inky dark until he reaches his safe corner, until he can grab his polishing cloth and polish until his heart stops thumping in his chest.
A clock ticks on the mantle. Children sleep fitful, nightmarish.
A shiny silver chatelaine with a pen, scissors, and a thimble lies forgotten where it fell.
41
Porridge
KAT HEARD THE click of the lock and was awake at once. And she looked at her right hand.
It looked like a perfectly normal hand, and felt perfectly normal, and now in the daylight she heard no sounds. It was a normal hand, except . . . it was exceptionally strong. She crushed the bar of soap in the bath to powder.
It was her hand, but it was not.
She dressed, feeling alien to herself. She couldn’t tell the others about this, not yet. Maybe it was happening to all of them, each one of them, bit by bit, that they were all becoming monsters. Maybe that’s what had happened to Jorry. She couldn’t frighten the others with this idea.
It was past time for breakfast. When Kat opened the door to her room she saw Rob slumped against the wall in the hallway.
“Rob!” She hurried to his side, kneeling. “Rob?”
He jumped. “Sleeping,” he mumbled.
She sat beside him. “Bad night?”
He nodded, eyes closed. “Really bad.”
“Me too.” Worse than bad. She swallowed hard so she wouldn’t cry.
Peter stepped out, or rather, stumbled out, rubbing his face as if to rub away the memory.
Rob said, “The others have gone down already. I waited for you.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Peter, lending a hand to help up Kat and Rob. “I’m starved.”
“Before we go down,” said Kat, “I want to see if Jorry’s in his room.”
Rob sighed, but he and Peter waited while Kat knocked at Jorry’s door.
By now, they should have been used to Marie appearing out of nowhere, but Kat still jumped at the sound of Marie’s voice. “Here, what are you lot up to, now? It’s past time to go down for breakfast.”
Kat was so exhausted and hungry and startled, she spoke before she thought. “We need to see Jorry.”
Rob tugged at Kat’s sleeve. “Food,” he hissed. “We’ll starve if she locks us in again.”
But Marie shook her head. “Too late. The boy’s gone.”
“What?” Kat stepped back out of sheer surprise.
“Doctor came yesterday, took him away.”
“Are you sure?” After having seen Jorry she’d stopped thinking of him as ill, unless he was ill in the head.
Marie frowned. “Quite sure.”
“But we saw him last night.”
Marie scratched her head, an odd expression crossing her face. “I don’t know. Funny, that. Sure it was yesterday. Sure it was the doctor. Funny.”
Kat went to Marie and stood right up close. She’d never much liked Marie, but now she saw something about her. Kat asked, “What’s funny?”
“Don’t know,” Marie said. “Can’t remember.” Now that Kat was close up, she could see that Marie’s eyes were glazed and her pupils dilated. Kat’s practical side kicked in again. There was definitely something wrong with Marie, and it was not natural.
“Okay,” Kat said, trying to sound light. “No problem. We’ll head downstairs.”
“Yeah,” Marie said. “You do that, won’t you?” And she ran down the stairs ahead of them as if she had the devil on her heels.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Kat whispered to Rob and Peter, “She’s been drugged. Or hypnotized.”
Peter said, “That would explain her confusion, but what about Jorry?”
“And Colin?” Rob said. “What about him?”
Yes, Kat thought, what about Colin?
They’d reached the dining hall and the smells of the breakfast were overwhelming. Cook stood off to the side, preparing to serve. Rob almost ran to the table.
The Lady sat with the teachers at the head table. She rose as the three children entered and watched as they seated themselves. Cook approached the table with a platter of eggs and sausage.
“Stop,” the Lady commanded.
Cook halted midstep.
“They can have something cold. I prepared porridge for them last night. You’ll find it on the sideboard.” She sat again. “This will teach them to be on time in the future. There are many lessons to be learned here in Rookskill Castle.”
Cook grumbled, but she turned away and fetched the porridge.
It was sticky and tasteless, like gluey cardboard, but Kat was too hungry not to eat. Rob looked sick and Peter picked at it.
When the Lady suddenly left the dining hall clutching her chest and looking like she might be ill, Kat felt no pity.
“Evil,” said Rob, heated. “She’s evil. And Colin’s still missing.”
“The Lady, she was wearing the devil’s sign,” Isabelle said to Kat with a knowing look. “Sur sa châtelaine.”
At the reminder, Kat felt the tears well in her eyes. She had to find her own chatelaine, but where to begin? If Storm had it, could she break into his room to search?
In English class, Miss Gumble brought in a small tray. When she lifted the towel, there was a fresh-baked and still warm loaf of bread underneath, and a slab of butter, and she placed the tray on a desk in front of Peter, Rob, and Kat. Kat had never been so appreciative of a teacher.
When Rob, Peter, and Kat had finished eating several slices, Gumble said, “Let’s continue to discuss the real and the fantastic from yesterday, shall we? Let’s begin with ideas from ancient civilizations. What do you know of how the ancients viewed the concept of magic?”
Kat knew now. She knew. There was magic in the world, and she’d been stupid enough or stubborn enough not to believe it until now. There might even be magic in her missing chatelaine, but she’d been a careless guardian.
In maths, Mr. MacLarren posted a large chart on the board. “This is a representation of the Rosetta stone,” he said. “It contains a simultaneous translation of ancient and Demotic Egyptian hieroglyphs and ancient Greek, and so is a key to the interpretation of ancient Egyptian language.”
MacLarren tacked another chart on the board. “And this is an encryption key used in one German code that was discovered last year in northern France. As math algorithms are used in the interpretation of codes”—and here MacLarren stared straight at Kat—“I’ve decided to let you all play with the hieroglyphs and this encryption key, to make your own code today.”
He turned away. “Oh, and I’ve got something here.” He reached into his large pockets and pulled out five apples, laying one on each desk.
After morning classes, Kat, Peter, and Rob went straight to the kitchen. Cook bustled about.
“Here, you lot, go to the dining hall. I’ve prepared a special lunch, I have, since her Ladyship has gone off for the rest of the afternoon and you’ve been near starved to death.”
“We need to fetch something we’ve left here,” Kat said. She showed Cook the backpacks they’d stowed in the pantry. She didn’t seem surprised to see them there.
“You might want to leave them be,” said Cook, “in case.”
Kat exchanged glances with Rob and Peter. “In case?”
“Your rooms may not be the safest,” she said, without meeting Kat’s eyes, “if you g
et my meaning. There’s always something prowling about.”
Rob took his sword because, as he put it, “I won’t spend another night without it.” They left the backpacks right where they were. “They’re not in my way,” said Cook.
“I’m going looking for Colin,” Rob said.
Kat nodded. And I’m going looking for Great-Aunt Margaret’s chatelaine. At this moment, that chatelaine and its promise of magic offered Kat her only hope.
42
The Perfect Heart
THE LADY ELEANOR is gratified that the three children don’t seem to like the porridge.
Porridge is something Eleanor remembers well. She ate much at one time, when she was a girl—it was all they had. The very smell of it conjures a vision of her father’s fist, the pain of a swelling bruise on her cheek, the prison of her helplessness. Eleanor hates porridge even more than she hates her loveless father and heartless first lord.
Now Eleanor’s eye stops at Katherine. Katherine so reminds the Lady of her first lord’s new wife, the young wife he took after he drove Eleanor to the keep, the young wife who became mother to his only child by blood. Eleanor knows from seeing it last night that the girl has been given a hand, perfect, mechanical. Could it have been a gift from the magister? It horrifies her that Katherine Bateson might be the magister’s new pet, and her heart clutches.
And then she realizes—the magic she’s felt, the magic she doesn’t yet control, that magic is somehow linked to this girl. The pain in Eleanor’s chest becomes unbearable.
The Lady places her hand on her chest, her fingers gripping the beaded fabric, and she sucks in air with a wrenching gasp. The teachers look up in confusion. The children, too, lift their eyes to her and stare, some eyeing her fearfully, some surprised. She stands, the gears in her legs whirring to life; had she been still made of flesh she is sure her legs would tremble.
“Excuse me,” she says, and leaves the hall, fast but stately, her hand still clutching her chest. The hand, all steel and moving parts, that has the strength to rip her heart right out of her chest. The strength to rip out Katherine’s heart if need be.
The Lady is still able to shed tears, and one strays now from her right eye. She brushes it away, angry. Angry that Katherine should remind her of the past. Angry that she should see in Katherine the form of something—of someone—she hates. Angry that Katherine may have received the gift of a perfect hand from the magister and may have access to any kind of magic.
Katherine—and all the children—will give up their souls. Eleanor will hold power over men like her heartless lord and her cruel father, even over, she thinks, the magister.
She smiles grimly at this thought as she clutches at her heart. The rooks follow, circling, as she guides the wheel of her motorcar, this time leaving Hugo behind.
“All?” the magister repeats. His hut is exceedingly warm.
“Yes,” she says, seething with impatience. “All. And at once. I must be able to use the chatelaine as I see fit.” To control even you.
“You must not take them too quickly,” he says. “The magic—”
“Yes, yes. The magic will weaken.” She dismisses his caution. She is tired of the power of others, including the magister, tired of being told to move slowly.
“Giving all will require a complete sacrifice.” He does not face her; he is busy stoking his fire, an unnecessary gesture. When he turns and lifts his eyes they are birdlike, button-black. “You will no longer be human.”
She doesn’t like being human. It’s far too emotional, too messy, unpredictable, uncontrollable. Being human means wanting things like love. She’s been human for long enough. She clutches at her chest, and her words form a snarl. “You will take my heart as well?”
The magister grins; his teeth are sharpened to fine points, like the spikes on a saw blade. “Yes, my Lady. I will have your heart. And I have for it the most magical replacement.”
As he holds up the mechanical heart, the perfect shape of a heart even as it clicks and whirs with precision, gears and wheels turning on tiny pins, it beats with such a calm and steady clockwork regularity that Eleanor knows it will be glorious.
43
Sisters
STORM HAD DISMISSED the children long before class should have ended, collapsing in the chair at the front of the room and mumbling to himself while waving his hands about as if fending off a swarm of bees. He no longer looked anything like the Storm Kat had met only a few weeks earlier.
As she left the classroom she overheard him muttering about “finding all the artifacts,” and he repeated one word again and again: chatelaine.
Kat was certain now that Storm had stolen her chatelaine. But how was she supposed to get it back? Was she brave enough to sneak in and search his room?
Kat dropped her books on the dresser and stood in the hallway in front of her door. Amelie and Isabelle, playing in Isabelle’s room, squealed with laughter.
No one else even knew of the existence of Great-Aunt Margaret’s chatelaine. Kat chewed her nails. Maybe it was time to enlist help. She started down the hall to Peter’s room.
As Kat passed Isabelle’s doorway, she glanced inside. And she was not prepared for what she saw there. Her cheeks went hot and shock gave way to anger mixed with extreme relief.
“What are you doing?”
Both girls stopped and turned. They were dressed up in some of Isabelle’s fancy clothes. Smaller Amelie wore a long slim skirt that dragged on the floor, and her curls were pulled up in a messy bun.
And around her waist was a wide leather belt from which hung Kat’s chatelaine.
Amelie grinned. “I’m pretending. See?” Amelie pointed at Kat and lowered her voice. “And you shall eat porridge for the rest of your life!” Isabelle rolled on the floor with laughter.
Kat took two fast steps across the room and grabbed Amelie by the wrist while she unfastened the belt with her other hand.
“Ow! Kat! That hurts!”
Kat snatched the chatelaine from the belt and clutched it tight, and only then did she let Amelie go. “You had no business taking this from my drawer!”
Tears rolled down Amelie’s cheeks. “I didn’t take it! It’s Isabelle’s.”
Kat rounded on Isabelle. “Then you stole it.”
Isabelle stood up straight and tall. “I did not. I found it this morning. It was lying on the floor outside one of the empty rooms. I did not know you had a chatelaine.” She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. “I did not know you carried such a . . .” And she paused before saying, with a dramatic flourish, “such an artifact.”
Then Amelie took a big, gulping sob. Kat had grabbed Ame’s bare arm with her right hand and squeezed hard, and Ame’s arm was already turning black and blue. “Oh,” said Kat, her breath a little puff. “Ame.”
Kat’s strange and transformed and monstrous right hand had hurt Amelie terribly. Kat reached for her sister, to stroke her hair.
Amelie howled. “Don’t touch me! You’re wicked and evil!” And she began to cry hard. “I want Mum. I want to go home.”
Isabelle went to Ame and gently took her arm, examined it, and tsked. “It might be broken.” She narrowed her eyes at Kat. “I do not know how you could break her arm.”
Kat’s knees went weak. “I’ll take her to Cook for a poultice.”
“No!” said Ame through her tears. “Don’t touch me!”
“I shall take her,” said Isabelle, and, holding Amelie gently around the waist, pushed past Kat and out of the room.
Kat sat on the floor of her room. She played with the chatelaine, working it around and around in her fingers. The fingers of her right hand, a hand she hated, moved with precision.
If her great-aunt’s chatelaine, recovered at such great cost, had magical properties, she couldn’t tell at this moment.
And how had
it come to be on the floor down the hall? Had Storm dropped it there? He was certainly confused enough.
She held it on her open palm. An heirloom. Quite magical. Keep you safe. The chatelaine hadn’t kept Amelie safe from Kat and her terrible right hand. What kind of magic did she possess with that hand? Was it good? Or was it something evil and dark?
Could an heirloom—an artifact—that Kat now believed was “magical” be made evil, just by Kat’s actions?
Peter knocked on the door, and Kat jammed the chatelaine into her pocket. He said, “I ran into Isabelle and Amelie. Isabelle told me what happened.” He paused. He wasn’t judging Kat, at least. “Ame’s wrist isn’t broken, and Cook bandaged it up. She’ll be okay.”
“Is Ame still angry?”
He shrugged. “She’s scared. Said you were so strong. Like your hand was made of iron or something like that.” He stared at the floor.
Kat slumped a little. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was . . . upset.” She was relieved to have the chatelaine back, but still . . . Torn, scattered, her mind was all in pieces, her heart aching.
“Yeah.” Peter ran his hand over his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Well. I think you’re right. We’re being made crazy by the stuff in the castle. Whether it’s ghosts or magic or spies or whatever it is. Anyway, I came to ask. MacLarren’s down in the library off the main hall, alone. What do you think? Time to share what we know with the two teachers we think we can trust?”
Kat and Peter found MacLarren hunched in one of the huge leather chairs next to the fire.
MacLarren lifted his eyes over the top of the book in his hands. “Yes?”
“Well, sir,” Peter began, “we’ve discovered some things here in Rookskill Castle that seem a little . . . off.”
“Off?”
“Yes, sir.” Peter cleared his throat. Kat stirred, impatient.
MacLarren put the book aside and folded his fingers over his stomach. “Can you be more specific, Williams, lad?”
“Well, it’s just that, um, we think . . .”