The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle

by Janet Fox

  The dawn of All Saints’ Day. Kat pocketed her chatelaine again. All Hallows’ Eve was past and angry ghosts now slept.

  They made for the new castle. When they reached the front steps, Kat said, “Go around the back, now, and find Hugo. The giant. He’ll take care of you. Or find Cook. They’ll see to you now.” The girls went off, arm in arm, humming softly.

  Kat pushed the door open a few inches, only far enough to see inside. The gray light of dawn grew so that she could make out the stairs and the hallways and the fireplace and the portrait with its shining eyes. And she could see what lay scattered across the Turkish carpet that covered the stone floor.

  Bits and pieces of metal. Small wheels and cogs. A hand, awfully—frighteningly—like Kat’s hand. A bit of rubber tubing, and a number of tiny metal parts that she couldn’t name. All were scattered in a line starting from the place where she’d left the Lady Eleanor frozen and leading to the stairs. But there was no sign of her—or of what might be left of her. Just pieces, leading up and up the stairs.

  Why there? Why go up the stairs and not to the kitchen, where she’d find Peter and Cook and Hugo, and then on to the other children in the barn?

  And then it struck Kat: because upstairs was where the Lady had taken Amelie and Rob. That had to be it, the only souls still bound in her thirteenth charm.

  Kat made her way in, trying not to step on the broken bits, but she was happy to find in the center of the mess Father’s pen. It glowed like a beacon. She bent to pick it up. It was hot to the touch and glimmered the faintest gold, but with her right hand she was able to hold it until it cooled and dulled to silver. She slipped it back onto her great-aunt’s chatelaine and into her pocket, heavy now with the weight of the charms Kat had collected.

  It was like Kat was following bread crumbs. A watch cog here, a severed chain there. Trailing up the stairs in ever diminishing numbers, the pieces led to the second floor, and then into the hallway.

  And then they stopped.

  She bit her lip in frustration. Lord Craig’s rooms were off to the right, but there were rooms to the left as well, and Kat couldn’t be sure which way the Lady went.

  Kat started with Lord Craig.

  He lay as she and Peter had left him, pale and still. The gray light of dawn had lifted to straw yellow. Kat stood in the room, silent, poised. Lord Craig’s slow, deep breathing . . . and then the faintest of sounds, a quiet click-hiss, came through the open door.

  She ran into the hall.

  There. From a doorway down the hall and left open a crack came another click. Kat bolted and, heedless, shoved the door open, fearing nothing if it meant helping Amelie and Rob, and there she was, the Lady, hideous, deformed—visible in the daylight, now, as the magic must be eroding—a fragmented and broken thing but still powerful enough to be terrifying, and beside her, stretched on a great bed side by side as if they slept—though Kat knew better—were Kat’s brother and sister.

  Amelie and Rob lay flat and still and lifeless, like stone figures in a crypt. Kat swallowed a sob.

  One ragged metal bone protruded from the Lady’s shoulder, a bone ending in a vicious claw, and the claw was fixed at Amelie’s soft white throat.

  63

  The Thimble

  Keep calm.

  Kat’s heart was pounding and she could scarcely breathe; she was anything but calm. Her eyes went from the Lady’s hideous face to the deadly claw at Amelie’s throat.

  “Come right in,” said the Lady. “Please. Come and watch as I begin my renewal. You haven’t stopped me, and you won’t now. Because I still can make magic and will transform your sister and brother before your eyes. Transform them into something less than human.” She paused. “Unless you think you can overcome me? Or perhaps you want to try to become like me?” The Lady laughed. “Go ahead. Use the charms. I challenge you.”

  Kat felt the weight of the charms she carried. She flexed her mechanical fingers. Maybe she could use her hand and the power within those charms herself. Maybe if she used the magic she would be good, where the Lady was bad.

  Why, if Kat had that power, she would end the war, end all wars. She would bring peace to the world, bring Father home—bring them all home, all the fathers. She would be kind and benevolent, not like the Lady. All she had to do . . .

  Kat drew back.

  All she had to do was find power by imprisoning the souls of children.

  “No, my Lady,” Kat said, and swallowed hard to keep the tremor from her voice. She had to lure the Lady away from Amelie, for the Lady’s dagger claw was still pressing into Amelie’s neck. Kat braced and said, as loudly as possible, “I’m afraid I will have to stop you.”

  The room went still and silent. The pale yellow light of dawn filtered into corners. Kat’s very real and imperfect heart beat fast, and she gathered herself together, ready.

  “You see,” Kat went on, “you’re evil, not beautiful. You aren’t powerful, and you’re not perfect. You’re . . . pathetic. Sad, and helpless.” She paused, seeing in the Lady’s one human eye that she was striking at the Lady’s soul. “I feel sorry for you.”

  With a low rumble, the Lady moved away from Amelie—Kat breathed again—and toward Kat. The Lady dragged one limp leg fragment, a slender piece of steel, and rolled on the other, a hobbled roll on a bent cog. Only one of her arms remained, ending with that single claw. But most appalling was her head: she had only half a skull, and her jaw worked on bent springs. It was hard for Kat, but she kept her gaze fixed.

  “Try,” the Lady hissed, holding up in that single claw what remained of her chatelaine, the charm with the number thirteen in a circle. The Lady said, “Try to stop me.”

  Kat pulled out her great-aunt’s chatelaine. However well it had served her so far, she had almost no hope for it now. She couldn’t think of anything to say, any spell that might work. A thimble to catch a soul?

  But out it came, the thimble, and the instant Kat held it up, she remembered.

  It was a child’s game with a rhyme made up by her father, a game she’d played long ago, and her memory of it echoed with childish laughter; she’d played it before Amelie was born, played it with her father and mother as hide-and-seek. “You’re very cold,” Father had said. “Ah, warmer now, warmer . . . now you’re hot!” And she’d held it up, her mother’s old silver thimble, her prize.

  Once again it was her father’s strong voice that came through her as she repeated the chant that drove the game: “Hunt the thimble, hot and cold; catch the soul in silver old.”

  She hadn’t given thought to the chant until now.

  The magic took shape, as the air shimmered and the thimble glinted and glowed and grew warm in Kat’s hand. Kat trembled, but she hung on, repeating the chant over and over, louder and louder. The Lady shrieked, and all her remaining parts began to quake, and fall, and it was like watching an avalanche as it begins and then gathers speed and rolls inexorably. As she fell to pieces, screaming, something, some vaporous essence from inside her, transformed and reformed and became a smoke that became a wisp that was sucked into the thimble as if into a vacuum tube, and what was left of the Lady Eleanor—the Lady Leonore—was no more than a pile of smoking blue bits of metal and rubber, her parts broken and scattered across the floor.

  Her one human eye stared up at Kat, blank. Her perfect heart, at the center of it all, beat slow, slower, and then . . . stopped.

  The Lady’s dark soul was captured in the thimble that hung from Great-Aunt Margaret’s chatelaine and that Katherine Bateson held tight between the strong fingers of her mechanical right hand.

  64

  The Witch’s Bane

  A THIMBLE. THAT old nursery game.

  The Lady Eleanor—the child Leonore—had played hunt-the-thimble once upon a time, before all the hurt, had played with her brothers, and now from a distant past she hears their laughter, hears her o
wn laughter, hears happiness. She recalls the joy of her first marriage and its promise of love, a promise engraved in silver: Leonore. You have my heart and soul. It hurts, that joy, that childish joy, the joy that comes from a very human heart, it hurts her and undoes her, piece by precious piece. Joy and memory and love.

  It is your bane.

  The Lady Eleanor has not anticipated a thimble.

  65

  Sturm

  KAT DROPPED THE thimble, which had become terribly heavy as it sucked up the Lady’s soul.

  Then she ran to the bedside, hoping that with the Lady’s demise she hadn’t spoiled the charms around the necks of Amelie and Rob. She murmured the spell and clipped Amelie’s chain and watched. Amelie’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Kat! Why, there.” Ame smiled. “See? Magic, after all.”

  “Yes, Amelie,” Kat said, and went around the bed to cut Robbie’s chain, all the while trying not to let the tears fall.

  Robbie opened his eyes with a blink. “Where’s my sword? Let me at her!”

  It took a lot of explaining. And then it took all of Kat’s remaining courage to pick up the thimble and what remained of the Lady’s chatelaine and put them both in her pocket, where she feared they might burn a hole or make mischief. At least her mechanical right hand was not burned; the thimble was fiery hot until she pocketed it. But Kat had to carry on. Even more so now.

  “We’re all together again,” Kat said as Ame hugged her and Robbie squeezed her hand. “She can’t split us apart any longer.”

  “You did it, Kat,” said Rob, his voice ringing with pride.

  Kat’s cheeks went warm. “We’ve still got work to do. We have to find the others. And then we’ve got the next problem to deal with.”

  “Let me guess,” said Rob. “Our so-called Welsh tutor, Mr. Storm. The German spy.” He folded his hands across his chest.

  “Exactly.” Kat helped Amelie and Rob out of the room and down the stairs.

  When they reached the kitchen they found Peter, Hugo, and Cook, who had armed themselves with every hard and sharp object they could find to defend the back door leading out to where the other children had been told to remain hidden in the barn, assuming that the Lady would burst in on them at any moment. When Kat told them what happened to the Lady, and took out the thimble and placed it on the kitchen table, everyone went silent for a moment, staring at the now-cold and small silver thimble, this container for a witch’s damaged soul.

  “’Tis a sad thing,” said Hugo, and Cook nodded.

  “She didn’t start out no good,” said Cook. Cook seemed to have fully recovered the use of her leg. “Nobody starts out no good. But she lost her heart along the way.”

  “Dark magic,” said Amelie, her small voice soft. “Dark magic can make someone fall to pieces.”

  “We’ll have to figure out what to do with that,” said Peter, pointing at the thimble.

  “Yes,” Kat said, “we will.” She straightened. “But we’ve got one more problem to solve first, and that’s Storm.”

  Someone spoke from behind her. “Sturm is my name, not Storm. Otto Sturm.”

  The voice belonged to a very healthy-looking, back-to-normal Mr. Storm. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. He carried a Luger pistol in his right hand and was aiming it at the group around the table. He wore a too-familiar black greatcoat.

  He gestured with the pistol at Hugo, Cook, and Peter, who still held their weapons. “Put down those foolish things. And you”—he gestured at Rob—“drop the sword.”

  They all hesitated, until he shouted, “Do it!” Kat realized that with the unmaking of the witch, Storm had gone back to himself. He was Sturm, a German spy, and a dangerous one at that.

  Everyone emptied their hands. Kat’s fingers crept toward the thimble.

  “Nein, Fräulein. You say it holds the Lady’s soul? A powerful weapon in itself that would be, yes? I’ll take it,” he said, “and all the bits that are left of her Ladyship’s chatelaine. If I understand correctly, it is the very artifact I seek.”

  The hair rose on the back of Kat’s neck. He wants the chatelaine. What had he said? This chatelaine is said to have the power of enchantment. And Jorry had said, But if this chatelaine thing is found by the Germans . . . Germany might use it the way Vlad did, to overpower their enemies. And Sturm had said, Yes . . . something England and her allies would not like.

  If Sturm collected the chatelaine and took it to the Nazis, that terrible dark magic would surely overwhelm the forces of good. And together with the thimble, who knew what dreadful magic could be made?

  “Now, Fräulein.”

  Kat slowly pulled the pieces of Lady Eleanor’s chatelaine from her pocket, and all the charms, including the thirteenth. Instead of handing them to Sturm, she laid them out on the table. She couldn’t bear to turn this power over to their enemy.

  The enemy that held her father captive.

  That might even have executed Father by now.

  Sturm gestured with the pistol. “Put them in that flour sack. You.” He gestured at Cook. “Empty the sack for the Fräulein.”

  “I knew it all along,” mumbled Rob.

  “Ja? You did, eh?” Sturm laughed. “Too bad you did nothing but play with swords.”

  Rob bristled, and Kat placed a hand on his arm. Keep calm, she telegraphed.

  Cook handed Kat the empty flour sack, and Kat placed the chatelaine, the thimble, and the charms inside.

  But the rest of her great-aunt’s chatelaine remained in her pocket.

  “Hand the sack to me,” Sturm said. She had no choice. He stuffed the sack inside his large coat pocket. “Now, where are my machine and my short-wave? I know you’ve stolen them.”

  No one moved. Then Rob said, “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You lie,” he said, and with a gesture that seemed too fast for his size, he grabbed the person closest to him: Amelie. He pulled her roughly to his chest, placing the barrel of the pistol against her head. Amelie’s eyes went round and she gave a whimper of fear.

  Kat suppressed a scream; Hugo growled and clenched his fists; Cook uttered a sharp “Oh!”

  “Where are my things?” Sturm demanded.

  “I’ll get them,” said Peter. “They’re right here. I just have to open this cupboard.”

  “Do it.”

  Peter opened the cupboard and pulled out a backpack. He sat back on his haunches, looking white-faced. “The short-wave is here, but the code machine is gone.”

  Kat swallowed hard as Sturm propelled Amelie across the room to see for himself. He grunted. “No matter. For the moment I need only the short-wave.” The pistol was still firmly planted on Amelie’s skull. “Now you”—and he gestured at Peter—“carry that. And you take this ahead for light.” Sturm yanked a large flashlight from his belt and tossed it to Hugo. “We will all go together out to the keep, ja?”

  Nein, Kat wanted to shout, but they had no choice. Sturm forced them to walk ahead while he held on to Amelie.

  The parapet walk was cold. By the time they reached the keep, Kat was shaking all over, though not as much from the chill as from fear. She tried to glance over her shoulder for Amelie, but Sturm yelled at her each time. He marched them into the keep and then, with Hugo leading, they began the long walk up.

  They were at the point where the stairs wound in a tight circle. The light from the flashlight was bright, but it bobbled ahead, leaving Sturm and Amelie in the shadows at the tail. With the curve of the stair Kat couldn’t see Cook or Hugo ahead or Sturm behind.

  “I know what he’s going to do,” Rob whispered from behind her. “He’s going to force us all off the top. Shoot us one by one and drop us over the side.”

  “Not if I can help it. I’ve got a plan,” came Peter’s voice from ahead of Kat. “Use your chatelaine when the time comes.” Sh
e watched as Peter suddenly leaned left and shoved.

  The door gave way and Peter tumbled through and disappeared, the door sliding silently shut behind him.

  Kat kept marching upward, her heart thudding. If Sturm found out that Peter was missing, what would he do to Amelie? And, without the thimble, would her great-aunt’s chatelaine still have its power? Would its light be dimmed, as it had been when it was missing the pen?

  Sturm shouted up, “At the landing, halt. Halt!”

  They came to the landing, the broad one with the far wall in deep shadow, where Kat remembered a sudden and dangerous opening. They gathered in a cluster, waiting as Sturm pushed Amelie before him. The light from the flashlight wavered as Hugo’s hand shook. Kat fingered her great-aunt’s chatelaine in her pocket.

  “Where is the Williams boy?” Sturm demanded, angry. “Where is Peter?”

  “Here!” came a shout as a door behind Sturm slid open. Sturm turned; Peter kicked the flashlight out of Hugo’s hand, and shouted, “Now!” Kat withdrew the chatelaine and held it high, hoping against hope.

  Ah, that’s it!

  “Hope!” Kat cried, and then, as loud as possible, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast!”

  The light that the chatelaine threw off was blinding, brighter than it had ever been. Even Kat had to shut her eyes. In those few seconds of chaos that followed, with scuffling and shouts, Kat heard Peter call out, “Rob! The opening behind you! Help me push!” And then came a cry as Sturm fell into the blackness beyond the opening of the far wall. He’d tumbled into the pit, and she wondered if he had fallen into deep darkness and maybe broken his neck.

  Kat opened her eyes as the chatelaine dimmed. “Ame!” Amelie ran into her arms, and Kat hugged her sister tight.

  Peter, Hugo, Rob, and Kat moved to the edge of the opening and, by the diminishing light of the chatelaine, peered over it to see what had become of Sturm.

  He was lucky. He’d fallen into a shallow bowl with a bottom softened by bat dung, shallow enough not to kill him but too deep for him to climb out. He sat, shouting in his native tongue, trapped and mucky.