The Clockwork Crow

by Catherine Fisher

  At the orphanage Christmas had been very dull. Every year she’d only had a small packet of handkerchiefs embroidered with a curly letter S for a present. The only real Christmas trees she had ever seen had been in the windows of a big London shop – Martha had taken her down there one evening, and how they’d glittered and shone, hung with striped canes of gingerbread!

  Half asleep, she let herself fall into a lovely dream of dresses and toys, until with a small plip, as if the gas had run out, the lamp above her went off and she was in complete darkness.

  Now she could see outside. There was a moon, a thin fingernail over the hills, and it shone on a strange, mountainous country. She had never seen such great hills, such deep wooded valleys. The silver light flickered on a waterfall, crashing through dark branches.

  So this was Wales.

  It looked wild, she thought. A little scary.

  Brakes hissed. The train began to slow. Hurriedly Seren gathered all the pieces of the black toy and swept them into the parcel, fumbling with the knots, but she had no time to tie them together properly before the train had rumbled to a halt and there outside the window in white letters on a black iron sign was the word TREFIL.

  She grabbed her suitcase and flung open the door.

  It was bitterly cold. Jumping down she tugged the suitcase out and, with the parcel under her arm, turned to find the stationmaster.

  The train huffed and blew a great snort of steam. It began to move off, slowly at first, then faster and faster until for a moment she was completely lost in the smoke, as if a cloud had come down and enveloped her, or a huge invisible dragon had breathed fire all around her.

  Then it cleared, the deafening noise died away, and the train was gone.

  She was alone.

  There was no station. Just a bare platform under some overhanging trees. Stars shone overhead with frosty brilliance.

  There was no stationmaster, no waiting room, not even a building.

  So what could she do with the parcel?

  Heaving up her suitcase she hobbled to the fence and through a tiny gate. In the darkness something whickered; she sensed rather than saw a horse and, behind it, the dark shadow of a carriage. Someone said, ‘The little girl for the Plas, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She peered into the dark. ‘Who’s there, please?’

  He got down and came towards her, and she stepped back a little in surprise, because he was the smallest man she had ever seen. The whip in his hand was nearly as tall as he was. Eye to eye, he looked at her. ‘I’m Denzil,’ he said.

  She glanced round.

  The night was a silvery silence, though the bare trees made a soft swish in the breeze. There were no lights and no sign of anyone else in this dark lane.

  The small man didn’t wait for a reply. He picked up her suitcase and lugged it to the carriage. ‘This is far too heavy,’ he said. ‘What’s in it?’

  Seren was immediately annoyed. What business was it of his? ‘My books,’ she said haughtily.

  He laughed, a short bark of scorn. ‘Books! There’s plenty of books at the Plas and no one to read them either.’ Opening the door he thrust the case in, then beckoned her with an impatient hand. ‘Come on, girl! Or it’ll be past midnight before we get to our beds.’

  She took a step towards the carriage. The parcel! But there was no one to leave it with, and besides she was too cold and tired now to think, so she gave up and climbed the step into the dark interior, and Denzil fastened the door on her at once.

  She heard him clamber up, flick the reins and say ‘Whup!’ and the carriage began to jolt.

  It was very black in here. She put her hand out and felt the seat; it was soft and well padded. And then her hand touched wool, and found a folded blanket. She opened it gratefully and tugged it round her shoulders.

  It helped. But the carriage smelled of damp and mould, as if it was never used, and that was surprising. And the roads must be awful, because the jolting swung her from side to side until she had to hang onto the leather strap by the window.

  She kept the parcel on her lap. After all she was responsible for it now. It was a real nuisance, and she was starting to hate it. She wished she’d never even picked up the stupid thing, but there was nothing she could do about that, except try not to think about the thin man in the dark hat, searching desperately for his lost clockwork toy.

  The carriage rumbled uphill and downhill. Branches brushed against it, brittle twigs snapping against the roof. The jolting made her feel sick. She gritted her teeth, and told herself firmly that it was all right, because very soon now there would be the big house with its blaze of windows, and Captain Arthur Jones and Lady Mair waiting on the doorstep for her, maybe with Tomos, though Tomos should be already tucked up in bed. They would take her into a glorious parlour hung with blue satin and hug her and say, ‘Welcome, Seren. This is your home now.’

  It was a dream she had dreamed many times in the orphanage, curled up in bed when the room was quiet. Only the moon, peering in through the window, had shared her dream. Now it was really coming true. But her eyes were heavy, and she couldn’t stop yawning.

  The coach slowed. The shadow of a great gate swung past her; for a moment she saw a pillar, crowned with the silhouette of a stone eagle against the stars. At last! They were here.

  She pushed back the flimsy curtain, tugged down the window and stared out.

  Under the moonlight she saw a great crag, and beside it a lake, shining like a silver mirror. On the lakeside rose the turrets and gables of an ancient house.

  Seren stared, amazed. It was so much bigger than she’d imagined. It looked like a castle, or maybe an asylum for mad people. As the carriage rattled towards it she saw that ivy covered the roof, and a few bats flitted high above the battlements.

  But the building was in complete darkness. There were no lights at the windows. It had an empty, ghostly look about it that made her uneasy.

  The carriage rattled under another archway and into a cobbled yard where the wheels made such a racket it should have woken everyone, but when the carriage stopped there was a frozen silence, until the door was yanked open and the tiny man stood there looking up at her.

  ‘We’re here. Get down then.’

  Seren climbed down. He tugged her suitcase after her. ‘Watch your step. Bit mucky here.’

  In the stone wall of the house was a door; he opened it and a shaft of moonlight showed her a corridor, stone-flagged and shadowy.

  The small man marched along it and Seren followed, hurrying to keep up. Why had no one been waiting for her? But, of course, it was a freezing night! They’d all be inside, by some warm fireplace, listening anxiously for the coach. The thought made her feel better, but still, there was something wrong about the place. Small oil lamps lit the walls, throwing a mass of shadows; the corridor turned right and left, past closed doors. It smelled musty, and the only sound was the shuffling of her feet and Denzil’s mutterings and puffings. Finally the small man came to a green-painted door; he turned the handle and led her in. ‘This is it.’

  Seren stood still in dismay.

  It was a kitchen, but it was nothing like the cosy space she had imagined.

  It was huge and bare. A vast sooty chimney opened in the wall, and the fire that smouldered below was almost out. In a chair next to it a woman in a dark dress was sewing, but as soon as she saw Seren she tossed the embroidery aside and stood up. She was very tall. Her face was hard and stern.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re here at last! Have you any idea how late you are?’

  Seren bobbed a curtsey because that was what they taught you at the orphanage. But she was really worried now. Surely this couldn’t be Lady Mair?

  ‘The train was late,’ she muttered.

  The woman frowned in distaste. She walked right round Seren, looking at her closely. The hem of her dress swished the dust on the floor. She didn’t bend down or even smile. Her gloved hands were clasped together, and her face was narrow, her lips tig
ht, her eyes grey and disapproving. ‘You will please address me as Ma’am. Is that suitcase your luggage? It seems a lot for a small girl.’

  ‘My books are in there. Ma’am.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea you were allowed such things. There are plenty of books here.’

  ‘So I’m told,’ Seren growled.

  ‘She’ll be hungry,’ Denzil said.

  ‘I’m sure she will. Children always are.’ The tall woman frowned. ‘My name is Mrs Villiers. I am the housekeeper here.’

  Seren looked round. ‘I suppose Captain Jones and his family are all in bed?’

  The housekeeper gave Denzil a quick glance. He shrugged, and went out.

  ‘We’ll discuss that tomorrow,’ Mrs Villiers said quickly. ‘Now, eat your supper.’

  She pointed to the table. On one end was a plate of sandwiches. They had been waiting so long that their corners were dry and curled up, and they were only potted meat, but Seren sat and ate them fast, because she was too hungry to be fussy. She was still hungry when she’d finished, but it was clear there would be no more.

  Mrs Villiers poured tea, hot and strong, from a big brown pot. Seren gulped it down, even though it scorched her mouth.

  She wanted to ask a lot more questions but even before she had finished the tea Mrs Villiers had whisked the plate and cup away and was standing over her with a lighted candle. ‘Come on now, quickly. No dawdling! Stay close to me. This is an old house and it’s easy to get lost.’

  Seren looked round. Denzil must have taken her suitcase, but the newspaper parcel lay on a chair.

  She picked it up.

  ‘What is that?’ Mrs Villiers demanded.

  Seren shrugged. Suddenly she didn’t want to say. ‘Something private.’

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Let me see.’ She snatched it away and pulled the paper open and looked inside. ‘What on earth…?’

  ‘It’s a toy.’ Seren had a sudden idea. ‘My great-aunt gave it to me.’ She cast her eyes down, sadly. ‘It’s all I have to remind me of her.’

  It worked. Mrs Villiers snorted, thrust the parcel back at her and pushed her to the door.

  Stumbling, as weary as if she were walking through a dream, Seren followed. The house was enormous. She sleepwalked along dark corridors, up vast flights of stairs, through curtained alcoves, Mrs Villiers stalking ahead with the candle held high. She had a dim sense of many rooms, of dark portraits on the walls, of cabinets glimmering with glass and china. The air was so musty it was hard to breathe.

  Finally Mrs Villiers came to a white-painted corridor, and threw open a door.

  ‘This is your room. There’s water for washing in the jug. Breakfast is at eight. Please don’t be late.’

  Then she turned and walked away, taking the light with her.

  ‘Good night,’ Seren said.

  Mrs Villiers turned, a little surprised. But she said, ‘Good night.’

  Seren went in and looked round. The room was dim and shadowy, with dark masses of furniture. She dumped the parcel on a table and climbed up onto the bed; it was very high, but yes, it had curtains all around it. She opened them and crawled inside. Instantly, without washing, or even taking her coat off, she fell asleep.

  She almost woke once, deep in the night, thinking she heard the high sweet note of a bell, silvery and sharp.

  But it might have been a dream.

  Down the stairs, in the rooms

  shadows whisper of their dreams.

  In the morning the breakfast bell woke her.

  Seren lay warm under the sheets. At some point in the night she had pulled her coat off, but her dress was a mess and her hair a wild tangle. For a moment she stayed there, curled up, remembering the train and the thin man, the bitter cold and the carriage ride through the hills. Then she slid down from the bed and ran to the window, rattling the dusty curtains wide.

  She saw an expanse of frosted lawns. Beyond them the bare branches of woods rose against a leaden sky. The woods surrounded the house, and the winter trees were stark in the grey morning. Everything was still, but then some swans flew over the house with a whistling of wings, and she remembered that there was a lake down there among the trees.

  It all looked bitterly cold.

  Still, it was time for breakfast, and she was starving!

  She unpacked her other dress, the blue one, and stepped into it. She dragged a comb through her hair. She had to look smart to meet the Captain and Lady Mair. And Tomos.

  The small clock by her bed said five minutes past eight, so she was already late.

  She opened the door and peered out. The corridor was empty. Seren ran along it and down some twisty stairs; last night she had been too tired to take much notice but now she was alert and interested in every detail of the house.

  At the bottom was a wider corridor, lined with cabinets of china and glass, some of the plates and jugs so large they reflected her own face in warped and delicate glances. The floorboards creaked loudly, but there was no other sound. Just like last night, the air of the house seemed muffled, as if no one breathed it. Everywhere was cold. The windows were shuttered. She was starting to think she might wander here forever when she came to a large hall, its furniture covered with white sheets. Where was everyone? It wasn’t right, all this silence. Puzzled, she ran past mirrors, a dusty dining table, cobwebbed chairs, through a blue room, a red room, and a room with yellow silk hangings, until finally she found the corridor that led to the kitchens.

  At last she heard the sound of people – a clatter of dishes, a murmur of voices. The smell of toasted bread and warm milk drifted out, so she walked quickly down there and peeped round the door.

  There was a cat! A white cat!

  He had already turned his head and was staring at her, and his eyes were green. He got up, stretched and stalked over, arching his back as she smoothed his soft warm fur.

  Mrs Villiers was standing at the fireside. She said, ‘Didn’t you hear the bell?’

  ‘I got lost. It’s such a huge house.’ Seren laughed as the cat rolled over elegantly on the flagstones. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I did tell you to please address me as Ma’am.’

  ‘His name’s Sam.’ It was Denzil who answered. He was sitting at the big wooden table with a pile of potatoes in front of him, peeling them with a sharp knife. Seren came over and stood beside him.

  ‘Sit here.’ Mrs Villiers pointed to a chair. She pulled a pot from the fire and scooped porridge into a bowl. She put it on the table, with a wooden spoon, and a cup for tea.

  Seren came and sat. The chair was a child’s chair, a bit small for her. She ate quickly, looking round.

  The kitchen wasn’t quite as bare as she’d first thought. Hanging on hooks high up under the beams was a great row of copper pots and pans, starting with tiny little jugs and getting bigger until the last one was so huge and heavy she could easily have climbed inside it.

  The porridge was sweet and gloopy, but better than St Mary’s. Gulping it down, she said, ‘So where is everyone? The family and the servants? I really want to say hello to Tomos.’

  There was a tight silence.

  Mrs Villiers sat opposite. She looked as if she had been waiting for the question. She folded her fingers together on the table-top and said firmly, ‘We are the only people in the house at the moment.’

  ‘Just us?’

  ‘And the cook, Alys, who comes in from the village at lunchtime.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Gwyn,’ Denzil muttered.

  Mrs Villiers glared at him. ‘Gwyn is a gardener’s boy. He’s not house staff.’

  Denzil shrugged.

  Astonished, Seren licked the spoon and dumped it in the dish. ‘But … I thought Captain Jones…’

  ‘Captain Jones is away. In London, I believe.’

  ‘And Lady Mair?’

  ‘Lady Mair is in London, too.’

  It was hugely disappointing. ‘Will they come home for Christmas?’
>
  This silence was even worse. She knew at once that she had said something dreadful. Denzil’s knife stopped scraping, just for a second, then resumed with a fierce intensity.

  Mrs Villiers stood, turned her back and speared a piece of bread on a fork. ‘No. They won’t. I’m afraid, Seren, that life in Plas-y-Fran might not be quite what you were expecting. The family are not here, and where they are and what they do is none of your business. It will be rather lonely for you, because obviously you will not be able to mix with the village children…’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with them?’Seren asked.

  Denzil snorted a laugh. Mrs Villiers gave him an irritated stare. ‘Nothing… But you are part of this household now and…’

  Seren was suddenly annoyed too. It was all so different from what she’d dreamed of. ‘But there is no household. No one to talk to and no one to play with.’

  Mrs Villiers drew herself up. ‘Please don’t talk to me in that impudent fashion. I don’t know how you behaved at the orphanage but…’

  ‘Well, at least there were other people there. And lessons.’ Seren looked up with a sudden fear. ‘I mean, I will have lessons, won’t I? A tutor, or a school?’

  ‘You like lessons?’ Denzil sounded amazed.

  ‘Yes, of course.’