The Clockwork Crow

by Catherine Fisher

  The Clockwork Crow was complete.

  Seren sat back, a little disappointed. After all that work, it was an awkward, clumsy-looking thing. Some of the feathers were moth-eaten, and were missing in places on one wing. It looked like someone’s old toy.

  Rubbish, really.

  There was a small square keyhole in the side. She might as well wind it up and see if it worked, so she rummaged for the key and found it at the bottom of the newspaper, red with rust. She rubbed the rust away and fitted it into the lock.

  At that moment there was soft tap on her door.

  Seren almost jumped. She said, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

  No one answered. There was a sort of slithering shuffle outside. Then another noise, as light as if small nails had scratched it.

  The cat!

  She put the key down and hurried across, pulling the door open. ‘Come on, then, I can hear you…’

  There was no cat there.

  Surprised, she put her head out and looked up and down the corridor. It was empty, the moonlight slanting through a window at the far end.

  Strange. She had heard it, hadn’t she?

  Then, as she stepped back, she saw something on the floorboard by her foot, something wet and silvery. She knelt and touched it, and her hand jerked back with the shock.

  It was ice.

  A little pool of melting ice.

  Where’s the princess? Where’s the boy?

  Where the singing? Where the joy?

  ‘If only,’ Mrs Villiers muttered as the coach rattled down the lane, ‘we could have got some new clothes made in time. That coat is an absolute disgrace.’

  Seren frowned. ‘You brushed it.’

  ‘That did little to help. Besides it’s far too small for you. Tomorrow afternoon we will have the dressmaker from the village in and begin at once. You are Captain Jones’ goddaughter and you must look the part.’ She put her pale purple gloves together and held her small bag tight on her lap.

  Seren shrugged and stared out at the passing countryside. How could you be someone’s goddaughter if you’d never even seen them?

  But new clothes would be nice, anyway.

  They were going to church. Already she could see the small grey building with its squat tower up on the hillside, half hidden by trees, and behind it the misty outlines of great mountains, with rain clouds in their hollows.

  The coach pulled up. Denzil opened the door and unfolded the step. Mrs Villiers said, ‘I hope I can trust you to behave, Seren?’

  ‘I’ve been to church before, Ma’am.’

  The housekeeper looked at her in distaste. ‘You are such an impudent girl.’

  Was she? As they got out and walked up the path between the grey, leaning graves Seren wondered, because she just felt normal. And a bit tired. It had been hard to go to sleep last night. Twice she had jumped up in bed, wide awake, afraid she had heard that shuffling tap again, and twice she had tiptoed to the door and opened it, almost too scared to peep out.

  There had been nothing there.

  But what if Tomos was being kept a prisoner in the attic? What if he was being held to ransom, or had gone mad and was dangerous, and what if he came out at night and crept around?

  She would feel much safer if there was some way of locking her bedroom. But there was no key, and she didn’t dare to ask for one. Mrs Villiers certainly would want to know why.

  The church was small and had that earthy smell she knew from the orphanage chapel. It was bitterly cold. The wooden pews were full of people and as Mrs Villiers swept up the aisle with Seren’s hand in hers all of them turned to stare.

  For a moment Seren felt small and self-conscious. Then she lifted her chin and tried to look haughty and important. After all, she was from the big house now.

  With a shuffling of feet the first hymn began, then the prayers, all in Welsh. Seren sat through the service in a daydream, her eyes exploring every corner, the angels in the roof and the dingy stained glass. She watched the bobbing of the lady organist’s hat, and saw the moment when the vicar tripped on the hem of his robe and stumbled on the pulpit step.

  She smiled a secret smile.

  There were tombs in here too. From her seat she could see at least six and they were all of the Jones family – one of them really old, with a man and woman in ruffs and doublets lying down, a small queue of their children kneeling round them.

  She began to think about Tomos. Why would no one tell her anything about him? She should ask questions, investigate.

  She nodded, her hands folded tight together in her gloves. She would look into the case.

  ‘You know my methods, Watson,’ she breathed.

  Mrs Villiers gave her a sideways glare.

  After the service the vicar shook everyone’s hands and Mrs Villiers chatted to people. Seren hung about by the church gate, awkward, because women were looking at her and it was embarrassing. One said, ‘Poor orphan lamb,’ and another, ‘Hello, cariad’.

  ‘Hello,’ she muttered.

  Mrs Villiers was talking to the vicar, ‘…quite a responsibility and of course, no help at all from the family. One shouldn’t be surprised, in the circumstances.’

  He nodded, sadly. ‘Of course, with the terrible mystery of…’

  Mrs Villiers interrupted him hastily, ‘Yes… Indeed.’

  ‘They’re all gossiping about you,’ a voice said behind Seren.

  She turned, expecting Denzil, but instead it was a boy. He was a bit taller than her, and his hair was dark and spiky. He was the boy she had seen in the kitchen yesterday.

  He was in his Sunday suit now, washed and brushed. But there was still a bit of mud on his ear.

  ‘I’m Gwyn.’

  ‘Hello. I’m Seren.’

  ‘You’re not. You’re Miss Seren.’

  She was surprised. ‘Am I? Does that mean I’m not supposed to speak to you?’

  He laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. ‘Yes, it does. I’m just the stable lad. Denzil would clip my ear if he saw us.’

  Seren shrugged. ‘I like Denzil.’

  ‘He’s all right. What do you think about Mrs V?’

  Seren rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know. It’s like she’s annoyed with me all the time. Just for being me.’

  The boy frowned. ‘You’ll get used to her.’

  They were silent a moment, watching the people chat among the graves. It was so cold that Seren jumped on and off the small kerb, trying to keep warm.

  Gwyn looked at the sky. ‘There’s bitter weather coming. Tonight or tomorrow.’

  ‘Is there? That’s great!’

  ‘For you, it might be. Not for me, with the horses to take out.’

  She stopped and stood still. ‘Gwyn, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know where Tomos is?’

  He stared at her, in sudden alarm. Then he stepped back, quickly. ‘I’m not allowed to talk about that.’

  ‘Why not? No one talks about him. It’s as if there’s some mystery…’

  ‘They’ve got him. The Family. That’s what I think.’

  Seren’s heart thumped with excitement. ‘What do you mean, got him?’

  He looked round as if to be sure no one was near. Then he whispered, ‘I can’t tell you. It’s a secret. But … well, I think Tomos is being kept prisoner by…’

  ‘Hey! You boy! Come and hold the heads of those horses, before they stamp this wall away!’ Denzil had come up behind them, and his face was red with cold and anger.

  Gwyn touched his cap and ran, with one warning glance at Seren.

  Denzil watched him go. ‘You, Miss, should not be chatting with stable boys.’ The small man gave her a hard glare. ‘What nonsense was he telling you?’

  ‘Nothing. And I’ll chat with who I want.’

  ‘You’re a cheeky little madam.’ But he wasn’t angry with her. Suddenly he seemed tired and sad, his hair a thick thatch of black. He said, ‘Come on. Time we got you back.’r />
  He took her elbow and almost pushed her up the step into the carriage. Seren was furious. She stared out of the window and when Mrs Villiers climbed in she refused to say a word all the way back until they reached the house, then she ran upstairs and pulled off her bonnet and coat and flung them in a heap on the bed.

  Who did Denzil think he was! Why were they trying to keep her on her own all the time?

  What was going on here?

  Her room was cold. The fire had gone out. Sunday lunch would not be ready for an hour. She pulled a blanket off the bed and tugged it round her and tried to calm down. What had that boy meant? That Tomos was a prisoner? Where? Who was keeping him locked up and why would they do that?

  Then she heard a creak outside. She hurried over to her door and opened it. She crept to the end of the corridor.

  Mrs Villiers was coming upstairs. She was carrying a small tray, and it looked like there was a plate of food and a cup on it.

  Seren’s eyes widened. Who was that for? Quickly she ducked behind a curtain.

  Mrs Villiers came up and went to the bottom of the attic stairs. She stopped, and looked round, a sharp sideways glance. Then she climbed the white stairs.

  Seren shrank into the shadows. She tiptoed back to her room and closed the door without a sound.

  Mrs Villiers was taking food to the attic! So that meant there had to be someone up there. Who else could it be but Tomos?

  She was so excited she couldn’t breathe and had to lean against the table.

  If only she could get into the attic. She would have to spy and prowl and watch, and find a way. Maybe…

  Then she stopped in surprise.

  The Clockwork Crow was lying on its side.

  How had that happened? Surely she had left it standing upright on its weak wire legs?

  One of its small bright eyes was looking straight at her.

  She remembered how she had been interrupted last night, so now she picked up the key, pushed it into the hole in the side of the bird and wound it.

  The machinery grated, stiff and rusty. It was hard to get the key round more than a few turns. There was a loud whirr and clatter. Quite suddenly the Crow’s head lifted. Its wings twitched in a scatter of dust. It took a single wobbly step.

  Hardly worth all the hard work, she thought.

  But then the Crow looked at her with its shiny eye and opened its twisted beak.

  ‘Oil!’ it croaked. ‘I need oil.’

  Seren blinked. She stared at it, astonished. ‘What?’

  ‘Oil. Are you stupid?’

  She couldn’t believe this. What sort of toy answered questions?

  The Crow creaked its head painfully and stared around the room. ‘What a dump! Obviously I’m not in some palace. And it’s freezing cold in here.’

  Seren was silent with amazement. The bird tried to extend a wing and flap it, but made only a horrible rusty noise. ‘I’m so stiff! How long have I been in pieces?’

  She had no idea. ‘You … you’re talking to me.’

  The Crow made a scornful croak that might have been a laugh. ‘Clever, aren’t we? Yes, I’m talking to you. Why shouldn’t I talk to you? Kek kek.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Who’s sarcastic! Just get me some oil, stupid girl, because otherwise…’ Its bright eyes widened in anger. ‘No! Not yet … wait a bit…’

  Its voice slowed down, whirring to a juddering halt.

  ‘Get … me … some … oi…’

  Then it was still, frozen with one wing out and its head twisted awkwardly.

  Seren came close, and touched it. It felt cold and hard. Cogs and wheels churred to a slow silence inside it.

  ‘That. Is. Amazing,’ she whispered.

  She ate her dinner at such a speed Mrs Villiers told her off twice. ‘For heaven’s sake, Seren, your manners are appalling. Please take your elbows off the table, and don’t shove the peas into your mouth like that. What’s more, this morning, at church, you were quite clearly not attending to the sermon. You’re not attending now. Seren!’

  She jumped. ‘What? Sorry.’

  ‘This won’t do at all.’ Mrs Villiers rang the bell. Because it was Sunday they were having the meal in her housekeeper’s room, a cosy parlour with a warm fire. Her face was red with the heat. ‘You need strict attention. I will write to Lady Mair. You must have some sort of governess. I can’t be expected to do everything. I have enough to do.’

  A governess! Seren wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. Being supervised all the time would be like being back in St Mary’s, and already she had begun to enjoy the freedom of Plas-y-Fran.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll try harder. Honestly. Look.’ She sat up and folded her hands neatly together.

  Alys came in and cleared the plates. ‘Pardon me, Ma’am, but the post has come. Will you sort it, or…’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ Mrs Villiers rose and went out and the cook followed. Immediately Seren jumped from her chair and ran to the sideboard. It was full of small brown drawers marked with old-fashioned labels. Barley Sugar, Cocoa and Chocolate, All Sorts of Seeds, Isinglass Shavings, Heartsease. She pulled them open hastily. They contained spicy mixtures smelling sharp and pungent, but none of them were what she wanted. Then, on a shelf, she saw a small flask labelled Oil of Cloves.

  She snatched it down, thrust it in her pocket and was back in her chair as Mrs Villiers came in, sorting through the letters.

  ‘Ah, yes… Here’s one from Lady Mair. Now we’ll see.’

  The housekeeper opened it and read it quickly, her eyes scanning the lines, her mouth pursed up tight. ‘She says she hopes you are settling in, and are happy here.’

  ‘Very,’ Seren said quietly.

  ‘And that you are no trouble to Denzil and myself.’

  Seren chewed her lip. ‘I won’t be.’

  Mrs Villiers sniffed. ‘She encloses a money order for me to buy you a new coat and dresses. I hope you realise, Seren, how very, very lucky you are.’

  ‘I do, Mrs Villiers. I really do.’

  Mrs Villiers threw her a suspicious glance. ‘Good. Now, go to your room and rest. Read only your Bible, make no noise and do not leave the house. This is the Day of the Lord and we must be respectful.’

  Seren walked sedately out, straight-backed, past Denzil who stared at her in surprise. She tripped up the stairs, only one at a time, then walked along the corridors and passageways, but as soon as she was sure no one could hear her she ran, racing over creaky floorboards to her room, where she shut the door tight and even jammed a small stool in front in case anyone tried to come in.

  The Crow stood on the table, a frozen bird.

  She pulled out the oil.

  ‘I’ve brought it!’ she whispered.

  Beak and wing and eye and claw.

  I’m not who I was before.

  After a lot of rubbing with the oil the key was shiny. It turned more easily. At once the bird gave a groan and moved its wing feebly.

  ‘I’m in agony here! Hurry up, girl, hurry.’

  She dropped spots of oil on its neck, in the feathers of its wings, on its talons. The bird flexed and slid with little scratches against the table.

  ‘Oh yes. That is so good! A bit more there … and yes, just there. At last!’ It had both its wings spread out now. Before Seren could step back it flapped them and, with a sudden crazy lurch, it was flying, soaring madly round the ceiling, almost crashing into the mirror.

  Seren ducked. ‘Hey! Be careful!’

  The Crow smacked into the curtains and got tangled. Its voice came out muffled. ‘Who put these here?’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘No!’ Its head appeared, then its body and it was off again, zig-zagging from the wardrobe to the bedrail, from the dressing table to the window seat. It went so fast and looked so out of control she was afraid it would smash into the glass, but then it was really looping round and round the room and making a sort of creak
y, triumphant laugh.

  Seren grinned, sat cross-legged on the bed and watched.

  Finally, the Crow crash-landed on the table, skidded across the polished wood and fell off into a basket of coals by the fire.

  It swore, climbed out and walked across the table, leaving sooty footprints.

  ‘I needed that,’ it said.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The Crow looked down its beak at her. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? I’m just out of practice. So. Who are you and where is this pit of a house?’

  It was so rude! she thought. But she said, ‘I’m Seren Rhys. This is a house called Plas-y-Fran. It’s in Wales.’

  ‘Wales! How did I get here?’

  ‘I brought you. Well … it was a sort of accident really. You were in pieces in a newspaper parcel and…’

  The Crow shuddered. ‘A newspaper parcel! How incredibly humiliating. How dare you wrap me in some dirty old newspaper!’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You just said…’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me, it…’

  The Crow held up one wing. ‘Forget it. You’re obviously confused. So then, you’re a princess?’

  Seren laughed. ‘No!’

  ‘A duchess?’ The Crow tipped its head. It seemed dismayed. ‘A marquise, a contessa? A baroness at least?’