She was almost relieved to see her aunt, looking even more flustered than she had when Signor Antonelli had arrived, appear at her door and invite her to come down.
“Is it time already?” Connie asked breathlessly as the stomach-churning recollection of what was to come flooded back. Her aunt nodded curtly. Connie followed Evelyn down the steep staircase from her attic bedroom to the glacial hallway. Her aunt ushered her forward, avoiding her eye, and then disappeared into the kitchen without a word.
Taking a deep breath, tapping softly once, Connie pushed the door open, grimacing as it creaked on its rusty hinges. The room appeared empty. Stepping quickly inside, she collided with Mr. Coddrington who had been out of sight, lurking behind the door. She started, apologized hastily, and backed away. Close-up, he looked even less like an environmental campaigner for a protest group. He had the pallor of someone who spent most of his life indoors; his hair was lank, his hands restless as they fumbled with his pocket-watch, revealing long, ink-stained fingernails.
“So, you are the cause of all this fuss and bother,” he said, giving her a look as if the very sight of her was distasteful to him. “I hope you are not wasting my time.”
Indignation dispelled her fear. That was hardly fair, Connie thought, she had not provoked the rush: that was down to her aunt and her friends.
Mr. Coddrington gestured to an upright chair placed in the center of the room.
“Sit down, Miss Lionheart,” he said, pacing to and fro like a lynx in a cage. Connie sat down, folding her arms resentfully across her chest. “Now, nothing that I say or ask you to do must leave this room. If you fail,” he gave a thin-lipped smile, “then it must be as if it never happened. Do you agree to my terms?”
Connie nodded.
“I must have your signature, please—to avoid later complications.”
“Okay,” said Connie, scribbling her name on a clipboard he handed to her. Taking it back, the assessor examined her signature carefully, checking that she had not cheated and signed some other name. Still feeling angry with him, she looked defiantly around and noticed that her chair was surrounded by four strange objects, laid out on what she realized were the points of the compass: north was a crystal, east a raven, south a green lizard, and west a white mouse. What was going on?
“I see you’ve noticed my fellow assessors,” Mr. Coddrington said in a voice that slithered insidiously over the space between them. “An assessment is conducted by objects and animals that never lie. Each represents one of the companies of our Society: the mouse for two and four-legged beings and beasts; the lizard—reptiles and sea creatures; the bird—winged beasts; and the crystal—those drawn from the four elements of water, earth, air, and fire.”
He was clearly talking nonsense: how could you have creatures made of the elements? It was like a game of “Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?” gone wrong, and they expected her to play it. Waiting for him to continue, Connie looked at the three creatures; they were staring at her intently. About the crystal, she could discern nothing: it just sat there—a lump of gray rock. This was all so odd, so nonsensical, but there was something about the creatures that unnerved her. Fear returned, smothering her anger; it fluttered in her chest like a bird trying to break out of its coop.
“Now, when I tell you, I want you to stand up and hold out your arms, palms downward, and slowly point them at each object or animal in turn. Do not stop until you have completed a full circle. The response should indicate in which company your gift lies—if you have one, that is.”
This was stupid! Should she walk out? But her aunt would be waiting outside; what would Evelyn say if she left without even trying? Attempting to calm down, Connie reminded herself that she had heard of clubs with strange rituals for new members, which were supposed to be quite sane otherwise. Perhaps this was just the Society’s way? Or was it all some elaborate joke? Still undecided whether she should do what he asked, she could hear her heart thumping as there was an uncomfortable dramatic pause.
“Begin,” he said.
In a split second, her decision was made: she would play. She stood up, her arms trembling, and began to pivot around the circle as he had instructed, feeling sure she looked ridiculous. As soon as her outstretched arms pointed to the first of the objects, the atmosphere suddenly changed. The crystal began to glow and hum like a hive of bees.
“Good, good,” muttered the assessor, scribbling on his pad.
She continued to turn and now the bird flapped its wings, uttering harsh earsplitting croaks. Mr. Coddrington looked up, his mouth open in astonishment. Next the lizard started to chase its tail in a frantic circle. The assessor dropped his pencil and clipboard with a clatter. Finally, the mouse weaved to and fro, greeting her, begging to be picked up. Connie completed the circuit and dropped her arms; the humming stopped and the animals returned to their implacable scrutiny. She raised her eyes uncertainly to Mr. Coddrington and saw that he was staring at her in horrified amazement. When he noticed her questioning gaze, his expression swiftly changed, as if he had brought the shutters down to hide his feelings. Scrabbling on the floor for his clipboard, he broke into in a rapid volley of disjointed sentences.
“I’m afraid we can’t continue. The assessors have never behaved like that before.” He hurriedly put the crystal in a velvet bag with a vicious tug on the black silk cord. “You clearly have no settled gift—I doubt you are even a second order.” He shut the animals back in their cages, ignoring their cries of protest. “It was a grave mistake to bring you this far. I’ll have to speak to my superiors about it.”
Connie was dumbfounded. “Do you mean I’ve failed?”
“Completely.” He gathered his belongings in an untidy bundle under his arm.
“But why did they make all that noise?”
He paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, considering his words—or was it his excuse? He was acting more as if he was scared of her than anything else.
“Only one object is supposed to resonate with the aspirant companion. That cacophony of sound was a sign of confusion—lack of a real bond with any one of them.” He opened the door. “I’ll send a full explanation of my assessment by post. I must leave immediately.”
Mr. Coddrington bundled his belongings out of the parlor, calling loudly for her aunt. His desire to quit her presence so quickly made her feel as though he had just diagnosed her with the plague and feared to catch it himself. Alone in the cold room, Connie could hear words such as “dangerous,” “rule-breakers,” and—worst of all—“quite without a gift” echoing from the hallway. She slumped back on the chair in shock, listening as Mr. Coddrington made a point of refusing the lunch that had been prepared for him and demanding to be driven to the station.
Connie sat still as the front door slammed. He had been so abrupt, so cruel even, but his verdict was plain enough: she could not be a member of the Society. What would Col Clamworthy say when she had to admit her failure? Her brief moment of regret passed, to be replaced by anger. Stupid, stupid Society! Why had she even tried?
By the time Evelyn returned from taking Mr. Coddrington to the station, Connie was clattering around the kitchen in a red rage but no longer knowing with whom or what she was angry. One glance at Connie’s strained face and Evelyn set about making some tea for her. Connie was too humiliated by what had passed in the assessment even to notice that it was the first time her aunt had made such a caring gesture toward her.
“It’s not your fault, Connie,” Evelyn said softly, handing her a mug of milky tea. “If anyone was at fault, it was us older members: we should’ve known better than to try and rush things through. But then, I was so sure that there would at least be something about you,” she added reflectively.
“I don’t care anyway,” Connie blurted out, pushing the mug away. “I’m going out.” The last thing she wanted was for her aunt to be all sympathetic now. She preferred the earlier treatment when she had barely existed in her aunt’s eyes. At least then she di
d not have to worry what Evelyn thought of her failure.
Banging the door behind her, Connie ran off down Shaker Row, hardly knowing where she was going. The trouble was, she did care: she found she cared very much. From the turmoil of emotion one thought had emerged uppermost: she was never going to belong to the Society, never fit in even when she so desperately wanted to.
Connie did not want to meet any of the Society members in her present mood of bitter disappointment so she stayed away, walking the beach until night fell, despite the onset of foul weather. The darkening, storm-tossed waves scrabbled at the stones like tentacles trying to suck them down into the hidden depths of the Hescombe Channel. The black mood of the sea suited her bruised feelings, and she was comforted to know that the natural world around her was restless and tormented, too, at that moment. Finally, cold, hungry, and tired, Connie walked slowly back to Number Five, her anger now dulled to a despondent ache.
Lights were on in the kitchen. Connie quietly let herself in the little-used front door to avoid being seen by anyone. Kicking off her boots and socks, she padded along the hall to peek into the kitchen. Thank goodness she had done so, for there was a collection of all the people she least wanted to meet: the Society members, even Signor Antonelli, were gathered around the table, discussing her.
“Tell me again exactly what happened. He can hardly have given her a fair trial if he was here for so short a time!” exclaimed Mrs. Clamworthy.
Connie could see Col sitting, head bowed dejectedly, at his grandmother’s right hand. In front of him was a present wrapped in shiny paper with ‘congratulations’ emblazoned all over it. That would not be needed now.
“I’ve not spoken properly to Connie about it—she was too upset,” her aunt was saying. “But he invited her in and next I heard there was a great rush of noise from the objects, and he bolted out as if she had stung him.”
An elderly man, his white hair streaked with ginger, looked up sharply at Evelyn. Connie recognized him immediately: it was the man from the quayside.
“Noise—you say the creatures made noises? What do you make of that, Horace?”
“I never heard anything like that in my career,” replied a second man who was out of sight. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, a lot of noise: it was very alarming,” said Evelyn. “I can’t imagine what Connie made of it all. Then Mr. Coddrington dashed out, saying she’d failed the test, had unsettled gifts, possibly not even a second order, and demanded to be taken to his train. He said we’d receive his written judgement in the next few days and that his superiors would be contacting us about ‘our flagrant disregard of the rules.’ Can’t say I warmed to Mr. Coddrington.”
“That man was always a cold fish,” said Horace. “Not a drop of warm blood in his body—he’s got cold ink in his veins. We were mighty unlucky to get him for assessment.”
“The man ’as ink, no blood?” asked Signor Antonelli, confused.
“In a manner of speaking, Luciano,” explained the white-haired man.
“He should have spent more time with her. There’s something odd about this assessment,” Horace continued.
“But it means my niece is no use to us. What do we do now?” asked Evelyn.
Connie turned on her bare feet and ran quietly back up to her bedroom.
7
Song
The storm had passed. The last fat raindrops spattered the window and trickled down to the sill. Connie breathed on the pane and drew a seagull in the mist. Downstairs the meeting was still continuing.
Useless, she wrote on the window. I am useless.
The scraping of chair legs alerted her: they were leaving. Scampering back to the bed, she threw the duvet over herself and pretended to be asleep. She was just in time for, a moment later, her aunt quietly opened the bedroom door; a shaft of light from the landing streamed into the room, striking Connie’s head hidden under a mass of hair on the pillow. With a sigh, her aunt clicked the door softly shut, her footsteps fading as she went downstairs.
Leaping out of bed, Connie ran back to the window. The party from the kitchen was now gathered on the path waiting for Evelyn to come out.
They must have decided to go on another of their foolish expeditions, or why would her aunt be going out at this time of night? Waiting till she saw her aunt join them, she opened the window a crack to eavesdrop.
“She’s okay. Asleep.”
“I’m worried for her, Francis,” said Mrs. Clamworthy to the white-haired man. “It must have been a terrible disappointment for her. What do you think we can do to help her?”
“I think we must leave that up to Connie,” he said, looking up at her window. Connie ducked down. “There are more ways than one of demonstrating that you have the gift. We rely too much these days on these tests. If she is the girl I saw on the quay, and I feel convinced that she is, I would prefer to put my faith in her abilities than in those of Ivor Coddrington as an assessor.”
His words were the best comfort Connie could have received. He had seen her with Scark; he believed that she had the gift, whatever that meant. Perhaps it was a special relationship with animals? Well, if that was so, she definitely had it in spades. So it didn’t need to be the end. Mr. Coddrington could be wrong. She might not be useless.
As her mood lightened from dejection to defiance, she remembered the assessor’s strange behavior. He seemed to have wanted her to fail from the moment that bird had squawked and had certainly left no room for a second opinion. What had he seen that had scared him so? There was a way to find out—the old man had hinted as much—and she very much wanted to prove Mr. Coddrington wrong and her family inheritance right. But what did she have to do? The man had not said. Well, perhaps it was time to play by her rules rather than theirs. The only way she could think of to prove herself was to stick close to them and see what they actually did. Then, she’d show them she could do it even better. That was it! She’d show them how to approach the seagulls without scaring them. If that didn’t convince them, nothing would. But she’d better be quick if she was going to go with them to the Stacks tonight.
Connie dashed downstairs and pulled on her anorak and boots. She had already decided what she would do: if she ran fast enough, taking the lane behind the garage rather than High Street, she might be able to beat them to the quay.
There was no one around to see her running through the dark backstreets of Hescombe, except a marmalade cat strutting along a narrow fence. Sensing something unusual afoot, Madame Cresson bounded down as Connie passed, dropped the limp mouse from her mouth, and padded swiftly after her on velvet paws.
Connie came to a halt on the cobbles of the quay.
“Which boat?” Connie gasped, bent double with a stitch, as she realized that her plan had a hitch. She remembered Col talking about his grandmother’s boat last Friday: it had a strange name—something to do with water. Glancing nervously over her shoulder in case the others were in sight, she ran down the walkway of the little marina. Bessie, Ocean Pride, Selkie. Come on, quickly! Ah! Here it was: Water Sprite. Only a small boat, it did not offer many hiding places. Clambering on board, Connie wrenched back a tarpaulin tucked under a bench, creating just enough space into which she could squeeze. Ignoring the trickle of freezing water soaking her jeans as she crammed herself in, she was about to pull the cover back when a cat thumped down into the boat, causing her to jump with surprise.
“Madame Cresson,” Connie hissed, “don’t try to stop me!” The cat blinked her yellow eyes coolly and purred, her tail flicking slowly from side to side. “So you’re just here to keep an eye on me?” The cat yawned and strolled over to tuck herself neatly beside Connie. “That’s fine by me—just don’t make me sneeze!”
A babble of voices on the walkway told Connie that it was time to pull the tarpaulin back into place. It was fiendishly uncomfortable cramped under the seat; she wished they would hurry up and take to sea before she literally got cold feet.
“Right, Signor Antonelli,
” came the voice of the white-haired man, “you go with Horace and Evelyn in Banshee; Col, you take your grandmother and me in Water Sprite.”
Connie felt the boat lurch as two people climbed on board: one at a leap, the other more carefully. The engine erupted into life sending vibrations juddering through Connie’s numbed body.
“Cast off there!” She recognized Col’s voice.
The boat lurched again as someone jumped in with the ropes. The sound of the engine changed to a smoother tone, and the boat started to move. A minute later a deeper pitch and roll told Connie they had emerged beyond the harbor walls. Madame Cresson yawned again and slipped out from Connie’s side. She made a grab at her but the cat’s fur slid like silk through her fingers.
“What’s that cat doing on board?” she heard Mrs. Clamworthy exclaim.
“Haven’t the foggiest. I didn’t see it when we got in,” said the man.
“Er...Dr. Brock,” said Col from the wheelhouse, “do you think it’s a good idea letting it come along? I mean, the sirens are part bird, aren’t they?”
“Yes, that’s true—but we’re not going to turn back now,” Dr. Brock replied.
“This whole expedition is not a good idea, Francis,” said Mrs. Clamworthy fretfully. “I doubt Signor Antonelli will get anywhere with them. He’s told us already: only a true companion to these sirens can hear their song and not perish.”
“There’s no choice: we must give it one more try. I don’t know about you, but I can’t live with the thought of more O’Neills bumping against our hull,” said Dr. Brock firmly. “Has everyone got their ear protectors?”
Secret of the Sirens Page 8