Magic Below Stairs (17 page)

Before Frederick was satisfied with the sheen on the first boot, the door to Lord Schofield's bedchamber slammed open. Lord Schofield, about as lively as a sack of coal, was hauled in, slung between Piers and Mr. Kimball. They put him on the bed, where he lay as if stunned. Frederick dropped the boot and the brush and sprang to help. “What's wrong with him?”

Lord Schofield was so pale he was nearly gray, his mouth a pinched line of pain. He was breathing hard, but made not a sound.

“Labor pains,” Piers replied as Mr. Kimball left them alone with the wizard. “It's her ladyship. The worst of her travail has begun.”

“What are you talking about?” Frederick looked up from pulling Lord Schofield's boots off. “Men don't have labor pains.”

Groaning, Lord Schofield rolled away from Frederick the moment the second boot was free. The groans were indistinct, but Frederick thought he made out the word
Rats!

“This one does.” With difficulty, Piers removed first one of his employer's arms and then the other from the sleeves of his tight-fitting coat. “What he feels, she does. What she feels, he does. It all comes through the wedding ring she wears—he focused his magic in it.”

“Traitor!” Lord Schofield failed to punch Piers in the nose, but only just. “That's a secret!”

“No one ever keeps a secret from his valet, nor from his assistant valet either.” Piers had to sit upon Lord Schofield to get his waistcoat off. “Now, give over, my lord, do.”

“Do calm yourself, sir.” Piers was still calm, but his struggles to subdue Lord Schofield made him sound a little out of breath. “It's only Frederick and me here. You know you can trust us.”

“Rats!” Lord Schofield roared.
“Rats!”

Had the wizard gone mad? With all his heart, Frederick wished himself miles away. “Should I fetch a physician?”

“Rats,” Lord Schofield growled, but as he was now facedown and chewing his pillow, Piers was able to release his grip upon the wizard and step away from the bed.

“No point. There's nothing any physician can do.” Piers looked grim. “It was much like this when Lady Schofield lost the first child. He won't be in his right wits until it's all over.”

From Piers's set expression, Frederick knew it was no time to ask questions. He and Piers made Lord Schofield as comfortable as they could.

Brandy helped. Once he had been made to stop biting the pillows, Lord Schofield calmed enough to sip from the glass Frederick held for him and say, “There are rats in Lady Schofield's bedchamber.”

Piers drew back horrified. “My lord, that cannot be.”

Lord Schofield glared at him. “I know that, Piers. No fleas, no rats, no mice, no bats. I cast the spell myself. It protects the whole estate. But with my own ears, I heard it. Rats in the walls of Lady Schofield's bedchamber. A rat—or something very like one.” Lord Schofield took another sip. “A large rat. A tremendous—oh, devil take it, here it comes again—”

Lord Schofield doubled up, writhing. While Piers took the glass away and mopped at the brandy that had spilled on the bedclothes, Frederick caught Lord Schofield's hand. His grip made Frederick worry that Lord Schofield might twist his fingers clear off without even knowing what he did.

In five minutes, the worst of that wave of pain had passed. Lord Schofield sank back into his pillows again, panting and mumbling. Frederick rubbed sensation back into his numbed fingers.

Piers helped himself to the last sip of brandy. “The first time he went into labor, it was just groans and whimpers. Not a word about rats.”

“I'll whimper you,” Lord Schofield wheezed.

From his days at the orphanage, Frederick was well acquainted with rats and their ways. “Begging your pardon, my lord, there was something in the chimneys, as you know very well, but it wasn't rats.”

“I'm not senile, Frederick. I banished that thing in the chimney. I remember doing so. But there are rats in the chimney now. Rats in Kate's chamber.” Lord Schofield seemed to be addressing someone else, someone Frederick couldn't see. “Rats in the walls. Fetch out that rat so I can banish it. I'd fetch it myself if I could only sit up.” The pangs returned with greater force than before, and Lord Schofield's words were reduced to moans.

“You stay with him. I will see what there is to be done,” Frederick told Piers. “If he takes a notion to try to get out of bed, I'm not big enough to stop him.”

“Excellent idea,” said Piers. “I'm not fond of rats. Even very small ones disgust me.”

“It's not a rat.” Frederick caught himself. There was no point in wasting time talking to Piers. “Oh, never mind. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

The moment he arrived at the door to Lady Schofield's bedchamber, Frederick gave up his first plan, which was to tap at the walls and listen for sounds that should not be there. There was no chance of hearing a rat, no matter how large, because the place was so full of noise. Everywhere he looked, there were maids in a hurry. They carried basins of boiling water, bundles of clean linen, and cups of hot tea. He could hear moans and cries of pain from Lady Schofield, but they were all but drowned out by crisp orders, well-meant advice, and excited chatter from all and sundry.

Rather than tapping on the walls, Frederick found himself under Mrs. Dutton's direct supervision as she set him raking ashes and making up the fire.

“That's the lad,” said Mrs. Dutton. “Nancy, stir your stumps. Go ask if the midwife has come yet.”

“I'll go.” Frederick headed toward the door with only a bucket of ashes to dispose of downstairs.

“Those can wait,” Mrs. Dutton said, taking the bucket from him as she handed him a basket of soiled sheets. “Take these down to the laundry.”

From the wall above the fireplace came a dull thud.

“What on earth?” Mrs. Dutton glared first at the wall and then at Frederick. “Not even Lord Schofield would cast a spell at a time like this. Would he?”

Before Frederick could answer, the thump came again, less distinctly, from the corridor outside. Still clutching the basket of sheets, Frederick followed the thump. He caught up with it down the hall, then lost it. He hesitated outside Lord Schofield's bedchamber.

“Rat! ” From within, Lord Schofield shouted, “What did I tell you!”

Frederick entered expecting to see a rat the size of a sheep. Instead, he found Lord Schofield sitting up in bed. Piers, with the fireplace poker in his hand, was standing as close to the fire as he dared, trying to see up into the chimney. There was no rat whatsoever.

“It was a snake. I saw it!” Eyes wild, Piers waved the poker to show Frederick where it had gone.

“Come away from the fire,” said Frederick. “You'll burn yourself.”

“You didn't see it!” Piers turned from Frederick back to the fireplace. “A snake as big around as my arm.”

From up the flue came a noise like a mattress splitting open. There was an ear-piercing squeal, a shower of soot, and Billy Bly fell out onto the hearth rug, wrestling something that looked like a black snake.

“Billy Bly!” Frederick dropped the basket of soiled sheets.

“There it is!” Piers swung the poker with enthusiasm. The fire irons fell over with a clatter. Ashes scattered. Sparks flew. A china dish fell off the mantelpiece and shattered.

“Watch it!” Billy Bly snarled. “Hit me with that thing again and I'll wrap it around your head.”

“Then get out of the way!” Piers took another wild swing, then added, “Thought you were part of it. Sorry.”

The black snake coiled around Piers's right leg and he fell over, swearing. The space before the hearth was full of something black. Something writhing. It was huge.

Frederick reached into the basket he had just dropped, seized a handful of a soiled linen sheet, and dived into the tangle. When he touched the black thing, his hand tingled. He clenched his jaw and made himself take a firm grip, even though the tingle made his elbow twinge and his wrist ache.

Using the very first knot Vardle had ever taught him, Frederick tied the corner of the linen sheet to the creature. Tying a bowline knot with a rope was easy. Tying it with a twisted sheet was hard. Frederick panted and pulled until the black snake was held fast by the straining fabric.

“Good lad!” Billy Bly grunted. “We'll hold it whilst you bind it.”

The black thing struggled silently, trying to work its way back to the safety of the flue, but Frederick's knot held.

As he tied the other end of the sheet to one of the bedposts, Frederick spared a moment to wonder who held whom faster, Billy Bly and Piers or the black thing. “There now. Let go and his lordship can set to work banishing it.”

But Lord Schofield was doubled up again, roaring with pain.

“Oh, you're useless,” Frederick said as he leaped back into the tangle to help Piers free his leg from the black thing.

Beside them, Billy Bly clung stubbornly to the black thing. Where his gnarled hands clutched, the soot had rubbed away. Beneath, the creature was shiny, like woven silk. It was the color of twilight, and the more Frederick looked at it, the less certain he was of what he saw. To his eyes, it was a snake, a rope, a thick silken cord. But to his arms, it pulled like a cart horse. Only the knotted sheet kept it in the room. Even so, it pulled so hard the bed was slowly creeping closer to the fireplace.

“Steady on, lads,” said Billy Bly. “Heave ho.”

“I'm with you,” Frederick cried. “Heave ho!”

“My leg!” Groaning and moaning, Piers made almost as much noise as Lord Schofield did. “You'll have it out of the socket!”

“Stop squirming.” Frederick worked to help Billy Bly pull the thing off Piers. The black thing seemed to bulge and flex in his grip as if there were muscles working beneath that shadowy surface.

“Get it off me!” Piers shouted.

Frederick kept tugging despite the bulging in the creature. The shadowy surface changed as he watched. No longer shiny, it looked and felt bristly, but not with the familiar bristly roughness of an ordinary rope. It felt like hair, long wet hair that tangled around Frederick's fingers and pinched his flesh. Frederick wanted to drop the rope and wipe his hands on his breeches until both the tingling and the tangling were gone, but instead he held on.

“Take this.” Billy Bly poked Frederick in the ribs. He had left the struggle so stealthily that Frederick had not noticed he was gone until he had returned. Billy Bly was holding a bundle of white cloth under one arm as he used his free hand to get Frederick's attention. “I can't hold it much longer, even with the cloth wrapped around it. Cold steel burns me.”

Frederick took a better look and saw Billy Bly was offering him one of Lord Schofield's straight razors wrapped up in a clean cravat. “What's that for? We don't have time for a shave just now.”

“Take it.” Billy Bly poked Frederick harder. “It's made of steel.”

At last, Frederick thought he understood. “Wait—you mean steel hurts it?”

“Cold steel
burns
.” Billy Bly stood clear as Frederick took the razor carefully by its ivory grip. Frederick slid the blade carefully between the black thing and the fabric of Piers's breeches.

“What are you doing?” Piers goggled at him. “Easy with that thing. You'll have my leg off!”

“Isn't this thing going to squeeze your leg off anyway?” Frederick said. “Hold still.”

“Thanks,” said Piers in a very small voice. “I think I will.”

At the first touch of the steel razor, the black thing shuddered and went limp. Piers eased away from the blade.

“Does it hate steel that much?” Frederick wondered.

Billy Bly growled, “Don't be tricked.”

Warned and watchful, Frederick kept his grip firm on both the black thing and the steel razor. Swearing softly, Piers freed himself and stood between the bed and the fireplace, rubbing his leg. On the bed, Lord Schofield was still and silent, mute and sweating with pain. Frederick could detect no motion in the piece of the black thing he held. For a moment he was tempted to try shaving the long hairs so they wouldn't tickle his hand so unpleasantly.

As the rest of its bulk slithered from flue to fireplace, the other end of the black thing brought a choking drift of smoke into the room, or Frederick would never have turned his head and seen it slip into the room. Billy Bly growled deep in his chest. “Beware, lad.”

The end of the black thing that Frederick had tied to the bed still looked rough and hairy. But the other end, the end that had just slid through the fire unharmed, was smooth and shiny. The shiny end of the rope was groping its way blindly toward the knot in the dirty sheet that Frederick had tied around its tail.

To Frederick, the thing looked like a snake, but a snake with no eyes, no features, no head at all, only a gleaming shell over the mindless strength within.

Frederick had to put the razor away to do it, but he hauled out another soiled sheet and tied the headless snake's gleaming shell to the hairy tail with the second knot he'd ever learned, the one that made a rope shorter without cutting it. As he hauled on the sheet to tighten his knot, the black thing went limp again.

Frederick and Piers exchanged a long look, shuddering with relief. Frederick felt as if his heart was ready to jump out of his chest. Piers looked as if he might faint.

“Hold fast, Frederick.” Without warning, Billy Bly's whole attitude changed from wariness to wild cheer. He sprang away from the tangled mess to the dressing room door. “Good-bye, lad. Fare thee well.” For a moment he stood poised as if listening to music no one else could hear, then he turned back to Frederick. “I wish we had been granted our full seven years.”