Murkmere (29 page)

B
ut Silas wouldn’t forget his suspicion; he might come back unexpectedly.

I peered around the curtain. The room was empty, the fire still burning bright. Then I saw the huddle of feathered rags by
the leather chair.

Gobchick’s eyes were shut, but he was breathing. He was bound tightly to the chair by his chain, which imprisoned his arms
brutally as if he were a parcel, and then was wound around the chair leg.

It was difficult to free him. He was heavier than I expected, and I had to be quiet. But finally I pulled the last length
of chain from under him and looked at him helplessly. On his gaunt face there were fresh bruises, like stains of blackberry
juice. I wanted to weep for him.

Then suddenly he opened a glinting eye and gave me a wink. “Little Missy!”

Relief flooded over me. “Are you much hurt, poor Gob-chick?”

He rolled over and sat up, screwing up his face. “I’s had worse beatings. I feigns a little death, and then he stops. ’Tis
a fool’s life.”

“Not anymore.” I showed him the loose chain. “You saved me just now, Gobchick, you didn’t tell them I was there. I want to
save you. You’re free.”

He looked at me with his sad, old face. I thought he hadn’t understood. “Go!” I cried. “Escape the house now, in the dark!
They’ll not see you, I’ll not tell.”

“But what use is freedom to me, Missy?” he said. “I’d be afeard of it. ’Tis too big stuff for an old fool.”

“Please, Gobchick. You’ll never be hurt again. If you go to my aunt in the village, she’ll shelter you. I’ll tell you how
to reach her. She’ll get the blacksmith to saw your chain off.”

He shook his head, but a smile lit his face.

“Gobchick, please!” I stared at him, nonplussed, not understanding his slowness, desperate for his escape. My hands fell uselessly
to my sides. I begged a last time, for I couldn’t stay with him longer. “Please, Gobchick, go!”

He reached across and stroked my face, still smiling. “No, Missy. I cannot. ‘Tis enough that you gives me the choice.”

I knew then that I could not budge him for all my begging. “The story of the avia,” I whispered. “Which meaning is true?”

The flames glowed on the bones of his skull, and his wrinkled cheeks were deep crevasses of shadow. “Men invent stories to
tell the truth as they sees it. Both meanings is true,
Missy. It all depends on how you sees the nature of the Almighty, whether He be forgiving or no.”

“But are the avia real, or invented by men?”

“You ask a fool to tell you the answer?”

“You’re the cleverest fool I know, Gobchick.”

“I’s talked to men who’ve seen them.”

“They’ve seen the avia?”

“Aye, so they said.”

“Then the old story is true.”

“One man might see, but another might deny. All men see things differently, little Miss.”

I looked into his wise eyes. “How can I save Leah?”

“You will know.”

But I didn’t know. In truth, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I should do.

I stood in the silent passage outside the library in a fever of worry and indecision, my hands pressed to my cheeks. Leah
would have left the Master by now; she would have had to rejoin the guests in the ballroom.

What a weak-wit I was to hesitate when she was in such danger
, I thought suddenly.
I must tell her the truth about her mother’s nature and what the Protector and Silas were plotting. And warn her, if the Master
hadn’t told her already himself, that he intended to go to the tower at midnight
.

In the silence I heard a drift of music; the dancing had begun again.

I hurried along the passage, which grew hot and bright
with burning lamps as I neared the ballroom. The music grew louder, building to a series of crescendos. The doors were open,
and I stood to one side so I was hidden, looking through, searching for Leah.

Beyond me masked couples swirled in the candlelight. On each crescendo the gentlemen flung the ladies from them, but just
as it seemed they would fall to the floor, their partners saved them with the flick of an arm, scooping up their limp bodies,
drawing them close. Then the pairs careered on, clinging to each other in hectic abandon, the bird heads too big for the frail
limbs beneath.

The heat from the lamps made me feel dizzy, so that I had to cling to the doorjamb; the music thudded violently in my ears.
Beneath the masks faces glistened and mouths smiled grimly. As the music drove the dancers on, their movements grew more desperate,
as if they knew they were doomed, as if they knew only the strongest among them would survive the future.

And strongest of all was the Lord Protector.

I had seen Porter Grouted, and once again he was partnering Leah. Caged already by the ruthless grip of his arms, she didn’t
see me as he swept her past, the dreadful mask he wore dwarfing her neat head, the bill almost grazing her cheek. I’d never
be able to speak to her alone.

But I could speak to the Master.

I looked over to the dais, but he wasn’t there. Silas held court instead, surrounded by several members of the Ministration.
My eyes searched the ballroom, but the Master was
nowhere. Nor could I see Jukes and Pegg among the footmen hovering on the side with trays of drinks and delicacies.

Was it so late? Surely they hadn’t left for the tower already?

I slipped up to a footman. “What’s the o’clock, please?”

“When I was last in the Great Hall, lass, the clock hand was touching midnight.”

“I’m much obliged,” I said, and hurried back behind the ranks of footmen to the doors. I’d missed the Master.
What should I do now? Follow him into the night?

I looked back as I left, at the dais where the Master should have been and where Silas was already producing the smiles, the
conversation, and all the appropriate attentiveness of a host. Guests clustered round him, and I could see how he was charming
them, nodding at their comments, bending to kiss the ladies’ hands, flashing them dark, sparkling glances. They were all succumbing
as I’d done. He would go far as Master of Murkmere.

But I would outwit Silas. I’d rob him of the proof he needed. I’d take the swanskin before he did.

I moved quietly away, retracing my steps past the library. It grew darker and colder and I could no longer hear the music.

Then I picked up my skirts and ran, blundering past the flickering candles in their sconces on the walls, until I reached
the backstairs. I didn’t look behind me. Swift as a squirrel I scurried up to the first landing. This part of the house was
abandoned and quiet.

I rushed along the passage and lifted the latch on Leah’s door. I saw the glowing candles first, lit ready for her return,
then a white face loomed at me, and a raised poker.

“Dog, it’s me,” I said, as startled as she was. “What are you doing, for heaven’s sake?”

“My duty,” she said prissily. “Making a nice fire to warm the mistress when she comes to bed. I heard running. You frightened
me — ‘tis like the grave up here alone. What are you doing?”

She had been stirring up the embers of the fire, and I could feel their heat on my flushed cheeks. I thought quickly. Her
face had its old, tight, wary look.

“The mistress needs a wrap,” I said. “She wants some air, she says, and it’s damp outside.” I took a deep breath and marched
to the chest.

Dog put her hand to her mouth. Her face screwed into a grimace. “Surely not … that?”

“It will keep her warm.”

“But Aggie!” She looked as if she’d vomit.

“It’s what she’s asked for,” I said grimly. For a second my hand trembled on the lid, then I flung it back, forcing myself
to look at what lay inside.

“Give me a candle,” I said.

Silently, Dog passed me the candle in the silver holder from Leah’s bedside table. I put my hand in. The feathers curled round
my fingertips. In disgust, I gripped a handful of the stuff, squeezing it cruelly tight between my fingers, and
wrenched the whole thing out. Dog gave a cry and sank back against the bed.

“Pull yourself together,” I said. “It’s only feathers. They’re wearing them tonight on their faces. At least our mistress
doesn’t do that.”

“But she’s not one of the Ministration yet,” she breathed. “She has no right. Oh, Aggie, what will they say? It’s sacrilege
for her to wear such a thing.”

I didn’t answer. Her frightened eyes watched me as I held the swanskin from me at arm’s length and, still with the silver
candleholder in my other hand, left the room.

I hurried to my room, where I took down the laundry bag of rough hemp that hung on the door. A maid with a laundry bag would
cause no comment. I loosened the string fastening and stuffed the swanskin inside, thankful to hide the foul thing away.

The candle guttered where I’d left it on my dressingtable and something gleamed next to it. I’d used Dog’s rush sewing basket
when I altered my skirt, and the long sewing scissors stuck out under the woven lid. I looked at them, and on a sudden impulse
seized them up.

I took a bodice from the drawer and wrapped the scissors so the points wouldn’t cut through the laundry bag, then thrust the
parcel down beside the swanskin, drawing the string tight.

This time it would not be I who cut up the swanskin; the Master must do it himself.

It was as I left my chamber, clutching the laundry bag, that I realized I wasn’t wearing my maid’s apron. I’d left it in the
library.

Such panic swept over me then that for a moment I couldn’t even recall what had happened to it. I’d used it to polish the
window and never put it on again. It must have dropped in a crumpled ball to the floor.

I tried to calm myself. No one would recognize it as mine even if they found it. But if Silas went back and found it himself,
he’d know that someone had eavesdropped on his plans. It would be easy for him to discover from Mistress Crumplin who had
taken in the port. I had to retrieve it.

While I’d been upstairs, lamps on wrought-iron tripods had been placed along the passage to the library. I felt perilously
exposed in my taffeta skirts as I ventured between them, a butterfly following a trail of fire, and I soon knew the reason
for them.

There was company in the library. I smelled the bitterness of nero and saw a spiral of smoke float beneath the door. Someone
laughed; glasses clinked. Men and women, perhaps two couples in there, resting from the dancing.

I hadn’t the boldness to go in. I wasn’t dressed as a servant, and what would a companion to the Master’s ward want with a
crumpled apron? No doubt it had been seen already by one of the guests in there now. And then my heart sank, for suddenly
I heard Silas’s voice, corning clearly after a lull in the conversation.

I would have known that voice anywhere — low, melodic,
amused — followed by appreciative laughter, as if he had fashioned some witticism to entertain his new patrons.

Clutching the laundry bag, I fled, dodging a startled maid bringing a bowl of sweetmeats to the library. At the ballroom I
slowed, but no one inside saw me as I slipped past, into the passage to the kitchen wing.

As I reached the side door to the vegetable garden at last, there was the sound of voices and clatter in the kitchen beyond,
the familiar bang as the door was thrust open. A steamy fug rolled round the corner toward me. Someone had come out.

I lifted the latch as silently as I could, almost dropping the bag in my agitation. For a second the door stuck as if it were
bolted the other side, but it was only the damp. When I pressed my knee against the wood, it gave suddenly and I almost fell
out onto the path.

I let out my breath with a gasp; it seemed I had been holding myself in like an overstuffed bolster for hours. The air was
cool and damp, scented with rosemary and thyme, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and hair.

I’d left the candle behind in my room, and there was no moon to light my way. The stars between the heavy clouds were dimmed,
like fish flicking through murky water. It was a long time since I’d braved the night. As I trod cautiously down the path,
my old fears returned.

Most birds sleep in the night, but suddenly one may open a gleaming eye and swoop down to tear apart the disturber of the
darkness. I thought of the Night Birds — ravens and
crows and daws — and I shuddered, and my free hand found its way to my amber and didn’t let go.

The vegetable garden wasn’t silent; frightened, I listened.

Gradually I realized that the sound it held within its walls wasn’t the rustle of wings or the stealthy creep of bird claws
on bare earth, but the echo of music from the ballroom. I fancied I could even hear conversation carried on the air, the reassuring
mumble of people talking.

I calmed myself enough to find the door in the wall, past the black lines of raspberry canes. Through it, and I was behind
the stables. Between the buildings I could see the yard lit with lamps. No one was about, or so I thought, until the youth
that had been tending the pyre in the center crossed the cobbles not far from me.

It gave me a start, and perhaps I moved too quickly, for he looked up, and light flickered along the brim of his hat. But
he didn’t call out; he hadn’t seen me; I was too deep in shadow. As soon as I could I dodged behind the wall of the coach
house, my shoes soundless in the damp grass.

Even against the dark sky, it was easy to see the tower on the rise. I hurried across the open ground, thankful that without
moonlight I couldn’t be seen. The grass had been cut recently and the ground was smooth. Even so, the hem of my beautiful
skirt was soon wet through.

It wasn’t long before I was in the copse at the top of the rise, with the rank green smell of nettle and fern in my nostrils,
the bushes dark around me. The hollows were pools of black. Gripping the laundry bag, I stopped to catch my breath.

Then a twig snapped somewhere close. I stood absolutely still, straining my ears. My heart began a desperate rhythm. I quivered
with it from head to foot. Someone had followed me. Silas?