Chime (11 page)

We were to have new clothes.

We were to have new clothes because I tried to bargain with the Boggy Mun and he outwitted me. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Father shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does. We were to have new clothes because I made Rose sick.

This, to me, is Hell.

On and on ring the lunatic bells.

Storybook events come in threes. So, it seems, does Hell. Here’s the third strand of Hell woven into that night.

I lay in bed, listening to Rose cough. It was a wet, skin-scraping cough, very different from her earlier cough. Rose had never had the swamp cough. I was a fool.

I was a fool, yet I was clever.

It was the clever Briony who’d called up Death. She called it up so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Mr. Dreary, who wouldn’t have died had she not called it up. It’s rather unbearably circular.

But there are more unbearable circles.

It was the clever Briony who dreamed up a plan to save Rose. She dreamed up the plan so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Rose, who wouldn’t have contracted the swamp cough had she not gone into the swamp.

The clever Briony knows that when she enters the swamp, people die. The clever Briony intended that Rose contract the swamp cough. She has always been jealous of Rose.

This to her is the third strand of Hell.

That night, the swamp craving returned.

What a strange word,
craving
. What is it, really? It’s hard to describe, despite the fact that it keeps you up all night. It’s trickier than pain. It’s an itch stuck below your skin. You lie awake on your side of the do-not-cross line, listening to your sister heave and cough. You scratch at itch-ants that tunnel through your bones. You never can reach them.

It makes me sympathetic to Fitz the Genius’s craving, which was for arsenic. It sounds a peculiar thing to crave, but apparently more people than one might expect are addicted to the stuff. That’s what Father said after he dismissed Fitz, even though that meant I had no tutor. Even though he was still a genius. I couldn’t see that the arsenic affected him a bit.

Father sacked the Genius, I banished the Brownie, and then I was alone.

Night faded into blue ink. I was bored, I didn’t want to be hanged. I was bored. I buttoned myself into collar and cuffs. I tied myself into ribbons and shoes. Dawn clung to me like cobwebs.

I find it impossible to be bored when I help Rose get ready for the day. That’s because I’m too busy loathing her. Loathing and boredom don’t mix.

“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station,” said Rose.

“Before you take any of those steps, you must put on your shoes.”

“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”

Honestly, if I don’t save her life, I’m going to kill her!

Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.

“You talked last night while you were asleep,” said Rose.

“Your shoes, Rose!”

“How can you talk when you’re asleep?”

I could blame myself for her good spirits, if I wanted to, which I didn’t. Rose’s fascination with the fire station began when I set the library fire. I’m still astonished that it was Rose herself who alerted the fire station. She told me all about it—how the alarm bell went off, and the firemen went rushing about, harnessing the horses and checking the ladders, and how it was the handsome Robert himself who lifted her onto the fire wagon and stood right behind her so she wouldn’t fall, and off they went, the hose-carts rattling behind.

“I prefer that you not talk,” said Rose.

I myself preferred not to talk, but I’d have to talk to say so. “Robert wears shoes.”

“I don’t like my shoes,” said Rose.

“I’m wearing my shoes and you don’t see me complain.”

“You only hear a person complain,” said Rose. “Not see.”

How has Rose lived for seventeen years and no one has ever killed her, not once?

“Perhaps you ought to put your shoes on in the wardrobe.” Rose was irritatingly agreeable. She crawled into the wardrobe and shut the door. Rose has a theory that time goes more slowly in the wardrobe, which may be true, given the amount of time she spends in there.

“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”

“How many steps to the breakfast table?”

“I don’t want breakfast,” said Rose. “I want to go to the fire station.”

We ended up compromising. We’d have toast, only toast, which as Rose said, is quick to eat. But Eldric was waiting for us in the dining room, wearing one of Pearl’s ruffled aprons. “You look very beautiful,” I said. “Is this a special occasion?”

“I suppose you could say so,” he said. “I’m in charge of breakfast this morning.”

“Boys don’t wear aprons,” said Rose.

“This boy does,” said Eldric. “He does when he’s cooking eggs.”

“But Pearl cooks our eggs,” said Rose. “Anyway, I prefer toast today and so does Briony.”

I looked at Eldric, into his eyes. My fingers knotted themselves together. Eldric looked at me all the while he spoke.

“Pearl’s baby died.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. And then, because he already knew Rose well enough to know she might not understand, he said, “She’s very sad and wants to stay at home.”

My fingers hurt. I looked down. They were twisted all about one another.

I didn’t know what to say, but Rose filled the silence.

“I like poached eggs,” said Rose, “but Briony thinks they’re disgusting. She likes fried eggs. I think scrambled eggs are disgusting because they’re all one color.”

“No scrambled eggs.” Eldric curtsied with his apron and vanished into the kitchen.

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Rose. “That we should eat the eggs because it’s Eldric making them.”

I nodded.

What did one say when a baby died? I should think of something before Eldric joined us, practice something regularly girlish. But it turned out he wasn’t to eat with us. Perhaps he’d lost his appetite. Perhaps he thought it heartless that I could eat my fried eggs. Unfair that Rose could eat her poached eggs and no one would think anything at all.

“Now for your cloak.” Wearing a cloak is on Rose’s list of the thousand things she hates most. The problem is that each of the thousand is ranked number one.

“But Dr. Rannigan says you must, and anyway, it hardly weighs a thing, it’s so full of holes.” I swung mine round my shoulders. Rose hates any bit of clothing that constricts, but I say, Chin up and bear it. Life is just one great constriction.

“
Ventilated
,” I said, “that’s the word. Our cloaks are terrifically ventilated.”

The Brownie waited for us beside the door, then followed us like a double-jointed cricket. By all Brownie rules, he ought to have stayed in the Parsonage. He made a poor Brownie. He worked no mischief in the house; he helped with none of the chores. He was reserved and affectionate, devoted to me, or so it seemed.

“Go away!”

He didn’t go away.

The sky was white and went on forever, and so did the wind, right through our ventilated cloaks.

Mr. Clayborne’s men were at work, clanging about with the lengths of steel that were to grow into the London-Swanton railroad line. Too bad it hadn’t been built while my Genius Fitz was still here. He was forever going off to Paris, and Vienna, and other places with delicious pastries, and complaining about how long it took just to get out of the Swampsea. I might be happy about the train myself had I any opportunity to take it. But I’m stuck.

In front of the jail stood a gangle of boys throwing stones at Nelly’s cell. At her window, actually, which was shut and barred, but it was the principle of the thing that counted. It’s not that I dislike every boy in the world, but this particular pack was uncommonly hateful, all snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.

They’d throw stones at me too, once I was in jail. But at least I was a witch and deserved it. I wasn’t so sure about Nelly. You’d think I’d recognize a fellow witch, but no: I’d find out with everybody else. If Nelly was a witch, she’d turn to dust once she was hanged. If not, we’d know we made a mistake.

Petey Todd, leader of the snips and snails, must have spotted us, for a moment later, the boys’ voices rose in a singsong chant.

Daftie Rosy.
I couldn’t let that stand. I approached Petey. He was only thirteen, but big as a man.

“Fe-fi-fo-fum.” I poked my finger at Petey’s chest. “I smell the stink of a big boy’s bum!”

I was in a fighting mood.
Daftie Rosy
set me off, of course, but there was also Pearl’s ugly baby. The baby had died and I wanted to fight.

“Hey!” said Petey, then his invention dried up.

Dearie me! What to say?

You don’t have to be big to do a lot of damage with your elbow. I jabbed mine into the front bit, where Petey’s ribs gave way to some softer stuff. Down he went. I stamped on his stomach, which resulted in a most satisfactory sound.

I flung myself upon him, grabbed his ears.

“Help!” he bellowed. “She be like to pull ’em clean away!”

“They’re wonderfully handy,” I said. “Big as soup plates.” Up went his ear-handles, down went his skull. Crash! Onto the cobbles.

You can win a fight if you don’t care about getting hurt. I have a good head, and I used it. Crack went my skull against his.

Petey howled.

“See the lovely stars, Petey?”

I saw them myself, red blobs splatting against my eyeballs.

“She’s kilt me!” screamed Petey.

Not just yet, Petey, but give me a minute: You’ll wish you had been kilt.

Crash!

“Dear, oh dear!” I said. “A splat of brains just dribbled out your ear.”

I lifted his head for the third crash. “Pity your mother didn’t cook you longer.”

Blast! An arm scooped me round the middle, lifting me up. Lifting me off Petey.

Whoever it was would be sorry. When I rammed my elbow this time, it connected with muscle and bone, which is far more satisfactory than blubber. A person feels she’s really doing something.

“Steady, miss.” It was Robert’s voice. It was Robert’s arm that had picked me up and was setting me down.

“I fetched him,” said Rose. “I didn’t prefer you to fight.”

“She were in a pother, Miss Rose were, an’ so, miss, I taked the liberty.”

Now that’s true poetic irony. I rush into battle to defend the fair name of Rose Larkin, and what does she do but fetch Robert to stop me.

“I don’t match up today,” said Rose. “I wish Robert could have seen how my ribbon matches my petticoat, but the witches took my ribbon.”

Robert blushed.

I turned away from the Brownie, but he followed along, his absurd knees clicking every which way. I mustn’t talk to him again. If I kept on, it would be easy to slide back to my old ways, stepping into the world of the Old Ones, letting my powers run wild.

Ten paces away, a bubble of villagers surrounded Petey. “Did I kill him?” I said.

“No, miss,” said Robert.

“Pity.”

“I knew Robert would stop the fight,” said Rose. She smiled at Robert, an actual smile. Her teeth were matching strings of pearls. “I knew it.”

Had I ever seen Rose smile before, a real smile?

The villager-bubble burst, revealing Cecil and Eldric, drag-pulling Petey toward me.

“You’re all over blood,” said Eldric.

“The boy shall have a proper beating,” said Cecil.

“But I beat him already,” I said, “and don’t tell me I didn’t do it properly. I’m touchy about these things.”

Eldric looked me up and down with his lightning eyes. “I’d never say you beat him improperly.”

“But the blood—” began Cecil.

Could Cecil never shut up?

“It’s Petey’s blood,” I said. “I can tell by the stink.”

“I sent Robert a birthday card,” said Rose.

“That you did, miss, an’ ’twere a pleasure to receive.”

“But the sheer cheek of this fellow fighting you!” said Cecil.

“It’s the other way round,” I said. “I fought him. He was rude to Rose.”

“Robert sent me a birthday card too,” said Rose, “but he couldn’t send one to Briony because she hasn’t any birthday.”

“I don’t care about who fought whom,” said Cecil.

“Your father would care,” I said. “A judge would care who started it.”

Cecil’s eyes scuttled about like pale beetles. To Petey, to me, and back to Petey. Eldric stood before Petey, speaking to him in a lovely plum-jammy sort of voice and tick-tocking his finger in front of Petey’s eyes.

“Damn it all, Briony,” said Cecil very softly in my ear. “This Eldric fellow is keeping you to himself.” But I imagined I knew what Cecil really cared about. He cared that it was Eldric, not he, who looked so easy and expert. That it was Eldric who looked our way and said perhaps Dr. Rannigan should see the boy.

“I thought we had an understanding,” said Cecil, still very soft.

We did?

“Cecil, would you please escort Petey to Dr. Rannigan?”

Cecil paused, but there was no way he could politely protest.

Poor Cecil. It’s hard to be a devil of a fellow in these modern times. No stagecoaches to hold up. No princesses to rescue. Just Petey Todd to escort, while the easy, expert fellow walks the pretty girl home.

But perhaps the pretty girl should go straight to the jail. Perhaps it would be easier to turn herself over to the constable now rather than waiting until teatime.