Cuckoo Song (33 page)

‘Pen!’ hissed Trista in alarm. There was an all too familiar combination of defiance and slyness in Pen’s eye. She was sliding off script again, and Trista had no idea in which
direction.

‘I want you to make the
new
Triss stay alive,’ Pen declared, ignoring the nudges in her ribs. ‘And then I won’t chase you with cockerels, or tell the
police.’

Pause. A thin trickle of distilled voice.

‘What do you mean, I’m not trustworthy?’ exclaimed Pen. Pause. ‘No, you won’t, because you don’t know where I am!’ Pause. ‘Well, if you find me,
you’ll be sorry! I’m not afraid – I don’t care what you “do to traitors”, I . . .’

Pen trailed off. The tiny voice creeping from the earpiece went on and on, weaving a menacing ant-trail of sound. The colour drained from Pen’s face, taking her bravado with it. Her lower
lip trembled, but she seemed to be transfixed, still gripping the telephone even as her hands shook. Her eyes became shiny, and suddenly she seemed very young.

Trista could not bear it. She pulled the phone from Pen’s hands and put one arm around her, pulling the littler girl into a hug. Pen buried her face in Trista’s dress, breathing in
quick, frightened little huffs.

Trista was flooded with a feeling of pure, incandescent rage. And thus her mind was quite calm and unafraid when
she
lifted the telephone stand before her face and the earpiece to her
ear.

There was quiet at the other end. A couple of clicks. A few sounds of movement, translated into an electronic rasp by the intervening machine.

‘Hello?’ came a response at last. ‘Are you still there, Miss Crescent?’ The voice was unmistakable.

‘No,’ Trista answered, ‘she’s gone now. It’s just me here.’

‘Ah.’ A soft exclamation with a hint of warmth. ‘My little Cuckoo.’

Chapter 31

‘Yes, Mr Architect. It’s me.’

Something strange had happened to the anger in Trista’s chest. It was still there, roiling away, but now it was mixed with an odd warmth. It was the way that the Architect had called her
‘
my
little Cuckoo’. It was the unexpectedness of being told that she belonged to somebody.

‘And that back-stabbing little human brat, she’s gone now?’ asked the voice at the other end. His tone was bright, light and unpredictable, like the leaping of windswept
washing on a sunlit line.

Trista stroked Pen’s head. When the younger girl looked up, cheeks damp and face still crumpled with distress, Trista gave her a small smile.

You can go if you want
, she mouthed.

Trista had wondered whether Pen’s usual stubbornness would prevail. However, this time Pen gave a little nod, still biting both her lips in an effort not to cry. She slipped out through
the door, leaving Trista alone with the telephone.

‘I’ve sent her away,’ Trista answered. As she did so, it occurred to her to wonder
why
she had sent Pen from the room. Had it really been to protect the younger girl?
Yes, but only in part. The Architect had sounded pleased when he recognized her voice, and almost conspiratorial as he spoke of Pen. Something in her had responded to that. It was the part of her
that was not, and never could have been, Theresa Crescent, the part of her that was the thorns and leaves, and that remembered the merciless laughter of ancient trees. She had felt a tingle of
kinship, a sense that she could talk to this man, but in ways that Pen would not understand.

‘Good!’ the Architect declared briskly. ‘What a strident little bell she is! Someday I shall have to hunt her down and cut out her clapper. I’m surprised you
haven’t already.’

‘She doesn’t trouble me any more,’ Trista said carefully.

‘Oh, you have her trained then, do you?’ The Architect sounded pleasantly surprised, and Trista was in no hurry to correct his misinterpretation. ‘I hear she has some fine new
stripes on those annoyingly cherubic cheeks of hers. I thought that must be your handiwork. Yes, fear works pretty well for a while with her sort, but she’ll find a way to betray you sooner
or later. That one couldn’t steer a straight course if you tied her behind a locomotive – and believe me, I have considered it.’

There was a pause, during which Trista thought fast. Should she go ahead with the original plan to try to broker a deal between the Architect and Piers Crescent? If the Architect had just
refused to make a second bargain with Pen because she had broken the first, why would he have any more faith in Piers? If Trista tried the wrong gambit, she would waste this strange, uneasy moment
of rapport.

A faint, dull clicking sound came from the other end, and Trista had a mental picture of the Architect idly tapping at his teeth. She wondered if they were human-looking teeth at the moment, or
whether he was wearing another visage altogether.

‘So . . . you ran away,’ he said at last. ‘That wasn’t part of the plan.’ There was an unexpectedly hard edge to his voice.

‘Nobody explained the plan to
me
,’ Trista answered sharply. The army of grievances in her mind roared and clashed their spears. This was the man who had thrown her into
existence as casually as he might have tossed an apple core into a ditch, fully expecting her to wither away. This was the man responsible for all her trials, her confusion, her dangers . . .

. . . and her life.

But I hate him
, she reminded herself.
I’m just playing along.

‘No,’ said the Architect, sounding interested and surprised by the thought, ‘I suppose we didn’t. Still, it seems a little ungrateful, after we’d planted you in
such a well-heeled family.’

‘They tried,’ Trista said through her sharpening teeth, ‘to throw me in the fire.’

‘Oh,
did
they?’ Now the Architect’s interest was clearly piqued. ‘Well, well.
That
old remedy. Why, I do believe the Crescents must have been talking to
somebody. They would never have come up with that by themselves.’ There was now a hint of grim concern in his voice. ‘Think, my dear. Do you know who it might have been? I really cannot
have people running around with that sort of knowledge.’

Without warning, Trista found herself trembling on the edge of a terrible temptation. Could she give the Architect the name of Mr Grace? Could she set her enemies against each other? Remembering
the fate she had nearly suffered at the tailor’s hands, Trista felt her face grow hot again, but this time not from the blaze of a hearth. Setting the Architect on Mr Grace would be no worse
than anything the tailor had tried to do to her. After all, Mr Grace knew about the Besiders, so he would be better forewarned than an innocent party. Surely it would be nothing but
self-defence.

‘There
was
a man with them – and he
did
tell them to throw me on the fire,’ Trista conceded, then bit her lip. Much as she feared Mr Grace, she knew that he
believed he was doing the right thing. Could she justify throwing him to the Architect? ‘If you found him . . . what would you do to him?’

‘Oh, terrible things, of course!’ the Architect hastened to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, no swift or easy death. Perhaps I shall turn him into a string for a fiddle, that
will be grated by a bow for a hundred years until it breaks. Perhaps I shall keep him in cage made of his family’s bones until he is so old and stooped you could use him as a croquet hoop. Or
perhaps I shall have him slowly strangled by ivy. Maybe you have some better ideas.’

Trista’s heart was beating fast. When she remembered her own terror as the hearth was stoked to consume her, all these forms of revenge had a certain ghastly appeal.

‘Could you turn him into a loaf of bread and leave him in the park for the pigeons?’ she suggested, and was rewarded by a gust of laughter from the Architect. The wild leaves that
made up her flesh and marrow were laughing too.

‘Of course!’

‘Then . . .’ Trista closed her eyes and resisted the temptation. ‘Then . . . I’ll try to remember whether anyone ever said his name. If I do, I will tell you.’

‘Good.’ The Architect did not sound completely satisfied, but did not push the matter. ‘Well, if you were in danger of being cooked, I suppose I cannot blame you for leaving.
After all, you have done your job of distracting them far better on the run than you could have done in the cinder pan. But I do hope that you had the chance to cause them some heartache before you
left!’

‘I nearly ate them out of house and home.’ Trista found herself matching the Architect’s tone. ‘My food, their food, even things that weren’t food at all.’
Remembering the Crescents’ aghast faces when they first saw her thorn-toothed aspect, she even felt a small, wicked cat’s tail of satisfaction curl in her belly. ‘I upset
everything in Sebastian’s room, where nothing can ever be touched. I
frightened
them.’

‘Well, you will be glad to hear that their pain is only beginning,’ the Architect told her soothingly. ‘Fancy the cruelty of it, trying to cut short your seven little days of
life! Well, keep ahead of them, my pet, and you may yet outlive your namesake. Will that not be a fine revenge?’

His words yanked at the fibres of Trista’s heart, and she realized that her feelings towards the real Triss were a strange and twisted tangle. Contempt. Resentment. Jealousy. Pity.
Empathy. Kinship.

‘A
very fine
revenge!’ She tried to make her voice as gay and spirited as his. ‘Tell me, what will you do to her? Let me know the fun you are planning! Will you turn
her into an apple and put her in a pie?’

‘Oh no, a better joke by far!’ The Architect was almost crowing now, and again Trista was jarred by the unpredictable childishness of his character. ‘There are certain things
that I can do better than Mr Crescent, and he seems to have forgotten that. He always did lack imagination, and the ability to think round corners. For him, up is never down, and back is never
forth, and in is always smaller than out.’ He laughed.

‘But how—’ Trista tried again.

‘You ask a lot of questions.’ The Architect’s voice was suddenly viper-intense, and vibrant with suspicion. Before Trista could come up with an answer, there was an explosion
of laughter from the other end of the line. ‘Ah, if you could see Theresa’s face right now! What a miserable, puling little miss she is. How she whimpers when we go on our midnight
rides! And yet her parents set such stock by her – I can
see
their love, tangling all around her like a cat’s cradle.’

‘Is she there with you?’ Trista asked quickly. ‘Is the other me there?’

‘Oh yes, listening to every word I say.’

‘Can I speak to her?’ Again Trista channelled her resentment of the Crescent family, and made her voice hard and gleeful. ‘I want to tell her everything I’ve done. I want
to tell her I’ve been sleeping in her bed, and eating her dolls, and making her friends and family hate her. Can I? Please?’

For a long moment, there was nothing from the earpiece but a distant, papery crackle.

‘Why not?’

There were a few scuffling clicks, and then Trista could hear shallow sobbing breaths on the other end of the line. She felt pins and needles tingle over her skin.

‘Hello?’ Trista could barely give the word breath.

There was a ragged gasp.

‘It’s
you
, isn’t it?’ And Trista could hear her own voice speaking to her, just a little higher in pitch, more wobbly and more miserable. ‘You’re . .
. the thing they talk about, aren’t you? The thing pretending to be me! What have you done to my parents?
What have you done to Pen?
’

For a tiny moment Trista felt a burst of panic. They were too alike. There was only room for one of them. She felt an impulse to fight back and claim the one Triss-shaped space in the world.
Then, with difficulty, she swallowed down the feeling.

‘Listen!’ hissed Trista urgently, before her other self could say anything more. ‘Can the Architect hear what I’m saying?’

‘I . . .’ The other girl’s voice was tear-drenched, uncertain. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Good! Now listen – please! I’ve tricked the Architect into letting me speak to you – he thinks I just want to torment you. You must pretend that’s what I’m
doing. Please, while I’m talking, you have to cry as if I’m scaring you!’

‘You
are
scaring me!’ wailed the girl on the other end, so loudly that static crackled in Trista’s ear.

‘I know – I know I’m frightening – but I didn’t ask to be made. I haven’t hurt Pen or your parents. The Architect doesn’t know this,
but I’m
not on his side.
I want to rescue you! Is he still there with you, listening to what you say? Shout, “I hate you!” for yes, and, “stop it!” for no.’

‘I hate you!’ It was screamed with enough tearful force that Trista was not quite sure if it was the signal or just a sincere declaration.

‘So he’s still there.’ Trista racked her brains. ‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Stop it!’ was faintly sobbed. The signal for
no
.

‘Do you know anything that might help us find you?’

But how could Triss answer without the Architect hearing? And how could they come up with a message system in no time flat? Desperately Trista scanned Triss’s memories, trying to see
whether she and Pen had ever shared a secret language or code. No, they had not. Perhaps if the sisters had ever been closer, shared more memories . . .

Memories.

‘Triss, listen! We share memories. If there’s something you want to tell me, then give me a clue that’s linked to it in your memory –
our
memory.’

For a few seconds she could hear only sobbing, and then just very faint two words.

‘The frog.’

The frog?
Trista floundered, wondering if she had misheard.

Click, click, rattle.

‘Did you have fun?’ The Architect sounded as if he was trying with difficulty not to laugh. ‘The poor creature looks more terrified than a mouse in a trap. Good work! The sight
of that silly, trembling little face has put me in
much
better humour. In fact . . . little Cuckoo, I think I might do you a favour. Do you want to live longer than seven days?’