Part 14 (1/2)

They spoke one at a time, their voices identical, one picking up precisely where the last left off. If you were to close your eyes, you'd think it a single voice.

Punch, kick, block. I must get rid of my skirts if I am truly to kick.

”Make us our story, mistress! Our story, it need must be telled. The story o' the dark earth, o' the roots, the roots what us tends all the spring long that you fo'ak might have victuals an' beer.”

Kick, punch, block, punch. All those stories, the stories of the Old Ones, they burnt in the fire.

”Scribe it to us, mistress. Scribe o' the clay. Clay, it be right comely, but you fo'ak doesn't see it. You doesn't see the crystals what it got, you doesn't see 'em sliding and gliding.”

The Strangers are the ones to know such things. The Strangers rule the underground, not the Devil. They ripen the corn and paint colors on the flowers and gild the autumn leaves.

”Make us stories o' the underground. Make us the story o' the Unquiet Spirit what tosses in her winding sheet. She be lying with them cold worms an' don't n.o.body hear her shrilling.”

Punch, block, kick.

”The Unquiet Spirit, she be shrilling out a name. Tha' knows it fine, that name. It be tha' own particular name. It be Briony Larkin.”

Stepmother screamed my name the day of the fire. Stepmother, who ran to the library despite her injury. I have a theory about how she might have managed to pull off such a feat. It comes in the form of an equation: Love + Fear = Herculean Strength. It's how mothers come to fling runaway motorcars from their children. It's how . . . well, actually, I oughtn't to speculate, never having experienced the Love portion of the equation. But I did read about the mother and the motorcar in the London Loudmouth.

”Make us our story, mistress. Make us our story.”

Eldric caught at my fist, examined it, made sure I hadn't slipped into thumb-breaking mode. ”Your fists are beautiful,” he said.

Beautiful! He said my fists are beautiful! How I wished I could tell him about the Strangers.

”Thank you,” I said. His hand was warm around my fist. ”Yours are adorable.”

He squeezed my fist in mock protest. He smiled his curling smile. How I wished I could tell him everything.

Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.

Beautiful! That's what a friend would say. A friend would touch a person's hand. But Briony, you mustn't think about having friends and touching hands. If all goes as planned, you and Rose will leave the Swampsea. You'll leave the Swampsea on one of Mr. Clayborne's trains, but nothing will really change. You'll live alone, except for Rose, you'll live in the dark with the dust and the crumbs, and when you hear a noise, you'll scuttle into the cracks of the wainscoting.

Friends.h.i.+p will get you nowhere. You have to keep your secrets. You mustn't speak of the Strangers, now lob-bobbling away from you. Now vanis.h.i.+ng beneath the rocks. You mustn't believe that the pretty boy from London will keep your secrets. Do you want to exchange the pressure of all those secrets for a rope about your neck?

Guess what it is that turns plants to coal.

Pressure.

Guess what it is that turns limestone to marble.

Pressure.

Guess what it is that turns Briony's heart to stone.

Pressure.

Pressure is uncomfortable, but so are the gallows. Keep your secrets, wolfgirl. Dance your fists with Eldric's, s.n.a.t.c.h lightning from the G.o.ds. Howl at the moon, at the blood-red moon. Let your mouth be a cavern of stars.

13.

The Trial Pearl returned to us the day before Nelly's trial. We welcomed her, and we shook her hand, and some coins pa.s.sed from Father's hand to hers, and we went our various ways, all except Edric, whom I overheard offering to help with supper.

Pearl said it was very kind of Mister Eldric but she didn't need no help, and anyways, she knew her place, she was sure, which was more than she could say for Mister Eldric; and Eldric said never mind about that, he thought she might like some company just now; and Pearl burst into tears and cried and cried, with Eldric saying things too low for Briony to hear; and Briony realized she should admit she was turning overhearing into eavesdropping, in which case she might as well sit down and enjoy it, which she did; and she heard Pearl's sobs turn to laughter from time to time, as when Eldric tried to peel an onion with the b.u.t.ter knife or said he didn't mind gathering herbs from the garden if Pearl could tell him where to find the mint sauce.

How does Eldric manage this so easily? When I told Pearl how sorry I was about her baby, she merely said, ”Thank you, miss,” and turned back to the sink. Perhaps she could tell I was sorry about her baby, but only in my head. That's just a thought, not a feeling.

The next morning, Eldric also helped out in the kitchen, or pretended to help but really spent most of his time making up disrespectful rhymes about Judge Trumpington and the Chime Child. He even made Father and Mr. Clayborne laugh, although Father couldn't help but comment that Judge Trumpington does not rhyme with wages of sin, and never will.

We were on our way to the courthouse, more than an hour later, when I realized that the whole morning was a trick of Eldric's to set us all at ease. Rose and I, in particular, were nervous.

How does he manage it?

The courthouse was tucked behind the jail, overlooking a sullen little street, clotted year-round with mud. Father and I paused on the courthouse steps to have an exchange of words. They were actual words with actual meanings attached to them. It was not a pleasant experience.

”But you've been called as witness,” said Father. He kept his voice low, as we were in public. No one must suspect that the Larkins have their little family disagreements.

Father and I, together with Rose, Eldric, and Tiddy Rex, made an inward-facing circle, like cows, only more intelligent. The Brownie stuck his long nose between Eldric and Tiddy Rex.

Go away! But I didn't bother saying it anymore.

”Eldric is nice,” said Rose. ”Do you think he's nice?”

”Very nice,” I said.

”He gave me a pink ribbon,” said Rose.

”So he did.”

”He gave it to me because the witches took my first pink ribbon.” Rose was talking now to Eldric. ”When I told Briony you gave me the ribbon, she said, 'Oh, that Eldric!' She meant you're nice.”

”When you've been summoned as a witness,” said Father, ”you are obliged to enter the courtroom.”

How had Stepmother managed to shrug off Father's notions of propriety? She always said he needn't know what we girls were doing. That it wasn't lying, that it kept him from worrying and kept us free to do what we wanted to do.

”But I can't testify if I'm ill.” My words had actual meanings, but none of them penetrated Father's mind. It appeared to be hermetically sealed. ”I always get ill in the courtroom.”

”Always?” said Father. ”You've only been there once.”

”I saw Briony be ill,” said Rose. ”I didn't prefer her to, but she did.”

”It's the way the courtroom smells,” I said. ”It smells of eels.”

Father sighed. ”Please spare me these arguments of yours.”

”Whose arguments should I use?”