Rose (6 page)

Bill shrugged. “Oh, sometimes, maybe. The odd one. But only basic stuff. The kind of thing Mr. Fountain does, no shop could afford it.”

Rose grasped at the thread of hope. She hadn't seen much magic at the house yet—it was all hidden away in the workroom, and she only went in there to clean—and she couldn't help being fascinated by it. She'd never seen anything magical, apart from her strange pictures. She was hoping they'd stopped now, but she would love to see some real magic. Maybe even touch it.
What
did
magic
feel
like?
she wondered, idling down the street after Bill. Like sparks, running over her fingers…or perhaps like trying to walk through a puddle of treacle…Rose frowned. Treacle? Where had that come from?

“Oy! Rose! Watch that horse!”

Rose whirled around in horror, realizing that she had accidentally strayed too close to the edge of the pavement, and now an enormous white horse was bearing down on her, ridden by a gentleman in an even taller hat than Bill's.

“Out of the way, girl!” the man shouted, cutting at her with his whip.

Rose cried out as it hit her across the face. She dropped the basket, and Bill hauled her away, cursing. Rose was vaguely aware of being quite impressed. He knew a lot of words.

Then she realized that not all of them were coming from Bill. The man who had hit her was still yelling—because he was covered in treacle.

“Did you do that?” Bill whispered, staring.

“I don't know!” Rose assured him. “Not on purpose!” Her face burned, but she couldn't help smiling. The horse was gazing at her helplessly, treacle dripping down its long white nose. It looked particularly foolish.

“Was this you, girl? Did you throw this stuff at me?” The man was leaning down out of the saddle now, reaching to grab her, and Rose squeaked in dismay.

“Come on!” Bill grabbed the basket—the paper-wrapped crab had been trying to make a getaway, and one claw was sticking out of the parcel—and dragged Rose down an alley.

“Where does this go?” Rose gasped as they raced along.

“No idea!” Bill panted. “Away from him! Honestly, Rose, I knew there was something odd about you, but I didn't think you were one of
them
.”

“I'm not!” Rose wailed. “I don't know anything about magic. Stuff just happens to me!”

Bill slowed down, looking behind them anxiously.

“I don't think he followed us.” He sniggered, almost reluctantly. “He looked like a swamp monster from the Black Lagoon.”

Rose gave him a sharp look. It sounded as though Bill and Freddie had the same taste in comics, despite being as different as they possibly could be in everything else.

“I really don't do it on purpose,” she pleaded. “Maybe I'm cursed? It doesn't happen very often,” she promised him earnestly.

Bill sniffed. “It'd better not. You'll get in a sight of trouble if it does.” He grabbed her chin and turned her face this way and that. “He didn't hit you, then?” he muttered, and Rose realized gratefully that he hadn't wanted her to be hurt, even if she was a strange one.

They walked silently back to the house, Bill giving her worried, almost resentful looks every so often. Rose felt no desire to look about her at the beautiful houses and grand squares they were passing. All she could think was that it was just as she had feared. Bill had found out what she was like and now he hated her. He'd called her
one
of
them
. She didn't want to be one of them! He thought she was like Mr. Freddie, that stuck-up white mouse of a boy. And Miss Isabella, a horrid, spoiled little princess, who kept the house in an uproar with her tantrums and demands. Rose wasn't like that! As soon as she possibly could, Rose resolved, she was going to get into the workroom and read that Prendergast book. Then she'd be able to get rid of this stupid magic and stop it ruining her lovely new life.

Mrs. Jones received the crab with approval and gratefully accepted a chocolate satin, saying she'd always had a fancy for them. She drove Bill out into the yard and swiped the sherbet from his jacket with a clothes brush while he was still in it, but he wasn't sick this time. And moaning about being beaten up by Mrs. Jones distracted Bill from what Rose had done for a little while. At least, he didn't mention it to anyone, but for the rest of the day, Rose kept catching him eyeing her in a thoughtful sort of way. She took to making rude faces back. It was the most unmagical thing she could think of to do.

Miss Bridges bustled into the back kitchen looking slightly harassed. Rose blinked at her. Mrs. Jones looked harassed all the time, especially when Bill was anywhere near, but Miss Bridges was usually serenely calm.

“Ah, Rose.” Miss Bridges managed a regal smile, and Rose hurriedly put down the crystal drop she was polishing. Miss Bridges had announced that morning that now they had Rose to help, they really ought to take down the chandelier and clean it, as it was looking decidedly grubby. Everyone had congregated in the main hallway, the grandest part of the house, watching Bill wobble on a stepladder. Rose couldn't help thinking that this was one of those jobs that a spell would make so much easier. Bill had been standing on tiptoe at the very top of the ladder, swaying sickeningly. Rose had closed her eyes—she simply couldn't watch anymore in case it all came crashing down on top of him.

“Is he all right?” she whispered to Susan. “He's not going to fall, is he?”

Susan gave a disgusted little snort. “What are you worrying about that grubby little toad for? You're sweet on him, aren't you?”

Rose's eyes flew open. “I am not!” she snapped. “I just don't want him to fall off that ladder. If he brings the chandelier down, it'll be me sweeping it up, won't it?” It hadn't taken her long to realize that Susan had an amazing talent for being somewhere else when the nasty jobs needed doing.

Susan only smirked, as Miss Bridges was eyeing them, but as soon as the housekeeper turned around to call more directions to Bill, she gave Rose's arm a vicious pinch. “Show a bit of respect for your elders and betters, miss!”

Rose hissed with pain and mentally added to her revenge list for Susan. She'd seen some quite impressive tricks at the orphanage, but she wanted to be settled in her job for a little longer before she did anything risky. Let her just wait… A yelp from Bill made her dig her fingernails into her palms. “Please don't let him fall!” she whispered to she didn't know who.

“Oh!” Susan sounded surprised and rather disappointed, and Rose opened her eyes, too anxious not to see what was happening. There hadn't been a crash; surely that was a good sign?

Bill was standing at the bottom of the ladder, trailing an armful of crystals and looking relieved if somewhat confused. “It was a lot lighter than it looked,” he muttered.

Rose blinked. She looked at the chandelier, sparkling innocently in the sunlit hallway. It seemed to send little motes of light bouncing and glittering around the marble pillars, so that the whole room glimmered. The effect was—magical.

Rose stared hard at the chandelier. She couldn't tell. It might just have been good luck. Or maybe not. She glanced over her shoulder and shivered as the servants went in procession down the back stairs to the kitchens.

Was it her imagination, or, as the great hallway emptied out, could she hear the house breathing?

Rose looked up at Miss Bridges. “Did you want me, miss?” she asked anxiously, wondering if she'd done something wrong. It would be good if the Fountain house had rules, like the ones at the orphanage. Rules that got read out every week, so everyone knew what was expected of them.

“Mr. Fountain has a moment to see you, Rose,” Miss Bridges announced in a voice that made Rose feel this was a royal command.

She looked helplessly at the brown apron she was wearing.

“No, no, the new white one, Rose, here.” Miss Bridges frowned. “Quickly!”

Rose flurried into the new apron—the first time she'd worn it. It wasn't as fancy as Susan's—Rose coveted Susan's frills in a way she knew was quite sinful—but it was crisply starched and it had a large bow at the back, which she couldn't help craning her neck to admire.

Miss Bridges surveyed her critically and twitched the bow straight. “You'll do. Come along then. We mustn't keep the master waiting.”

“Would he be angry?” Rose asked anxiously, as she jogged after Miss Bridges. Even while she worried, a little bit of Rose couldn't help speculating whether the housekeeper had wheels instead of legs under that black frock. She moved so fast, in a sort of polite glide.

Miss Bridges smiled over her shoulder, gliding onward. “No, not at all, Rose. But he's very busy. I happened to catch him at the right moment and mentioned your arrival. If we leave it too long, he—well, he might not be paying attention anymore…” Miss Bridges sighed. “He's a
very
important man, Rose.”

Mr. Fountain's study was one of the grander rooms, the ones that Susan cleaned, so Rose hadn't seen it before. She didn't see much of it now, except to notice that it had a very beautiful carpet, a woven one, full of animals and birds and strange creatures that might have been both.

“And this is…er…” A deep, purring voice wrapped itself around Rose's ears, making her jump nervously.

“Rose, sir,” Miss Bridges reminded him, pushing Rose forward firmly. “The little girl from St. Bridget's. She's been with us two days, and I'm sure she'll settle in very nicely.” She eyed Rose expectantly, and Rose bobbed a curtsy, and said quietly, “Very pleased I'm sure, sir.” She wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to say, and it seemed to cover all the eventualities.

Mr. Fountain leaned toward her over an enormous expanse of black marble–topped desk, which had several strange brass instruments ticking and swinging on it. The desk looked like an expensive gravestone, Rose thought nervously, fixing her eyes on the silvery threads running through it.

“You're quite right.” The voice had lost some of its purr now and was sharper. Interested, instead of polite. “I often think so myself. It belonged to my first teacher, and I'm afraid he was a terrible show-off.”

Rose glanced up at him shyly, feeling quite sure that she had only
thought
about the gravestone. Mr. Fountain drooped one eyelid in the ghost of a wink. Miss Bridges didn't appear to have noticed. She was looking at a dusty ornament with an expression that did not bode well for Susan.

“Isn't it cold to write on?” Rose asked, forgetting to be polite and putting a finger on the black marble. Then she jumped back in surprise. “Oh! It burned me!”

“Like I said, a terrible show-off,” said Mr. Fountain. “He enchanted it, in case of espionage. Spying, my dear. A dreadful curse in the new magical society. Stealing of spells is rife. Only the owner of this desk can touch it, you see, and it has to be magically willed to its next owner on one's deathbed. An awful bore, as I can't get rid of the thing. I shall probably leave it to Freddie.”

Rose eyed the marble cautiously and then looked up at her master for the first time. His mustache was un-netted now and swooped out to his ears in a glossy brown curl. It looked ridiculous, but his eyes were bright and curious above it. “However does Susan dust it?” she asked.

Mr. Fountain blinked. “I don't think she does,” he murmured. “I hadn't thought about that. I waft my handkerchief over it occasionally.”

“It is awfully dusty,” Rose pointed out. She heard Miss Bridges' sharp intake of breath and realized that even without rules, she ought to have known not to tell off her master about the state of his desk. Still, it was quite true. She bobbed another curtsy, and Miss Bridges shooed her to the door.

“I shall keep an eye on you, young Rose,” Mr. Fountain's voice followed her. He was purring again, and as Rose looked back, she saw that he had his feet up on the enchanted marble.

After that, Rose wished she could be the one to clean the study. She was sure she would do it better than Susan—it hadn't only been the desk that was dusty, she'd noted. She wanted to look at all those strange instruments and study the carpet a little more. And brush it, to get those muddy footprints out. If she used a feather duster, she might even be able to get the desk clean. Or would the spell sizzle the feathers? Honestly, she didn't think magic was as clever and wonderful as all that if no one ever considered the dusting. She sighed. Maybe dusting was just too boring and unimportant to think about. Then Rose frowned to herself. What if dust got in the way? What if a magician was doing a spell and enchanted the dust by mistake? If the spell from Mr. Fountain's desk had landed on dust instead, it would go floating through the air, looking for its owner and burning things! What if it landed on someone's skin? Rose shuddered. That wouldn't happen. Would it? Uneasily, she remembered Mr. Freddie flying down the stairs and breaking a Ming vase. Enchanted dust didn't actually sound all that unlikely. She resolved to be extremely careful of piles of dust from now on.

Anyway, cleaning Mr. Fountain's private study was strictly the senior housemaid's job. Even though Susan didn't work very hard, she would jump on Rose if she suggested taking over any of her duties—she would prefer to bully Rose into doing them and then take the credit while looking smugly angelic.

***

“Gloves! Rose! Yes, good girl, make sure you keep them clean.
William
Sands, where are your gloves?!
”

“Dunno, miss.” Bill stared at Miss Bridges with the expression of a particularly stupid mule. Rose knew him well enough after nearly a week to know that it was put-on. Bill knew perfectly well where his gloves were, she was sure. He just enjoyed baiting Miss Bridges.

“They're in his pockets,” Susan said in a saintly voice. She was wearing a very smart black coat that Rose guessed she must have saved her wages for, and a little black bonnet with a bunch of velvet violets on it. Rose was quite ashamed to realize how pleased she was that the violets made Susan look sallow—but not so ashamed that she intended to stop thinking it.

“Put them on!” Miss Bridges hissed. “This household must be well turned out for church. I will not have slovenliness.”

“She has a competition with Mrs. Lark across the road,” the kitchen maid, Sarah, whispered in Rose's ear, seeing her amazed expression. “Not that she'd ever admit it.”

“Oh!” Rose breathed. That explained it. She'd never seen Miss Bridges so worked up.

As they hurried up the area steps to wait for the family to come out the front door, Rose saw another, very similar party forming up across the square. A fat little lady in a purple mantle was cuffing the ear of a boy in a livery even fancier than Bill's. The jacket had tails, and it appeared he'd had a comic concealed in a secret tail pocket.

Miss Bridges permitted herself a small, very gracious smile as she lifted a hand in a wave. Mrs. Lark pretended not to see.

“I bloomin' well hope it's a short sermon today,” Bill said, tugging on his hated gloves. “Nearly fell asleep last Sunday.”

Sarah shrugged. “Why don't you just watch the glass? That's what I do. It's quite fun.”

Rose looked at them uncertainly. Watch the glass? Did the vicar have an hourglass for his sermon? She glanced at Sarah. She'd been nice to Rose, so much so that Rose occasionally wished that she was a kitchen maid too. But Sarah seemed to spend all her time at the scullery sink, with mountains of washing up. Her hands were cracked and scarlet from the hot water, and she almost never left the kitchens. No, even with Susan to put up with, housemaiding was better than that. But Rose was strangely disappointed. How could Sarah enjoy watching an hourglass? It was just—sand. Trickling through a hole. Maybe she just liked not watching water and pans.

At that moment, the front door swung open, and Mr. Fountain strolled down the steps in a very shiny top hat. He was followed by Freddie and Isabella—Freddie in a black velvet suit with a lace collar, and Isabella in a white lace dress and a little white fur jacket. She looked remarkably like the doll Rose had seen in the toy shop.

“Oh no,” Susan muttered. “I hate that dress. It's a pig to iron. She
would
choose that one. And I'll have to starch Freddie's collar. Mrs. Trump's useless at starching.”

Bill sniggered, and Susan eyed him sharply. “You watch it. Miss Bridges loves lace. I bet she'd think a gold lace collar would really add to your Sunday livery. You'd be well up on Ernest across the road in one of those. Perhaps I should suggest it,” she said sweetly, staring at the sky.

“You wouldn't!” Bill breathed in horror.

“I know who left that dead mouse in the dining room cutlery drawer!” Susan spat, and Bill tried hard to look innocent but couldn't stop himself sputtering with laughter.

***

The church looked more like a palace to Rose. It was surrounded by a positive forest of gravestones, including several black marble ones. Unconsciously she glanced at Mr. Fountain, to find him eyeing her with amusement. Blushing, she fixed her gaze on the graves instead. As they got further up the churchyard path, the stones got larger and more ornate, with gold inlaid in the lettering (
Surely
not
real
gold?
Rose wondered. It looked awfully easy to dig out.) and carving all over the tops of them. Closest to the church were a cluster of elaborate tombs, like little temples, with leaf-topped pillars and heavily locked doors. The funny thing was that they were covered in carvings of people in old-fashioned clothes—not quite like Bible story ones, but almost. Yet the faces didn't look as beautiful as the clothes. They were portraits of real people, of the families the tombs belonged to. Rose could see that the sculptor had tried to make them look grand and dignified, but that woman there in the draped tunic—she looked as though she should have a smart hat on, with fruit on it, and you could see from her frown that she'd been thinking about getting rid of the laundrymaid.

Rose jumped as a hand shot out and hauled her away. “Come on!” Susan snapped. “I'm supposed to be making sure you behave, you little brat.”

The church was nothing like the one they'd been to at the orphanage. That had had plain white-washed walls, scratched wooden pews, and only one stained-glass window, depicting a rather heavily colored portrait of St. John with an eagle. It always looked as though the eagle was considering pecking off his ear.