Rose (7 page)

Here
every
window was colored, filled with saints all standing in niches on either side of a larger panel. The sun shone through the rich, dark colors, making Rose's eyes water. The stone floor of the church was filled with puddles of jeweled light.

“This is my favorite.” Sarah nudged her as the servants filed up a narrow stair into a gallery that ran around the sides and back of the church. “Moses in the bulrushes. Look!”

Rose looked at the little window obediently. It was pretty. The bulrushes waved in the breeze off the river, but Rose didn't think it was that special. Although, the way the bulrushes were painted was very clever. They almost looked as though they were moving…

They
were
moving. And the water was rippling. And baby Moses was waving a fist out of the blanket across his basket. Rose gasped. It was like her moving pictures! So
this
was what Sarah had meant by watching the glass.

“Is it magic?” she whispered to Sarah, who leaned close and whispered back in her ear, keeping an eye on Miss Bridges.

“Of course. Lots of magicians' families come to this church. They give the magic for them. Mr. Fountain did Moses parting the Red Sea, over by the pulpit.” Sarah jerked her head over, and Rose saw the window she meant. It was the biggest one in the church. The water drew back in a foaming wall to let the trembling Israelites—one of whom looked remarkably like Isabella—scurry through. Then it crashed back down on the Egyptian soldiers, there was an odd shimmer, and the scene went back to the way it had been before. Rose stared at it thoughtfully. It wasn't quite like her pictures then. This was just a tiny snatch of a story that repeated itself again and again. But it did seem that what she could do was magic of a kind.

The service was very long. The vicar of St. John's had tailored his services to his flock, which was the children of St. Bridget's and St. Bartholomew's, and very few others. This church, by contrast, was packed with society folk, magicians, and intellectuals, who liked a long, grand service, full of processions and choirs and swirling censers. The smell of the incense made Rose sleepy, and the flickering windows made it hard to concentrate. At the orphanage, they had been examined on the sermon, but discreet questioning of Sarah and Bill had shown that was not the case in the Fountain house.

Rose stayed sitting up straight, but she relaxed inside and let herself think about the last week. Miss Bridges' dislike of idleness and the busy hubbub of the kitchens had made it impossible to just sit and think. She was far too tired to stay awake at night—she could hardly drag herself up the stairs as it was. She heard only fragments of the long prayers in the vicar's slow, sonorous voice.

“We pray for His Majesty, King Albert. We pray for the royal family, our dear princesses…

“We pray for the health of our dear sister, Jane Wetherly…

“We pray for the safety of Emmeline Chambers, disappeared from her home, and Lucinda Mayne, likewise…”

Idly, Rose wondered if Emmeline and Lucinda had run off to join the circus, like Bill's friend Jack…Oh, what was she going to do about this stupid magic? The pictures had been bad enough, but at least they hadn't been discovered. The treacle could have been a disaster. What if the angry gentleman had managed to grab her and haul her back to the house, demanding an explanation? She would have been sent straight back to the orphanage.

She simply had to get rid of it, take it out of herself somehow. Surely she could do that if she didn't want it anymore? She could hide it in a box under her bed, perhaps.

Rose sighed. She had a horrible feeling it wouldn't be that easy. The pictures had felt like part of her, and the episode of the treacle—well, it had just
happened
. She had done it without even meaning to. How could she steal the magic out of herself when she didn't know where it was or what?
Please
let
that
Prendergast
book
tell
me
how!
Rose prayed fiercely.

The service ended at last, and the family stayed to gossip with the fashionable crowd. Miss Bridges exchanged stately compliments with Mrs. Lark from across the square, and the maids pointed out the most awful bonnets and giggled over them.

“Where has Mrs. Jones gone?” Rose asked Sarah. “Did she go home? Does she have to make the lunch?” She was surprised that Sarah hadn't been sent to do it.

“No, no, it's all cold food on a Sunday. We aren't supposed to work, you know.” Sarah sniffed dismissively. “Not work! Hah! But at least the jobs are mostly done.” She looked across the churchyard. “No, I thought so. She's over there, Rose, look.”

Miss Bridges saw them and frowned. “Rose, could you go and fetch Mrs. Jones? We should leave now. My apologies to her, please.”

Rose nodded and set off at a run. Realizing after a few steps that she was probably committing sacrilege by running in a churchyard, she slowed to a brisk walk, turning the strange little scene over in her mind. What was Mrs. Jones doing? Why should Miss Bridges apologize?

But as soon as she drew level with Mrs. Jones, she understood. The cook was standing by a tiny headstone in the far corner of the churchyard. This was no society memorial, just a cheap little gray stone tablet.

Maria
Rose
Jones

Departed
this
life
aged
two
months

It was a very brief message. But then Rose had a feeling that stonemasons might have to be paid by the letter.

“Oh, Rose, did they send you to bring me? I'm sorry, dear.”

“Mrs. Jones…is that…is that your baby?” Rose asked in a whisper.

Mrs. Jones set off down the path, dabbing at her eyes. “Yes, Rose. She would have been your age now, you know. It was the cholera took her, and her father too, a week later. I couldn't afford another stone—his name's on the back of the baby's. I went back into service after that. I couldn't see anything else to do. Luckily my old place took me back.”

“Oh.” Rose couldn't think of anything else to say, though it didn't feel like she'd said enough.

“It reminds me, Rose,” Mrs. Jones muttered, starting to search in her reticule. “Where's the blasted thing got to—beg pardon, Lord—ah!” She pulled out an odd little muslin bag that smelled strongly of rosemary and other, unfamiliar herbs. “You'd best have this, Rose. I don't really approve of this sort of thing—magic ought to stay in its place, that's what I say, but needs must. It was given me by—well, by someone who knows about these things. Look after it careful, mind.”

“What is it?” Rose asked, taking the little bag gingerly. It had a cord on it, for wearing around her neck, she guessed.

“Why, it's an amulet, dear. I forget you know nothing about this silly magic lark. Don't you worry, Rose, you're better off that way. It's for protection. Now just you tuck it away, I can see Miss Bridges tapping her foot from here. But I'd never forgive myself if you got snatched when you're out shopping. Two more little girls this morning, did you hear? I don't know what the world's coming to. And all these magicians listening to the vicar. Are they doing anything? No, they are not, Rose, I can tell you that much.”

Rose obediently tucked the amulet in the pocket of her cloak, but she didn't think it would do anything. She knew by now what magic things felt like. There were certain things in the house that shimmered as her eyes fell on them, or she could hear them humming. She was practically certain that this was a bag of rather smelly herbs and nothing more.

“What's happening to those girls, Mrs. Jones?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, my dear, stolen by slavers, I shouldn't wonder. Bloodthirsty pirates, stealing up the river in the dead of night.” Mrs. Jones shuddered dramatically, and Rose got the feeling she was quite enjoying herself.

A bell jangled frantically in the corner of the kitchen, and everyone looked up irritably. It was the middle of Monday morning, washing day, and the copper tub wouldn't light properly. Tempers were fraying quite quickly, and no one wanted to have to deal with the family right now.

Susan craned her neck to look at the bells. “It's the workroom. Mr. Fountain's up there giving Mr. Freddie his lessons.”

“Who knows what they've done now? Rose, you go and see what they want,” Miss Bridges snapped. “Bill, get out from under there; you'll set your ears on fire.”

Rose dashed up the stairs as fast as she could. The bell was still ringing, and she could feel the urgency and irritation behind it, as though it were screaming at her. She knocked on the workroom door and went in, curtsying to Mr. Fountain.

He was standing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by smashed glass and looking furious. “Ah, good. Rose. Sweep this up, would you? As for you, idiot boy, be grateful I don't make you do it yourself. You must
listen
…”

Rose backed quietly out of the room and ran downstairs again to fetch brushes.

“Broken glass,” she reported to Miss Bridges. “Ever such a lot of it, miss, it might take me a while.”

Miss Bridges just waved her away with a long-suffering look. “I cannot believe there is a mouse's nest in the copper! Do we not have traps? Where is that dratted cat when we want him?”

Rose grinned to herself. At the moment, even sweeping up broken glass looked better than being below stairs.

When she got back to the workroom, she crept in through the open door. Mr. Fountain had gone back to teaching Freddie, and they were both standing by the big wooden table, fiddling with some complicated arrangement of glass tubes.

Rose looked at them worriedly. They were right in the middle of all that broken glass. Even with the best boots on, which she was sure theirs were, their feet could still be cut to ribbons. She was about to mention it, very humbly, when she noticed that actually, their feet weren't touching the ground at all. They were floating, their boot soles quite an inch above the glass. Neither of them seemed to be bothered about it. They weren't even looking at their feet. Mr. Fountain was explaining something to Freddie, and Freddie was staring at the glass tubes, with his nose practically next to them.

“Can you see it? There, look!” Mr. Fountain pointed at something. “Did you see?”

Freddie shook his head. “No, sir, I'm sorry. It's too quick.”

Mr. Fountain huffed in exasperation. “Again…”

Rose started to sweep up the glass very carefully. She was aware that this glass was the remnant of some strange magical experiment, and she wasn't sure it was safe to touch. What might it turn her into? One of the things that was too fast for Freddie to see?

As she swept around them, Mr. Fountain and Freddie helpfully rose a couple more inches off the floor, and Rose murmured her thanks. At last, she tipped the last of the glass into the newspaper she'd brought and parceled it up. She straightened her back, sighing a little. It ached from standing bent over her brush.

“You see it now, Freddie?” Mr. Fountain asked, as they lightly touched down to the ground, without even thinking about it, as far as Rose could see.

“I…think so…” Freddie said slowly, and Rose gasped, “Oh!” She had just seen what they were looking at. Inside the glass tubes was a soft, silvery mist, pulsing and wavering, now here, now there. It was beautiful. And it had heard her, she was sure. It oiled smoothly around the tubing until it was at the closest point to Rose and looked at her. It didn't have eyes, but she knew it was looking. It was obvious.

Rose suddenly realized that it wasn't only the mist looking at her. Mr. Fountain and Freddie were staring at her too, Mr. Fountain with an expression of great interest and Freddie with his pale eyebrows drawn together in a furious scowl.

Of course, if he could hardly see the mist, and now the servant girl was standing looking at it like it was jumping up and down and waving banners at her, he
would
be annoyed. Rose backed away apologetically and scurried out of the room, but she could feel Mr. Fountain's interested gaze stuck to her back all the way down the stairs.

Rose kept remembering that silvery mist while she was helping Mrs. Trump mangle the washing. Her arms ached from turning the handle, but she almost didn't notice. She wondered what it was, the misty stuff. It was so pretty. She sighed lightly. It might be nice to do things like that with magic. She almost wished…

Then she looked up, and saw Bill standing there with another basket of wet washing. He was watching her with an odd expression, rather suspicious. It made him look rattier than ever. But it reminded Rose that she did
not
want to do magic. Ever. She wanted to be a real person.

Rose was kept hard at work all morning helping with the washing, but Mrs. Trump departed after lunch, leaving the servants' quarters swathed in damp and steaming garments. She would be back the next day for the ironing. The atmosphere below stairs seemed to lighten, even though everyone was pink with the heat of the copper.

In the middle of the afternoon, Miss Bridges snipped off the last thread from Rose's new pink-striped cotton dress with her little stork-shaped scissors and sighed.

“There!” She looked up at the clock in the corner of the servants' hall. “You may have half an hour to yourself, Rose, before you need to take tea to Miss Isabella and Miss Anstruther in the schoolroom.” She smiled. “Everyone else in the house will be resting, so you should too.”

Rose blinked, a tiny glimmer of a plan nagging in her mind. “The master and—and the others all have a rest now, then?” she asked, trying hard not to sound too interested. She had been kept so busy, she hardly knew what she was doing, let alone anyone else.

“Yes, although of course Mr. Fountain is at court this afternoon. He has rooms there too, you see.”

Rose nodded. Here was her chance. If she was quick, she could nip up to the workroom and consult that book without anyone noticing. She'd kept trying to get a look at it, but Mr. Freddie seemed to have a genius for lurking where she didn't want him to be, and she'd had to pretend she'd been sent to sweep the floor an unconvincing number of times.

She whisked up the stairs, trying to tread lightly, and crept up to the door. It was humming. Not a pleasant sort of noise, such as she might make while polishing something, but an odd, almost malevolent buzz. Like a swarm of evil bees.
Bad
bees
. Rose suppressed a nervous giggle. She was being silly, but whatever was happening in the workroom was not good. And she didn't think it was anything as simple as bees, either. Something horrible was going on in there. Rose put her hand to her mouth and nibbled the side of her thumb worriedly. Should she just go? What if this was one of those vital-to-the-nation things that Miss Bridges had mentioned, and she would break it somehow if she opened the door? She really didn't
want
to open the door anyway…Unfortunately, this was just the thing that told her she probably should. She wasn't being nosy; she could sense that this wasn't right, and she had to do something about it.

Silently cursing this strange, magical house, Rose put her hand on the doorknob. It was icy, and yet it seemed to burn her fingers as she twisted it. Rose pushed the door open quickly before her feet could give up and run away.

Freddie was standing in the middle of the room. He was clutching Gustavus the cat in his arms, and both of them were stone still. Their eyes were round with fear, which is not that hard for a cat but very difficult for a boy.

Wreathing around them was a strange, black shadow, or was it a smoke or a mist? Rose couldn't tell, and it seemed to change even as she looked at it. It had eyes, she noticed, with a sudden chill. And now they were looking at her. Rose realized in horror that it was the pretty mist she'd seen that morning. Only it wasn't pretty; it was horrible and alien. The eerie vapor poured itself across the room to rush at Rose, and instinctively she put up her hands to protect her face and closed her eyes.

There was a strange, irritated note to the buzzing now, grumpy almost, and Rose ventured to open one eye slowly. The smoke creature was six inches away from her, hissing in frustration, and clearly unable to get any closer. Rose stared at it, confused. Then she caught a twitch of movement in the corner of her eye and flicked a glance at Freddie. He was free, or at least his eyes were. He and Gustavus were peering hopefully, anxiously at Rose and the mist monster, and Gustavus was starting to be able to twitch his tail.

Why didn't the creature freeze her too, or do whatever it was it had done to the others? Had it perhaps used up all its power? Rose looked at it uncertainly and back at Freddie. What should she do? The strange being saw her glance and whirled around in a misty, angry coil. It shot back to Freddie and the cat—or it would have done if Rose hadn't grabbed it. She did it without thinking. If she'd thought, she would have known you couldn't grab mist. But she had. It was buzzing, almost shrieking around her hand, biting and scratching, though without teeth or claws that she could see. It hurt.

Rose hit it. She had fought other girls a few times at the orphanage—not many, for she was one of the quiet ones—and she was well able to take care of herself. No smoke was going to bite her and get away with it. Besides, she could feel its nastiness trying to seep into her skin with the bites. She wasn't having that. She only had half an hour, and then she had to be serving tea.

“Stop it!” she snapped, and cuffed the creature around where she guessed its ear should be. And it did. In fact, it vanished, leaving Rose feeling rather disappointed.

She gazed confusedly at the space where it had been, then looked up at Freddie and Gustavus.

They were staring at her, openmouthed, as though she had just single-handedly dispatched a phantom. Which, Rose supposed, she had.