by Laura Powell
‘Then let us tidy up the place, once and for all.’
Languidly, Circe waved her hand. A little white flower sprouted from the ground by her feet and began thrusting rapidly upwards, unfurling velvety green leaves as it went. It was one of the snowdrops, or moly flowers, as Circe called them. More blooms appeared and spread, rapidly carpeting the ground with green and white. The air was filled with their swoony scent. In a matter of moments, the whole island was overrun with them. And as the last wave of flowers crested the last hill, the whiteness of their petals and the brightness of the sun flooded together, dazzlingly. Everyone screwed their eyes up against the brilliance, and when Pattern opened them Cull was gone.
So was Nate. So were all the other island visitors, and animals. It was just her and Circe, on a snowdrop-covered hill, in the middle of the sea.
Pattern looked around her in bewilderment. ‘What . . . ? How . . . ? Where . . . ?’
‘So,’ said the enchantress serenely, ‘it seems I must go on my travels again. But I have decided, after all, that I would prefer it if you joined me. A cunning little maid to replace my faithful old steward. Only think what fun we shall have!’
Pattern gaped at her.
‘There are few things more delightful than immortality on an enchanted isle. You strike me as an adventurous type, so where in the world would you like to go? What point of history would you enjoy visiting? I can move through time just as easy as I can skip across oceans, you know.’
‘Milady, I already have employment—’
Circe’s sunny smile darkened. ‘Take care, little Penelope. Your stubbornness is beginning to verge on insolence.’
‘But you promised to let me go,’ Pattern said helplessly. She, who had once been entirely alone in the world, now knew what it was to have true purpose, and a real home. And now this was about to be stolen away from her, all so that she could become slave to a sorceress. Never to be with Eleri again, or Dilys and Franz and her other friends in Elffinberg – never to see Nate! Never to make her report to the Silver Service, never to have another homecoming . . . There were some things, she realized with sickening clarity, that were indeed fates worse than death.
She looked Circe straight in the eye. ‘It was part of our agreement.’
The enchantress’s face darkened further. ‘Now you are boring me too. And you know I loathe boredom above all things.’
The snowdrops rippled beneath them, white as sea foam.
‘I may have released Scylla, but I still have Charybdis, at least.’
Was Pattern to be tossed into the jaws of another monster?
‘Wh-who is that?’
‘My whirlpool.’ Circe made a downwards spiral in the air with her finger tip. ‘Though its currents are those that flow through time and space.’ This time, her smile was dazzling. ‘I will see you on the other side, little Penelope.’
In the blink of an eye, she was gone. In another, the ground and its frothing snowdrops dissolved beneath Pattern’s feet, pitching her into the sea. She could not swim, and the weight of her skirts should have dragged her down in moments, yet instead she was carried aloft on the current that had begun to swirl round in a widening circle, like the watery vortex that had trapped Reverend Blunt. And, as with the Reverend, all her panicked chokes and splutters, her frantic kicking and her splashing, made not a jot of difference to the force of the waves.
Round and round she spun, as if the sea was a tub of dirty bathwater circling a drain, and the centre of the whirlpool a giant plughole. For the whirlpool had formed a funnel, a well in the water that was countless fathoms deep. And far below, at the base of that spinning chute, was the speck of an island, distant and glittering, like a star . . .
With every spin, Pattern was being dragged closer to the hole. She knew, instinctively, that as soon as the force of the whirlpool brought her to the edge of the funnel, she would plunge down to where Circe’s island drifted on its tides of time and space. And then she truly would be lost, forever.
Something, or someone, grabbed at her arm. Something else grabbed her legs. Pattern tried to kick, but she was weak from struggling against the icy water, half blinded with spray, and addled with shock. Then her befuddled brain realized that this was no new attack – instead, she was being pulled free from the relentless draw of the whirlpool. Already, the foaming lip of the funnel was receding from her view. Her rescuers were swimming against the current, and towards freedom.
Holding up Pattern’s left side was the youthful Glaucus. Holding up her right was Scylla, restored to human form. Or not exactly . . . there were no tentacles or fangs, nor smell of rot. But the lovers’ lower bodies were magnificent fishtails, whose powerfully muscular kicks were speeding them through the waves.
Pattern had barely croaked out her thanks when, with a smile, her rescuers plunged her back down under the water.
Was she to drown after all?
Salt water scorched her throat. Stars burst behind her eyes; her ears roared. Flailing about, she was churned and whirled by deep currents. She felt herself go limp as the black weight of sea pressed all around her, like a tombstone crushing her lungs.
Then strong arms dragged her back up again. There was a confusion of shouts and scrabbles. When Pattern blinked the water out of her eyes, she found that she had been hauled to safety by an angry-looking Cornish fisherman. She was on one of a little fleet of fishing boats that were making their way back to the harbour. A short distance away, on another boat, she could see Nate waving anxiously at her. In another, the ladies and gentlemen huddled together, looking somewhat green, and holding handkerchiefs to their faces to block out the smell of fish.
‘How could you be so careless!’ scolded Mrs Robinson, even as she tenderly wrapped a blanket round Pattern’s shivering shoulders. ‘To fall overboard when the sea is flat as a pond!’
Pattern stammered an apology. The other maids crowded round, clucking and cooing.
There was no whirlpool. No Circe. No Cull.
Or, rather, Cull was still there, but in a very different form. It was a windswept mound of mud and rock sticking out of a cold, grey sea. A fine drizzle, as is so often encountered at the English seaside in March, hung on the air.
But then Pattern, glancing back at the island, saw a ray of sun briefly pierce the gloom. It lit up a patch of water, where two bright heads rose above the bubbles, and two pearly fishtails were briefly entwined above the surf. The only other person to witness this was Elsie.
‘There!’ the girl exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘I told you Cornwall was full of mermaids and such.’
EPILOGUE
The more perfectly the apprentice fulfils his duty, the greater will be his reward.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
Pattern’s report to the Silver Service was a long and detailed one. She tried to be honest about her mistakes, and explain her thinking as plainly as possible. Her account was more for the benefit of Mr Crichton and Mrs Jervis than Sir Whitby for, although the gentleman rejoiced at the return of his ward, he suffered considerable mortification over the nature of Henry’s predicament. To have fallen for the seductions of a mechanical doll was a stain on the noble House of Whitby. The sooner the unfortunate affair was forgotten, the better.
At least the young man showed every sign of leading a respectable life. His days of drinking and gambling were over; he devoted himself to archaeological study and the promotion of a vegetarian diet. It was rumoured the sight of a string of sausages or side of ham was enough to bring him to tears. By all accounts, Circe’s other gentlemen guests were similarly reformed characters.
‘. . . So in conclusion,’ Pattern wrote to her dear friend Eleri, Grand Duchess of Elffinberg, ‘it seems to me that Circe’s crimes arose from boredom and changeability more than natural wickedness. Wherever she is now, and whatever fresh schemes she has embarked on, there is still a small chance her better nature will prevail. But I doubt she will ever truly mend her ways.
How I am looking forward
to coming home to Elffinberg! And, oh, how good that is to write! Your suggestion of a holiday by the lakes is an excellent one. I will be very happy to consider the problems of the education budget and the cheesemongers’ dispute while we are there. For, as you know, days of nothing but idleness give me the fidgets.
I have just one more task to do, before I begin my packing . . .’
For Pattern had another note to write. She would send it to Nate’s lodgings in Borough, proposing that they meet in Bedford Square.
She signed it ‘Penny’, but along with the note she enclosed a card. It bore the design of a feather duster crossed with a toasting fork. On the back of the card she wrote, The first step on a new path?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to express her gratitude towards Miss Lucy Pearse of Macmillan and Miss Julia Churchill of A. M. Heath, for their immeasurable efforts on her behalf.
She also owes a debt of thanks to the worthy authors cited below:
The Complete Servant: Being a Practical Guide to the Peculiar Duties and Business of All Descriptions of Servants, by Samuel and Sarah Adams (Knight and Lacey, 1825)
Practical Hints to Young Females: on the Duties of a Wife, a Mother, and a Mistress of a Family, by Mrs Taylor, of Ongar (Taylor & Hessey, and Josiah Conder, 1815)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Powell, who may or may not be a direct descendant of King Arthur, was born in London, but grew up in the shadow of Carreg Cennen Castle in Wales. Much of her childhood was either spent with her nose in a book, or plotting to escape her hated boarding school. Having studied Classics at university, she now spends her time working for the English National Ballet and writing magical mystery stories. She lives in Camberwell with her husband and young son. The Lost Island is the second Silver Service Mystery, which follows The Last Duchess.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Sarah Gibb is a London-based illustrator. After landing regular spots in the Telegraph and Elle magazine, Sarah has gone on to illustrate Sue Townsend’s Adrian Mole series, many classic children’s fairy tales and even the Harrods Christmas window display.
Read on for an extract from
‘An atmostpheric, intriging mystery’
Guardian
The castle lay at the end of a two-mile-long avenue carved through a pine wood. It was a vast and ugly pile, half Greek temple, half Gothic cathedral. Its ranks of pillars were stained by the droppings of many generations of pigeons, the tiers of windows looked as if they were rarely cleaned and the plasterwork was cracked and yellowing.
The main portico overlooked an immense cobbled forecourt and a fountain that dribbled water from a tangle of sea horses and mermaids. Pattern – naturally – was delivered to the back entrance, past stables large enough to house several herds of horses, and into a paved yard where scraps of dead leaves and rubbish swirled. There she was met by a bootboy, who went to fetch a slovenly-looking maid, who went to fetch the head housekeeper, who went to fetch the master of the household.
All of this took a great deal of time, and Pattern, left to wait on the doorstep like an unwanted parcel, felt most uncomfortable. The master of the household, when he finally appeared, looked to have been roused from his tea, for there were crumbs all down his shirt and jam on his collar. He read the Baroness von Bliven’s letter slowly and grudgingly.
‘I suppose,’ he said, even more grudgingly, ‘you’d better come in.’
Pattern was passed back into the care of the Head Housekeeper, Mrs Parry, who was small and pursy, with shiny black button eyes. ‘My,’ she said, on first seeing Pattern, ‘but you’re a dismal scrap of a thing,’ before asking her if England was as wet and dirty as everybody said.
Pattern replied that it was, on occasion.
‘Well, I dare say one gets used to it. I doubt you’ll be here long enough to get homesick, in any case.’
With these discouraging words, Mrs Parry informed Pattern that the Grand Duchess was indisposed and would not receive her until later that evening – if at all. In the meantime, she was to be given a tour of the service quarters. It appeared that a number of noble personages had apartments within the castle, and that attending to their needs provided employment for half of Elffinberg.
They began in the servants’ hall, a draughty dungeon of a place filled with much noise and disorder. From there Pattern was whisked past laundries and larders, sculleries and butteries, pantries and spiceries; rooms for trimming candles, for storing root vegetables, for polishing silver and for blacking boots . . . Bells rang at every moment, from every corner, and people dressed in all manner of shabby uniforms hastened to obey them. It was an underground labyrinth, damp and dim as any cellar, though a great deal more confusing.
Pattern struggled to keep the pace, let alone remember all the information she was so carelessly and quickly given. She could not help but be concerned as to the whereabouts of her luggage, which had been taken off by the bootboy, and she feared the worst as to the tidiness of her hair and the cleanliness of her hands. Everything was so large and elaborate that she felt very small and insignificant indeed, and quite unequal to whatever tasks should be asked of her.
Finally a little pageboy scampered up to whisper in Mrs Parry’s ear: the Grand Duchess was ready for them. By now, Pattern’s throat was parched, and she was near faint with hunger. But there was no time for refreshment, let alone a moment to wash away the dust of the journey or re-pin her hair. Instead, she followed the rustle of Mrs Parry’s skirts up creaking staircases with splintered hand-rails, along limewashed corridors and round cramped corners, through a baize-lined door that swung silently behind them – and into a spacious, well-lit hallway, with a carpet as soft as moss.
The doors to the Grand Duchess’s bedchamber were at the end. It was a room as big as a field, with a four-poster bed as a big as a cottage. The bed was walled with drapes of purple satin suspended from an enormous golden crown near the ceiling. Light glowed from a scattering of candlesticks; every window was shrouded in curtains of dusty plum-coloured velvet. It was stuffy and silent and seemingly deserted.
Mrs Parry advanced upon the giant bed. There was a set of portable steps propped against the end. Mrs Parry paused at their base, head bowed. She gave a small cough.
‘Crumpets and crinolines! Am I never to have any peace?’ exclaimed a peevish voice from within the drapery.
There was a sound of creaking bedsprings and flounced linens. The curtains twitched, and a small sharp face framed by a large white nightcap poked out. The face was scowling.
‘It is the Young Person from England, Your Highness,’ murmured Mrs Parry.
Her Royal Highness Arianwen Eleri Charlotte Louise, Grand Duchess of Elffinberg, looked Pattern up and down and curled her lip.
‘An English spy! How novel. I suppose they have run out of the native sort.’ Then: ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Go away, both of you, and leave me alone. You make me bilious to my bones.’
Praise for The Last Duchess, the first Silver Service Mystery:
‘An atmospheric, intriguing mystery’ Guardian
‘Plenty of plot twists and intrigue in this cracking adventure from below stairs’ Sunday Express
‘A mystery with magic and friendship at its heart and a sharp dagger in its tail’ BookTrust
‘An excellent new series . . . a terrific story of courage, friendship, courtly intrigue and magic’ lovereading4kids.co.uk
‘An entertaining blend of real life and fantasy. There are warm friendships to enjoy, an intriguing mystery to solve and plenty of adventures, dramas and danger to set the pulse racing’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘I would have kept reading this book all night if it wasn’t for my mum and dad’ Amina, age 10, for lovereading4kids.co.uk
Books by Laura Powell
The Last Duchess: A Silver Service Mystery
The Lost Island: A Silver Service Mystery
First published 2018 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This elec
tronic edition published 2018 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-0893-9
Text copyright © Laura Powell 2018
Illustrations copyright © Sarah Gibb 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock
The right of Laura Powell and Sarah Gibb to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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