by Kate Blair
There was a knock on the door. It opened and Matron entered, frizzy hair protruding from her starched white cap.
“Lights out?” I said, hopefully.
“A visitor for you. It’s out of usual hours, but he said he’d come a long way.” She leaned forward. “And he threatened to cry if I said no. Don’t tell the doctor, but he can stay for five minutes.”
“Thank you,” I said, but my stomach sank.
A boy burst past Matron, and into my room, a blur of speed. His short trousers were splattered with mud: my dear little brother.
Matron backed out, closing the door behind her.
“Peggy!” he said, coming over to the bed.
I lifted a heavy arm and ruffled his hair. “Oh, dear heart. What are you doing here? Where are Mama and Papa?”
“They’re busy with the brat.”
“Do they know you’re here?” No answer. “Did you cycle all the way without telling them?”
The crying came louder from the next room. I wanted to cover my brother’s ears. He was so full of life. The sanatorium had leached that out of me.
My brother leaned in, toward my bed. “I can get you out of here. Jack’s brother’s got a motorbike with a sidecar and he knows where the keys are. We could be out of here in a jiffy —”
“Oh, I wish I could. But they’d just bring me back.”
My brother’s head dropped. “You’re getting so weak, Peg. This place is bad for you.”
For a moment, I considered telling him about the fun I’d been having among the dolls. But he’d think I was going barmy, locked up here.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible drip. Not resting as much as I should. I’ll try harder.”
He looked up at me with his big eyes. “You’ll rest properly? Do everything you can to get out of here? Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart.” I traced my fingers in an “x” and held out a hand for him to shake.
As my brother touched me, his expression froze. “Your hand’s cold, Peg. And stiff.”
I pulled my arm away and tucked it under the covers. “It’s jolly chilly in here at night. They leave the windows open. Fresh air is good for us.”
Matron peered in. “Sorry. It’s lights out, and they’ll have my skin if they catch you here.”
“Bye, Peg.” My brother dragged his feet as he headed to the door. “Remember your promise. Rest. Get better. Come home.”
“I love you,” I said. “Tell Mama, Papa, and the baby I love them too.”
My brother disappeared through the door. As he left, Matron flicked off the light, leaving me in the dim room.
How I wished I could jump in the sidecar of a motorbike with my darling little brother, wished that we might screech our way out of here, hair in the wind. But it was awful to think like that. It made the sorrow cut deeper; down to my bones.
There was only one place I felt fully myself now. Only one place where I could be well.
I waited for the click of Matron’s heels and the squeak of my brother’s plimsolls to fade.
My dollhouse stood against the wall, the one thing I was allowed from home.
I’d visit one more time, then have a few nights off. Get more shut-eye. That wasn’t breaking my promise. Not really. I was just postponing it for a night.
I put my doll to one side, and struggled to get off the bed. I was shaky and breathless, and my heart beat hard. But I was down, knees aching, on the bitterly cold floor, joints almost locked.
Surely that wasn’t normal with tuberculosis, was it?
No matter. I was practically there. I crawled closer to the dollhouse.
The tiny front door didn’t fit the toy home. It had been a plain white door before I got sick. But on the most awful night I’d ever known, the sweet little magpie had appeared and with it, the ancient-looking door, a dark bird burned into the wood.
I reached for it, prodded it open with a finger. I felt my hand changing. I felt myself shrinking, with a shiver of relief. I was pulled down, pulled through the door.
I stood in the wood-paneled foyer of the dollhouse and exhaled. I was me, fully me without that horrible sense of dislocation, that bone-deep pining to be here. Of course, the tuberculosis still held my lungs tight, but the dolls would bring me relief from that.
A twisted tree trunk grew out from the center of the large entrance hall. Wooden steps circled around it with branches for banisters, forming a spiral staircase that looked as if it had grown there. The magpie perched at the top, high above me. I felt weary just looking up there, but most of the dolls on this floor were sick, like me. I began to climb.
It took a long time to get up the first flight. Step, breathe. Step, breathe. I kept going, up to the second, then a bothersome coughing fit hit. I clutched the branch to my side until it passed. My lungs were raw, my legs shaky.
I made it to the third floor, but had to stop on the landing for a long time, leaning against the wall, choking and gasping. When I took my hand from my mouth, I got a nasty jolt.
It was wet with blood.
The magpie looked down on me, something like concern in its dark eyes.
I should be resting, like I’d promised my brother, not climbing staircases. I should go back to bed. I peered down, at the ground floor. A few dolls stood there, clustered around the bottom of the staircase. That was peculiar.
Had they done that before? Left their rooms and gathered there, between me and the front door? I wondered if they’d stop me leaving, and shivered.
No. I was being preposterous. The dolls were helpful, weren’t they?
I floundered on. The landing opened into six hallways. I picked the nearest. I peered into the first room. It had plain walls, like a cell, with a figure standing in the middle: a human-sized doll. Or rather, it was me that was doll-sized, shrunk to fit the house. The doll stared straight ahead, skinny frame draped in rags, hair lanky, face spotted with angry red sores.
No. She was sick. The whole point of being here was to feel well. I moved on. The next room was furnished, and covered in dark green wallpaper. The doll in the center wore an extravagant maroon Victorian gown, jewels sparkling on the peachy skin of her neck.
My footsteps were hushed by the soft carpet as I approached. The doll’s arms were plump, her cheeks rounded and apple-red, lips a perfect pink bow: the very picture of health.
Yes. My seventh doll. This one.
I reached toward her. The doll lifted her arm, mirroring me. Her hand was warm as it touched my fingertips. I fell forward, into her merciful embrace.
I OPENED MY eyes. Dust glittered in the golden light from the dome above me. The wooden seat was hard against my back, and the book lay on my lap. I stretched, and my arms moved, effortlessly. They were mine again.
It was like waking from a dream, still clasping at the memories of being Margaret, of the sinister dollhouse, but her exhaustion had lifted, and I felt as light as a balloon.
I took a deep breath. The oxygen reached deep into my lungs. It felt good to breathe easily, to not have tuberculosis. I ran my hands over my body, feeling the tingle across my skin, glad to have myself back.
This place was a world of stories. A tree growing novels, branches unfurling leafy pages, adventures for me to enter. Were they all creepy like Margaret’s? Or were there fantasies and fairy tales?
The magpie still sat on the top shelf.
I shook my head. “How did …”
The magpie swooped to land on the arm of my chair, so close that I fought the urge to reach out, to stroke the blue-black sheen of its feathers, the pure white of its chest.
“That was amazing!” I said.
The bird gave a little bow.
“But … what did it have to do with Grandpa? Was it just the doll tattoo?”
The magpie hopped forward, pointing its beak at the b
ook in my lap.
“You want me to read more? From the beginning?”
A quick nod.
I picked up the story, but as I did, my hands brushed against my jeans: my dry jeans. Cold crept up my back.
“I was soaked when I came in. How long have I been here?”
The bird twitched its head insistently toward Margaret’s book.
I pulled out my phone: 4:02 p.m. Over three hours had passed. Mum would be waiting for me, along with the food I’d promised to buy.
I stood. The book slid onto the ground with a thump. The magpie fluttered away, startled.
“Sorry!” I picked up the book, straightened the dust jacket and placed it carefully on the cushion. “I have to go.”
The magpie shook its head.
“But I’ll come back. I mean, can … can I come back?”
It nodded, three times, enthusiastically.
“Thank you! I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise!”
I hurried toward the door to the real world and, with a regretful glance at the beautiful library and the magpie sitting in the middle, stepped out.
As soon as the door closed behind me, I worried I’d made a mistake. I spun around, afraid the entrance might have disappeared as inexplicably as it had appeared. But it was still there. I laid my palm on the old wood, on the black magpie singed into it.
A feeling nagged at me, like I’d forgotten something. I almost opened the door again to look for it. But an irregular squeaking made me turn.
Asha pushed a trolley of books past the end of the aisle. One of the wheels wobbled, squealing as it moved. “Silva! Back for your coat? I stuck it behind the desk. I’ll grab it.”
My hand was still on the door, but she didn’t comment on it. Maybe that’s what I’d forgotten: my coat. But that didn’t feel right.
Asha reappeared, bounding down the aisle with my jacket over her arm. “I was worried about you. You must have been distracted to go out in the rain without this.”
She wasn’t looking at the door at all.
“Have you … seen anything strange around here?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Um … like a magpie?”
“Where?”
That confirmed it. Only I could see the door. “I guess it flew away.”
Asha’s gaze was tight with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Thanks.”
“Do you want me to call someone for you?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I stuck a smile on to prove it. “I’ll see you soon, all right?”
“Okay,” Asha said, although she didn’t sound sure.
I stumbled outside, trying to put my whirling thoughts into order. My headache pounded. The rain had steadied to a wet haze that left tiny drops on my phone’s screen. I wiped them with my sleeve. A message buzzed in from Mum, asking when I’d be back. I typed a quick reply.
Sorry. Lost track of time. Coming back now.
Asha had put away my coat. The library wasn’t big; if I were there, she’d have seen me. And my jeans had dried, so I hadn’t gone outside. But I’d gone somewhere for three hours.
I’d actually entered a magical library, and lived through a story.
IN MY LIBRARY the girl, Silva, had gone, but a cloud of glittering motes marked where she had sat to read: a trail of shining life she had shed; a piece of her to look after.
Now, keep her safe, said The Whisper.
I flew to the empty shelf. The space upon the branch shimmered, like the air above a hearth. A blank book revealed itself, rustled, and opened. The scraps of light glittered, drifting across the library and into the book. They settled upon the empty pages, and their golden glow faded to the lifeless black of ink. The book closed, sealing them in.
An image developed upon the cover, growing slowly clearer, like the hills when the mists lifted. A picture of Silva, reaching for a book in the library, her face bright with hope.
I missed her already. I would have touched the picture, if I were still a boy. Some never returned. Some were afraid, yet she had seemed enchanted.
I shall help you to bring her back, The Whisper said.
What would I do if I did not have The Whisper? I was not able to recall a time when it had not been close, its velvet voice within my head. Yet, I did not know it as The Whisper at first. It was so quiet that I believed its words were my own thoughts.
The Whisper found me almost five hundred years ago. I was just a baby, left alone after my mother died in childbed. I was the youngest of seven children, and The Whisper told me I was so weak I would not have lived, if it had not been there to keep me company.
But I survived, though I was much afflicted with chincough and agues, green sickness and gripings of the belly. The doctors said I must be purged of evil humors, with leeches, cold whey, and bitter herbs. I was kept from my siblings and Father hired a servant, Lettie, to take care of me. For a time, I believed she loved me as if I were her own.
I learned the hard way that I was mistaken. It was my gift that drove her away: the curious little talent that had always been a part of me, a magic The Whisper said was because my mother was the seventh born in her family, and I was her seventh child. Such a birthright made me a blessed child, a special child. But at first, it was only the slightest things I could move with the power within my mind, like the rushes upon our floor. I could make them dance with a thought, as if a miniature tempest gusted among them.
The Whisper showed me how to pull, how to push, how to tilt my thoughts just so and let things come to me. It showed me how to cause the wall-hangings to ripple as if a wind passed through the chamber, and how to extinguish a candle with but a thought.
Because of this, rumors flew among the servants that our house was bedeviled by hobgoblins and imps. My father sneered at such talk, yet many of our servants left us, and those that stayed would whisper their prayers as they went about the house at night.
Thus, I learned that my gift was not a common skill, but one that was likely to get me burned as a witch if I did not take care. So I practiced alone, following the hushed instruction of the voice in my head.
Yet Lettie stayed. She spent all the hours of the day in my company, but I grieved each evening, when she left our house for her own children.
It is not mere objects that you can draw to you, The Whisper told me one evening. You can bring people close too, and hold them there.
One midwinter day, when I was but four years old, Lettie donned her surcoat and kissed me upon the head. As she took her leave of me from the doorway, I decided to test The Whisper’s words. I reached for her, not with my hands, but my mind. I reached into her. I gripped her spirit, the living core of her, as tightly as I had clutched at her legs on other nights, bawling for her to tarry.
She froze upon her path. For as long as I held her within my mind, she was still, stuck fast as a bird caught in lime. I tried to pull; to bring her close and make her wrap her arms around me. Yet I was unpracticed and weak. I lost my grip upon her.
Lettie fell to her knees. Her hands flew to the front of her kirtle, to her heart. “Maghew?” Her eyes were as one who has seen a specter, and I was much afeared that I had injured her very soul. She lifted her skirts and ran to the door.
She never returned.
I let a nervous flutter move through my wings at the memory. I gazed upon the new book, the girl reaching out, eyes alight.
“What if she never returns? What if we can’t keep her here?”
It will be your choice, The Whisper said. But for now, there is another who needs you, even more than she. We must go.
I nodded. The Whisper was right. The Whisper was always right.
So I shook out my feathers, and took to the skies, searching for the next lonely soul to add to my collection.
Chapter Four
MUM OPENED THE front door with hands clad in yellow gloves. I raised the bag I’d got at the chippy on the way home.
“Great, I’m starving,” she said and peeled a rubber glove off with a snap.
The house smelled like pine cleaner, the mail was stacked on the side table, and the dirty plates and cups were gone. All the living room needed was a tree, decorated with the cross-eyed reindeer ornaments we’d made as children, and it would feel like our normal Christmas visit. Mum had reclaimed Grandpa’s house from the nightmare of the morning.
I suddenly realized she was talking.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was asking for the food.” Mum held her hand out. “Are you okay?”
I gave her the bag. “Yeah. I just have this feeling I’ve forgotten something.”
“I know what you mean. I get that all the time. What books did you get?”
“Oh. None, actually.”
“Then maybe that’s what you forgot.” Mum led me down the hall. “Chloe’s here. She’s been helping.”
Chloe sat at the breakfast table. She was a stony-faced girl, with a grumpy expression permanently etched on her face. A mess of short black hair erupted from her head, with a white streak above one eye. It made her look like a badger. Her temperament was about the same too.
She was seventeen and had been homeschooled for years, due to a “bullying incident” in her early teens. Janet was vague on the details, but it was pretty clear Chloe had been kicked out of school for tormenting some poor classmate.
She glanced up for a second as I came in, then went back to glaring at the table. I wanted to tell her that the role of “moody brat” in this family was already taken. But then I realized we were missing our twelve-year-old ray of sunshine.
“Where’s Ollie?”
“He went for a walk on the beach,” Mum said. “Do you want to share with us, Chloe?”
Chloe gave a grunt Mum seemed to interpret as “yes,” because she grabbed three clean plates from the rack. She took the bag, and split the fish and chips between us.
