by Kate Blair
But the seasons continued to turn, and the years with them, pushing us apart like the spinning of a wheel. I was losing my sisters to the delights of the city, to Whitsunday fairs and May Day mummers, masques and markets bright with ribbons and fine fabrics. The distances of the world grew between us. Within another year, Eleanor and Alice were married, and left us.
Only Isabel, my dear Isabel, still had time for me. She sat close, drawing pictures with her hands as she shared stories, true and invented, about the seven of us, tales that always ended in Happily Ever After.
Yet Father made Isabel spend much of her time learning prayers, working on her embroidery and her music, so she would be ready for marriage. Thus I was alone for many dark hours. I began to use my gift to borrow trinkets from my siblings, to slip them away unseen. I thought of my keepsakes as holy relics, like saints’ bones or the rosary of a martyr.
It was The Whisper’s idea. It understood the loneliness in my core, and bade me to take things to ease it. The small treasures I spirited away did help: a bracelet from Elizabeth; the brooch James used to pin feathers upon his cap; Edmund’s intaglio ring. I wished to take Isabel’s silver pomander and hold the scent of her lavender and rosemary, but there would be no hiding the sweet air it gave. I borrowed her doll instead, and would act out my own stories, pretending Isabel was there with me.
I had no golden reliquary in which to store my treasures, like the relics at the cathedral, so I tucked them within my blankets, surrounding myself with reminders of the family I loved. Perhaps my relics could work miracles too. Perhaps they could bring us back together.
However, as The Whisper said, I did not hide them well enough.
“Why does it matter if Silva sees my damaged books?”
None can know how your stories were taken from you. They may try to steal more.
“But Silva …”
The girl’s book has a companion. You should be filling it, instead of tarrying here, arguing with me. Come, let us fly.
Reluctantly, I nodded, and set about my work once more.
Chapter Seven
I SPRINTED ALONG the pavement, past the fire engine, breath coming in desperate gasps. I slipped on the shingle of Grandpa’s driveway and landed on my knees. Pain jarred through me. I dragged myself to my feet and dashed for the house, ignoring the hot throb of my hands where I’d grazed them.
The hall reeked of smoke. Not the comforting smoke of a bonfire, but the chemical stench of burning plastic. In the kitchen, the air was smoggy, but there were no flames.
A firefighter sat at the table, helmet on his lap. Beside him, Grandpa held his head in his hands. He looked up when I came in, worry in his eyes.
“What happened? Is Ollie okay?” I pressed a hand against the stitch in my side.
“Um …” Grandpa looked around, as if my brother might be hiding in a kitchen cupboard.
“No one was hurt,” the firefighter said, turning awkwardly in his bulky outfit. “Just a little accident.” He waved a hand toward the stove.
On the burner stood the melted remains of something plastic. White foam coated it like snow, and a scorch mark flowed up the wall.
“I’m so sorry,” Grandpa said.
“No need to apologize, although you should see a doctor. Smoke inhalation can be serious.”
His voice trembled. “I got mixed up. Put the new kettle on the hob. Forgot you plug this one in. Such a silly mistake.”
Beige plastic showed in the un-charred sections of the melted lump. An electrical cord snaked out the back, almost burned through. It wasn’t a new kettle. He’d had it for years.
My pulse pounded through my ears.
“It’s lucky your neighbor heard the alarm. No serious damage here.”
Neighbor? Janet was involved?
The firefighter stood. “Don’t use the oven until you’ve had it checked out properly.”
“I would offer you a cup of tea.” Grandpa closed his eyes. “I’m such a silly old fool.”
The firefighter shook his head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” But he leaned toward me on his way out and lowered his voice. “Perhaps you could keep an eye on him.”
I nodded at his retreating back, feeling sick. Mom would be furious. I was meant to be keeping an eye on him, but I’d asked Ollie. Where was he?
The toilet flushed upstairs. That answered that. He’d probably had his headphones on, blasting one of his stupid games too loud to hear a smoke alarm. The thudding of footsteps came down the staircase. I turned to the door, ready to shout at him.
But it wasn’t Ollie. It was Chloe.
“You were at the library for a long time,” she said as she walked into the kitchen.
Grandpa ran a hand through his thin hair. “I’m so sorry.”
The windows were open, the chill of outside creeping into the kitchen. But the acid of the smoke burned at the back of my throat.
“It’s lucky Chloe heard the alarm. I didn’t think to use the extinguisher like she did. I just … panicked.”
Chloe shrugged. “I panicked too. Didn’t need to call 999.”
“You did the right thing,” Grandpa said.
I stared at the mess on the stove. I had to sort it before Mum came home. I didn’t know how to get the melted plastic off, and it needed to cool first anyway. A soot stain stretched over the sunflower tiles, a black flame. I grabbed the sponge from the sink, and started wiping at the burn mark. It smeared over the wall.
“Don’t do that, Silva,” Grandpa said. “I’ll clean it up. You girls should sit down.”
I kept scrubbing. “You’re meant to be resting, and I don’t mind.”
“I do.” Grandpa’s tone was firm. “Get out of this smoke. I’ll join you in the front room with some Hobnobs.”
Chloe slouched out. I put down the sponge, but hovered by the stove.
“Please, Silva. I need a moment alone.”
As I drifted along the hall, I caught sight of myself in the gold-framed mirror. My face was white. I pinched my cheek, but my skin stayed as pale as paper.
Chloe threw herself on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up.
“Have you seen Ollie?” I asked.
She shook her head.
I slumped onto the armchair, lowered my head into my hands, and breathed into the darkness of my fingers.
The click of the front door: Mum.
I jumped up, ready to explain, but blue Converse trainers flew across the hall as Ollie kicked them off. My emotions hardened into anger.
“What’s that smell?” Ollie peered into the front room. The smoggy air made him look fuzzy at the edges, and my exhaustion added a tinny buzz to his voice.
“Uncle Chris almost burned down the house,” Chloe said.
I snapped around. “That’s not …” I turned back to Ollie. “I asked you to stay here and watch him.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Yes, I did.”
“In fact, I heard Mum ask you to watch him. Right when I left.”
I froze. That wasn’t right.
Oh no. Oh no.
I didn’t actually see Ollie. I shouted through the door. I’d assumed he was in the front room. But what if he’d just left the TV on, or Grandpa had?
“But … you’ve been gone forever, then!”
He shrugged. “The fire got put out, right?”
Chloe nodded.
“Then I’m going up to bed. I’m tired.” Ollie stomped up the stairs.
I dropped into the armchair, picked up a cushion, and hugged it. This was all my fault. I’d left Grandpa alone. What was I going to tell Mum?
Chloe interrupted my thoughts. “What d’you think Uncle Chris is going to do now?”
“What do you mean, ‘do now’?”
“W
ell, he doesn’t want to go in a home, and he knows he can’t live alone.”
“Why not?”
“Might burn the place down.”
Her words were like a punch. “No. He has to fight this.”
“Why?”
I clenched my jaw. “Because we love him and want him to live.”
“What about what he wants?”
I clutched the cushion tighter. The fabric bunched up under my fingers.
“My gran fought it to the bitter end, you know. Had all the treatments, even when they made her worse.” Chloe stared out of the window as she talked, as if it meant nothing to her, her face set in its usual marble frown. “Death is inevitable.”
“But … he …”
Chloe stiffened. “I should go.”
“Hang on …”
But she stomped to the front door and let herself out. A second later, she ran past the window, across the front lawn, waving her arms, mouth moving as she shouted something I couldn’t catch through the double-glazing. I hurried over to see what she was doing, but she was already out of sight.
A red car turned onto the cul-de-sac. Mum.
I rushed to the hall, throat dry, trying to work out what I was going to say, but the bang of the car door came too quickly, followed by the sound of keys in the lock.
“I’m back!” Mum hunched over from the weight of the bags slung over her shoulders. She dropped everything in the hall with a grunt, and her nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell?”
“Um, there was a little accident.”
Footsteps thudded down the stairs. “Did you bring my Xbox?”
“Nice to see you too, Ollie. It’s in one of the bags. What kind of accident?”
“Grandpa’s fine. It’s just the kettle,” I said quickly.
Ollie dropped to his knees and inspected the bags. “Chloe said he almost burned the house down.”
It would be so easy to kick him, from where I stood.
Mum’s eyes widened. “What? Where is he?”
“In the kitchen,” I said. “Chloe was exaggerating.”
Mum peered down the hall. Then she waved her hands to shoo us into the front room together. She shut the door and lowered her voice. “Almost burned the house down?”
Ollie pulled his Xbox from a bag and crawled with it under one arm over to the TV.
“Grandpa put the plastic kettle on the stove,” I said. “Got it mixed up with his old metal one. It melted, but everything’s fine. No big deal.”
“He got confused?”
“It’s the infection, right? He’ll be okay.”
Ollie peered at the back of the TV. “Mum, did you bring the HDMI cable?”
“The what?”
“To connect it. Won’t work without it.”
Mum put her fingers on her temples and rubbed. “I don’t think so.”
Ollie sat back on his heels. “Then what was the point of bringing the Xbox at all?”
Mum spun around. “I have more important things to worry about than your bloody video games right now, Oliver.” She turned back to me. “Sorry, Silva. You were explaining.”
I didn’t want that anger directed at me. “That’s … it. The fire engine came, but it was sorted by then.”
“Ollie was talking about Chloe. What was she doing here?”
I licked my lips. “She … called 999. Put the fire out with the extinguisher.”
Mum stood perfectly still. When she spoke, it was very slowly.
“Why didn’t you do that?”
The words were as dry as paper in my throat. “I was at the library.”
“Silva,” her voice had a hard edge. “I told you to stay here with your grandfather.”
“I thought Ollie was watching him.”
“I asked you, not Oliver.”
“Silva didn’t ask me,” Ollie said.
I could have slapped him. I seriously could have. “I thought I did, but he was gone all day. He only just got back.”
Mum swiveled around to my brother. “Oliver?”
“I needed some air.”
“I’m going to have words with both of you.” Mum’s eyes glistened. She wiped a hand across them. “But I have to speak to your grandfather. I expect he’s upset right now.”
I nodded, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.
“Go to your rooms. Now.”
I WOKE HOURS later. It was dark, but the mutter of TV came from downstairs. I felt odd, craving something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something was missing. I got out of bed and tiptoed into the hallway, wondering if I was hungry. But that didn’t feel right.
I peered into Mum’s room. She twitched in her sleep, brow furrowed. She was prone to nightmares, but this one didn’t seem bad and I wasn’t ready to face her, so I left her sleeping and crept down the stairs.
Grandpa sat in the front room, a Guinness in his hand, and a paper with a half-filled crossword in his lap. He jumped when he saw me in the doorway. Put a hand on his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
I climbed onto the couch and wrapped my arms around his chest, my face against his shirt. I breathed in the smell of him: musty aftershave and digestive biscuits.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too.” He patted my back. His soft stomach moved with his breath. Out, in.
“I missed you.” I sat up. “I wish we lived down here. Or in one place, at least.”
“That’s my fault. I dragged your gran and your mother all around the country in my army days. Got her used to moving.” He pressed his lips together. “You look pale. Are you okay?”
I wracked my brain for something to say. Something that would make this feel normal. “How’s the puzzle going?” A few clues were completed in Grandpa’s neat handwriting.
“It’s tough. And that’s the problem.” His hazel eyes were intense under his bushy brows. “My brain feels like an old jigsaw. Pieces are starting to go missing.”
“You were okay this summer.”
“I was hiding it, best I could. But it seems I can’t hide it anymore.”
A cold kind of seasickness sloshed through my stomach. “There … there are breakthroughs all the time. Maybe there’ll be one for Alzheimer’s.”
“There won’t be a cure for old age. It’s not just the Alzheimer’s, it’s my heart, and my back and knees. It’s painful to move, and you know how I loved walking.” Grandpa put his can down. “When I’m gone, promise me you’ll stride over the South Downs, with the wind in your face and the clouds scuttling above. Think of me walking up there with you, and be happy.”
My vision blurred. “Don’t say that!”
He reached for my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you in that hospital. That’s not right, and I don’t want you to think it’s because you aren’t important to me. My family is all I have. I never want to forget you again.”
All the words I wanted to say clotted in my throat. I wanted to tell him that he was my anchor in the ever-shifting sea of my life. I wanted to tell him I loved him fiercely, and he had to get well. My cheeks were wet. My nose was running. I needed to wipe my face on my sleeve, but he clutched my fingers tightly.
“Grandpa, I …” There was a hot knot in my chest. I tried to exhale, but my breath caught on it, and a sob came out, swallowing my words. I buried my head in his shoulder
“I know it’s hard to say goodbye. I’ve had to do it too many times.” I listened to his breath, his pulse, felt his warmth. “It feels like yesterday when my little sister, Janet’s mother, died. Your grandmother was in her thirties. My other sister died in a sanatorium at about your age. But I’m an old man. I’ve had a good life.”
A word cut through the panic, cut through the tears, and snagged on my attention. I pulled back. “A sanatorium?”
&n
bsp; “Yes. It was where they sent people who had tuberculosis, before we got antibiotics.”
Cold crawled up my spine. “Wait. What was her name?”
“My older sister? Margaret.”
The room spun. “Margaret?”
Grandpa rolled up his sleeve, revealing his tattoo. “She loved dolls. I got this as soon as I was old enough. So she’d always be with me.”
Chapter Eight
I TRIED TO stop my thoughts whirling. Tried to breathe normally.
Margaret was a real person, not just a character in a book. Margaret was my great-aunt.
Grandpa picked up his can, slurped at his Guinness.
“It’s Margaret’s doll in your room? She died?”
“That’s her photo over there.” He nodded at the shelves. “It’s funny how much easier it is to remember things from back then. It’s clearer than last year.”
I stood, and looked at the picture. I’d seen it before, but not paid attention. It was fuzzy, and I’d always found it hard to tell people in old photos apart. There were two children: a girl and a boy. Behind them stood their mother, holding a baby. Now I stared closely, I could tell the boy was the one who had come to visit Margaret.
The blood pumping in my ears grew louder. Grandpa was Margaret’s little brother.
“You went to visit her,” I said. “Snuck out, without telling your parents?”
“Yes, the night she died. They found her on the floor in the morning. How did you …” He rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. “Oh. I’ve already told you this story. Silly old fool.”
“No, I …” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Didn’t know how to say I’d seen him as a little boy through his sister’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m repeating myself.”
“No, Grandpa.” I climbed back on the sofa, reached for him and squeezed his fingers, staring at the tattoo on his arm, turned green with age. Staring at the ringlets, the black eyes, the once-perfect face of the doll, Margaret’s doll, sunken into the old muscle.
