by Cate Cain
“I am so sorry, Tolly,” whispered Jem.
Tolly stared into the flames. “It was a long time ago.”
The boys sat in silence.
Across the river, thousands of lights were now twinkling from the houses. Tolly pointed at the thin sliver of new moon that was now apparent in the inky sky above St Paul’s.
“You must go home, Jem. You’ll get in trouble and I will be missed at Malfurneaux Place.”
“But there’s so much more I need to know,” Jem protested. “What about Count Cazalon, who is he?”
Tolly laughed grimly. “My master is a collector. He was in Egypt buying mummia. Do you know what that is?”
“I do now. I’ve got a pouch of it here for the duchess.” Jem patted his pocket.
Tolly looked alarmed.
“You must be careful, Jem. Mummia is a most powerful medicinal and magical powder. It is said to prolong life and restore youth, but it is dangerous. Very dangerous. Never touch it directly.”
Jem felt for the pouch in his pocket and carefully tested the string that tied it. It was sealed.
“What does Cazalon do with it – with the mum… mummia?” he asked Tolly.
“He dissolves it in wine and drinks it every day.”
“That’s exactly what he says the duchess must do. It must taste disgusting.”
Tolly smiled.
“As you must have noticed, my master does not live like other men. His interests are… singular. If something is strange or contrary or other – he must have it. I think that’s why he took Ann into his household.”
Jem nodded. The white-haired girl was certainly strange.
“What happened to Ann’s parents, Tolly?”
“Her mother and grandmother were hanged as witches. The Metcalfs were a wealthy family with a fine house and acres of land. Ann believes her grandmother was accused by a jealous neighbour.
“The old woman was taken and tortured and then Ann’s mother was arrested, too. Ann was just a few years old at the time and was therefore deemed innocent.”
Here Tolly paused and added with a wry smile, “But as you have seen, she is a witch. One day she might be a very powerful one – although she needs to practise more.”
He grinned mischievously. “A couple of weeks ago she tried to turn herself into a bird, but it went a bit wrong. She had feathers for eyelashes for several hours afterwards. But you mustn’t tell her I told you about it.”
Jem stared at his friend. Witchcraft was evil, a crime punishable by death. What if Ann was in league with the Devil?
Tolly held up a hand to stop Jem’s racing thoughts.
“Jem, there are many sorts of magic. When I read the images in your mind and speak silently to you, is that not a wonder? It is not evil.
“Ann has inherited great powers, but she is a good soul and a good friend to me. And to you too, now, I think?”
Jem was quiet for a moment. Even if witchcraft was a crime, he knew deep down that Ann was a good person. He thought about her mother and grandmother and shivered. What if someone accused Ann of witchcraft? Would she be hanged too? The thought was horrible and upsetting in a way that Jem couldn’t begin to understand.
Tolly smiled.
“Although Malfurneaux Place is not a… comfortable home, at least Ann is safe there. She believes that one of the reasons Cazalon paid the courts to become her guardian was because he wanted the Metcalf family possessions that would come with her, and most particularly, the books belonging to Ann’s mother and grandmother. Now, their grimoires are part of his library.”
“Their what?” Jem was lost, again.
“A grimoire is a book of spells. Ann’s family has practised magic for generations so their books are especially powerful.”
“But hang on,” Jem pressed his friend, “what did you mean about one of the reasons he paid to be her guardian? Weren’t the grimoires enough? Why else does Cazalon want her?” Jem fixed his eyes on Tolly’s. “There’s more, isn’t there… What aren’t you telling me?”
Tolly suddenly looked fearful. He stood up, and pulled his cloak around him, making sure that Cleo was covered by its folds.
“Enough stories for today. I must go back now or there will be hell to pay.”
He smiled, but there was something about his words that made Jem feel anxious.
“Wait. I have to know more. Why does Cazalon want me?”
“That’s something we need to find out. We are certain you are the jade boy, but we don’t know any more than that,” said Tolly, stamping on the embers of the little fire. “Now, you must go too, before the bridge closes for the night.”
Tolly ducked out from the beneath the shelter of the arch and began to climb the icy steps. At the top, without turning back, he raised his right arm in salute. In his head Jem heard the words, “Thank you for the food, Jem. We’ll meet again soon.”
As Jem made his own way back to the bridge, snow began to fall again thick and fast. He joined the long queue of people waiting to pay the toll for crossing on foot.
Jem’s mind was swimming with questions as slippery and quick as a shoal of a thousand fish, but one thought kept bobbing to the surface – if the count was a collector, as both Ann and Tolly had said, why did he want to add him, ordinary Jem Green, to his collection?
CHAPTER TEN
Sarah and the duchess were waiting anxiously for him in the small blue salon. His mother’s face was pinched and her eyes were pink, as if she’d been crying.
“Where have you been?” she demanded as he stood shivering in front of the bright little fire.
“I– I got lost.”
Jem glanced uncertainly at the duchess. She gave a quick nod.
“As I told you earlier, it is entirely my fault. I ran out of red thread for the slippers I have been making for His Grace. I sent Jem out to buy some more. Forgive me, Sarah, it was foolish on such a day as this, but I was impatient to finish.”
The duchess looked at Jem and gave a tight smile.
“And now he is safely back with us,” she continued briskly. “Sarah, would you go and make sure that Jem’s bed is warmed tonight and that a fire burns in his room? It is the least I can do to make amends.”
Sarah looked suspiciously from Jem to the duchess and was clearly about to make a comment, when the duchess continued, “Perhaps you could also ask one of the kitchen maids to warm a posset of hot milk and brandy for our prodigal son here.”
She turned to look at Sarah. “While you arrange matters I shall keep Jem here with me by the fire. He is chilled to the marrow.”
Jem shuddered, remembering that Cazalon had used those very words earlier.
Sarah bristled a little at the duchess’s order, but rustled into action. As she passed Jem, she laid a soft hand on his face and bent to whisper, “Don’t ever frighten me like that again, do you hear me, Jemmy? Never again.”
She hadn’t called him ‘Jemmy’ for a long time. He felt guilty about lying to her.
When they were alone, the duchess patted the stool beside her chair and invited him to sit by her. Her brown eyes were twinkling with nervous excitement.
“Now, I think you must have something for me?”
Jem felt for the pouch of mummia in the pocket of his jacket and handed it to the duchess.
She looked disappointed.
“Is that all? It is a very small quantity.”
Jem shifted uncomfortably.
“He says, er… that is to say, the count says, that you are to take one spoonful in a glass of wine each day. But no more. Just the one, ma’am, he was most specific.”
The Duchess of Bellingdon seemed to weigh the pouch in her hand for a moment.
“Why, it is more valuable than tea. I shall have to lock it away.”
She looked shrewdly at Jem.
“Do you know what this is, boy?”
Jem looked at his feet. The snow was beginning to melt from his boots into a little puddle on the floor.
“Um…
he said it was a– a… medicine, ma’am.”
The duchess clapped her hands and laughed.
“Indeed it is. Indeed it is – a most extraordinary and secret medicine. Do you understand?”
She stared meaningfully at Jem and he nodded. Satisfied, the duchess patted the pouch in her lap and smiled broadly.
“Thank you, Jem. That will be all for today. You must rest now as I can see that my little errand has tired you.” It was true – Jem’s eyelids were drooping as he huddled on the stool. He was fighting hard to stay awake. The duchess rose from her chair and rang a tiny silver bell. Then she carried the mummia over to her desk, unlocked a drawer and placed the pouch among her papers and writing things. All the while, she hummed a merry tune.
Then the door to the small salon opened and one of the maids entered, holding a steaming posset. The tantalising aroma of honey, brandy and nutmeg wafted into the room and, despite everything, all Jem could think about was his warm bed in the attic.
Over a month had passed since that terrifying visit to Malfurneaux Place and Jem was back to his usual drudgery. A bout of winter fever was burning through the kitchen and today he was hard at work on the tasks usually tackled by at least three other scullion boys. Pig Face had already beaten him twice: once for falling behind and the second time for trying to explain that he was doing enough work for four.
Jem scrubbed at the globules of fat stuck to the metal of a grease-covered pan. The water in the trough in front of him was ice cold.
Sometimes, he wondered if the whole thing had been a nightmare, but on the odd occasion when he was above stairs and came across the duchess, she would smile at him and whisper that her medicine was agreeing with her.
And that’s when he was reminded that it was all horribly real – and when he found himself worrying about Tolly, Ann and Cleo in that dark and terrible house.
At least the duchess seemed happier. Even if mummia is disgusting stuff, Jem thought, it is certainly doing her some good.
From petty servants’ quarrels to the discovery of a whole side of spoiled ham in the lower pantry, nothing seemed to bother her.
Jem was glad to see the duchess happy, and his mother seemed to have caught her mistress’s high spirits. There had been several times recently when Sarah had laughed and joked with him just as she had when he was still a small child, and once, he had even heard her speak of his father.
He was carrying a pitcher of sweet wine to the duchess and was just outside the door to the blue room when he heard Sarah say, “He is so alike to his father in manner that it takes my breath away. Sometimes I can’t look at him because the likeness is so strong.”
“Yes. I often see it, too,” came the duchess’s reply through the half-open door. “Something in the way Jem stands – and, of course, the face he makes when he is angry.”
The women looked up from their sewing as Jem entered the room. “There. Do you see it now?” said the duchess and Jem saw them exchange a meaningful look. He scowled. They didn’t know he had heard their words. Once again, it seemed that everyone was at liberty to discuss his father except him.
“The shame of it,” one of the kitchen maids had hissed, when she thought Jem wasn’t around. “Forced to raise his child in her own home – and she as barren as a mule.” The maid had laughed, cruelly. But when Tobias the footman raised an eyebrow and indicated that Jem was standing behind her, she’d just covered her mouth with her hands and scuttled off.
Jem loved his mother, but he was also angry with her. Why did she never mention his father? Was it possible that the servants’ chatter was true?
Was the Duke of Bellingdon his father?
It was the first time he had let himself pay any attention to the servants’ idle gossip and it made him feel shabby and sick at heart. In truth, the man had never shown him any particular affection, but his wife, childless Mary, had once treated him like her own son. Jem knew that she had been his mother’s close friend for many years, but was he the secret lurking at their heart of their friendship?
But if the duke really was his father then why was he treated so badly himself?
Jem winced. His hands were like blocks of ice in the water and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He leaned against the trough and tried to rub some blood back into them.
“Slacking again, are we?”
Thwack!
The blow caught him across the shoulders. Wormald stood just behind him, his malevolent grey eyes alight with pleasure. The steward flexed the jagged cane between his fingers.
Jem looked desperately around the kitchen, there was no one else in the room. Wormald took a step closer.
“And don’t think your hoity-toity mother will come running to save you, boy. She’s upstairs planning the Easter feast with the duchess. We are completely alone.”
The steward smiled unpleasantly. “And even if there were other people here, no one would raise a hand to help you. You’ve no friends, lad.”
Thwack!
The second blow caught Jem’s arm. But just as the steward was about to lift his cane again, he gasped and clutched his stomach. The air was suddenly filled with the most potent and appalling smell of rotting cabbage laced with bad egg. Seconds later a gigantic rumbling rippled from the man’s breeches.
Wormald hopped from foot to foot for a couple of seconds making little grunting noises, then, with a face as grey as his hair, he doubled in two and scuttled like a crab to the yard door.
Jem let out a long breath and grinned broadly.
Wormald was wrong. He did have friends.
Easter came, and, as usual, Sarah presented Jem with a gift – a fine new linen shirt she had made in secret. He gave her an egg on which he had carefully painted the image of a leaping hare. He couldn’t buy her a proper gift, but she seemed delighted.
As was customary on Easter Sunday, the whole household, right down to the lowliest kitchen spitboys, went to the service at St Paul’s – the greatest and oldest of the City’s churches.
Inside, it was dark and shadowy and even the decorations of bright spring flowers failed to banish the gloom. The Duke and Duchess of Bellingdon sat in their own crested box pew near the altar and the servants stood at the back of the congregation with the city commoners. Jem and Sarah positioned themselves somewhere midway, between the rabble and the richly dressed aristocrats, wealthy city merchants, aldermen and judges.
Jem’s new shirt was stiff and scratchy, and the band of material he wore round his neck to cover the ugly birthmark felt hot and uncomfortable as it rubbed against the starched linen collar. He fidgeted moodily and stared up at the soaring arches of the ceiling above to try and stretch his itching throat.
The sermon was long and very dull. The fat little preacher had a high-pitched squeaky voice, but what was even worse was that he couldn’t sound the letter ‘r’ properly.
“We must all stwive to wemember,” quavered the cleric, “that evil wears many faces and will twy to twick us. Do not take the wong woad, for only the wighteous may find eternal west in the heavenly wealm.”
Jem stifled a snigger and his mother prodded him with her elbow. He managed to control his laughter until the little man finally concluded by shouting out the triumphant words, “Wejoice! Wejoice for He is Wisen!” Jem’s shoulders started to rock, but the more he tried to control himself the funnier it seemed. He buried his chin into the collar of his coat as hot tears of unexploded mirth started to stream from his eyes. Covering his mouth with his hands, he pretended to be coughing, as he tried to convert the wild bubbling sound that was building up within his chest into something more acceptable. He could feel Sarah’s angry eyes boring into him. “I think you had better go outside, right now!” she hissed, and Jem gratefully turned to push his way through the people standing in front of the west door.
The press of bodies was thick here and the crowd reeked of sweat – and worse. Jem was relieved to burst out into the fresh air and bright spring sunlight, where he threw back his head an
d finally allowed the huge guffaws that had been bottled up inside to erupt.
“I am glad that you seem to find the rituals of the church as ridiculous as I do, Jeremy.” The sibilant voice was unmistakable. Jem spun round and found himself staring into the glinting black eyes of Count Cazalon. The man was dressed in a black cloak that reached to his ankles and his curled periwig was white as snow. His red-painted lips curved into a smile.
“It is always so pleasant when friends find something new to bind them together, is it not, Jeremy?” Jem took a step back and looked about, the City streets were deserted. Everyone was attending the service.
“I– I had to leave because I was coughing and didn’t want cause a disturbance,” he said weakly, aware that Cazalon had been watching him.
“Well, well, that is certainly a most irksome affliction: perhaps I can offer you something for it – a soothing lozenge, perhaps?”
He reached forward and Jem saw a pouch in his hand.
“Do take one of these, Jeremy. I find them most efficacious for congestive problems.”
Out of nowhere, Ann’s warning about not taking food from the count rang clear and true in his mind.
“No!” He shouted.
Cazalon’s eyes narrowed.
“I– I mean, no… no thank you,” Jem stuttered. “I do not think it will be necessary, sir.”
The boy took another step back. Cazalon slowly detached himself from the ancient blackened wall against which he had been leaning and stalked towards Jem, supporting himself on his twisted staff.
“You disappoint me, Jeremy. And it is always so rude to reject a friend’s offer of help.”
There was anger in Cazalon’s expression, but his voice was controlled.
“I shall cast my sweetmeats to the pigeons here instead then.”
He reached into the pouch and threw a handful of red sugared balls into the midst of a nearby knot of cooing grey birds. Immediately they fell upon the offering.
