by Holly Webb
Henry slid down the window, his black claws scraping the glass with an eerie shriek, and padded grumpily around the wooden boxes. George pulled out a bucket of something that looked quite disgusting and poured it down in front of him. Rose backed away, shuddering, as Henry went into a slobbering, tearing frenzy in the window. She supposed Bill had never seen Henry at feeding time, or he’d never have said the creature was stuffed.
Rose trailed back home through the snow with the parcels, worrying over what she’d seen. She was almost certain Mr. Sowerby was right, and the fierce winter was nothing to do with magic, despite the strange prickling feeling in her fingers whenever she touched the snow. It was just because it was cold, wasn’t it? But that meant nothing if everyone else was equally sure the winter weather was some dreadful spell.
Nine
Mr. Fountain hardly seemed to be in the house at all for the next few days. He didn’t even go to church on Sunday, which left everyone quite shocked. Bella and Freddie sat alone in the family pew, and Bella was heard to snore quite loudly during the sermon until Freddie poked her. Miss Bridges flinched, but there was nothing she could do.
After the service, magicians were chatting in worried groups, and it was noticeable that several non-magical families had disappeared from the congregation. Rose waved to Mr. Sowerby and George, but Mr. Sowerby’s mustache looked limp.
On Monday, the butcher’s boy didn’t deliver as usual, and Rose and Bill had to go and fetch the meat order. The butcher had a sign in the window, advertising a public meeting on Registration of Dangerous Members of Society. Bill nudged her. “That’s you, Rosie.” He sniggered.
Rose looked at him miserably. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
Bill shrugged uncomfortably. “’Course not. Well, not you, anyway. Reckon Mr. Fountain could be a bit dangerous. But he’s on our side, isn’t he?”
“There isn’t a side!” Rose wailed.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all politics, isn’t it? Dull stuff. Jack says there’s to be a Frost Fair if this cold snap carries on, first one in thirty years. You want to come with me, on your afternoon off?”
“What’s a Frost Fair?” Rose asked, distracted for a moment.
“When the river freezes over,” Bill explained. “It hasn’t done it for years, not since they rebuilt the bridge. People said it never would again, because the water flows too fast now. But this winter—with the magic an’ all—it’ll be solid by next week, Jack reckons, and he knows a couple of the boatmen. When it’s hard enough to walk on, they build stalls. There’s dancing. Maybe even a bear. Will you come, Rose?”
Rose considered. She had never been to a fair—any kind of fair—and the idea of one on the top of a river sounded too charming to miss. “The first in thirty years,” she said slowly, not wanting to agree all at once.
“I’ll buy you some gingerbread,” Bill offered gruffly.
Rose smiled. “Oh, well then…are you sure you want to take a dangerous member of society to a fair?”
Bill scowled. “You’re making fun of me. Just say no if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I do!” Rose touched his arm just for a second. But he caught her hand and laid it on his sleeve.
“You better hold on. Slippery around here. Knowing you, you’ll go arse over backward any minute.” But he looked at her mittened hand on his sleeve proudly, and Rose couldn’t help smiling.
“I do want to go. But I want you to understand that I’m not dangerous, and neither are Freddie or Bella, or Bella’s father. You do believe that, don’t you?”
Bill nodded. “’Course,” he said airily.
Rose sighed. She had a feeling he’d say anything to keep her hand on his sleeve. She hoped she hadn’t done something silly by agreeing to go. She suspected that actually he just wanted to show off by taking a girl to the fair.
Still, it was easier to walk through the snow with Bill to hang on to. He was taller than she was, and he hadn’t been burdened with the ridiculous galoshes. But they were both grateful when they reached the square, and they could scuttle down the steps to the kitchen door.
“The meat! At last!” Mrs. Jones threw up her hands. “How’m I ever to get any lunch on? What did you take so long for?”
“There was a sign up in the butcher’s,” Bill volunteered to try and detract from their lateness. “A meeting. About registering people, like them upstairs.” He looked apologetically at Rose, who’d retreated into the corner to take off her cloak and galoshes.
Mrs. Jones looked to Miss Bridges, as though she wasn’t sure what to say. Rose was sure she wanted to approve but thought she’d better not.
Susan wasn’t as circumspect. “Good. At least someone’s got the sense to see where all our troubles have come from!” She stared at Rose, her lip curling as though the other girl was beyond contempt.
“And just what is that meant to mean?” Miss Bridges returned, striking quick as a snake, before Rose could reply. Not that she’d meant to, anyway.
Susan backed away a step, and folded her arms. Her voice shook a little, but Rose couldn’t tell if that was anger or fear at her own daring in standing up to the housekeeper, who could easily dismiss her without a second thought. “The princess. She got stolen by a magician, that’s what everyone says. And there was that other one, that the master was mixed up with. That she was mixed up with.” Susan nodded to Rose. “Trying to drink children’s blood. The police aren’t doing anything, are they? The Runners? No one’s stopping them,” she added sulkily.
“Stopping whom?” Miss Bridges asked contemptuously. “Are you implying that because of one renegade—the accusation you’ve made about the princess is just too ridiculous even to dismiss—all magicians should be outlawed?”
Susan nodded. “They’re all murderers,” she muttered, but she sounded doubtful, as though she thought she might have gone too far.
“So will you be going to this meeting?” Miss Bridges inquired, her tone one of mild interest.
“Don’t know when it is.” Susan eyed Miss Bridges resentfully. “I’ll be working anyway, won’t I?”
“You will?” Miss Bridges raised her eyebrows slightly. “You wish to work for a murderer? I had assumed this was a rather long-winded way of giving your notice.”
Susan gasped, just for a second. Then she took a deep breath and nodded. “Very well then. I’m giving it. There.”
Miss Bridges had seated herself at the table and was now pouring a delicate cupful of tea. She stirred it slowly then sipped, looking at Susan over the gilded rim of the cup. “How will you obtain another position without references?” she asked thoughtfully, as though it was something that had just this moment struck her.
Rose, Bill, Sarah and Mrs. Jones all swiveled their eyes to Susan.
She blinked. “Without references…” she said quietly.
“Mmm.” Miss Bridges added a smidgen more sugar to her tea with a delicate pair of sugar tongs. Then she looked up at Susan, smiling slightly.
Susan took a step toward the table, one hand lifted pleadingly. Then she dropped her eyes to the tabletop and murmured, “I’ll need to be mending Miss Isabella’s best lace that evening, miss. She tore it, Sunday.”
Miss Bridges nodded regally and frowned at a stray leaf in her tea. “Do come to me for some silk thread, Susan,” was all she said.
***
Everyone crept about their duties for the rest of the morning, aware that a line had been drawn, that loyalty mattered now, however uncomfortable they found it. Miss Bridges sent Rose to clean the study. She stared at Rose so coldly as Rose drew breath to ask why Susan was not to clean it, as the study was always Susan’s job, that Rose simply shut her mouth with a snap and went to fetch some finer dusters.
She had been in the study before, but only once, to be looked over by Mr. Fountain, when she first came to the house. She had been too ove
rawed to notice much about the room, except its owner, and that the rug needed a proper clean.
Now she drew in a slow breath of delight as she closed the door quietly behind her. The room even smelled good—of strange spices, lifted with a tinge of exciting power, the power that wafted freely from the instruments hanging on the walls and standing on the shelves.
She laid her dusters gently on a chair and spun around slowly. It was as though she could see the magic behind her eyes—much more than in the workroom on the floor above. It floated and sparkled around the strange machines, colors softly changing, too fast and yet too slow for her to catch quite when it happened.
A great deal of the magic seemed to lead in trails over to the large wing chair by the window, Rose realized at last. Her heart jumped into her mouth as she saw a hand draped across the arm. The master was still at the palace, wasn’t he? Miss Bridges had said nothing about him being in the study—in fact, she’d told Rose to take the opportunity to bring the Oriental rug down for beating if she had time.
Unsure whether to expect a burglar—though why would a burglar sit down?—Rose crept forward to find Mr. Fountain fast asleep in the chair, frowning even in his sleep, a newspaper draped across his knees.
How on earth had he got back without anyone knowing? Miss Bridges would be most upset, Rose was sure. Mr. Fountain had unconventional manners and occasionally opened his own front door with a latchkey, which was low and quite inappropriate. Rose thought that secretly Miss Bridges would like to be in charge of a much larger household—the attics where she and Susan and Sarah slept were enormous, with lots more rooms beyond theirs. Clearly the Fountain house could fit in a great many more servants if they were wanted, and there wasn’t a shortage of money. How could there be, when the master could just magic some more up? Although Rose suspected he probably wasn’t supposed to do that. Perhaps Mr. Fountain just had no taste for ceremony. It would be nice to have a butler though. A butler would add a little something extra, Rose felt.
Rose looked at him uncertainly. His mustache was a little askew. Mr. Fountain had a mirror in every room of the house, so that he could make sure his mustache was in perfect points, all the time, and he slept with it in a net. Somehow, the sight of half the jet-black whiskers pushed out of line by the side of the chair was terribly upsetting. Mr. Fountain looked almost human, instead of the demigod Rose and all the household were used to thinking of him as.
Rose tiptoed away, feeling as if she were being rude by staring at him. She looked dubiously around the room, wondering where to start. All the apparatus was dusty. She knew that Mr. Fountain’s desk was bespelled to sting anyone who touched it—she had tried—and she wondered if the strange contraptions around the walls were the same. Susan must have hated cleaning this room. She despised magic so, and she couldn’t have ignored it here. Charitably, Rose wondered if that was why she had done it so badly, but she admitted after a few seconds that Susan didn’t really need an excuse.
Although Susan had never mentioned the machines or even the stinging desk, perhaps she had just been told not to touch it because of important papers. Would she even have been able to see the magic at all?
Rose reached out gingerly with a duster, hoping not to be turned immediately to stone. But nothing happened. The intricate, clock-like mechanism in front of her just got rather shinier. Then it clicked. Rose stepped back anxiously, hoping that she hadn’t broken it. The hundreds of little brass wheels turned and meshed, and then glitched again. Rose peered at it worriedly, wondering what the machine did. Was it merely measuring something, or was something being made here? There was a little slot at the bottom, as though something was meant to come out.
The wheels and gears were still dusty. Rose sighed gently, hoping she was doing the right thing, and a soft cloud of glittering dust rose up out of the clockwork. She wafted it away with her duster, and the wheels spun and chimed again.
“Goodness, Rose, that hasn’t worked in years!”
Rose nearly fell into the machine, but Mr. Fountain caught her just before the spinning wheel sliced her fingers off.
“I’m not surprised,” she snapped, fright making her brave. “It hadn’t had a proper clean in I don’t know how long. All those fancy bits were bunged up with dust.”
Mr. Fountain nodded. “You’re probably right. The other maid hates it in here. She leaves such an unpleasant stench of fear that I put very strong Don’t Notice Me spells on most of the room—it’s no bigger than a broom cupboard for her now.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to ask for someone else to clean it?” Rose asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Probably…” Mr. Fountain blinked thoughtfully, as though this was an interesting idea. “But I never remembered to do that at the right time. Dust in the works though. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Rose sighed very quietly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get it all set to rights today, sir.”
“No, no, much appreciated, Rose.” Mr. Fountain looked around the room, as though seeing it properly for the first time. “I do see what you mean,” he agreed apologetically. “I’m sorry, Rose. I’m not at my best today.”
“We thought you were still at the palace, sir,” Rose ventured. “Would you like me to go and tell Miss Bridges you’re back? I’m sure she’d send up some tea.”
“Hah! Tea!” Mr. Fountain snorted with laughter. “It’ll take more than that, Rose. Look at this.” He thrust the newspaper at her, his expression grim.
Rose took it and read the front page, puzzling out the small type. “Oh! There’s to be a meeting about this too, sir. There was a sign up, in the butcher’s.”
“The butcher’s?”
Rose wondered for a second if Mr. Fountain knew what a butcher’s was. “Yes, sir. The butcher’s boy didn’t deliver this morning. I went to the shop to fetch the order. Miss Bridges wrote a note.”
“I should imagine she did.” Mr. Fountain smiled slightly. “I shouldn’t think the butcher’s boy will be the only one, Rose, not after this.” He twitched the newspaper out of her hands and read the headline again.
PARLIAMENT DEMANDS REGISTRATION FOR MAGIC USERS
“Short-sighted bunch of idiots,” he muttered. “If it is all a spell, who do they think is going to get them out of it? If they’ve put us all in jail, they’ll be fighting it on their own.”
Rose gasped. “Jail?”
Mr. Fountain looked up quickly and patted her arm.
“It won’t come to that, Rose, I promise you.”
“What did you mean, sir, about it being a spell? The winter? Or Princess Jane?” Rose twisted her hands in her apron worriedly.
“Both. They may perhaps be connected. There’s something I can’t quite lay my finger on.” Mr. Fountain rubbed a hand across his face. “Or then again, maybe neither. I can hardly concentrate on what’s going on, what with running around trying to stop the Honorable Member for Tibbleswick from persuading His Majesty to have me beheaded.” Mr. Fountain looked at Rose, eyeing her wearily. “If it is a spell, this ridiculous weather, it’s a damned good one. I can’t find a chink in it, Rose. Not the merest crack.”
Rose stared back, her heart thudding painfully. Mr. Fountain was an incredibly powerful magician.
He and two colleagues (unfortunately deceased) had discovered the secret of making gold, and he had entered into a very profitable arrangement with the government about how exactly his discovery should be used. Rose had known him to be overcome by a glamour, but to hear him say so clearly that he couldn’t unravel this mystery was terrifying. He had to be able to. He could do anything, couldn’t he?
“You will, sir,” she promised him, watching the frown lines smooth slightly. She looked around the room. “Can’t any of these help? What does this one do?” The brass wheels were still turning and clicking beside them.
Mr. Fountain laughed again, and this time he sounded
as though he really thought it was funny, almost in spite of himself. “Oh, Rose. It counts dust. Grains of dust. That’s all.”
***
There was something nasty put through the letterbox the next morning. Everyone in the square knew a magician lived at number 23; it was no secret. Rose, having been made to clear it up, was starting to feel much less sympathetic toward the frightened people gossiping and whispering in the streets. She wondered how long it would be before someone decided to fight back and what would happen then.
Bill met her as she put the brushes and cleaning cloths back, and waved away her moans about the mess. “It’s on! The Frost Fair. The ice is holding and they’re building stalls. The pantry boy from across the square told me while I was out sweeping a path to the front steps.”
“Sweeping a path to the steps so people could put horse—horse dung—through the letterbox!” Rose snapped. She was handicapped by the insistence on manners at St. Bridget’s. One did not say those words.
“Come on, Rose,” Bill pleaded. “You said you’d go. You’re not weaseling out of it, are you?”
“No.” Rose sighed. “I’ll go. I’m just—scared. Things keep getting worse. The master was at the palace at the crack of dawn again today. Freddie and I haven’t had a proper lesson for ages.”
“Don’t tell Mr. Freddie about tomorrow afternoon!” Bill warned. “I’m not traipsing round a fair with him. I’d look a right idiot.”
Despite her fears, and the increasingly hysterical newspaper headlines, Rose couldn’t help looking forward to the afternoon out. She had told Bill that she didn’t want to leave the house together—Susan already teased him about being sweet on her, and Rose didn’t want to make it worse. Even Miss Bridges had given her an odd look that morning, and she had always been Rose’s great champion. Bill didn’t seem to care that hardly anyone belowstairs spoke to Rose apart from him, but she wasn’t going to rub his nose in it.
