The Clockwork Crow

by Catherine Fisher

  She shrugged. ‘None of them. I’m an orphan. I’ve only just come here, mostly because the family feel sorry for me, I suppose. Not that I’ve even met any of them yet.’

  The Crow’s beak opened in astonishment. It looked devastated. ‘An orphan! This is ridiculous! How can I possibly be expected to be unspelled in a place like this?’ Then, as if it had a sudden idea, it hopped closer and looked hard at her. ‘Of course, you might actually be a princess in disguise. You were probably abandoned in a cradle on the river. Or left in the wood by your wicked stepmother.’

  ‘That just happens in stories.’ Seren knelt up on the bed and inched a bit closer. ‘Are you … real?’

  ‘As real as you,’ the Crow snapped.

  ‘I mean alive.’

  ‘So do I. Do I look dead?’ The Crow was disgusted. It stared out at the moon with its jewel-bright eyes. ‘This is what always happens. The clockwork runs out and no one winds me up. I’m sick of it. Whole centuries go by and I have no idea what’s going on. Then I wake up in some rubbish house with some infant child.’ It turned its head, sly and sidelong. ‘So if it wasn’t you, who put me in the parcel?’

  ‘A thin man. He was so scared!’

  ‘A thin man! Very tall?’

  ‘Yes! Do you know him?’

  ‘I might… Scared of what?’

  ‘Them.’

  The Crow looked thoughtful. ‘Them?’

  ‘That’s all he said. He went out and never came back and I brought it … I mean you … here and put it … I mean you … together.’ An idea was coming to her, from all the fairy stories she had ever read. ‘Are you really under a spell?’

  The Crow nodded, acid. ‘Clever girl. Worked it out all by yourself?’

  ‘Are you a prince?’

  The Crow blinked. Then it said, ‘What else? Prince of Siberia, and Trebizond, and the Glass Isle of Avalon.’

  She had never heard of any of those places and was not sure they even existed, but it wouldn’t hurt to get off the bed and bob a curtsey, so she did. The Crow seemed pleased.

  ‘Thank you,’ it said. ‘Kek kek.’

  ‘So, that means you can do things? Magic and stuff?’

  It looked smug. ‘A few tricks. A trifling set of sorceries.’

  ‘Can you open a locked room?’

  The Crow looked at her with scorn. ‘That’s child’s play.’

  She wanted to race up to the attic at once but first there was Sunday supper.

  ‘Look, I have to go back downstairs for a bit. I won’t be long, I promise. Will you be all right here? Do you need food or anything?’

  ‘FOOD! This stupid spell means I can’t eat or drink. For a hundred years I’ve dreamed of cheese and chocolate … truffles and toast…’ It was gazing into the fire with a wistful look. But then it turned its jewel-bright eyes on her. ‘Wait a minute! I haven’t given you permission to go anywhere.’

  Seren snorted. ‘I’m not your slave.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ the Crow said darkly. ‘Well, this time I’ll allow it. But don’t tell anyone about me.’

  ‘As if I would!’

  It flapped to the window and stared out moodily. ‘And be quick! I get bored easily.’

  Supper was in the kitchen. Seren was so excited at the thought of the Crow she hardly knew what she was eating or drinking. An enchanted prince! This was crazy! And what did it mean by sorceries? What sort of things could it do?

  Alys had been allowed to sit with them and, when Mrs Villiers was busy making more tea, she whispered, ‘You’re miles away, lovely.’

  ‘Just thinking.’ Seren spooned marmalade on her toast. Then she said, ‘Do you make all the food, Alys?’

  ‘Don’t I just! Baking, brewing, dairying, I have to do everything these days! Before last year there were twenty servants in the house and more in the garden. It was all so much better then, before…’ Then she stopped.

  Seren swallowed a mouthful of toast. ‘Before what?’

  Alys sighed and looked over slyly at Mrs Villiers. ‘I can’t say, lovely.’

  ‘Was it something to do with Tomos?’

  The cook’s red knuckles went tight on her teacup. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘I know it was,’ Seren said quietly. ‘I know there’s a secret about him.’

  Alys stared at her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I know more than you think.’

  The cook’s eyes were wide and startled, but Mrs Villiers was near now, scolding the cat for being under her feet, and there was no time to say anything more.

  After supper Mrs Villiers lit a candle for Seren from the one on the mantelpiece. ‘Time for bed.’ Outside, the wind was gusting; it rattled against the windows and the door shuddered, as if someone had tried the handle.

  ‘Hark at it,’ Alys said. She seemed nervous. ‘I hate these wild nights.’

  ‘Where’s Denzil?’ Seren asked.

  Mrs Villiers looked sour. ‘Sunday evening is Denzil’s night visiting his old mother. He’ll not be home before midnight.’

  As she stood up Seren wondered if they were scared of being alone in the big empty house. Because she had the sudden sense that the two women were listening, as if the roar of the rising storm out there in the trees and over the lake was a threat.

  Mrs Villiers turned abruptly. ‘Bed. Right now.’

  Seren hurried out, along the passageways and up the vast stairs. The candle threw her shadow wide and high. Small draughts lifted the edges of curtains and stirred tiny whirls of dust on the floorboards.

  There was a strange feeling about this house. A secret sadness. As if everyone in it was afraid.

  Back in her room, she looked round for the Crow, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  A stab of dismay went right through her. Had it got out somehow? Had it flown away?

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘In here.’ The bird slid out from the wardrobe and flapped creakily up to the curtain rail. ‘I thought you might be the housemaid.’

  ‘They haven’t got any housemaids.’

  ‘Good grief!’ The Crow shook its head in disbelief.

  ‘Well, they used to have, but…’ She sat at the table and told the Crow all about Captain Arthur and Lady Mair going away, and the mysterious silence about Tomos. ‘No one will even talk about him. But I’m sure – almost sure – that there’s someone locked up in that attic room. And who else could it be?’

  The Crow scratched its head. ‘That’s the door you want me to open?’

  ‘Yes. And I want you to do it now, because they’ll all have gone to bed.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. Why would they lock him up?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘You read too much rubbish.’ The Crow made a creaky wave of its wing. ‘I’ve been looking at your books. Sherlock Holmes! You should read more challenging things. French and maths and chemistry. Some history – the Romans and Celts. Bible study, of course… What on earth is your governess thinking of?”

  Seren scowled but tried to stay calm. She needed this infuriating creature. She said, ‘I haven’t got a governess. And I don’t really think you can do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Open the door.’

  ‘Of course I can!’

  She stood up. ‘Come on, then, show me. Before Denzil gets back.’

  She took the candle with her, but sheltered the flame with her hand as she ran up the attic stairs, because the draught was guttering it. The Crow flew overhead, a dark shadow under the ceiling. Once it nearly hit a beam and had to swerve.

  ‘Be careful!’ Seren gasped.

  ‘I told you I’m just out of practice.’ Furious, it perched on a shelf and flicked dust from its feathers. ‘This place is filthy. I really think you could have brought me somewhere better than this.’

  ‘I didn’t want to bring you!’

  ‘Well you should have left me. Even a railway station waiting room would have been an improvement.’


  It made her angry. ‘You’re so ungrateful. After I put you together and oiled you!’

  The Crow snorted. ‘It wasn’t even proper oil. I stink like a chemist’s shop!’

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. She marched down the corridor. Then as she got closer to the locked door, she slowed and stopped. ‘This is it.’

  The Crow swooped up beside her and perched on the handle. It seemed to swell up with self-importance. Its head tipped sideways to the keyhole. ‘Can’t hear anything.’

  Neither could she. The room beyond the locked door was silent.

  ‘But I’m sure before, I heard breathing.’

  ‘Breathing! Nonsense!’

  Seren ignored it. She tapped softly on the white wood.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone there? Tomos? It’s me, Seren.’

  The Crow snorted. ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘There’s not.’

  ‘Can’t you just open it?’

  ‘That won’t take magic.’ It flew suddenly up to the top of the doorframe, picked up something in its beak and dropped it at her feet. ‘Just use that.’

  Seren jumped. A large key had landed on the floor with a loud bang. ‘Are you mad? You’ll wake everyone up!’

  ‘Not my problem.’ The Crow looked down its beak at her. ‘Well. If you’re so brave, open it.’

  Her heart was thumping. She bent and picked up the key.

  Carefully, quietly, she threaded it into the lock, and creaked open the door.

  Then she peered inside.

  In the silent night

  secret creatures wait.

  It was a nursery.

  That was clear at once, even though the room was dark. The candle flame glimmered on mirrors and glassy surfaces. As Seren crept in she caught reflections of herself everywhere.

  ‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘Tomos?’

  ‘You really don’t give up, do you?’ The Crow had flitted in behind and was perched on the top of the soldiers’ fort. ‘There’s no one here but us, stupid girl. And if you ask me there hasn’t been for ages.’

  She had to agree. The table and chairs were covered with white sheets. The floor was so dusty her footprints were clear, and as she reached out and touched the rocking horse it moved with a soft creak, as if it hadn’t been used for some time.

  ‘And that,’ the Crow remarked acidly, ‘is the breathing noise you heard. Just a creaky old toy.’

  ‘The same as you then,’ Seren snapped. She was so disappointed. She hadn’t realised until now how much she wanted Tomos to be here, to have someone to be friends with in this dark, sad house. She closed the door and stood with her back against it. Mysterious shapes glittered on all the tables and shelves; small glinting objects. What were they?

  ‘Light the lamp,’ the Crow commanded.

  There was an oil lamp on the table with a little fuel left. Seren turned the wick up and lit it from the candle, then put the cover on. As the yellow light grew she turned round.

  And gasped.

  The room was full of glass globes.

  A whole collection of them lined every shelf. She picked up the nearest; it was heavy. Inside it was a Father Christmas on his sledge outside a house just like Plas-y-Fran, with a silver paper lake and tiny trees made of pipe-cleaner.

  ‘Snow globes!’

  She put it down and shook another, and a paper snowstorm swirled over a tiny church with metal foil windows. ‘Look at them all!’ Some were as large as fishbowls, others tiny. Seren went around shaking them one after another, creating a whole room of secret snowstorms. She laughed, astonished.

  Then she saw the smallest one. It was on the table next to the bed.

  It was different from the others, the glass greener and thicker, and somehow what was inside it seemed more real. She picked it up. She saw a white palace, all turrets and pinnacles and, when she shook the globe, the snow in there was soft and strange. It fell like real snow fell and, for a moment, it made her heart turn cold.

  The Crow was striding among the globes, staring in at itself. Its beak and jewel-bright eyes shone in a hundred reflections. ‘This is a bit weird really. I mean why not collect something better, like diamonds, or sapphires, something worth money?’

  ‘Maybe he just liked them. He’s only a boy.’

  The Crow made a harsh croak. ‘Boys! I know all about boys! It’s still odd.’

  She had to admit it puzzled her too. Boys collected stamps, or coins, or conkers or … well, boyish things. Glass globes of falling snow did seem a strange hobby. But there were other toys in here, too, and she could see them clearly now: the fort with its toy soldiers all lined up, and tiny cannons to fire; a bow and arrows; many books; and a great heap of building blocks stacked into a half-built castle. There was a box of paints left open so they had dried up, and a brush in a jam-jar where the water had all gone. A sketchbook lay open; she picked it up and saw a drawing of a forest, the trees all made of silver and gold with small lanterns hanging in the branches. It was a mysterious painting. Much better than she could ever do. It was signed Tomos Jones.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s like … like he just left everything. Just went out and never came back. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘He’s probably with his mother.’ The Crow was too interested in trying to peck a shiny silver coin out of a tin to pay attention.

  ‘No. If he’s in London why are his toys all here? His clothes in the cupboard, his shoes under the bed? Why is the place all locked and above all, why…?’

  The Crow’s head snapped up. ‘Shh!’

  ‘Stop telling me what to do!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Its hiss was urgent. ‘I can hear someone!’

  Seren froze. They listened, intent. Then yes, she could hear it, a soft footstep far below!

  ‘Out! Now!’ Seren took one step, then whirled back and snuffed the lamp. A smell of warm wick hung in the room.

  ‘They’ll smell it,’ the Crow remarked.

  ‘Can’t help that. Hurry!’

  ‘Worried, aren’t we?’ the Crow said, maddeningly calm. ‘But what if they find you? What can they do?’

  ‘I don’t want to be found! And you might get taken to bits again and end up back in the newspaper.’

  The Crow’s calmness changed instantly to horror. ‘Let’s go!’

  She still had the strange small snow globe in her hand, but as she darted to the door she dropped it, and it rolled under the bed.

  ‘Leave it!’ the Crow hissed.

  But she couldn’t; there was something magical about it, so she scrabbled hurriedly under the bed after it. The dark space was filthy with dust; she had to stretch her arm right out, groping to find the glass globe. Then her fingers touched something small, but square. It felt like a tiny book. It had been jammed under the springs of the bed, in a secret space.

  ‘Come on!’

  Seren tugged the book down, grabbed the snow globe, and squirmed out, sneezing from the dust. The book was purple, with the word DIARY written carefully on its cover. Small snowflakes had been drawn all over it.

  ‘Look at this!’

  ‘No way! I’m off!’ The Crow shot out, a shadow into the darkness. Seren slid after it, locked the door and looked round swiftly for something to stand on, because there was no other way she could reach to put the key back up on the lintel. But there was nothing, and the footsteps were coming closer up the stairs.

  ‘Crow!’

  No answer.

  Seren ground her teeth. She dropped the key on the floor and ran.

  She just made it to an alcove before Denzil turned the corner of the corridor. Flattened behind a hanging curtain, she held her breath as he walked past her. He carried a lantern and he was checking all the windows; his shadow moved above him on the ceiling.

  The curtain was so dusty she wanted to sneeze again. She crammed both hands over her face and shuddered out a silent explosion. When she dared peep out she saw he had come to the nur
sery door.

  He tried the handle.

  Then, as he turned away, he stopped, and she knew he had seen the key, because the lamplight distorted, as if he had bent to pick it up.

  Seren put her eye closer to a tiny gap in the curtain.

  The small man was looking at the key. He gazed sharply up the empty corridor; she kept still, terrified he would see her.

  He slipped the key into his pocket and came back, this time passing so close that his sleeve brushed against her hiding place.

  The light faded.

  He went softly down the stairs, and then it was dark.

  Seren waited at least five minutes until the house was completely silent before she moved. Her candle had been left in the nursery so she had to feel her way down the stairs a step at a time until her hand touched the smooth wooden ball at the bottom of the bannister.

  Moonlight slanted through the gaps in the shutters, all down the creaky corridor.