Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

Jeb stood in the corner looking pained while Martha and Henry ran to her side. Henry grabbed hold of her and hugged her.

  ‘If Rafe managed to send word,’ he said to Miss Cameron, ‘why didn’t he say what she’s got to do?’

  ‘It is not the story you need to fear,’ said Miss Cameron gently.

  Martha put a hand on Verity’s arm. ‘We’ll be with you,’ she reassured her. ‘It’s your grandmother who’s threatened by it. Isn’t that right?’

  Miss Cameron nodded.

  Henry looked at her crossly. ‘Stupid mumbo jumbo,’ he muttered. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he told Verity confidently. ‘You’re a danger to her, not the other way round.’

  ‘You have many things on your side, Verity,’ agreed Miss Cameron. ‘She sees that.’

  Verity looked up hopefully. A thought occurred to her. ‘Do I have supernatural powers too? Is that how I kill her?’

  The librarian smiled kindly. ‘No, Verity, you don’t have supernatural powers. You have friends and common sense.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Verity quietly. ‘I think I might prefer to be armed with something a bit more impactful than common sense …’

  ‘And friends,’ remonstrated Henry, shoving her arm.

  Verity turned the strange wooden ball around in her pocket. All at once she felt less daunted. She looked up at Miss Cameron. ‘Why are you helping me with this?’ she asked.

  Miss Cameron paused. ‘As the librarian of Wellow, it is my duty,’ she said simply.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Few in Wellow understood the concept of honouring a commitment better than Daniel Twogood. He had been quietly and single-handedly shouldering family obligations his whole life, and tonight was no different.

  The narrow quayside streets and alleys of Wellow’s most humble area boasted few lights and dangerously slippery cobbles, so he walked instead of running. His honest, steadfast face was anxious: he had made a decision and needed to act on it. The tiny white terraced cottages crouched on either side of him … Mr Twogood steeled himself to begin knocking on doors. There were few in this part of town who would welcome a visit from a Twogood at any time of day, but as he rounded the corner into Catchman Lane he saw the customs man ahead of him, only now returning to his lodgings.

  ‘They used a vacuum,’ he shouted out.

  Jasper stopped in his tracks. He turned round slowly; inside, he burned with hope.

  ‘The fire and the ice,’ continued Daniel Twogood, slightly out of breath, ‘were trapped in two separate vacuums. Extreme heat meets extreme cold and the atmospheric pressure directly around it changes rapidly.’

  Jasper’s heart was pounding, but his face – as ever – betrayed no emotion.

  ‘I’m telling you because you need to understand that you’ll never learn how to control it. And none of us – least of all you – will be safe while it’s at large.’

  Jasper’s heart sank. ‘But why make it in the first place?’ he asked desperately. ‘Why create something so astonishing and then just lock it away from the world?’

  ‘To satisfy his own curiosity,’ said Mr Twogood bitterly. ‘Once the idea were in Pa’s head, he couldn’t get it out. Had to make it, just to prove it could be done.

  ‘He were a broken man when I was a lad: never got over seeing the death and destruction he’d brought into the world,’ he continued. ‘Our family weren’t interested in the Gentry business. We just enjoyed inventing. So the first time he saw an actual wreck it broke his heart … All those people dying – frightened and alone – on the rocks, with the so-called “Gentry” so eager to get at their possessions, blithely stepping over ’em as they perished. The worst of ’em fighting men as they took their last few breaths – for watches or jewellery they’d taken a fancy to.

  ‘Our family left that night,’ he finished sadly.

  Jasper stood there without speaking. He didn’t know what to say. And anyway, he thought. It would be different. These were more enlightened times. With enough patience he knew he could win Dan Twogood round. Sooner or later he would see sense.

  At the bar of the Spyglass Inn, Villainous Usage took another slow, careful sip from the pint in front of him. He was crouching on a stool at the bar, both feet up on the struts, like a rather grey, particularly pungent praying mantis.

  Simnel, the landlord, stood on the other side of the bar, wiping glasses with a cloth so dirty they would have been better left alone, and glanced crossly at his unprofitable customer. Like an answered prayer, one of his best spenders walked through the door. Instantly Simnel’s manner switched to one of joviality and welcome.

  ‘Seen that customs matey in here lately?’ the well-worn regular asked.

  Simnel was already pouring a glass of the man’s favourite beer, but he shook his head disparagingly to indicate that Jasper Cutgrass had not been in the Spyglass recently, and that it was just as well with him.

  The customer laughed. ‘Heard he’s been plaguing the life out of all sorts of people.’

  Simnel tutted and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘But you’ll never believe …’ The man lowered his voice to indicate an item of particular interest. Simnel leaned across the bar to hear better.

  ‘Spoonface Maddox,’ his customer continued, ‘heard he had a Storm Bringer with ’im. In a canvas bag.’

  It took a lot to elicit genuine surprise from Simnel, but for once his eyes widened with excitement.

  ‘Did you ever hear the like?’ he was asked.

  Simnel shook his head with rare and genuine wonder. ‘I never did,’ he agreed.

  ‘In a canvas bag,’ chuckled the man. ‘Some people’ll believe anything. Next they’ll be saying he’s been seen with a unicorn.’

  Suddenly aware of his rare slip into credulity, Simnel immediately covered his tracks. ‘Some will,’ he said, laughing in return.

  The man handed over his change and took a first satisfying sip of beer.

  Meanwhile Villainous was still sitting in the same position, apparently examining his three-quarters empty tankard of beer. But his mind was alive with memories – of the nervous way in which Jasper Cutgrass had handled the custom-made canvas bag that never left his side. And his unseasonably brown skin. Without saying a word, he quietly slipped off his stool, left the pub and headed up the street to a house just a few doors down from his own. It was a long shot, but it had to be worth a try. Mother would be overjoyed if he was right.

  Verity, of course, knew nothing of Villainous’ plans. But she too was filled with a determination to succeed: Rafe Gallant had placed the burden of responsibility on her and she was going to rise to the challenge.

  At first break she and Henry were outside in the playground, huddled together against a wall for protection against the bitter weather. The sky was grey and turbulent. The ice-cold wind cut through their bones like a knife.

  ‘Why do they keep us outside on days like this?’ complained Verity, clutching her coat about her more tightly.

  ‘Because the teachers of Priory Bay,’ said Henry, jumping up and down to try and get some life back into his toes, ‘are of the firm opinion that you can never have too much fresh air. Even if it kills you.’

  Martha was approaching from the other side of the playground, clutching an unfeasibly large number of books to her chest.

  ‘Just a few light reads to keep you occupied?’ asked Henry innocently.

  ‘I found time to pass by the library this morning,’ Martha replied tartly. ‘If you applied yourself similarly, Henry, I’m sure you’d be astonished at what you could achieve.’

  Henry cheerfully made a very rude sign in her direction.

  ‘There’s nothing dedicated specifically to the topic of Original Stories, but there are enough snippets to piece together a picture. Your grandmother created all sorts of stories, Verity, and each one involved her gain – of possessions mostly, but people too … the crew of the Storm, for example.’

  Verity nodded. She pulled out her book and then crouched d
own to find the right page.

  ‘The boy,’ she said, finding a section entitled ‘Collated Original Stories’.

  The Keeper of the Wind had need of a boy such as him [it began]. So she took him from his uncle, who drank, and stole, and beat him. The boy had a sister, but she was not necessary to the Keeper and was killed swiftly.

  The boy saw only that he had been rescued from the cruel uncle. So he was grateful, and loyal to She of the Wind for ever more. And from that day boys such as he were drawn to the Keeper of the Wind and became her servants.

  ‘There’s a whole chapter of them,’ she said sadly. ‘They’re all so short, but each one involves death or loss for someone.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Martha. ‘So the crew of the Storm were all stolen as boys: the ship draws them to her. It’s how the stories work. Such an ingenious way of recruiting staff.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s slavery,’ said Henry tersely.

  Martha waved a hand dismissively. ‘I know, she’s awful. But really very clever too.’

  ‘She’s a hateful person.’

  ‘Well … that was the other thing …’ said Martha hesitantly.

  ‘She’s not technically a person, is she?’ interrupted Verity.

  Martha shook her head. ‘Definitely not what you would call a person now, no.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Henry asked.

  ‘She was brought to life by a story,’ said Martha. ‘Legend has it that she can’t be killed. She’s certainly been alive a very long time.’

  Verity felt daunted, but said nothing.

  ‘I suppose your grandfather must have known that,’ said Martha. ‘That may be why he decided to create a story. Perhaps he thought it was the only thing that would work … Equally, though, all the terrible things she’s done will have had an effect on her,’ she continued. ‘Each act of malice or cruelty will have killed a little part of her soul. After hundreds of years she must be … mummified really: living, but dead too.’

  Verity nodded. ‘That’s what I saw at Christmas: a skeletal creature. She looked terrifying.’

  ‘So nothing useful on how to kill her?’ asked Henry, cutting straight to the chase.

  Martha grew more animated. ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘But it’s believed that ultimately the Keepers will be consumed by the element they control – and at that point held to account for their actions in our world.’

  ‘Sounds grisly,’ said Henry, with interest. ‘Can’t imagine she’s looking forward to it.’

  Verity shivered. ‘She’s done so many terrible things,’ she said. ‘I expect she’ll do anything to avoid it.’

  It was already the end of school on Friday. Verity headed reluctantly for the school gates, her heart heavy at the thought of another tactics session for the school sailing team. She should have been pleased, she knew, to be selected to crew again. But it seemed unlikely that the other pupils would offer a welcoming reception.

  A crowd of girls were gathered at the entrance, huddled around something. Verity wondered what had captured their attention. There was a lot of giggling going on, and a fair amount of hair-flicking too. She realized they were standing in front of a car. Then she did a double take: sitting in it was Jeb. He waved awkwardly at Verity, who became the focus of many keenly interested stares. The group parted like the Red Sea.

  ‘Borrowed Isaac’s car. Thought you might like a lift,’ said Jeb. ‘To the club.’

  In the background Verity could hear whispers. She made the mistake of looking up. One girl was saying something to her friend behind a cupped hand. Turning to face Verity, she raised an eyebrow and smiled knowingly.

  Verity felt hot and embarrassed. ‘Great,’ she mumbled awkwardly.

  ‘Best we go then,’ said Jeb, who appeared to be finding the whole experience as excruciating as she was. Verity squeezed past a spectator and got into the car, staring intently at the floor as he started the engine and drove off.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ she heard one girl shrieking at the top of her voice. She turned round. The girls were some hundred yards away, but even at this distance she could make out the palpable air of astonishment … and envy.

  Verity juggled the wooden ball in her pocket. She giggled. ‘They weren’t expecting that,’ she said. Her good humour broke the ice. Jeb smiled broadly and laughed.

  ‘Anyone’d think they’d never seen a car before,’ he said.

  He was a good driver: fast, but steady.

  ‘Is it safe for you to pick me up from school?’ Verity asked, fastening her seatbelt. ‘Won’t Grandmother find out?’

  ‘She knows there are people waiting for her in Wellow,’ said Jeb, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, ‘and I expect she knows which side you’ll be on. Only have to take one look to see you’re a Gallant through and through.’

  ‘I meant, isn’t it dangerous for you?’

  ‘She’s beaten the Tempests before.’ Jeb gripped the wheel grimly. ‘She won’t see me as no threat.’

  ‘Do you mean your father, Isaac?’ asked Verity.

  ‘My grandfather,’ corrected Jeb. ‘Isaac’s my grandfather.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Verity, wondering.

  ‘My pa’s dead,’ said Jeb. ‘Isaac brought me up.’

  ‘Oh, I – I’m …’

  ‘ ’S all right – it were a long time ago. When I were a nipper.’

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Verity, wishing the car wasn’t so noisy that she had to shout every question at top volume.

  ‘Your grandmother killed him too,’ Jeb replied with characteristic brevity.

  Verity felt terrible, as if it was somehow her fault that Grandmother was so murderous and hateful. And she felt scared.

  ‘Ain’t nothing to do with you,’ said Jeb, shifting up a gear. ‘She’s cruel and vengeful and covetous … seems to me it’s greed that drives her.’

  ‘So what did she kill your father for?’ Verity asked. She would never usually be so blunt, but with Jeb it seemed natural.

  ‘When I was born, apparently he was dead set on going abroad to make his fortune,’ said Jeb more expansively. ‘Isaac told him to give the Mistress a wide berth, but he must have decided he could handle her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry …’ Verity didn’t know what else to say.

  Jeb shrugged, as if to draw a line under the subject. ‘So your grandmother won’t be surprised to know I’ve found you. And she won’t be worried; won’t think I’m a match for her.’ He grinned as he pressed his foot to the accelerator. ‘But I take after Isaac. So who knows, maybe I’ll give her a run for her money …’

  ‘You know she’s not really my grandmother?’ Verity said. ‘I mean,’ she added hurriedly, ‘we’re not related by blood or anything.’

  Jeb nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘I just … I wouldn’t want you to think that I might be like her in any way.’

  Jeb turned briefly to face her. His green eyes looked directly into hers. ‘I don’t think that,’ he said.

  Verity felt herself go unaccountably pink. ‘I expect you know more about my family than I do,’ she said, changing the subject.

  ‘Seems that way,’ agreed Jeb.

  Of course, Verity realized excitedly. Jeb must have the answers to dozens of the questions buzzing around her head. ‘Why do you think my father never says anything about my grandfather?’ she asked.

  ‘I expect he were still angry about it. He were Rafe’s son too. But Rafe just up and left after Ruby died, hell-bent on revenge.’

  Verity wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her previously. It was funny how so often your parents just seemed to be your parents, rather than real people with their own thoughts and feelings. ‘He must have been very hurt,’ she said sadly.

  Jeb nodded evenly. ‘Rafe were always impetuous. But your father were just three at the time.’

  ‘So who brought him up?’ asked Verity. She thought of Father, alone and abandoned as a little boy.

  ‘He were passed aroun
d a bit at first, from one sibling to another – Rafe had a lot of children before he married Rose – then eventually he settled with his sister, Edie. She were quite strict, were Edie. She had views.’

  ‘No wonder he doesn’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘Di’n’t make him look too favourably on the Gentry either,’ said Jeb. ‘Not that he’s the only one: there’s not much love lost by the Twogoods either.’

  Verity smiled, thinking instantly of her sceptical friend. ‘Henry will be mad with jealousy when he finds out you’re allowed to borrow your grandfather’s car.’

  ‘Isaac knew I’d take care of it,’ said Jeb simply. ‘He knows I’m good at taking care of things.’

  When Verity arrived at the club, Miranda Blake was already plaguing the other girls while her parents attended to some essential business in the bar.

  ‘Gallant,’ she said with satisfaction as Verity came into the hall. ‘So pleased you’re here. It’s quite the most exciting part when you take to the slipway: everything shakes in such an exhilarating way.’

  Verity had both hands shoved in her coat pockets. She gripped the strange wooden ball in irritation. She’d had enough of Miranda’s snipes and jibes. ‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ she said coolly. ‘You may be pure poison, but you’re still only half the size of me.’

  Miranda smiled mysteriously. ‘Feeling a bit bolder, are you?’ she lisped. ‘You are funny, Verity. Only you could take comfort from such a motley gang: Shorty Twogood, that odd girl with glasses you picked up recently – and the Tempests, of all people.’

  Verity moved to brush briskly past her – then came to an abrupt halt. On the lapel of Miranda’s coat was a brooch – the brooch Grandmother had been wearing on Christmas Day. The image was etched on her memory: enamel centre, dark-haired lady, starlit backdrop, gold frame set with pearls.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded.

  Miranda glanced down at it with a superior smile. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ she replied.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Verity carefully. ‘That’s why I asked.’

  She stared anxiously into the little girl’s eyes. Could Miranda really know Grandmother? And if so, did she realize what terrible danger she might be in? Verity was no fan of hers, but Miranda didn’t deserve to be mixed up in the old lady’s plans, whatever they were.