Cinders and Sparrows

by Stefan Bachmann

  “Good evening, ma’am,” I said, forcing my chin up. “I don’t mean to be a bother, and I’m sorry to arrive so late, but—”

  “Late?” said the lady, gliding down the stairs and across the tiles toward me. “But are you? Zita was lost all these years, and now a girl claiming to be her comes waltzing back as soon as there’s a castle to inherit? Rather too punctual, I should say.”

  She leaned down, so close I could smell the rose-tinted powder on her cheeks. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you: either Mr. Grenouille is a fool, or you are a liar.” She lifted my chin with two long, elegant fingers. “You’re not a Blackbird, are you? You’ve got the look of a housemaid!”

  “I am a housemaid,” I said, twitching away from her grasp. “But I got a letter, and my name’s Zita, just like it says.” I pulled the letter out of my pocket and held it up for her to see.

  The lady’s eyes flickered to the black wax seal. “A letter was sent, yes. Whether the real Zita Brydgeborn ever received it is another matter. Of course you were aware this family is the most powerful—and indeed last—of the reigning witch families of old?”

  “W-witch families?” This time I could not keep the stammer out of my voice. Had the coachman not been fibbing at all? “There was nothing about that in the—”

  “And you’ve never read a history book?” she inquired pleasantly, relishing my discomfort.

  “Not one with witches in it,” I whispered.

  The lady drew back, her blue eyes shifting slightly. Then she pursed her lips in some secret amusement and said, “How convenient. Well, whether you are a Brydgeborn or not will be made quite clear in the morning. You two . . . find someplace to put her.” And with that, she swept away, vanishing into the murk of the hall.

  I gaped after her. Bram tried to take my carpetbag, but I shook him off. I wasn’t wanted here, that much was clear. I wasn’t going to give these people any reason to make me beholden to them.

  “Who was she?” I demanded.

  “A wicked goat,” said Bram.

  “And terribly rich,” Minnifer added in an awestruck whisper. “Ysabeau Harkleath-St. Cloud. A Cantanker by marriage, and a great friend of your mother’s. The custodians gave her temporary responsibility of the house after . . . well, after everything that happened.”

  My mother. The word sent the faintest fluttering memory of violets and rosemary straight to my heart.

  “What do you mean, ‘everything that happened’?” I asked as Minnifer opened a panel in the wall, and she and Bram led me up a wrought-iron servants’ staircase. “What did happen? Where is everyone?”

  Again Minnifer and Bram exchanged that odd, inscrutable look. “Gone,” said Minnifer softly. And then she turned to me suddenly, the candlelight throwing a ruddy shadow across her face. “You’ve got to be careful, Zita. They’re all dead. All of the Brydgeborns. Your mother and father, aunts and uncles. No one’s left. No one but you.”

  “Oh!” I said, half delighted to be made aware of such an extensive family, half horrified to be informed they were dead.

  “Murdered—” Minnifer started to say, before her mouth clamped shut like a bear trap. Her eyes bulged. She struggled for a moment, her fingers clawing at her jaw. Then her mouth popped open again and she turned away, hunched over the stairs and crying.

  “What on earth?” I murmured. “What was that? Are you all right?”

  I turned to Bram, but he was only watching helplessly, his hands clenched at his sides.

  “I’m fine,” Minnifer snuffled, probing at her cheeks with one cautious finger. “It was just a hiccup.”

  That wasn’t like any hiccup I’ve ever heard, I thought, but Minnifer was already climbing the stairs again, so quickly Bram and I had to run to catch up.

  We exited the servants’ staircase and crossed a landing, past two small windows. The windows were side by side, only inches apart, but one of them looked into an ivy-shrouded court in the dead of night, and the other onto a misty field at twilight, its rows full of frosted pumpkins and a few solitary scarecrows. I barely had time to wonder about it, however, before we were climbing another staircase, and a third. At last we arrived in a high corridor, in front of a lovely gilded door painted with windmills and sky.

  “Here we are,” said Bram, his voice now very low and angry.

  “Mrs. Cantanker didn’t say which room to give you,” said Minnifer, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “And there are thirty-seven bedrooms to choose from. But we thought you’d like this one best.”

  “Don’t go any farther down this passage,” said Bram, unlocking the door. “It has been known to lead to places one might rather not visit.”

  “Don’t go into the room labeled Parlor of Psychosis,” said Minnifer. “And if you see a blue staircase, do not climb it.”

  “You know, it might be best if you didn’t leave your room,” said Bram quickly. “We’ll come for you in the morning.”

  They led me into a dark chamber with three big windows overlooking the desolate gardens I had passed on my arrival.

  “Is this all for me?” I asked, turning a circle. I’d never had a room to myself, especially not one so grand, and even at Mrs. Boliver’s I’d shared my attic with a family of cockroaches and one enormous rat.

  “Of course it’s all for you,” said Bram distractedly, and Minnifer mumbled, “What is she talking about?”

  Bram lit a second candelabra. Minnifer promised to bring up a kettle of hot water for washing. Then, with anxious looks, they left the room, closing the door behind them. I heard them whispering outside. A moment later the key turned twice, softly, and they were gone.

  Chapter Three

  I woke the next morning to find a crow sitting on my chest, peering down at me with the disconcerting gaze of something that might like to take a great juicy bite out of one of my eyeballs. Its own eyes were bright black droplets nestled among the blue sheen of its feathers. I could feel its weight, heavy on the sheets, claws pricking the comforter. The room was freezing, the air slightly damp, as if I were out of doors.

  The crow and I stared at each other for a long moment. Then I screeched at the top of my lungs, kicking at the sheets. The bird let out an indignant caw and flapped over to the mantelpiece, where it looked over its feathered shoulder at me as if in reproach. A second later, it flew into the chimney and began wriggling its way up it, sending showers of soot onto the hearth.

  Immediately, I forgot my fear and leaped out of bed. I ran to the chimney and peered up it, waving away the soot. “Don’t do that!” I called out. “You’ll get stuck!”

  A sparrow had once gotten stuck in the chimney in Mrs. Boliver’s parlor. Smoke had billowed out, staining every doily and lacy pillow black, and when I’d poked the broom handle up to find the blockage, the sparrow had fallen into the ashes, closely followed by six roasted hatchlings and a nest. The mother sparrow had gone down the chimney’s flaming throat, foolish and brave, to stop whatever glowing monster had been cooking her offspring. I’d been very upset by the incident and had buried the little creatures in the back garden next to Mrs. Boliver’s extensive cemetery of goldfish.

  This crow seemed to know exactly what it was doing, however. The noise of its efforts became quieter and quieter, then ceased altogether. I hoped that meant the bird had popped out the top.

  When the crow was gone and the chimney was silent once more, I got up from the hearth and peered around the room. I’d only seen snatches of it the night before, fleeting glimpses revealed by the light of the candelabra. Now, by day, the chamber was even grander than I had imagined. The bed was as large as a coach, a four-poster hung with periwinkle velvet. The floor was laid with sumptuous carpets. And every surface, every mirror and pane of glass, was covered in frost.

  I stepped into the center of the room, eyeing the fuzz that glittered on the tapestries and furniture. How odd, I thought. Frost must come early to these mountains. Outside, the trees were just turning rich shades of russet and bronze, t
heir leaves escaping their anchors and swirling in the air. Light flooded through the great mullioned windows, warm and golden, like apple cider. I ran forward and threw open a casement, breathing deeply of the crisp mountain air.

  My room overlooked what might have once been a hedge maze, but was now all twigs and thorns, threadbare against the lichened stone and blazing leaves. I could see the whole front of the castle, rising up around me in points and gables and little crooked windows. I could see the woods too, not nearly so frightening by day, making a ring around the gardens. It was beautiful here, in a wild, forgotten sort of way.

  A knock sounded from the door. I hurried to it and tried the handle. It was unlocked. I poked my head out, and there was Bram standing in the hall, his hat in his hands. He looked as if he had just come in from outside, rosy faced and smelling of the cold.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, without any sort of preamble.

  “Starving,” I said. “Good morning.”

  “All right. You can eat with us. I’m afraid Mrs. Cantanker said you weren’t to be in the formal rooms until—”

  “Until they’ve decided I’m not a guttersnipe?”

  “Well, I’m not sure she used quite those words. But we eat just as well as they do, don’t worry. I’ll come back to collect you once you’ve dressed.”

  He ducked his head and retreated down the corridor.

  I closed the door and stared at it a moment. Then I smiled. Things were already looking up. I decided I wouldn’t mind much if there had been a mistake, if the wrong Zita had been summoned and I was sent away again. I had made it all my life without a castle or an inheritance, and I was sure I could last all the rest of it without one too. I decided to make the most of this adventure while it lasted.

  I had only my dusty traveling clothes to wear, so I approached the huge old wardrobe and opened both doors. A great puff of pine and powdered roses wafted out to greet me, and I saw before me the most splendid array of clothes I had ever laid eyes upon. There were gowns in all different colors, from ruby to turquoise to dark, shadowy green. Lovely black hats too, and a mirror for adjusting, and dozens of pairs of shoes with bright silk bows and velvet laces, fur-lined ponchos, great fluffy overcoats, splendid morning robes in flowery brocade, as well as quite a number of black capes and black gloves, and little drawers full of jewelry.

  It was all much too grand for me. And yet . . . Surely no one would mind if I borrowed just one thing. Perhaps no one even remembered this clothing was here. And if they did, and they minded, at least I’d have gotten to wear such finery once in my life before I was thrown out on my ear.

  I selected a gown the color of fog and mist rising from marshes, and I slipped it on. For a moment it felt too small, like it was made for someone short and broad. But then something extraordinary happened: the threads seemed to rearrange themselves, tickling across my skin, and to my delight I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the hem stretching downward and the sleeves scurrying to reach my wrists. A moment later the dress fit as if it had been made for me.

  I let my breath out slowly, running a finger over the fabric. The dress had a great ballooning skirt and whalebone stays, and all of it clicked together on its own, jerking me suddenly upright. I squeaked a little, but then leaned into it, realizing this was less a dress and more a means of conveyance, which you could ride in like an automobile. No wonder rich people always seemed so proud. Their clothes did not allow for anything else.

  I did my hair as best I could, patting it down with water and trying in vain to make it point all in one direction. Then I walked several circles around the room, feeling ever more pleased with the gown and my decision to wear it. In a fit of confidence, I lifted my chin and sailed out into the hallway, the silky skirts swishing around my ankles.

  Bram was just outside, leaning against the wall and chewing a stalk of dry grass. His eyes went wide when he saw me. For a moment I was flattered because I thought I looked lovely too. But then his thundercloud-black eyebrows dropped, and he said, “Come on, miss. Quickly. I’m not sure what Mrs. Cantanker will think of that.”

  “Oh,” I said, my courage suddenly deserting me and running away down the corridor. “I just thought—”

  “The dress is very nice,” said Bram. He looked pained and began walking briskly away. I ran to catch up, wondering if this had been a bad idea after all. We went down the tiny wrought-iron stair again, into the bowels of the house, to a servants’ hall with garlic and lavender drying along the vaults of the ceiling. Beyond its archways, I could just make out a hive of kitchens, pantries, and cellars. I was expecting them to be bustling with cooks and scullery maids, but there was only Minnifer, sitting atop a mountain of pillowcases and mending one with a spool of blue thread. She waved at me, her face alight. But her expression fell too when she saw the dress.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I’m not sure that was a good idea.”

  “My traveling clothes are all dirty,” I said weakly. “I thought—”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Minnifer. “It’s just . . . well, that was her dress, you see? She was going to wear it for her birthday. Only she never got the chance.”

  “Who?” I asked. “There’s no point being mysterious about it. Whose room did you put me in?”

  “Greta’s,” said Minnifer, looking down at the pillowcases. “Greta Brydgeborn. The young mistress.”

  I shivered, and the lovely garment felt suddenly uncomfortable, the bone stays biting into my back. All of the Brydgeborns are dead. . . .

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I took it. I’ll go put it back.”

  And I would have too, but when I turned, there was Mrs. Cantanker standing in the doorway, staring at me with terrible, tightly wound fury. She was clad all in purple this morning, a severe dress with the cut of a gentleman’s frock coat, silver buttons running across her chest to her neck, and skirts that flared in the back like the sails of a ship.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, and I remained stock-still, caught in her gaze.

  “I thought no one would mind,” I said quietly. “I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  Sorry, I was about to say, but the word did not quite reach my lips. Instead, a sudden fury boiled up inside me and I snapped, “Annoyed.”

  Minnifer gasped. Bram looked horrified. But there was no turning back now. “No one’s told me anything since I arrived here. Who are the Brydgeborns? What happened to Greta? Am I the heir? Or am I just expected to stumble about making a fool of myself until you throw me out? I received one letter and a very rude welcome, and now I’d like to know what I’ve been dragged into, thank you very much.”

  I was practically shouting. Mrs. Cantanker gave me a look of disdain. But I was not going to be cowed by her now. I flashed her a glare to melt iron and noted with some satisfaction a flicker of alarm in her eyes. Then she pinched her lips together and swept forward, dragging me out of the kitchens by the arm.

  “Mr. Grenouille is waiting,” she snapped, her rings pressing into my skin. “This way, whoever you are, and stop shrieking. You sound like a dying rabbit.”

  She pulled me up the stairs and into the front hall. Then we turned through a pair of high mahogany doors, into a room that was hung with painted silk scrolls and whose windows looked out across a desolate rose garden. The lamps were not lit, but a fire was roaring and breakfast was laid. A tiny plump gentleman of about fifty was sitting at the table, hunched over a plate of eggs and steaming potato cakes.

  He stood in a flurry at our arrival, looking at me as if he’d seen a ghost, which in a way I suppose he had. But he recovered almost at once, shedding his surprise with a shiver, like a little dog after a bath, and came forward, smiling nervously.

  “Zita Brydgeborn! It is good to see you—”

  “Oh, sit down, Charles,” said Mrs. Cantanker. “We’re not sure she’s anyone yet. No doubt the gutters are crawling with girls who, with a little rouge and Tipwick’s Raven Hair Dye, could be
made to look like one of the Brydgeborn Blackbirds.”

  The lawyer cast Mrs. Cantanker a frightened look and drew me hurriedly to the table. “Will you eat with us, child? I’m sure you don’t mind, Ysabeau. Do you mind? I hope not. I’ve always found one should discuss difficult subjects over delicious delicacies, as it makes them easier to digest—the difficult subjects, if not the delicacies.”

  Mrs. Cantanker glared at Mr. Grenouille, and I sat down quickly in front of the feast before the offer could be taken back. It was the grandest food I had ever seen. There were eggs and bacon, peaches bobbing like gleaming islands out of glossy peaks of Chantilly cream, mountains of golden potato cakes, a small bowl of hothouse raspberries, and a lovely bronze-glazed pastry that fell to buttery flakes at the touch of a fork. I wondered if I could take any of it to Minnifer and Bram. Then again, they probably ate the leftovers anyway, and who would stop them? I heaped my plate with as much food as it would hold and set to work with my fork and knife, glancing sharply at Mrs. Cantanker and Mr. Grenouille between bites.

  Mrs. Cantanker looked horrified. But Mr. Grenouille watched me eagerly, one perfectly round spot of red on each cheek. I would have found him tiresome had he not had such a merry, guileless face. He wore spectacles, and his chin was receding, and so was his hairline. In fact, everything about him was receding, as if he was shrinking away from the world as far as he could without actually turning inside out or imploding.

  I liked him at once. I always felt I could trust worried, anxious people more than brash ones. Those who strode through life too bravely always struck me as either foolishly unaware of the world’s terrors, or else frighteningly powerful and immune to them, neither of which I found endearing. Mr. Grenouille, losing faith in his sentences, regretting every gesture, was someone I felt would not harm a fly, or a housemaid. As for Mrs. Cantanker, lounging in the periphery like a storm cloud, watching us both intently, well . . . I felt no such certainty with her.