Piglet sees things. In the Room of Knives the ravens sit silently among the rafters between the shafts of moonlight, their watchful eyes glittering in the dark. Somewhere a boy stands with his father at the door of their home. A man who is not a man pauses at the threshold of the same door and sniffs night air and smiles.
To Piglet that smile is as sharp as a scythe.
And for the first time in his life Piglet is afraid.
Part 3
Comes the Malice
Mirabelle
The images that came to Mirabelle after that fateful night were like blackened and burnt wisps of paper floating on a breeze. Piglet had somehow pieced together a near complete history of the house and its inhabitants, even from the depths of his room. Mirabelle sensed this in the images that had been seared into her mind through their encounter – the comings and goings of the Family down through the generations. Piglet hadn’t revealed everything, but he’d revealed enough.
When she was least expecting it, an image would appear. There was no rhyme or reason to their order. She had a vision of Enoch looking up at the house for the first time, the blinding white light of the moon illuminating his face.
She saw Bertram eating triangular sandwiches in the dining room, holding them delicately between thumb and forefinger, his pinkie finger extended, while Aunt Eliza sat at the other end of the table reading from a book, pausing occasionally to sigh and roll her eyes.
Odd appearing from a portal wearing oilskins. Water sloshing around the edges of the portal while he swiped with a steel pike at the tentacles of some great sea beast that sought to squeeze through the opening before it closed.
Shadows arriving up the path leading to the house. Men from the village. Enoch waiting for them at the entrance to the estate, Odd and Eliza with him. And somehow Mirabelle knew this was all a long time ago.
Enoch flying through the night sky, looking for one of the flowers, which had uprooted itself and was now wandering the estate.
Dr Ellenby making his way down the Path of Flowers back towards the village, while rain poured down and lightning crashed around him. He was hunching forward, his hands deep in his coat pockets, while the flowers watched him, forbidden from touching such a senior member of the council.
Odd appearing from a portal in the garden in brilliant sunshine, wearing a policeman’s helmet and carrying a bunch of exotic flowers.
Then at night in the rain, his hair plastered to his head, watching a car make its way up the driveway.
Odd sitting on the roof of the house and looking at the stars as the last remains of the rainclouds drifted away. His hair still damp. His eyes glittering with tears.
And the woman.
Sometimes she was walking through the garden, usually alone. Once she was with Uncle Enoch, talking outside the house. Enoch was smiling and he looked younger somehow.
Whenever she saw these images of the woman (her mother, how could she be her mother?) Mirabelle felt a wrenching in her heart, as if she were hollowed out somehow, empty. It was something she had never experienced before. It burned. And yes. She felt that feeling everywhere.
She’d tried several times to talk to Enoch and get him to answer questions about what she’d seen, but he’d barricaded himself in his study. He seemed more concerned with the possible problem this might cause with the village. This only angered Mirabelle even more.
Today she watched from a second-floor window as Mr Fletcher’s van arrived on the driveway, even though it wasn’t delivery day. Two more cars followed behind it. One of them was Dr Ellenby’s battered old Ford. Enoch and Aunt Eliza were the official receiving party at the front door.
Freddie’s father stepped out of his van as the others pulled up alongside him. Mirabelle stared at the members of the council below and for some reason she felt nothing but hatred for them. It wasn’t their fault, she supposed. She reserved most of her anger for the Family for lying to her, but there was still a slight suspicion that these men had somehow also been involved.
Mr Fletcher was wearing a grey pinstriped suit. It was slightly too tight on him and he looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other while he waited for his companions to join him. It wouldn’t do for him to greet Enoch alone, Mirabelle supposed, what with the council being so obsessed with formality and their stupid old customs. She sneered inwardly at him and felt guilty at the same time, a burning feeling she couldn’t understand.
Mr Teasdale, the local postmaster, stepped out of one car. He was a short, nervous-looking man dressed in tweed with a high pink colour to his face and round spectacles. He looked around him, his hands in his pockets in an obvious effort to appear relaxed. In Mirabelle’s opinion, it only made him look more awkward.
Reverend Dankworth, a long tall wisp of man, climbed out of the passenger seat with the slow, long-legged grace of a spider emerging from a crack in a skirting board. Dr Ellenby was the last to join the group.
They made their way stiffly towards Enoch and Eliza, shaking hands and nodding sombrely. There was a pause while they all stood and looked at each other, then Enoch waved them into the house. Dr Ellenby looked up as he went in, caught sight of Mirabelle and waved at her.
Mirabelle didn’t respond and simply stood back from the window.
‘Is something happening?’
Mirabelle hadn’t heard Jem approaching. She was standing a few steps away, picking at the cuff of her cardigan.
‘It’s a council meeting,’ said Mirabelle, ‘the first of its kind in many generations,’ she added, mimicking the self-important tone that Enoch had used as he’d announced it to the senior members of the Family this morning when he’d thought Mirabelle wasn’t listening.
But Mirabelle had been listening, she’d been listening to everything: to the whispers she heard before she rounded a corner and caught Bertram conversing guiltily with Odd, to the murmuring of Eliza and Enoch behind his closed study door.
And then there was Piglet.
Piglet had been completely silent since that night. He hadn’t made a sound. Mirabelle wondered why. She’d even gone to visit him, but tapping his door had yielded no response. She’d never known Piglet to be so quiet. She found it unsettling.
‘What will they be talking about?’ asked Jem.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Mirabelle, a little too sharply. ‘Sorry,’ she said, seeing the look of surprise on Jem’s face.
‘It’s all right,’ said Jem. ‘Things have been . . .’
‘Strange,’ said Mirabelle, allowing herself a wry smile.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Jem.
‘How’s Tom?’
‘Still resting. He seems different somehow.’ Jem looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. ‘I never thanked you.’
Mirabelle frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For saving me from . . . from . . . from whatever . . .’
Jem gestured uselessly, as if words weren’t enough.
‘Piglet meant no harm,’ said Mirabelle, suddenly feeling very protective of him.
Jem nodded.
‘He’s just curious, I think,’ said Mirabelle.
‘Tom says he knows things. That Piglet can see into people’s minds.’
‘He can,’ said Mirabelle. ‘But I don’t think he fully understands them.’
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ said Jem, chuckling slightly.
‘Enoch won’t talk to me.’
‘Maybe he’s afraid to,’ said Jem.
‘Afraid?’
‘He seemed very shaken when you confronted him after Piglet’s escape,’ said Jem.
Mirabelle snorted. ‘You mean he’s afraid of me?’
‘No, not of you exactly. I think he thought he was doing his best for you.’
‘By lying to me?’
Jem looked pensive. ‘And what happened after Piglet escaped might have brought back painful memories for him.’
Mirabelle considered this. The Enoch she’d seen when
Piglet’s mind had touched hers had seemed different, wounded somehow. But did that excuse what he’d done in keeping things from her? She didn’t think so.
Mirabelle had a sudden thought. ‘Would you like to do something?’
‘Like what?’ asked Jem.
Mirabelle grinned. ‘Cause trouble.’
Mirabelle experienced a delicious little stab of pleasure when she saw the looks on the faces of the townsmen as she burst into the banqueting hall. Mr Teasdale blinked in panic, looking from one companion to another, as if asking them to confirm what he was seeing. A muscle in Reverend Dankworth’s right cheek twitched and he looked both uneasy and slightly disgusted. Mr Fletcher’s demeanour didn’t change. His fists were balled on the table in front of him, and he was his usual barely restrained furious self.
Uncle Enoch clasped his hands together, knocked his thumbs against his forehead and sighed heavily.
‘What is it, Mirabelle?’
Mirabelle shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, Uncle. Is it a birthday party? Where’s the cake?’
Mirabelle noticed Odd trying to mask a chuckle.
There was a screech of wood on the floor as Mr Teasdale jumped up from his chair and pointed at her.
‘She shouldn’t be here!’ he shrieked.
Mirabelle shrugged. ‘Who’s to say who should or shouldn’t be anywhere?’
Now it was Aunt Eliza’s turn to suppress a smile.
‘Nor should she,’ said Reverend Dankworth, nodding at Jem, who was standing a couple of feet behind Mirabelle.
‘She’s my guest,’ said Mirabelle, ‘and this is my home. I’m permitted to take guests anywhere I want in my own home.’
‘She’s an outsider,’ said Dankworth, ‘and as such she is not party to the Covenant and must leave.’
Mirabelle looked at Jem then at Reverend Dankworth.
‘She isn’t leaving.’
Murmurs rippled around the room as the men conversed with each other. Mirabelle was conscious of the many furtive glances being thrown in her direction, but only one of the villagers was looking her directly in the eye.
‘Dr Ellenby, can you explain to me what exactly seems to be the problem?’ said Mirabelle.
Dr Ellenby, to his credit, kept his eyes locked with hers, and he seemed to be about to say something when Enoch laid a hand on his arm.
‘Marcus is bound by council rules, and as such he cannot—’
‘What am I, Uncle?’
Mirabelle noticed the swift flush on Dr Ellenby’s cheeks, the way Enoch’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and the way the rest of the men around the table froze.
‘It’s a simple question, Uncle. What am I?’
‘Mirabelle . . .’ Enoch looked pained.
‘Where did I come from? I didn’t come from the Ether, did I?’
‘Mirabelle, please . . .’
‘What was her name?’
Mirabelle shouted the last question and she was trembling with a rage so strong that it almost brought her to tears. Dr Ellenby lowered his eyes and looked at the table.
Mirabelle took a moment to compose herself. She was conscious that Jem was by her shoulder, and the very fact that she was nearby lent Mirabelle some measure of calm.
Mirabelle looked at them all. She closed a fist round her pendant.
‘I don’t know what I am.’
She looked each of them in the eye in turn.
‘But maybe there’s one way of finding out.’
Mirabelle took the pendant from round her neck. She flung it onto the table. Some of the men flinched. The pendant skimmed across the surface of the table and came to rest with a rattle in front of Enoch.
‘I’m going outside,’ she said.
She turned her back on them and headed towards the door. She experienced a grim satisfaction when she felt the movement of air behind her, as if they’d all risen at once. Enoch’s shout of ‘Mirabelle!’ was the icing on the cake.
Jem was instantly by her side. ‘Mirabelle.’
Mirabelle squeezed her shoulder. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
The truth was she had no idea what she was doing, but she felt compelled now by some greater force, by rage, by grief. She had to know.
Enoch shouted again as she made her way across the hallway and towards the main door. Mirabelle heard the unfurling of wings, and the nervous gibbering of Mr Teasdale and Reverend Dankworth behind her. Enoch rushed overhead and landed in front of the door, his wings spread wide, his face still human in aspect.
‘You can’t,’ he said, and Mirabelle was surprised by the pleading tone in his voice.
Mirabelle stopped before him and looked up at him defiantly.
‘I can, Uncle. And I will.’
They stared at each other for a few moments, then Enoch looked away and Mirabelle knew she had won. She stepped out into the cool shadows that shaded the steps, hesitating just for a moment. She looked at Jem.
‘What’s it like, walking in sunlight unprotected?’ she asked.
Jem shook her head. She was at a loss as to how to explain it.
Mirabelle stood on the last step. She closed her eyes.
Then she jumped.
She was aware of a strange sensation. Without her pendant she was exposed to the light of the sun. For the first time in her life she felt its rays. She stretched out her arms and she laughed.
She opened her eyes and looked at the crowd of people collected at the front door. She winked at Enoch.
‘Look, Uncle. Look at me. I didn’t burn.’
She looked at the dark patch on the ground.
‘Sorry, Uncle Cornelius, I don’t mean to mock.’
She looked at Jem.
‘What do you call this, this feeling?’ she asked Jem, rubbing her hands together as she felt a strange sensation that seemed to coat her skin.
‘You’re feeling warm,’ said Jem.
‘Warm,’ said Mirabelle in wonder. She turned to those gathered at the door. ‘Go, have your meeting. I’m going to play in the sun with my friend.’
Freddie
Freddie’s mother turned from where she was stirring a pot on the stove and exchanged a knowing glance with Freddie when her husband came in the door.
‘Ludicrous,’ Freddie’s father growled as he sat down at the dining table.
‘What’s ludicrous, dear?’ said Freddie’s mother, her tone deliberately light.
‘We had a meeting about the incident, and it was disrupted by that girl.’
‘Mirabelle,’ said Freddie, instinctively annoyed by the fact that his father wouldn’t use her name.
‘Have you done those accounts yet?’ his father snapped.
Freddie shook his head. His father shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his face twitching when he caught his wife’s warning glance.
‘Just try and get them done before the end of the day,’ he said, his voice a little gentler.
Freddie nodded. His father had him do the accounts because he reckoned it would help him ‘become a responsible individual’, as he described it. Freddie knew he was being groomed to take over the shop some day.
‘They say they’ll do penance for what happened with the incident and that thing getting out. If you ask me it isn’t enough.’
Freddie’s mother took some bowls over to the table and laid them out.
‘A cow got disembowelled and eaten, dear. There’s no need to be coy – you are a butcher after all. Incident indeed.’
Freddie’s father was rocking agitatedly in his chair. He looked at Freddie with a gaze that almost made him flinch. It was a look that contained hurt, fear and anger. Freddie hadn’t seen his father so agitated since . . .
He couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about James. He scribbled down some more figures and tried to block the world out.
‘Oh dear, it sounds like you do have a lot on your mind, Mr Fletcher.’
Mr Pheeps was leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb with his arms folded. He was still wearing that
awful coat of his. With his straggly hair and wide mouth Freddie found it strangely difficult to look at him for too long.
‘That we do, Mr Pheeps,’ said Freddie’s father.
He said it in the pompous self-important tone that both Freddie and his mother recognized as his ‘I am about council business’ tone. The tone that implied he was doing the most important work in the world. Freddie’s mother was ladling vegetable soup into bowls, and she took a moment to look at Freddie and roll her eyes.
‘And tell me, what difficulties are you currently dealing with?’ asked Mr Pheeps.
‘If you must know, Mr Pheeps, we are currently having troubles with the inhabitants of the local estate.’
Freddie didn’t like the way his father sat up higher in his chair when Mr Pheeps spoke. He’d noticed that since they’d first met him his father always seemed very eager to please him. Almost as if the man had some kind of hold over him.
Mr Pheeps tilted his head and rubbed his hands together. ‘Estate? Which estate might that be? I’ve seen no estate in these parts.’
‘That’s because it’s been hidden,’ said Mr Fletcher.
Mr Pheeps’s mouth was an O of wonder, his eyes flicking back and forth, as if calculating something. Freddie felt a sudden wave of panic. He wanted to scream for his father to stop talking.
‘Hidden, you say? Hidden how?’
Mr Pheeps tilted his head again. Freddie’s scalp felt as if things were crawling on it.
Mr Fletcher looked slightly abashed. ‘Well, I’m not sure I can say—’
‘You can’t say,’ said Freddie’s mother, banging some spoons down on the table. ‘Would you like some soup, Mr Pheeps? You’re welcome to join us,’ she said without looking at him.
Mr Pheeps gave his best supercilious smile. ‘I think I shall politely decline the offer, Mrs Fletcher, as generous as it is.’
Mrs Fletcher nodded while keeping her eyes on her soup.
‘Why don’t you join us for dinner this evening, then?’ suggested Mr Fletcher.
Mr Pheeps beamed with delight. Freddie’s heart felt like a lead weight that was sinking straight to the floor.
The Monsters of Rookhaven Page 12
