The Starspun Web

by Sinéad O'Hart

  “Whatever they are,” she said, turning to Prossy with fear in her voice, “they’re heading for the park.”

  Tess was sitting in a chair beside the tall copper bath she’d just vacated, surrounded by a haze of lemon scent. One of the housemaids sent to attend her was gently combing out her hair, which squeaked clean between her fingers. The other had brought a dress—“a gift from Mr. Cleat, miss”—and laid it out on the bed. Tess glared at it with loathing. It was a pale pink spun-sugar nightmare, like a cake with sleeves. A pair of polished shoes and two white frill-edged socks lay beside it.

  I have to look the part, she thought, the words like a stinging nettle inside her. And he’s the one in charge of the show.

  Then unexpectedly the second maid began to agitate the water in the bath. Tess turned to watch what she was doing, and she heard the whispered voice of the first maid in her ear.

  “Millie never came back, miss. After the other night. We reckon she went to fetch help.”

  The second maid stirred the bathwater again, creating more splashing noises to mask the sound of their words. “Try not to worry,” the first maid said. Tess gave them both a grateful look but then they all jumped as Mrs. Thistleton’s voice sounded outside the door.

  “Enough lollygagging in there,” she barked. The maids stood to attention as the housekeeper unlocked the door and entered.

  “You and you,” she snapped at the maids. “Set about getting that bath emptied. And you,” she said to Tess. “Get dried and dressed and take care not to snag that gown.” As the maids busied themselves carrying pitchers of water out of Tess’s bath, Mrs. Thistleton stared Tess down.

  “Mr. Cleat is relying on you this evening,” she said. “As am I. And if you think you’ll refuse to do what’s needed, then do know this: Millicent’s position here in Roedeer Lodge will depend on your cooperation. If you want to see her thrown out into the streets of Hurdleford without a penny to her name, by all means disobey.”

  “Millie?” Tess replied, frowning in confusion. “But I thought—” She bit back the rest of her words, remembering what the maids had said.

  “You thought what?” Mrs. Thistleton said.

  “Nothing,” Tess replied. “Yes, Mrs. Thistleton. Of course. I won’t let you down.”

  “I should think not,” Mrs. Thistleton said, turning on her heel as the maids returned, ready to carry out the empty bath. “Yes indeed, I should certainly think not.”

  Mrs. Thistleton followed the maids out of the door and locked it behind her. Tess sat for a moment longer before tossing the wet towel on the carpet and setting about getting into the ridiculous dress. It pinched and pulled and made her itch, and she didn’t dare look in the mirror.

  Instead she looked down at her reflection in the black patent leather shoes and thought with a heart-wrenching lurch of Violet. The shoes were a little like her eyes. Tess just couldn’t get used to the lack of her; nothing was the same. Tess’s eyes grew hot and gritty, and she closed them tightly.

  She took three deep breaths, in and out, and opened her eyes again. They narrowed with determination. It’s time to get out of here and get her back, Tess told herself. I’ve had quite enough of doing what Mr. Cleat wants me to.

  She looked around. The door was locked tight. The window was still nailed shut. For a minute she considered smashing the glass, but she quickly discounted that; it would raise the alarm too quickly.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise, like the drone of a far-distant engine. She frowned, searching for the source—and then her eyes fell on the empty fireplace. The droning sound was coming down through it.

  She dropped to her knees by the hearth and hauled in a breath. Holding it, she stuck her head into the fireplace and looked up.

  The wide chimney gave way to a rectangular patch of blue sky. The sky was partially blocked by something with a pattern cut into it, but it looked like there was a large enough gap to let the smoke through. I could fit out through it too, she thought. Couldn’t I?

  Before she had time to lose her nerve, Tess tucked her glasses inside her vest for safekeeping and began to climb.

  * * *

  Thomas opened his eyes. For a moment all he could see was darkness and he blinked until the view settled into something he could make sense of: shadows under a cupboard. Floorboards were cool beneath his cheek and a breeze blew gently over his hair from somewhere close. The observatory, he thought, beginning to drift down into sleep again. He took a deep breath and winced as a sharp pain stabbed him, jerking him back into wakefulness.

  After a few seconds more his arms began to throb where they’d been caught in Mackintosh’s crushing grip and his memories began to click back into place.

  He threw me, Thomas remembered. I clattered my head. And then—Moose…

  He forced himself to sit up, grimacing as his head pounded with dull, bruising pain. Rubbing his temple, he squinted around the room, and after a few moments’ searching he found his glasses, which had slid across the floor. He slipped them on but things still looked a bit skewed.

  “Moose?” he called, his voice cracked and weak. “Moose!” he shouted, ignoring the ringing pain it caused in his skull. Desperately he searched the expanse of floor for the body of his friend but there was no sign. Tears sprang to Thomas’s eyes. “What has he done with you?” he whispered.

  Suddenly a movement on top of his desk caught his eye. Thomas glanced up and saw the tip of a tail just vanishing from view and straightaway he fought to get to his feet, using the pillar he’d hit his head against to pull himself upright. Hardly daring to hope, he searched the desk for his mouse—and then there he was, peeking out from behind a portable stove. Thomas whooped out a laugh of triumph.

  “Moose!” he called, stretching out his hands to scoop the mouse up, but instead of running for his owner’s fingers, Moose squeaked and scampered backward, his entire body quivering with fear. He disappeared behind the stove and only gradually reemerged, just his nose poking out and the barest hint of light glinting off his eyes. “Boy, it’s me,” Thomas said, his chin beginning to wobble. “It’s me, Thomas.” Slowly he moved his hands closer, but Moose retreated and Thomas closed his eyes as a tear forced its way through.

  Stop it, he berated himself, but then he began to sob as the loss crushed him like a giant pair of iron jaws closing over his head. He rested his elbows on the desk, put his forehead in his hands and cried. Everything he loved was gone: his home, his parents, Tess—and now Moose, his last friend. He didn’t know if Moose would ever trust him again, if things would ever be the same. Mackintosh and his cruelty had destroyed the bond they’d shared, and Thomas felt like a piece of him had been broken off.

  Finally he straightened up, reached beneath his glasses and scrubbed his eyes dry. He drew his sleeve across his face and tried to think—and then he glanced at his watch.

  Friday, May 30, it read, the little windows in its face that displayed the day and date almost invisible behind a fresh crack across the glass from when he’d hit the pillar. “And it’s almost five in the afternoon,” he whispered. Which means there are only a few hours left until those bombers come through. It’s happening tonight.

  “I’ve got to try to do something, Moose,” Thomas said. “I can’t help Tess and I can’t do much to help myself. But I can try to help the city.” He looked over at his radio; it had been thrown onto its side. The Oscillometer was gone, as he’d expected it to be, along with the stack of notebooks; he didn’t spare any time to mourn that loss, as there was nothing he could do about it. Faintly he heard the sound of a radio news bulletin beginning and he tried to take heart. “He hasn’t cut the power, boy,” Thomas told Moose. “And I bet he didn’t know about the transceiver.”

  Thomas hurried to a set of drawers built into the wall and pulled one open. Inside sat a radio transceiver, which he hoped was still working. “No
time like the present,” he muttered, gathering it up. A few minutes’ work had it assembled and for a second he stood with the mouthpiece in his hand, unsure what to say or whether he was doing the right thing.

  Then the pictures of bombed buildings he’d seen in the newspapers flicked across his mind. He remembered a newscaster’s voice describing the swathes of terror unleashed by the Luftwaffe, German planes sweeping in a wave of flame across Europe, and he checked he’d set the transceiver to the distress frequency. Finally he clicked the button to transmit his message.

  “Hello,” he said. “Hello. This is a mayday.” His voice wobbled with nerves and he took a moment to steady himself. Don’t give up now! He cleared his throat. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is an emergency. If anyone can hear me, an attack on Dublin is coming tonight. It will be an aerial bombardment. Mayday, mayday, mayday.” Thomas released the transmit button, hoping for a response, but all he could hear was static.

  He licked his lips, breathed deeply and started again.

  * * *

  Tess clung to the bricks inside the chimney, coughing so deeply it felt like her lungs were going to turn inside out. She tilted her face to the sky, forcing herself to keep going. Come on! she told herself. You’re nearly there! Her toes dug into cracks in the stonework as she made her way up. The chimney narrowed as it rose and for a few moments Tess stuck fast, panicking at the thought of becoming wedged inside it, but she summoned the last of her strength and hauled herself up, and up, and up until she could smell fresh air. She sucked it down, breathing it in like she’d never breathed clean air before, and tried to calm her racing heart.

  Finally she reached the lip of the chimney. It was covered with bird droppings and soot and the gap between it and the cast-iron chimney cap was frighteningly narrow. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself through it, falling out onto the roof tiles before rolling onto her back to catch her breath. She reached into her vest to pull out her glasses, put them on with soot-blackened fingers and looked at herself; every inch of the too-fussy outfit Mr. Cleat had picked out for her was destroyed, right down to the ridiculous socks.

  She allowed herself a laugh, which turned into a torrent of giggles, which ended in a coughing fit. When she finally managed to catch her breath, she heard the drone of engines again—except this time it was much louder.

  So loud, in fact, that Tess felt a wave of fear.

  She got to her knees and then to her feet, clinging to the chimney she’d just climbed up. Her legs wobbled as she looked around, the wind tossing her long, loose hair like a whip.

  And then, so suddenly that it made her scream and lose her grip, a gigantic machine roared overhead, low enough that Tess could feel the terrifying thrum of its engine inside her chest and the sucking air in its wake. She braced her feet against a gutter and looked up, her back flat against the sloping roof, and saw the terrible silver belly of a bomber pass right over her head.

  Tess trembled from head to foot and scrambled for what cover the chimney could provide. She huddled behind it as roaring machines flew overhead, their long silver bodies like monstrous fish and the wheels of their undercarriages so low it seemed like they were going to skim the roof. The sound of the propellers was like nothing Tess had ever heard. She squeezed her eyes tight, terrified of being sucked off the roof.

  Finally there were no more and Tess opened her eyes to peer out from behind her chimney. As she watched, the bombers flew away from the house in a wide arc, going so far that they almost vanished from view. Then they circled back over the park until their noses were pointed for Roedeer Lodge once more, the noise of their engines growing louder as they approached. They began to bank, flying in tight formation toward the ground, and Tess looked at the lawn in front of Roedeer Lodge, where they seemed to be about to set down.

  Then, in the center of the lawn, the small, dark shape of Mr. Cleat appeared. He raised his hands to the sky, beckoning the planes to land, and they followed his instructions.

  Tess watched the planes land at the end of the lawn, rolling to a halt in a semicircle around Mr. Cleat. Eventually their engines were switched off and their propellers fell still and the sounds of the evening resumed all around her.

  Tess watched Mr. Cleat applauding, and the cockpits of the bombers began to pop open one after the other as the pilots emerged. They dropped straight to the ground, helmets under their arms, to shake Mr. Cleat’s hand. After a few moments they clustered companionably in the center of the lawn.

  Then Tess held her breath as the straight-backed figure of Mrs. Thistleton appeared. She strode toward Mr. Cleat and the pilots, her course fixed and immovable, and stood at a polite distance until Mr. Cleat eventually turned to look at her. He walked toward her and they began to speak, their heads close.

  “What are they saying?” Tess muttered to herself. She’s probably telling him I’ve gone missing, she realized. Gone, from a locked room. Her heart began to thud. They’ll guess what I did. I have to get down from here! Mrs. Thistleton gave a brisk nod and walked away, back toward the house.

  Quickly Tess tried to think. She looked around, evaluating her meager options, and tried not to panic. About ten feet in front of her stood one of the house’s front turrets. Tess knew there were windows in the turrets, but she didn’t know whether they could be opened from the outside. She crawled out from behind the chimney and slid forward a little, controlling her fall with her feet. She could see that ivy grew on the wall just beneath her, but it was well out of reach. Her nerve failed as she looked; the drop to the ground was just too much.

  That simply left one option—to go across.

  She was lying on the pitched roof that ran along the front of the house, between the two front turrets. Above her stretched the great copper-covered expanse of the house’s main roof; flat in the middle, it didn’t have any openings that Tess knew of, nor any means of getting to the ground. But all along the pitched roof to her left were windows to the maids’ quarters. Not that any of them will be in their rooms at this time of day, Tess thought, beginning to edge her way over. But there’s nothing else for it.

  Slowly she crept toward the nearest window. It was set into the roof, its panes secured with a simple metal lock, and Tess braced a foot against the gutter to look through it. She caught a glimpse of her reflection and grimaced. She looked like some sort of ill-intentioned woodland sprite; her face and clothes were filthy and her hair stuck out around her head like the fronds of a thistle. If she’d seen something like that peering in her window, the last thing she’d do would be to throw the pane open in welcome. I’d be more likely to fling the chamber pot at it, she thought grimly.

  She rapped gently on the window anyway in the hope that someone would recognize her and take pity. The small, neat room inside the window remained completely empty, its three plain beds with their spotless sheets looking so inviting that Tess almost wept. The door at the far end of the room stood open and Tess could just about see the narrow servants’ staircase that led down to the kitchen.

  Tess blinked as suddenly a torrent of running legs went past, all of them making for the stairs, each of them clad in black and white. For a surprised second she could do nothing and then she came to her senses and began to bang, as hard as she could, on the window.

  “Help!” she shouted. “Help! Out here!”

  The flow of maids didn’t slow and Tess began to despair that anyone would hear her. She pummeled her fists on the glass, hard enough that she was afraid the window would break—and then unexpectedly all the banging made the flimsy lock slip, causing one of the panes in the window to pop open very slightly. She nearly lost her balance, she was so surprised, and clung to the window frame for a moment or two, trembling.

  The gap wasn’t nearly wide enough to get a finger through, Tess discovered once she’d gathered herself—but it was wide enough to wriggle the arm of her glasses into. Quickly she took them
off and did just that. Then she spent several long, frustrating minutes trying to use the arm to flip the lock up and open. Eventually, after some maneuvering, the lock slid free. The window popped fully open and Tess let out a hoot of triumph.

  She put her glasses back on and clambered into the room, landing on the rug in a cloud of black soot. She got to her feet and hurried to the washstand, rinsing away the worst of the grime from her face and hands. She dried herself on one of the pristine towels, turning it gray in the process.

  She took in the room again, wondering what to do next. It looked as though someone had shaken out an ash box all over the floor, and Tess cringed at the mess she’d made. Even though it couldn’t be helped, she felt guilty.

  Then her eye fell on one of the room’s small wardrobes and an idea began to brew inside her mind. What’s the best place to hide when you really don’t want to be found? she thought with a grin. Right in plain sight.

  She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled it open. As she’d hoped, it held a spare uniform, and in less than a minute her ridiculous dress was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Moments later, out of the attic bedroom a new maid crept, one with unkempt hair, no socks and a skirt that was rolled up three times at the waist. She ran down the stairs after the others, hoping not to be noticed.

  But first she had a spider to find.

  * * *

  Thomas broadcast his distress call until he grew hoarse. Nobody replied, but he didn’t give up, not until his voice began to crack and the ringing in his temples grew so painful that he simply had to rest. He let his head droop and dropped the transceiver mouthpiece, leaning his hot forehead in the palm of his left hand. He closed his eyes.