This Leo did not like to answer. It was bad enough when Foxbrush laughed at his ideas. But Foxbrush was his cousin and a boy, so there was nothing to stop Leo from taking a swing at his offensive face if necessary. If this strange girl—all wrapped up in her veils and scarves against the rain so that he couldn’t see even a bit of her face—made fun of his heroism, he didn’t know what he would do. Leo picked up his pace, pushing quickly through a sweeping pine bough, which splattered him with soggy needles. But the girl kept pace behind.
“Of what?” she repeated.
“Nothing,” Leo growled.
“Then why cain’t I come?”
“It’s dangerous, that’s why.” He brandished his beanpole as he spoke, glaring over his shoulder at the girl. She stood there, rainwater dripping from the edge of her veils, unmoved.
“I ain’t scared,” she said.
“You should be.”
“I ain’t.”
Leo had no younger brothers or sisters. He was friends with Foxbrush and knew a handful of other children close to his own age that his mother deemed “acceptable” playmates. They were easy enough to bend to his will, except Foxbrush, who didn’t count. Leo and his cousin could hit each other a few times and usually come to a quick solution. But rational argument with irrational children was not a skill Leo had ever seen the need to develop.
He tried an age-old approach. “Your mum wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t have a mum.”
Leo paused in midstride, his beanpole upraised to hold a branch out of his face. A pang of sympathy shot through him before he could stop it. He found himself looking down on her with new eyes. “No mother?” he said.
“Nope,” said she.
“What about your father?”
She put her head to one side. “What about him?”
“Do you have one of those?”
“Just me old dad.”
“He will mind if you’re doing something dangerous.”
The girl shrugged. “Dad don’t care. He knows nothin’ can happen to me.”
She was a strange-looking child. Her clothing was ragged, but it covered every inch of her body, from the top of her head, to her fingertips, to the soles of her feet. She wore a dull red outer dress over a dirty white shift, and a frayed red belt, the same color as that tied to his beanpole. And over all she wore a tattered veil that, in the rain, clung to the sides of her face. Even then, Leo could get no clear impression of her features.
“Why are you wearing that fool thing?” he demanded, gesturing at the veil.
She crossed her scrawny arms. “Why are you wearin’ that fool thing?” she snapped, indicating his floppy hat.
Leo put a hand to his head and straightened the brim, causing water to gush down his cuff and sleeve. “It keeps the rain off,” he said.
“Not well, it don’t.”
“Better than those silly wrappings of yours!”
“I ain’t wet.”
Leo rolled his eyes and turned to continue his exploration of the trail. “Somebody is going to mind you being out with me, so you had better run off,” he called over his shoulder.
“Nobody’s goin’ to mind,” she insisted. “Except Beana.”
“Who’s Beana?”
“My nanny.”
Leo made a face back at her. There was no chance this mountain urchin could possibly have a nanny. Not even the son of the village elder in the valley had a nanny. Nannies were for rich people’s children, and this girl was not within dreaming distance of that kind of wealth.
“Now you’re making up stories.”
“I ain’t!”
“Yes you are.”
“You’re makin’ up stories!”
He shrugged and rolled his eyes and continued tromping up the narrow trail. She followed. A few times as they went, he tried turning on her, baring his teeth and threatening with his beanpole. Every time, she stood there still as stone, all but yawning with boredom. When he gave up and continued on his way, she followed as close as a shadow.
The rain let up after a while, and not long after that Leo saw sunlight struggling through the canopy of leaves overhead and the canopy of clouds still higher up. The trail was longer than he had expected. The old gardener had told him it would loop back to Hill House eventually, hadn’t he? Not that Leo cared about that; he was hunting a monster, not taking a stroll. But the sun was crossing the sky, and he might be missed if he wasn’t home for supper.
These weren’t the thoughts of a warrior. He scouted ahead and saw a gnarled tree trunk that had almost the look of a troll. Taking his pole in both hands like a club, he charged that old trunk and hit it a few times, feeling better about himself and his mission immediately thereafter.
The girl behind him put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “You’re silly,” she declared. “Why’d you beat on that poor tree?”
“I’m practicing,” said Leo, rolling his arms and shoulders like he’d seen the guardsmen in his father’s yard do when getting ready to spar.
“What for?”
“For when I catch the monster.”
They marched on up the mountain for almost five minutes before she spoke again. “You huntin’ for the monster?”