The carriage rolled away with her shut up inside it. Prue fumbled in the blackness for the door handle. One of her fingernails ripped.
“Do not be afraid, little one,” someone said just by her ear. “We will not harm you. Not you, of all people, darling girl, no, no, no.”
Stale breath, that of an ancient person rotting on the inside first. Prue wedged herself in the seat corner.
“We turned down the lamps because we did not wish to attract any attention from the house. We only wished for you, you see.”
“It ain’t me you want,” Prue said. “I told that to your—your footman feller. The cheek of him, too, hauling me like so!”
“We instructed Hume to convey you to us using whatever means necessary. You mustn’t be angry with him. He is a most faithful servant. Hume, the lamp.”
He was in here? Sweet sister Sally.
A lamp sizzled up and Prue blinked. When she could see right, she took in silken black on the ceiling, black velvet curtains, black leather seats.
Across from Prue sat an old fogey. He must’ve been skinny as a rake, because for all the world it looked like he was an empty frock coat draped across the seat with a shriveled monkey face under a top hat.
The ogre—Hume—sat beside the fogey. His huge knees in the scarlet britches were close to his chin.
Prue slid her eyes sideways. Next to her sat a lady as shrunken as the gent, but with a bit more life in her face. She wore a glossy black fur and an old-time black bonnet. Her dark eyes shone. “I am Lady Cruthlach,” she said, “and this is Lord Cruthlach.”
“Pleased ever so.” Prue licked her lips. “Where’re you taking me?”
“Oh, we are only going for a little journey about the block, my lovely. No need to fuss. We merely wished to see you. You are indeed quite as lovely as Hume reported.” Lady Cruthlach took a lock of Prue’s loose hair between a gloved thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light. Greasy and tangled though Prue’s hair was, Lady Cruthlach cooed. “Like ripe flax! Such a folkloric color, I have always thought. One rarely sees flaxen hair anymore. Girls these days seem faded, somehow. Is it all the photography, do you think, drawing the life out of them? Because girls will endlessly sit for their photographic portraits, will they not, despite what everyone knows about energy fields and camera lenses.”
Prue had never heard of that one. Not that she was up to snuff on scientific notions.
“Just look at her gown,” Lady Cruthlach said to the fogey. “Practically in tatters.”
The fogey made a rustling-tissue sound with his throat.
Lady Cruthlach fingered Prue’s sleeve. “Oh my, is this”—she drew a shuddery breath—“are these cinders, girl?”
“Could be,” Prue said, tugging her arm away. She folded her arms.
“The music box,” the fogey wheezed. Then he coughed into a hankie held by Hume.
Lady Cruthlach clapped her hands. “Yes! The music box! You are correct, dear Athdar. Oh, I had so hoped you might be able to see her. Shall we bring the music box to the sitting room when we return home? We have not enjoyed it for many months.”
“Listen here,” Prue said. “It’s come pretty clear that there’s a mix-up happening. I reckon, see, you got me mixed up with my sister.”
Silent staring. The carriage bumped along.
“My dead sister,” Prue said. “I suppose you saw it in the newspapers? She was near a mirror image of me—as far as I could tell. But she’s dead, see, and I’m—well, like I said, I’m just nobody.”
“Nobody!” Lady Cruthlach tittered. “How delightful!”
Prue eyed the door handle. Looked like it would lever open nice and easy. Only problem was, Hume was eyeing her. He would grab her before she could say, “Bob’s your uncle.”
“I suppose you haven’t received an invitation to the prince’s ball, have you?”
“Me? A prince? No prince ever heard of me, I’m sure.”