Jenny. Poor, sweet, trusting Jenny. Well, she was far away from me now and there was nothing I could do to help her.
And she might be better off, I mused, taking in the tall, narrow towers that perched like stony fraternal twins on the top of the mansion. It was one of the old, great houses of England, stoic and angular, with a number of yawning windows that looked dark and hollow in the dawn light. A few neglected topiaries lined the path up to the door, their shapes more like gargoyles than circles or squares. A barn peered out from behind Coldthistle House. It looked to be newer and less cruelly appointed, and one’s eye went immediately back to the mansion.
My new home.
No, I corrected myself with a grimace, moving slowly toward the wagon to see what the crone wanted of me—not a home but a place of employment. Simple employment. It would be a waypoint, just a place to stop over while I worked out what to do with my life. If I could save up a little money, then I might be able to make it north and take a ship to Ireland. Or to the Americas. Both options felt equally distant and dreamlike, especially with Coldthistle House looming before me. Without a family to return to or a real home to recall, the future never felt important. After Pitney, most girls were either absorbed by the school to teach the next generation or they were picked out for governess positions by families in need.
Even scullery work sounded preferable to teaching some rich lord’s brat.
The gravel drive crunched under my shoes, and the crone climbed down from the driver’s box just as I approached. I glanced back at Lee and his uncle, who waited on their driver to collect a modest amount of luggage. Lee gave me a little wave and then started toward the house, his uncle clearly in no mood to dawdle.
They would have warm rooms waiting for them, even baths. Looking at the crone’s sour expression, I doubted there was anything but toil in my very near future.
“Don’t go falling for that boy,” she muttered, skewering me with her one good eye.
The suddenness of it caught me off guard.
“Of course not,” I replied. “He’s a guest and I’m the help. I’m not stupid, you know.”
She considered that for a moment, her jaw working back and forth in concentration. “Hmm. That remains to be seen. Not like his uncle would let you have anything to do with each other. That one cares for coin and only coin.”
“How do you know that?” But I had suspected the same.
Hobbling toward the back of the wagon, she rubbed at her hip. “You’ve met one miser, you’ve met them all. Now what are you doing following me about?”
“I thought you might need assistance with, um, with the cargo.”
“You’re no use to me hungry and tired,” the crone said with a snort. “And besides, Chijioke will be along once the house stirs. Go along inside. Take the stairs up to the second floor and go right. Your quarters are at the very end of the hall.”
My quarters? I hadn’t imagined I would get a room to myself. That hadn’t been the case for so many years, I wondered if it would be lonely to fall asleep to just the sound of my own breathing.
“I’ll send someone to wake you in a few hours,” the crone added, waving me away.
“Thank you,” I said reflexively, but in truth I probably did owe her a great deal.
“Don’t thank me yet, child; the day is young.”
I refused to indulge in such cynicism. The house was a bit shabby, certainly, and those monstrous topiaries did not make me feel welcome as I passed beneath them, but for now I had a place to rest my head and earn money. That was more than most runaways could hope to have. I shuddered as I stepped gingerly over the threshold, the massive doors opening just at the middle, enough for me to slip inside. There were darker alternatives to scullery work . . . I might have easily ended up in a women’s prison or working in a brothel, which was precisely what my father had foreseen for me just before my mother ripped me from the house.
Prospects were low, very low, for a lone Irish girl with no connections, no money, and no means to fabricate those things.
The foyer of Coldthistle House was blazingly hot. A sitting room through an open arch to the left glowed with rosy color, a fire crackling away and heating this ground floor. There was no trace of Lee or his uncle—they must have been settled already. Yet I saw nobody about, and the place was unnaturally silent.
It’s just after dawn, you idiot girl, of course it’s still.
I crossed a tattered carpet to the staircase on the right of the foyer. It was grand but austere, and the walls around it were clustered with paintings of birds. Ornithological studies and sketches, though the painter did not have much of an eye for artistry. Those odd, stringy creatures glowered down at me from every angle. It was almost enough to make me miss the oddest feature of the room—a large green door directly opposite the main entrance of the house. There was no way it was original to the mansion; no wealthy family would have wanted such an awkwardly placed door. Perhaps it was an addition; added storage or a pantry of some kind.
My exhaustion lifted for a moment, almost as if new life had gusted into me. And the green door called to me.
It sang.
Not a song anyone else could hear, I’ll wager, but it was as if thin tendrils leaked out from under it, speeding toward me, entering through my ears and coaxing me through whispered melody. Even the words to this song were completely unknowable, some odd, guttural language that sounded like nonsense, nonsense that resolved into guidance. It filled my head with thunder, like a headache but thicker, crowding out any of my own thoughts that might seep in and bring reason.
And like a fool, I listened, drifting toward the glossy green paint of the door, reaching out for the ornate, golden knob . . .
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
A high, tiny voice came from behind me. I froze, turning to find a girl of perhaps eleven years staring at me from an open doorway. The kitchens were visible behind her. She wore a simple, white frock that was starkly clean, almost glowing. Her hair was parted at the middle, severely braided into two plaits that dangled over her shoulders. Half of her face was covered in a purplish port-wine stain, a hideous mark on an otherwise lovely child.
A dog wagged his tail next to her. It was a little brown dog composed mostly of ears and wrinkles. He made a soft boof sound at me, either a warning or a greeting, I couldn’t tell.
“Nobody goes through the green door unless they’re invited,” she added. Her matter-of-fact manner had cut through the song in my head and I felt, thankfully, like myself again. But also, again, tired. “I’m Poppy. This is Bartholomew. Who are you? You’re not a guest.”
“How do you know?” I bit back impertinently.
“I just do,” she said. “Did Granny find you?”