The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I arrange my features into a semblance of filial piety. Mother glares at me. She knows me too well.

“I’ll tell Beatrice,” I say, keeping all excitement out of my voice. “We’ll be ready.”

“Good girl.” Mother dismisses me and then shuts the door in my face.

The conversation recommences the moment the door is shut.

I slip back to my bedroom and find Beattie digging through the pile of dresses and underthings that she left on the bed. An open trunk has been dragged over next to it, and the trunk vomits stockings over its edge and onto the floor.

“There you are!” Beattie breathes. “Did Mother tell you?” Her eyes shine bright with impish excitement.

“That we’re going to Aunt Mehitable’s? Yes,” I say, darting from shelf to mantel to dressing table, grabbing the odd item to toss into the trunk so it will look like I’ve packed to anyone curious.

“Did she tell you why?” Beattie singsongs, dancing by with a scarf wrapped around her head.

“I saw. Papa got a note.”

“We’re all going to be killed!” Ed chirps from the doorway between our rooms. His arms are full of sweaters and he’s beaming at me from behind them. “We have to flee. Papa said.”

“What?” I freeze, my hand wrapped around a spool of thread from Herschel’s shop. It’s a pale dove gray. I like the color so much that I keep the spool on my dressing table, where I can see it every day. No one knows why. I won’t let Beattie touch it.

“It’s true,” Beatrice says, stuffing the scarf into the trunk. “I heard Mother and them talking about it, before she made me come pack.”

“Is Papa still in his study?” Ed interrupts, cramming the sweaters into the trunk and then flopping on his back on our bed. “I want to ask if I should bring my speller.”

“Killed? Are you sure?” I repeat.

They wouldn’t have let Beattie see the note, certainly.

“Mother thinks it’s a ruse,” Beattie says in her eminently reasonable way.

“A ruse for what?”

“To scare Papa.” She shrugs.

A missing glove is hunted up and then Beattie lays the pair atop the sweaters with care.

“But why would anyone want to scare Papa?” I ask.

“How should I know?” Beattie says. Which is a good point.

I frown, thinking.

“You should pack,” my sister says mildly. “Mother said we’re leaving in half an hour.”

“Yes,” I say, staring off into space.

My siblings watch me, waiting for me to leap to attention and start hurling dresses into the trunk like I’m expected to.

“I . . . ,” I start to say, and then trail off.

What are Luddites? Could they really mean to kill us?

Does the note say when?

I shake myself awake and smile at Beattie.

“Annie?” she asks, looking curiously at my face. “Are you quite well?”

“But of course I am,” I say. “I’m just going to have a quick word with Winston. I’ll be right back.”

“With Winston?” My sister looks confused.

“Can I come?” pipes my brother from the bed.

He’s been expressly forbidden from bothering Winston, as for a period of three months he trailed on the poor man’s heels every hour of the day, until one Sunday Ed announced he was going to go live in Seneca and be one of Winston’s children instead. Mother put a stop to it then. He’s been banned from below stairs without Beattie or me to watch him.

“No,” I say. “You have to stay here and help Beatrice. Here, you can be in charge of making sure my evening dress is packed. The one with the puffed sleeves and the velvet flounce.”

“Me?” Ed lifts his head. He likes being put in charge of things.

“Yes,” I say. “Beattie will show you which one. It’s in the wardrobe. Don’t forget, it needs the right drawers and stockings, too. So it’s important you pay close attention. I’ll just run and ask Winston something, and I’ll be right back. You won’t even miss me.”

“All right,” my sister says uncertainly.