“Emmaline, remember the rule. It’s for your own good, with the foxes out there, growing hungrier as it gets colder.” She shakes her head, muttering something about how fresh air won’t cure any of us if we freeze to death first.
I sit at the table and eat my porridge with plum jam. Most of the younger children’s seats are empty, their bowls already licked clean. Only Benny, and Jack and his brother Peter, and the three small girls who are always clinging to each other remain. Thomas is at the far end of the long table, where the adults eat, hunched over his bowl like a piece of twisted driftwood that has somehow washed up in our breakfast room. His arm-side is facing me, and if I lean forward a little, I can almost pretend his other arm is there, just hidden.
I eye him sideways. He doesn’t look like the type to fatten children for witches, but who does?
“Where’d you go, then, Emmaline?” Benny asks, his head jutted forward. “To the loo outside? I bet you like to feel fresh air on your bum.”
Jack snickers. The three little mice do too.
“That’s a lie!” I say. My head whips toward the kitchen pantry door, but Sister Constance is cataloging cans inside and hasn’t heard this injustice. “I was in the sundial garden. I found a winged horse there—”
I clamp a hand over my mouth.
So much for keeping secrets.
Benny starts laughing. “A what? A flying horse?” He pretends to laugh so hard that he has to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling off the bench. But then the stillwaters rise up and he coughs and coughs, and it sounds like a dog barking in the night.
Jack jumps in. “Winged horses don’t exist, flea.”
“They did!” one of the mice pipes up. “In the Bible they lived in the Garden of Eden, but then the great flood came and there wasn’t any room left on Noah’s ark, so they drowned. That’s why there aren’t any more of them.”
Even doubled over in pain, Benny manages to shoot the little mouse a sneer. “That’s unicorns.” He coughs more. “And it isn’t true, anyway. It’s just something Sister Mary Grace made up to make you pay attention in church.”
The little mouse sulks back to her porridge.
“They do exist,” I say. “Only not in our world. They live in the other world, the one behind the mirrors. You would see them, if you ever looked, but I can tell from your greasy hair that you haven’t laid eyes on a mirror in days. Anyway, the horse in the sundial garden got out somehow.”
The other children are quiet. The only sound is Thomas’s metal spoon, scraping the last of his porridge at the far end of the table.
“I’ll prove it,” I say. “Come and see.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?” Benny tries to twist the words into a sneer, but the truth is, I think he’s a little curious. “We aren’t allowed that far, and anyway, the garden gate is locked.”
“You’re a boy. If I can climb over the wall in a dress, you can.” I give him a hard look. “Are you afraid of the foxes?”
Benny glances in the direction of the pantry. “Of course not.”
The three little mice confer among themselves in their secret mouse language. Thomas stands up and dumps his bowl in the soapy dishwater, and they hush. I think they forgot he was there, so silent and flat, as unnoticeable as the shadows that have been cast on the wall this whole time. He wipes his one hand on a kitchen towel, and then hitches up his trousers with all the grace of a bear.
“We’d better not,” announces Kitty, the leader of the mice. Her eyes are on Thomas as the wooden kitchen door smacks shut behind him. “Besides, they really don’t exist, Emmaline. It’s just a game you’re playing.”
Benny reclines, folding his arms as though, now that Thomas is gone and the Sisters aren’t present, he is the ruler of the breakfast table. “There’s a war on, Emmaline. It might have been fun to make things up before, but we have to grow up now. In war there are no children. Only adults.” Seeming very satisfied with himself, he licks the jam off of his thumb.
I push to my feet. Don’t they even want to see? The winged horse is right there, just on the other side of the garden wall. I set my bowl angrily by the kitchen sink, and then storm out onto the terrace.
It is cold, and I didn’t bring my coat, but I don’t want to go back inside with Benny and his talk about growing up and war. I sit on the highest of the kitchen steps, hugging my arms tight, worried for the winged horse. But it is starting to rain, and I can’t escape now.
“Emmaline.”
I straighten toward the voice. It’s Thomas, his one arm holding a shovel, ropes slung around the shoulder with the pinned-up sleeve. I overheard the Sisters talking about Thomas in the larder one time, while I was taking a nap on the flour sacks. It can’t be easy for him, Sister Constance said. His father’s made such a name for himself, in the last war and now in this one, too. And here Thomas is, shoveling turnips all day, no girls to be sweet on except poor dying Anna and a couple of nuns.
“Emmaline,” Thomas says again.
“What?”