The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle (18 page)

The Perfect Heart

T
HE
LADY ELEANOR
is gratified that the three children don't seem to like the porridge.

Porridge is something Eleanor remembers well. She ate much at one time, when she was a girl—it was all they had. The very smell of it conjures a vision of her father's fist, the pain of a swelling bruise on her cheek, the prison of her helplessness. Eleanor hates porridge even more than she hates her loveless father and heartless first lord.

Now Eleanor's eye stops at Katherine. Katherine so reminds the Lady of her first lord's new wife, the young wife he took after he drove Eleanor to the keep, the young wife who became mother to his only child by blood. Eleanor knows from seeing it last night that the girl has been given a hand, perfect,
mechanical. Could it have been a gift from the magister? It horrifies her that Katherine Bateson might be the magister's new pet, and her heart clutches.

And then she realizes—the magic she's felt, the magic she doesn't yet control, that magic is somehow linked to this girl. The pain in Eleanor's chest becomes unbearable.

The Lady places her hand on her chest, her fingers gripping the beaded fabric, and she sucks in air with a wrenching gasp. The teachers look up in confusion. The children, too, lift their eyes to her and stare, some eyeing her fearfully, some surprised. She stands, the gears in her legs whirring to life; had she been still made of flesh she is sure her legs would tremble.

“Excuse me,” she says, and leaves the hall, fast but stately, her hand still clutching her chest. The hand, all steel and moving parts, that has the strength to rip her heart right out of her chest. The strength to rip out Katherine's heart if need be.

The Lady is still able to shed tears, and one strays now from her right eye. She brushes it away, angry. Angry that Katherine should remind her of the past. Angry that she should see in Katherine the form of something—of someone—she hates. Angry that Katherine may have received the gift of a perfect hand from the magister and may have access to any kind of magic.

Katherine—and all the children—will give up their souls. Eleanor will hold power over men like her heartless lord
and her cruel father, even over, she thinks, the magister.

She smiles grimly at this thought as she clutches at her heart. The rooks follow, circling, as she guides the wheel of her motorcar, this time leaving Hugo behind.

“All?” the magister repeats. His hut is exceedingly warm.

“Yes,” she says, seething with impatience. “All. And at once. I must be able to use the chatelaine as I see fit.”
To control even you.

“You must not take them too quickly,” he says. “The magic—”

“Yes, yes. The magic will weaken.” She dismisses his caution. She is tired of the power of others, including the magister, tired of being told to move slowly.

“Giving all will require a complete sacrifice.” He does not face her; he is busy stoking his fire, an unnecessary gesture. When he turns and lifts his eyes they are birdlike, button-black. “You will no longer be human.”

She doesn't like being human. It's far too emotional, too messy, unpredictable, uncontrollable. Being human means wanting things like love. She's been human for long enough. She clutches at her chest, and her words form a snarl. “You will take my heart as well?”

The magister grins; his teeth are sharpened to fine points,
like the spikes on a saw blade. “Yes, my Lady. I will have your heart. And I have for it the most magical replacement.”

As he holds up the mechanical heart, the perfect shape of a heart even as it clicks and whirs with precision, gears and wheels turning on tiny pins, it beats with such a calm and steady clockwork regularity that Eleanor knows it will be glorious.

Sisters

S
TORM HAD DISMISSED
the children long before class should have ended, collapsing in the chair at the front of the room and mumbling to himself while waving his hands about as if fending off a swarm of bees. He no longer looked anything like the Storm Kat had met only a few weeks earlier.

As she left the classroom she overheard him muttering about “finding all the artifacts,” and he repeated one word again and again:
chatelaine
.

Kat was certain now that Storm had stolen her chatelaine. But how was she supposed to get it back? Was she brave enough to sneak in and search his room?

Kat dropped her books on the dresser and stood in the hallway in front of her door. Amelie and Isabelle, playing in Isabelle's room, squealed with laughter.

No one else even knew of the existence of Great-Aunt Margaret's chatelaine. Kat chewed her nails. Maybe it was time to enlist help. She started down the hall to Peter's room.

As Kat passed Isabelle's doorway, she glanced inside. And she was not prepared for what she saw there. Her cheeks went hot and shock gave way to anger mixed with extreme relief.

“What are you doing?”

Both girls stopped and turned. They were dressed up in some of Isabelle's fancy clothes. Smaller Amelie wore a long slim skirt that dragged on the floor, and her curls were pulled up in a messy bun.

And around her waist was a wide leather belt from which hung Kat's chatelaine.

Amelie grinned. “I'm pretending. See?” Amelie pointed at Kat and lowered her voice. “And you shall eat porridge for the rest of your life!” Isabelle rolled on the floor with laughter.

Kat took two fast steps across the room and grabbed Amelie by the wrist while she unfastened the belt with her other hand.

“Ow! Kat! That hurts!”

Kat snatched the chatelaine from the belt and clutched it tight, and only then did she let Amelie go. “You had no business taking this from my drawer!”

Tears rolled down Amelie's cheeks. “I didn't take it! It's Isabelle's.”

Kat rounded on Isabelle. “Then you stole it.”

Isabelle stood up straight and tall. “I did not. I found it this morning. It was lying on the floor outside one of the empty rooms. I did not know you had a chatelaine.” She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. “I did not know you carried such a . . .” And she paused before saying, with a dramatic flourish, “such an artifact.”

Then Amelie took a big, gulping sob. Kat had grabbed Ame's bare arm with her right hand and squeezed hard, and Ame's arm was already turning black and blue. “Oh,” said Kat, her breath a little puff. “Ame.”

Kat's strange and transformed and monstrous right hand had hurt Amelie terribly. Kat reached for her sister, to stroke her hair.

Amelie howled. “Don't touch me! You're wicked and evil!” And she began to cry hard. “I want Mum. I want to go home.”

Isabelle went to Ame and gently took her arm, examined it, and
tsk
ed. “It might be broken.” She narrowed her eyes at Kat. “I do not know how you could break her arm.”

Kat's knees went weak. “I'll take her to Cook for a poultice.”

“No!” said Ame through her tears. “Don't touch me!”

“I shall take her,” said Isabelle, and, holding Amelie gently around the waist, pushed past Kat and out of the room.

Kat sat on the floor of her room. She played with the chatelaine, working it around and around in her fingers. The fingers of her right hand, a hand she hated, moved with precision.

If her great-aunt's chatelaine, recovered at such great cost, had magical properties, she couldn't tell at this moment.

And how had it come to be on the floor down the hall? Had Storm dropped it there? He was certainly confused enough.

She held it on her open palm. An heirloom.
Quite magical. Keep you safe.
The chatelaine hadn't kept Amelie safe from Kat and her terrible right hand. What kind of magic did she possess with that hand? Was it good? Or was it something evil and dark?

Could an heirloom—an artifact—that Kat now believed was “magical” be made evil, just by Kat's actions?

Peter knocked on the door, and Kat jammed the chatelaine into her pocket. He said, “I ran into Isabelle and Amelie. Isabelle told me what happened.” He paused. He wasn't judging Kat, at least. “Ame's wrist isn't broken, and Cook bandaged it up. She'll be okay.”

“Is Ame still angry?”

He shrugged. “She's scared. Said you were so strong. Like your hand was made of iron or something like that.” He stared at the floor.

Kat slumped a little. “I didn't mean to hurt her. I was . . . upset.” She was relieved to have the chatelaine back, but still . . .
Torn, scattered, her mind was all in pieces, her heart aching.

“Yeah.” Peter ran his hand over his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Well. I think you're right. We're being made crazy by the stuff in the castle. Whether it's ghosts or magic or spies or whatever it is. Anyway, I came to ask. MacLarren's down in the library off the main hall, alone. What do you think? Time to share what we know with the two teachers we think we can trust?”

Kat and Peter found MacLarren hunched in one of the huge leather chairs next to the fire.

MacLarren lifted his eyes over the top of the book in his hands. “Yes?”

“Well, sir,” Peter began, “we've discovered some things here in Rookskill Castle that seem a little . . . off.”

“Off?”

“Yes, sir.” Peter cleared his throat. Kat stirred, impatient.

MacLarren put the book aside and folded his fingers over his stomach. “Can you be more specific, Williams, lad?”

“Well, it's just that, um, we think . . .”

Kat blurted, “We believe there's a spy in residence. A German spy.”

His face darkened. “Do you now?” he said softly.

Kat's heart pounded.

Then MacLarren seemed to retreat, and he began to talk
to himself. “Just as he feared. Involving the children, too. In which case, it's double the difficulty here.” He rubbed his chin, looked between Kat and Peter with bright eyes, and lifted his voice. “And what's your evidence?”

Kat and Peter exchanged a glance, and they went for it.

Taking turns, they told him the entire spy story: the hidden room with the wireless, someone sneaking around in a black overcoat, Rob's discovery in the caves.

MacLarren's eyes grew brighter still and he leaned forward as Kat described the code machine.

“As suspected,” he muttered, standing and pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “Jack was right. Must report he sent good information. And the details. Well, well. We'll find them now.”

His reaction made Kat feel instantly better. They could trust MacLarren. And it sounded like he wasn't entirely surprised, maybe even expected it.

He looked at Kat and Peter. “I'd like to bring Miss Gumble in on this, if you don't mind,” MacLarren said. “She's gifted with languages and might be a help. And good work, you two. I could tell you were clever bairns.”

Kat sensed Peter stood a little straighter. She did, too.

MacLarren looked around the library. He lowered his voice. “We'd best not meet here, or in any of the public rooms, for that matter. I think your headmistress doesn't like your
wandering about untethered, eh?” He grinned. “You know a private place we could have a look at your findings?”

Kat and Peter exchanged another glance. Kat said, “What about the secret room on the landing, now that it's empty?”

MacLarren rubbed his chin. “The secret room, eh?”

“It must have served as a linen closet at one time,” Kat said. “Now there's a table and wiring. And it's very hidden.”

“Just the ticket,” he said. “Tell me how to find it.”

Kat and Peter went off for the backpacks while MacLarren went to fetch Miss Gumble. The children had to evade Marie by hiding behind a column, but there was no sign of the Lady.

“What do you suppose he meant, double the difficulty?” Kat asked as they waited on the landing. She shifted the pack on her shoulders. She carried the encryption device, and it weighed a ton.

“What?” Peter said. He'd been bent over, tugging on his chain, opening the hidden door.

“MacLarren. When we told him about the spying he said, ‘In which case, it's double the difficulty here.'” She'd dropped her voice to sound like their teacher.

Peter stared at her. “You have a memory like that, do you?” He shook his head. “I had a friend back home with a photographic memory. It was uncanny what he could recall. He told me there are people who have memories like that but for the things they hear. You have that, don't you?”

Kat blushed. She shrugged best she could under the weight of the pack.

Peter said, “I don't know what MacLarren could have meant. Except it sounded like he wasn't really surprised about the spying.”

Kat said, “And I wonder who Jack is.”

“Who?”

“He said, ‘Jack was right.'”

Peter nodded. “Jack might be a code name.”

Kat turned that idea over. “A code name.” She shuddered. A code name for a spy, like her father. If Father had been captured, why, he might already be dead. She'd been angry at him last night. Now the anger was gone, replaced by longing and worry and fear and anger at herself. He was doing what must be done. Kat swallowed hard as her throat and eyes burned.

“It seems to me,” Peter went on, oblivious, “MacLarren is already pretty well informed.”

Kat swallowed again. “That's true,” she said. “I wonder if we should have mentioned the ghostly things. The magic.” Her right hand—her transformed hand, her terrible hand—went into her pocket and found her great-aunt's chatelaine. She pulled it out, lifting it up between them.

“What's that?” Peter asked.

“It's a chatelaine my great-aunt gave me. She said it was magic.”

“A chatelaine? Like the thing Storm has been going on about? Is that what you and Ame fought over?”

She nodded, miserable.

Peter reached for it, but before he touched it they heard a noise. Someone was coming up the stairs, and Kat and Peter were in the open on the landing. They exchanged a glance; Peter's eyes grew round and he put his finger to his lips.

“How do we know it's them and not
her
?” Kat whispered.

“We don't.”

Up, up, up came the footsteps.

“We should've arranged a signal,” Peter whispered.

The footsteps were two turns below them now, and still coming.

They had no choice: they slipped into the hidden room and shut the door as quiet as could be. They couldn't be caught out, especially not with the code machine and wireless in their possession.

Kat still clutched her chatelaine in her fist. From between her fingers she saw it: a blue glow.