The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle (29 page)

Two days later, Kat was working on homework in her room when Marie knocked.

“Your father wants to see you in the small library.”

The other parents had gone back to London, but Father had remained at Rookskill Castle to follow up with Gumble and MacLarren. All three were in the library when Kat arrived.

“Please close the door, Kitty,” Father said. “And sit.” She did.

“You've got a skill, lassie,” said MacLarren, “and no mistake.”

“Good with puzzles,” said Gumble.

“We know that the Lady Eleanor's chatelaine was a powerful artifact, and that the Nazis have been seeking it,” said Father. “We've also uncovered information suggesting that other similar artifacts may have made their way to Scotland.”

“Aye,” said MacLarren, “but we have no idea of the whereabouts of the rest of this treasure, or whether the items have been scattered or lost altogether.”

“And,” said Gumble, “we've learned that the Nazis are willing to risk a great deal to find any or all of them. As you already know.”

“So, dear girl,” said Father, “we are hoping that in the
coming months, we can call on your skills from time to time.”

A thrill ran through Kat. She could only nod.

“Good. Now keep all this under your hat, will you?”

“Yes, Father,” Kat said.

“Oh,” he added, “and there's a clock on the second floor that needs attention, if you would care to help me later today. And that watch, too. We need to repair that, don't you think?”

Kat smiled and hugged the watch to her wrist, happier than she'd been in a long time.

Time

T
HE ROOK PERCHES
on the edge of the well and casts one beady eye downward. Birds have sharp eyes, especially rooks, and this rook can see it, that charm, that thirteen, the one fallen out of its sack, glowing in the depths with a faint blue light.

The rook wants it, and would even venture down the deep shaft after it, had it not been for the shadow that creeps up from the woods behind and says, in a low mutter, “Be off!”

Off, off
, off!
cries the rook as it flies away, startling the stoat that has just poked its nose into the air.

War, war, war!

The magister has lost his greatest creation, the Lady. He would weep, but he is not familiar with the concept of weeping and,
besides, he has her in another form, and the more important parts of her at that. And he has the mangled hand of the girl as well, a small but powerful thing that may prove useful.

He looks into the well and sees the charm, the thirteen, that glows soft blue, and vows to make the magic, the calling, the bringing of what lies inside the chest within his hut, and he will bend all his skills to this end. He has already paid the price for its use. It will take time, yes, but all things that are important take time. And the war, that turmoil that stirs the air, in which he takes no side but his own, the war will give him time, as it will rage for years to come.

Yes, time, that's all he requires. Magic bides its own time. He glances up at Rookskill Castle, now in shadow, warm yellow light and the laughter of children spilling from the tall windows. Time is what the magister needs; that, and a certain thimble kept on a certain chatelaine worn at the waist of a certain clever girl named Kat.

Acknowledgments

Sometimes scouring the Internet with no real purpose can yield unexpected results. This happened to me one wintery November day when my friend Dotti Enderle posted a picture on Facebook of an eighteenth-century German chatelaine. The decorative charms suspended from the chatelaine were so odd—indeed, unnerving—that I placed the picture on my desktop.

Two weeks later, in a flurry of inspiration, I'd written the first forty pages of what would become this novel. My first thanks go to Dotti for sharing, and for handing me this story. (You can find a picture of the chatelaine in the front of this book.)

At one point in drafting I felt discouraged about everything in my writing life, including the early draft of
Charmed Children
. Kathi Appelt generously offered to read my draft, offering not only critical suggestions but also the kind of encouragement that writers need. This novel—indeed, my career—would not be alive without Kathi's feedback and heart. Thank you, Kathi.

I have the finest critique group in the world, not only because they are smart and thorough and honest, but also because they willingly read draft after draft. Thank you, Kiri Jorgensen, Bailey Jorgensen, Maurene Hinds, Sandra Brug, Kent Davis, and Linda Knox. And thank you also to Michele Corriel, SCBWIers, the YA Binders and WOMG, and my Vermont College of Fine Arts family. A village isn't enough: it takes a whole city.

I've visited Scotland a number of times, but the trip we took in fall 2014 was critical for confirming my memories and deepening my research. Thank you to the many fine hostelries we visited along the way, especially the Golspie Inn, and thanks to our hosts and knowledgeable historians and willing participants in the journey, Nella Opperman and Joe and Helen Cann.

My agent Erin Murphy is the best—the best editor, the best shoulder to lean on, the best agent to rep my work. She's also a wonderful person. I am eternally grateful to Erin for welcoming me into her agency family; it's one of the most important things to have happened in my writing life. Thank you also to Tara Gonzalez and Dennis Stephens and many, many thanks to the EMUs. EMLA rocks!

Everyone told me that my editor, Kendra Levin, was tops and that I'd love her, and they were right. Kendra, you are gentle but firm, and thank you not only for seeing the potential in the raw threads of the story, but for helping me weave those threads into silk. Thank you, Kendra and the entire Viking team: Ken Wright, Joanna Cardenas (who gave excellent feedback), Kate Hurley, Janet Pascal (detail-oriented production editor), Abigail Powers, Jim Hoover (who did the wonderful design), and Greg Ruth (who created one of the most gorgeous covers ever).

And last but never, ever least, thanks to my husband, Jeff, and son Kevin. Kevin, you have the makings of a fine writer (and you give me the best ideas), and Jeff, you forever have my heart.

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