Blackthorn Winter (2 page)

And where had I smelled it before?

"Don't be silly," Mom said briskly through the fog that now seemed to be in my head. It seemed to me that Mom's voice sounded suddenly much more English than it usually did after all her years of living in California. Soon she'd probably be asking us to call her
Mum
the way kids in England said it. I rubbed my eyes and squeezed my nose to try to clear my head of the weirdness I'd felt.

"The village will look gorgeous as soon as the sun comes out," continued Mom. "It's a vibrant place, from what Liza tells me, with plenty of art galleries—look, we're passing some now. It's not the least bit spooky. It's going to be heaven for me, kids!"

I tried to focus on her chatter as I rolled up my window to get the uncomfortable, strange smell out of my head. I was imagining things, I told myself. It was just the salt and the sea, and the fog. Different countries had different smells. That was all.

Mom was slowing the car. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her purse and passed it to me. "Here, Jule. Liza sent this. Can you navigate?"

Glad to be distracted from my uncomfortable thoughts, I squinted in the waning light at the e-mail printout. "Enter the village on the main road, called Castle Street," I read obediently as we passed a row of shops and a bank. I saw no sign
of any castle. "Then take the first left past the ironmonger onto Dark Lane, then left again onto Water Street."

"What castle?" demanded Edmund predictably.

"What's a monger?" queried Ivy.

Our car veered left and bumped along a narrow, cobbled road. "There's no castle anymore," Mom explained. "Liza told me it fell down hundreds of years ago, and the villagers used some of the big stones to build their homes. And an ironmonger is a hardware store, Ivy."

"Hey, Mom, maybe your side of the family once lived in that castle—back before it fell down!" Ivy bounced excitedly in the backseat.

"I'm fairly sure we're descended from good hardy peasant stock," Mom replied with a little laugh. "The closest we'd have got to this castle would be to clean out the moat."

"Well—maybe Juliana has ancestors who lived in the castle before it fell down."

Ivy was persistent, you had to hand it to her.

"Now hold on," said Mom, slowing the car. "Where are we? Navigator?"

"That sign says Water Street," I said, pointing.

"Okay, kids—this should be it! Water Street. Now look for Old Mill House Cottage."

"Well, is it a house or a cottage?" asked Edmund as Mom pulled up in front of a gray stone wall and cut the engine. From the light of the streetlamp we could read the plaque on the wall announcing that this was the Old Mill House, circa 1664. A wooden door in the gray stone wall was painted bright, shiny red—the only spot of color I'd seen so far in the whole village.

"That's so old," said Ivy in awe. "That's like during Pilgrim times in America!"

"You're right," Mom said. "The American colonies still belonged to England."

"And we're going to live here!" sighed Ivy rapturously. She adored old things—funny little kid. I preferred things new and bright. Even though Ivy hated leaving Dad as much as Edmund and I did, she was excited about having the chance to live in an old house in a little village. I would have preferred someplace trendy and cool in London.

"That must be the main house—I wonder where the cottage is?" Mom's voice was eager. "We're so lucky Liza found it for us." She opened the car door and stepped out into the cold, with Edmund and Ivy tumbling after her. I sat alone in the car for a long moment, looking at that bright red door, welcoming the silence. I was bone-tired after the long flight from San Francisco, and after this long drive south and west to the coast, all the time in the rain and murk.... I stared at that red door and thought of my dad back in sunny California, and I just wanted to curl up somewhere and go to sleep for a million years.

Then the red door opened and the silence was shattered. "Hedda, darling!" someone shrieked, and a figure dashed over to our car, black hair streaming.

"It's a witch!" I heard Ivy pronounce with relish, and she and Edmund started laughing. I resisted the impulse to lock my door. It
did
look like a witch.

The woman was about Mom's age, I guessed. Early forties. But there the similarity ended. Mom was tall and comfortably round, while this woman was very short and very skinny, with straggly black hair and a long thin nose. Her glittering dark eyes were wild with excitement. She wore a long, black caftan. Pipe-cleaner arms reached out to grab Mom.

"Hedda Martin!" screeched the witch. There were two bright circles of color in her cheeks. "Has it really been twenty-two years? Let me see you!" Her English accent was much stronger than Mom's.

"Liza!" Mom hugged the woman. Okay, so not really a witch ... I knew this must be Liza Pethering, Mom's friend from her art-school years, with whom she had once shared a small student apartment (a
flat,
Mom called it) in London. Back then Mom was Hedda Martin. Dad's name was David Drake. After they married, they became the Martin-Drakes, and so we kids all had the double last name, too. I liked it.

Slowly I emerged from the car and stood there with Edmund and Ivy. The drizzle had stopped, but a brisk, salty wind blew along the road. Even though you couldn't see the ocean from here, you could tell it wasn't far away.

"Hello, hello, little American people!" caroled Liza Pethering, peering at us one by one. "Two little people, and one middle-sized one!" She thrust out her bony hand and shook ours. "Come over here and let Aunty Liza get a good look at you." She turned back to Mom. "What luscious little people. I could just eat them up!"

Maybe a witch after all.
I tried to smile in a friendly manner at Mom's old friend, though I wasn't really feeling friendly. This was the woman responsible for finding us our cottage in this village, for persuading Mom that her painting career would flourish if she took a break from her marriage to move here.

"So tell me," gushed Liza, "which babies did you find in the cabbage patch and which are your very own?"

I knew how much questions like this annoyed Mom.
But she spoke calmly. "They're all my own, Liza, of course. But Juliana and Edmund were adopted, if that's what you mean."

Edmund elbowed me in the side and rolled his eyes. I rolled mine back. We were united. The Adopted Ones. Next to me, Ivy harrumphed; she always felt left out.

"Twins, eh?" The woman was grinning down at Ivy and Edmund, revealing uneven rows of very white teeth. "Peas in a pod, eh? You're the ones from—where was it? Poland or someplace? Romania? I know you sent me an announcement, but it was years ago. And they all three of them look alike—blonds, just like you, Hedda. They could really be your own!"

"Edmund was born in Russia," Mom clarified briskly, "and Juliana was born in California—although we were told that her birth mother may have come from England originally. In any case, Juliana's our eldest—she's fifteen. And Edmund and Ivy are both nine. I know they look like twins, but they aren't really."

"Sure we are," protested Edmund, grinning.

The Goops were both very blond, and Ivy's hair was curly like Mom's. My own hair was a darker shade, and straight. I wore it long, usually tied back in a single braid.

"We have the same exact birthday, after all," said Ivy, linking her arm through Edmund's. "And we have the same parents now and we live in the same family now, and so that makes us twins, no matter where we were born."

Liza-the-witch blinked, looking confused. The Goops often had that effect on people. Of course, we were all used to people needing explanations about how our family was formed, but Mom always resented having to explain anything. "We're a
family,
" she always said. "Families come together in all sorts of ways. What difference does it make?"

"People are just interested, Hedda," Dad would always reply. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, it's none of their business, that's all," said Mom.

"So, tell me the story of
this
one, then," said Liza Pethering now, pointing at Ivy. "Is this one the
real
daughter?"

I gritted my teeth and looked at that red door, wondering if we'd ever get inside or if we'd have to stand out here in the cold, explaining ourselves, forever.

Mom frowned. "All three children are as real as can be, Liza! But yes, Ivy is our birth daughter. It just so happened that we were planning to adopt from an orphanage in Russia when I found out I was pregnant. And then when we went to Russia several months later to get our baby boy, we discovered he had been born on the very same day as Ivy. A special coincidence."

"Makes you believe in fate, eh?" chuckled Liza.

Mom looked at her more kindly. "Exactly."

"Sort of how it was fate that made me find your e-mail address when I was sending out announcements for my new gallery, and fate that had me contacting you at the very same time you were over there in California deciding you just had to come back to England!" Liza flashed her snaggle-toothed grin. "I wrote to you after—how many years? And there you were, needing to reconnect with old art-school chums because you wanted to get back to your own painting. 'No, don't go to London,' I told you. 'Come to Blackthorn instead. That's where the real action is in the art world these days. Not to mention we've got a fabulous drama society with yours truly as the new president, and a
brilliant historical association with yours truly as fearless leader, and so there will be tons for you to do and lots of ways for you to connect...' And look—here you are! Wait till you see your new home. Let's not just stand around—let's pop the boot and bring in your luggage."

The Goops sniggered. "I'll pop your boot," Edmund threatened under his breath.

At last.
I opened the trunk of the rental car and started pulling out our suitcases. Edmund hurried to help. Ivy grabbed Polar, the dingy white stuffed polar bear who always traveled with her.

"And didn't I tell you I'd help find you a place to live?" continued Liza excitedly, leading us inside that red door. "Didn't I tell you that I'm special chums with Quentin Carrington, the famous sculptor, and that he has a huge place with a cottage out back? Oh, my ducks, you're going to enjoy living in such a place. It's fabulous!"

"And where is Mr. Carrington?" asked Mom. "I had only one e-mail from him, saying he would rent us the cottage, but he didn't return my phone call or write again."

"He's a busy man, is our Quent," laughed Liza. "Anyway, he's had to go out this afternoon—something about another sale. He's doing so well these days with his pieces based on his trip to Iceland. He's setting up an important London show now. Sculpture with sort of a Viking look, and very good if you like that sort of thing. Seems tons of people do! Anyway, he rang me to ask if I could be here when you arrived, and give you your key, and show you around. He'll be back later tonight, him and the boy."

"Yessss!" Edmund punched his arm up in the air for victory. "There's another boy around here?"

Liza eyed him doubtfully. "Don't get your hopes up,
ducky. He's a much bigger boy than you—a really great strapping sort of lad. Looks to be about as old as your big sister here."

Edmund slanted a look over at me. "Sooo, maybe a boyfriend for you, Jule."

"You shut up," I mouthed. But it wasn't as if anything had worked out at home with Tim, so of course I'd be interested. Never mind a boyfriend—any old friend would do. Someone my own age living nearby could be a good thing.

My head was buzzing with tiredness as I followed Liza and my mom through the red door in the wall into a large garden. A graveled path led straight ahead to a huge, imposing house of (what else?) gray stone. Another path led around the left side of the massive building, and it was along this path that Liza took us. I looked up at the windows of the big house as we passed. In one I could see a gaily painted carousel horse, complete with gilded pole.

"Quent will give you a full house tour, I'm sure," Liza said, leading us around the back of the Old Mill House. The gray wall enclosed a vast garden with several smaller buildings shaded by black-branched, leafless trees. "Look, over there are the ruins of the old grist mill," Liza said, pointing. "The old millstone is still there, but it doesn't work anymore, of course." She wheeled around and pointed to the right. "And there you go. The gardener's cottage."

We approached the small stone house covered in vines. The windows were arched. No thatched roof, but this was getting closer to what I'd been imagining. My big suitcase bumped against my legs with every step. The place looked ancient, and intriguing. The Goops were making soft, ghostly
whoooos
behind my back, giggling.

Liza handed Mom a large, ornate key. "Quent gave me the key ages ago, so I could get the cottage all ready for you. But it's yours now. Here you go, Hedda—and welcome! I think you'll find it's a lot cozier than the place we all shared back in those London days."

Mom turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. "Come on, kids," she said. "Home sweet home!"

This could never be home without Dad, but I was interested in seeing it, just the same. I brushed past Liza into the little stone house—and stopped. I smelled it again: that smell of salt wind and fog—and something more, something that made me back up a few steps, my heart starting to pound hard.

Wake up, please wake up—oh no—help! Help! Come quick!

I knew no one had spoken—not really—but why was there this sudden voice in my head? It seemed to be a child's voice, high-pitched and frightened. It was somehow a familiar voice, but not one I could place.... I rubbed my nose—hard—and coughed, trying to rid myself of the strangeness. The smell disappeared along with the voice as Liza darted ahead of us, switching on lamps. I blinked in surprise—and pleasure—and was happy to push the weirdness out of my mind.

We were in a simple whitewashed room furnished with a cushiony couch and matching armchairs in rose-patterned fabric. There was a built-in bookcase along one wall—filled with books—and a large, old-fashioned sort of cupboard that stood open to reveal a very modern television. There was a large stone fireplace with a wood-burning stove set inside, topped by a carved wooden mantel. The cold flagstone floor was mostly covered by a thick rug in an oriental pattern of dark reds and blues. The fading light came through diamond-paned windows that looked out into the dusk of the dripping garden. This, at last, was worthy of my Christmas calendar.