Rose (2 page)

Next to her, Maisie's breath was still catching as she slept, her thin shoulders shuddering, as if she were dreaming it all over again—the lost child that she believed was her, running around the glittering fountain to fetch her boat, then turning back and seeing only other children's parents.

Rose didn't know how she'd done it. This had never happened when she told stories before today. She hadn't done anything differently—not that she could think of. But she must never, ever let it happen again. It was too strong. Rose was sure she'd made it up—or almost sure—but now Maisie had seen it, for her it was real. She would remember it forever.

Although
, Rose thought, as she eventually closed her eyes,
if
it
were
true, the boat would be in Miss Lockwood's office, with the other relics
…So it couldn't be. It was just a story. But her stories had never frightened her before.

Rose woke up feeling less cold than usual—the dormitory was always freezing, except for about two weeks in the summer when it was like being roasted. She couldn't work out why, until Maisie wriggled again, and she realized that was what had woken her.

Maisie's boots were sitting under her bed where Rose had lined them up neatly last night. She stared warily at them, wondering if the pictures would appear again.
Maybe
I'll just have to avoid anything shiny
, she thought.
I'll be useless as a housemaid
.

“Will you tell me the story again?” Maisie was leaning up on one elbow, peering down at her.

Rose sat bolt upright and all the blankets fell off.

“No!” Rose shuddered, scrabbling to get them back and keep their hard-won warmth in. “Of course not!”

“But why?” Maisie pleaded. “You're so good at it. No one else can do the pictures, Rose. It's beautiful.”

“But you were crying,” Rose reminded her, frowning. “You cried for ages and ages.”

Maisie shrugged. “That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it,” she explained, as though Rose was being dim. She sighed. “I suppose we haven't time before the others wake up. It was wonderful. I dreamed about it too.”

Rose thought Maisie was still half in her dream world, and she stayed in it all morning. Mondays were always washdays at St. Bridget's, and she spent the whole morning doing Maisie's work as well as her own. When she caught her friend mangling the skirt she was wearing, Rose made her go and hide behind the big copper tub and sort stockings before she did herself an injury. Every girl in the orphanage was wearing odd stockings for the next two weeks, but as it happened, Rose wasn't there to worry about it.

Halfway through the morning, a rustle of interested whispering ran through the laundry. Someone was at the door with Miss Lockwood. A hundred small girls stood on tiptoe while pretending to keep working. Visitors were rare at St. Bridget's, and even if they were only inspecting, they were an event. One of the smallest children, four-year-old Lily, was so excited she fell into a washing basket and had to be hauled out and hidden under a pile of sheets till she'd stopped giggling.

“Is it an inspector, do you think?” someone whispered next to Rose.

“No, no one said an inspector was coming. They always make us wear clean pinafores for inspectors,” an older girl pointed out.

“Maybe it's a benefactor!” Maisie squeaked from behind the copper. This was very exciting, as the last benefactor had given the girls three bunches of silk roses and a rocking horse, which lived in the schoolroom. Only the littlest ones were allowed to ride it, but everyone was very proud of it, and it had been named Albert, in honor of the king. The roses had mysteriously disappeared.

“She's got a lovely dress on—black—and a little hat with velvet bits.”

“If she's wearing black she's not a benefactor. She'll be doing Good Works. They always wear black if they're doing Good Works. Not usually a hat that nice though…”

The whispering died away as Miss Lockwood and the unknown visitor paced slowly through the laundry. Everyone tried to look busy and hear what they were saying at the same time.

“Of course, we usually like to keep the girls until they're a bit older…” Miss Lockwood was explaining.

“I do see, but I like to train up my maids myself. I would like a girl of about ten or eleven. Someone sensible.” The lady in the black hat had very bright eyes, Rose saw. She seemed to be noticing everything. She'd spotted Maisie peeking out from behind the copper and smiled at her. Maisie popped back, scarlet-cheeked.

The whispering started again, much louder, as everyone passed on this fascinating news. She wanted to take someone away! Rose wished she knew exactly how old she was. She was about ten, she was fairly sure. And she knew she was sensible. She tried to look sensible, but she had a horrible feeling she might just look constipated.

Miss Lockwood was gazing thoughtfully around the room. “Lucy. Ruth. And you, Eliza…”

Rose sighed. She wasn't sensible enough. If only Miss Lockwood hadn't caught them hiding in the storeroom yesterday! For a minute, she truly hated Maisie, but then the flash of anger died away, and she leaned sadly over the mangle, forcing another miserable lump of wet washing through.

“Oh, and perhaps Rose,” Miss Lockwood added. “Come into my office, girls, so Miss Bridges can look at you.”

Rose gawped at them like a fish, and Maisie and Ellen had to shove her to send her trotting after the others.

It didn't cross Rose's mind that it was strange to be looked over like this, as though the lady in the black hat was out shopping. She just wished that her faded brown dress fit better. It was tight under her arms. The lady might think she would eat too much. Rose sucked her cheeks in and tried hard not to think about stories. Miss Lockwood's office seemed to be full of shiny things, and Rose couldn't help seeing herself in them, wearing a smart, printed frock and a little white cap.

Miss Bridges walked up and down the little line of orphans. She asked Eliza how old she was and nodded as Eliza muttered, “Twelve.” Rose couldn't help thinking that she sounded mulish.
And
Lucy
doesn't want to be a maid, and Ruth does nothing but giggle. Maybe she'll choose me…

Then Miss Bridges stopped in front of Rose. “Are you really ten? You seem very small.”

Rose gulped. “I think I am,” she replied doubtfully. “I've been here nine years, miss, and they thought I was one when I came. I can work,” she added. “I'm very strong, I really am.” Rose stood on tiptoe without realizing.

“Don't you want to stay in the orphanage?” Miss Bridges asked curiously. She smiled at Miss Lockwood.

Rose cast her a worried glance as well and looked between them both as she answered. “It's not that I don't want to stay,” she murmured. “But I'd like to earn my own living.”

“Very creditable, dear,” Miss Lockwood reassured her. “Rose is a good worker, Miss Bridges. A little flighty occasionally, but a good girl.”

Rose's ears turned crimson. Was she? No one had ever said so before.

“Can I take her now?” Miss Bridges asked, rather as if Rose was a new hat.

“Now! Well, I suppose you may.” Miss Lockwood seemed a little shocked. “Usually we send the girls to their new places with an outfit and a Bible, but I'm afraid we don't have one ready.”

“That will be quite all right,” Miss Bridges said graciously. “We can supply all she will need. And we can send back her current, er,
outfit
, if it would help.”

“Well, yes…” Miss Lockwood agreed rather helplessly.

“Yes, indeed. Most kind…Now?”

“Now.”

Now!
Rose clenched her fists in the skirt of her pinafore to stop herself jumping with excitement. Of course she would miss the others—she didn't want to think of Maisie—but this was what she had been dreaming of and never expecting.

Lucy's hand crept into hers and squeezed.

“Good luck!”

Rose smiled at Lucy, but then a determined little frown crept over her face. She wasn't planning to let luck have anything to do with it.

***

Miss Bridges walked fast, and Rose had to scurry to keep up with her. She couldn't help falling behind, for at every step, she saw something else new and fascinating. The girls very rarely went out of St. Bridget's—except on Sundays, to church, in a long line of a hundred little girls, marching almost in step along the pavement.

Today, however, Miss Bridges had turned right outside the orphanage front door. Rose just stood on the bottom step, staring after her in amazement.

Miss Bridges turned back when she realized Rose wasn't following. “Are you all right, child? You look worried. Have you changed your mind? I don't want to take you if you're not happy to go.”

Rose shook her head vigorously and jumped off the step, running after her. “I do want to, I really do. I'm sorry, miss. It's only that we never go this way.”

Miss Bridges raised her eyebrows. “What's wrong with this way?”

“Well, nothing, but church is the other way, you see. We only ever go to church,” Rose said simply.

“I hadn't realized.” Miss Bridges looked down at Rose, trotting beside her in her brown dress and a scratchy gray shawl. Her bonnet was much too small, and it was threatening to fall off at every step. “Have you really never been anywhere else?”

Rose shook her head. “Not that I remember, miss.” The orphanage was not in a smart area of the town.

There were a few interesting shops to see, but of course, they were never open on Sunday anyway. But now Miss Bridges was leading Rose into more fashionable streets. It was the middle of a Monday morning, and they were crowded with people shopping, running errands, or just out walking. Rose found them all fascinating, but she couldn't help staring at the children her own age.

“We turn here, into this square.” Miss Bridges swept her around a corner. “Mr. Fountain's house is on the other side, in the corner there.” Rose gazed at the tall, stone houses, their windows sparkling in the sunlight. The center of the square was a garden with statues and three little boys playing with a toy horse. It was very quiet after the busy streets they'd walked through, and Rose wasn't sure she had ever been so close to a tree.

“It's beautiful, miss,” she said quietly. Then she looked up in surprise. “Mr. Fountain's house? It isn't your house, miss?”

Miss Bridges laughed. “I'm just the housekeeper, Rose. You and I both work for Mr. Aloysius Fountain, the famous alchemist.”

Miss Bridges took Rose down what she called the area steps, which led straight into the kitchen in the basement. “We don't use the front door, you see, that's for the family.”

Rose nodded. The front door was huge, painted dark green with a golden mermaid door knocker, and it was up a flight of marble steps. It was far too grand for her.

The kitchen seemed full of people, all sitting around a wooden table on which was an enormous brown china teapot. A plump lady at one end of the table nodded regally. “A cup of tea, Miss Bridges?”

Miss Bridges nodded back graciously. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones, that would be most refreshing. This is Rose, the new second housemaid, from the orphanage. Rose, Mrs. Jones is our cook and has sole charge of the kitchens.”

Rose stared at her boots, aware that everyone else in the kitchen was staring at
her
. Miss Bridges seemed to have become much grander now that she was with these other people, and Rose was too shy to ask who they all were.

“She's very small.” A dark-haired girl a few years older than Rose and wearing a smart apron sniffed dismissively at her. “I don't see how she'll be much use.”

“Be quiet, Susan,” snapped the cook. “A child half her size could do more work than you do, and if she's from St. Bridget's, she'll know what's what. Go and get on with polishing the silver.”

Susan gave Rose a dirty look and flounced out into the back kitchen.

Miss Bridges pushed Rose gently into a chair. “If Rose could have a cup of tea, Mrs. Jones, then I'll take her to find some dresses. Our last underhousemaid has had to go home to look after her mother, Rose. We'd fit two of you into her dresses, but I'm sure we'll manage something.”

Rose sipped the tea—in a china cup with a saucer!—and shyly watched the rest of the table. She soon gathered that it was washday here too, and that the lady at the end of the table in at least six shawls and a black straw bonnet was the washerwoman, Mrs. Trump. Then there was a kitchen maid, Sarah, and a boy of about fourteen who seemed to be there to do everything else. His name was Bill, and he had short grayish-blond hair and looked a bit like a rat, although a nice one.

“Has anyone told you what the master does yet?” he whispered to Rose.

Rose shook her head worriedly. Miss Bridges had said something, as they arrived, but Rose hadn't understood, and she'd been too embarrassed to ask. It sounded like she'd said he was a chemist, which was like an apothecary, Rose knew. But no apothecary lived in a house like this, so she must have it wrong.

“Is he a doctor?” she asked. She knew doctors were rich.

Bill sniggered and slurped his tea, which drew him a frown from Miss Bridges. “Nah. He's an alchemist. Know what that is?”

Rose shook her head. It was the same thing Miss Bridges had said. Maybe it just meant a very good apothecary, but she had a feeling that Bill wanted to be able to tell her, so she didn't guess, just looked wide-eyed and hopeful at him.

“He's a magician.” Bill nodded at her impressively, and Rose stared back. Was he making a joke? He didn't look as though he were teasing. Seeing the doubt in her eyes, he nodded again. “Honest. An alchemist is a magician who can make gold out of nothing.”

Rose scowled. Now she
knew
he was making it up. She hunched her shoulders over her teacup and ignored him.

“Bill is almost right, Rose.” Miss Bridges took a delicate sip of her tea—her cup had flowers and pink swirls on the handle. “Mr. Fountain can't make gold from thin air, as Bill seems to be suggesting. But he can transform base metals. Lead, for example. He is the Chief Magical Counselor to the Royal Treasury and the Mint. A very important man.”

“He makes gold?” Rose faltered, still unsure this wasn't some huge joke. She knew about magicians, of course, but she'd never seen one. It would be a bit like seeing a princess. Though magicians were rare and special, and the king had five daughters and a great many cousins, and they all went out and waved at the people a lot. She was far more likely to see a princess, really. But now she was living in a magician's house? Rose shuddered and peered around the kitchen, suddenly expecting to see a skull or a stuffed crocodile or a pan full of newts bubbling on the stove. Her knowledge of magicians was only from the ghost stories that were whispered around the dormitory after dark.

Rose had never really thought that much about magic before. She knew it existed, of course, but it didn't tend to get mentioned a great deal at St. Bridget's. It was incredibly expensive—the sort of luxury that an orphanage would never need, even more so than food that wasn't cabbage. There had been no magic in the orphanage—although some of the older girls swore that Miss Lockwood had a magical glass eye that she kept in her office. Otherwise how did she manage to be exactly where the girls didn't want her all the time? Rose was almost sure it was nonsense though. Such a thing would cost an enormous amount of money, far more than the superintendent of an orphanage could afford. Magic was only for rich people—everyone knew that, especially the orphans. Rose had wondered if she'd ever see any when she went into service, but even well-to-do households usually owned only one or two spells, and perhaps an unbreakable dinner service, most often a wedding present.

Rose stared anxiously into the corners, but no stuffed crocodile leered back. Everything looked normal—but then, Rose didn't have a lot of experience with kitchens, even though all the orphans helped in the kitchen at St. Bridget's. The huge room had always smelled of boiled cabbage and endless suet puddings, and was full of little girls chopping more cabbage. It was quite a change to be in a kitchen that didn't smell of cabbage at all. This one smelled of tea and of something sweet and delicious baking in the big black oven. There were pots of geraniums on the windowsill, and a collection of fantastically shaped copper jelly molds lined the wall. There were bunches of herbs dangling from hooks, but Rose thought they were probably for sage and onion stuffing and suchlike, not for spells.

Mrs. Jones smiled approvingly at her suspicious face.

“No magic in my kitchen,” she said firmly. “Nasty, messy stuff. It never tastes right.”

Rose nodded, wide-eyed. Mrs. Jones was so obviously telling the truth. This wasn't some silly joke. She really was in a house full of magic—it just wasn't allowed in the kitchen…

Just then, one of brass bells in the row hanging on the wall began to shake and clatter.

“Mr. Fountain's study,” Miss Bridges said. “Hmmm.” She eyed Rose. “No, I think we'll wait to show you to him until you're tidied up, Rose. I don't want him thinking you're a little ragamuffin. Susan!” she called. “Leave the silver, and answer the master's bell. I should think he wants tea.”

Rose nodded and stared at the table, seeing Susan's full black skirt swish past her out of the corner of her eye. A ragamuffin? She supposed she was, but she was so used to seeing everyone at the orphanage in worn, too-small clothes like her own, that she hadn't really thought about it. She swallowed, gulping. Miss Bridges had been so nice—much nicer than a housekeeper might have been, Rose was sure—that it hurt for her to say something so casually rude. Rose wished fiercely that she'd been given time to put her Sunday clothes on—they might be old, but they were beautifully clean, and they almost fit. She wouldn't have looked quite so bad then.

A calloused hand lifted her chin gently. Mrs. Jones was leaning across the table, inspecting her. She nodded encouragingly. “In a nice print dress, with her hair brushed and a cap, she'll look quite respectable. Don't be crying, Rose dear. Miss Bridges just means you don't show to advantage like you are. Mr. Fountain can be a mite fussy.”

Bill sniggered. “He spends half an hour just doing his hair in the mornings!”

Miss Bridges glared at him. “As you well know, William Sands, Mr. Fountain is a member of His Majesty's Court! He can hardly appear before the king and queen without brushing his hair. And did you brush yours this morning, might I ask?” she inquired glacially. “It certainly doesn't look like it from here. Finish your tea and go and help with the laundry.”

Rose darted a glance at Bill's hair, feeling better. She wasn't sure you could brush it, it was so short and tufty. It looked a bit like a balding doormat, that same sort of sandy color. She didn't say anything. It wasn't her place—they'd been very keen on knowing your place at St. Bridget's. Miss Lockwood had given them all long lectures on it, and Rose was pretty sure that at the Fountain house, as at the orphanage, her place was the lowest of the low. She definitely needed to keep on Bill's good side, especially as it seemed she'd already offended the other maid, Susan, just by being there.

Bill grinned at her as he slurped up the last of his tea. He didn't seem at all worried about being told off.

“Bill came to us a couple of years ago from St. Bartholomew's,” Mrs. Jones explained as he swaggered into the scullery. “It was what made us think of looking for a maid at St. Bridget's.”

“Bill is an orphan too?” Rose asked, surprised. He seemed so confident—so happy.

“Yes, a foundling like yourself. He's been a good worker.” Mrs. Jones nodded approvingly. “Just as I'm sure you will be.”

***

A few hours later, Rose was doing her best to prove just how hard she could work. She was sitting opposite Bill at a big table in the back kitchen, which seemed to be where all the odd jobs got done. They were polishing the silver—not just knives and forks and things, but great big plates and cups, all with inscriptions on them in curly letters. They mostly said things like,
To
Aloysius
Fountain, in grateful admiration, The Worshipful Guild of Rat-Catchers
. That one had little rats prancing all around the edge. Rose couldn't help wondering just what Mr. Fountain had done to make them so grateful.

“Do we have to do this every day?” she asked, hoping they didn't.

“Course not,” Bill told her scornfully. “Once a week.” He checked over his shoulder to see who was listening in the main kitchen. “And sometimes I don't bother doing all of them,” he hissed. “No one notices. They don't get used unless there's a party.”

“Mr. Fountain gives parties?” Rose was surprised. Everyone had been so eager to tell her what a serious, clever, important man he was that she couldn't imagine him wanting a party.

“Mmm. For all his grand friends from court, or other magicians sometimes.”

Rose nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose he's lonely, living here all on his own,” she offered.

Bill hooted with laughter. “Who says he lives on his own, silly? There's Miss Isabella, for starters, and then Mr. Freddie.”

“Oh! He's got children. I didn't know.” Rose had thought Mr. Fountain was too old to have children. She'd imagined all magicians as old, which she realized now was stupid.

But Bill was shaking his head again. “Just the one. Miss Isabella. Mrs. Fountain died not long after she was born. Mr. Freddie”—his voice was disdainful now—“he's the master's apprentice.” It was easy to see that Bill was not impressed by Freddie.

“Freddie!” Rose giggled. She thought she was on safe ground here, and sure enough, it earned her an approving look from Bill.

“He's about your age, I reckon. Not got the sense he was born with.” Bill sniffed disgustedly.

“But if he's training to be a magician…” Rose began doubtfully, rubbing at a silver platter engraved with fighting dragons. (Dragons! Were dragons real too? The orphanage was short on exciting, adventurous sorts of books, but there were one or two that had slipped in because they had boring-looking covers. Dragons definitely came in the same kind of stories as magicians. Rose decided to store this question up for later. She'd had enough of Bill laughing at her.)

“I'm not saying he's stupid or nothing.” Bill brandished his polishing cloth fiercely. “He's very clever. But he's the kind who'd fall down the stairs because he forgot they were there.”

Rose gave him a disbelieving look. No one was that silly.

Bill shrugged. “Last week, I was the one that picked him up
and
got lumbered with sweeping up all the broken china. He hit a vase on the way down, see. Miss Bridges near had a fit. It was Ming or something.”

“Was he hurt?” Rose asked worriedly. She didn't know this Freddie, but she didn't like to hear of anyone forgetting a staircase.

“Nope.” Bill sounded disappointed. “He was pleased. Said he'd almost floated down the last six steps, and he hadn't known he could—in which case he blooming well ought to have floated that vase, that's all I can say.”

“Bill, I hope you're not gossiping with Rose.” Miss Bridges swept in with an armful of dresses. “Come and see if any of these will fit with a bit of altering, Rose. And I'll show you your room as well.” She sailed out of the room while Rose was still fumbling with the big sacking apron she'd been given, and she had to race after her, glaring at Bill as he sniggered.

“Always the back stairs, remember, Rose, till you get to the first floor. Never the main staircase,” Miss Bridges called down as Rose trotted after her.

Rose gasped out, “Yes, Miss Bridges.” She was beginning to think she needed to write a list of things she mustn't do.

Rose's room was right at the top of the house, up at least six flights of stairs. At any rate, it felt like six flights—for some reason she had trouble counting them. And how many doors were there? The house wasn't spooky at all; it was bright, with hundreds of windows that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, and it was spotlessly clean, which Rose approved of. Not a single cobweb. But there was still something mysterious about it. Something slightly disturbing. Rose tried to tell herself that it was just because she had never been in a house this big or this grand before. But she had a worrying feeling that the strangeness was because up here on the main floors, the walls were positively soaked in magic.