The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle (9 page)

Father. Her eyes burned. She couldn't believe he would have said that. She couldn't believe he'd have been so hurtful about her. Everything Kat did, she did to show him that she was his logical girl. The Lady was downright mean.

Unless . . .

Unless this business of not letting them wander about was to keep them out of the way of something evil. Maybe the Lady knew something terrible, and Peter was right, that she was trying to keep them all safe.

Kat didn't think the Lady would really starve them, or lock them up. Why, if their parents found out, they'd be furious. Father would never send them to such a place.

Except, maybe he would. To give Kat a “firm hand.” She swallowed a sob.

She went back to her room and stood at the window. Rain streamed down in long ribbons. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

And then, Kat saw movement in the park below the window. She peered through the streams of rainwater. It was Jorry; she couldn't mistake his tall thin frame. He appeared to be at some form of exercise, jumping and bouncing.

Kat shook her head, thinking
honestly, he'll be in great
trouble now if he's caught out
, when suddenly Jorry halted in midjump.

He started, his eyes widening. His left hand flew to his neck, and he held it there, palm tightening against his neck just under his left ear, where she'd seen his birthmark. His lips moved and he shook his head. His mouth curled in a sneer. He took something in his right hand—someone handed him something, Kat could see only a black greatcoat—and Jorry's sneer grew to a grin.

Then he lifted the thing, and Kat saw it was a chain, and she pressed to the window as he lifted it over his head and put it around his neck.

The rain came down so hard, she wasn't sure she saw right.

Jorry's eyes went wild and he clutched at his throat and ripped at his shirt, his mouth gaping in what looked like a scream, and then, lurching like a drunkard, he disappeared into the shadows and out of sight.

She pushed against the glass, but he was gone.

Kat stepped back from the window, uneasy. She might not like Jorry, but he'd looked so frightened. What had he seen, and who was he talking to? And his expression, that terrible expression, like he was being sliced open . . .

Hang
it all.
Her inner voice and her protective instinct drove her to try to find him, or at least find one of the teachers.

She knew if she was caught out now by the Lady there would be the devil to pay, so she slipped downstairs as quietly as possible. She took several wrong turns before winding up opening a door to a hallway lined with oil portraits. As she stood in the shadows trying to decide whether to go right or left, a small portrait hanging among others caught her eye, and as she moved up close to it her heart began to pound.

It was a painting of someone who looked uncannily like Kat, only a bit older. The girl wore antique clothing and sat with her hands folded, her long hair piled on top of her head, and a dog at her feet. And at her waist . . . Kat's breath caught and she pressed her palm to her chest.

Kat leaned close. It looked like Great-Aunt Margaret's chatelaine. No, it
was
Great-Aunt Margaret's chatelaine.

It's a family heirloom.
Family. Of course. Father's Aunt Margaret was related to Gregor, so it was Father's family, and hers . . . and that girl was family, from way back.

But the thing that really took Kat's breath away, the thing that made her hands tremble, was that the portrait was cut, a
long, thin diagonal cut from one corner to the other, a razor cut that sliced straight through the face of the girl.

Kat stepped away, shaking.

Somehow, she found her way back to their floor and to her room. She took out her great-aunt's chatelaine and sat on her bed, trying to sort through it all.

Three chatelaines—hers, the Lady's, and Storm's. Kat's portrait doppelgänger. Odd and mysterious children. Ghostly singing. A teacher who was plucked out of the sea like something from a fairy tale. The look of terror on Jorry's face. Shifty, confusing hallways and passages. A hidden wireless and maybe a spy. A mistress whose hands and eyes and heart were cold as ice.

Kat had tumbled down the rabbit hole into a realm of shadowy mysteries.

Something was terribly wrong in Rookskill Castle. Kat didn't know what it was yet, but some part of her couldn't help but wonder, against all her logical instincts, if this castle was possessed by something dreadful—something dark and grim—like magic.

Dark Magic

T
HE YEARS 1938
to 1940. Magic bides its own time.

When Gregor, Lord Craig arrives to his inheritance of title and lands, Leonore knows her time has come again at last. Gregor is the near image of her first lord, his ancestor. She remembers her brutal father and her heartless lord, who made her feel powerless, lost, broken, and unloved.

And war. She's seen it before. Dark magic grows out of the strife and misery and turmoil of war. Dark magic gathers beneath the thunderheads of war, the angry clash of red and black and dust and ash. Dark magic finds root in blood and bone, and with centuries of waiting Leonore's heart has grown bitter-dark. She wants more of the powerful magic she carries in her thirteenth charm.

Leonore comes out of the keep and calls herself Eleanor and enthralls and marries Gregor. She finds the magister again (it seems he will live forever), and the magister says yes, now is the time.

The magister tells Eleanor that she can now steal the remaining souls. Slowly, carefully, but yes, she may take seven more souls to fill her thirteenth charm.

“Remember,” he says. “Take them slowly. Too many at once will weaken the magic.”

As he speaks she regards him with veiled eyes. She now suspects he's used her. He says that once her thirteenth charm holds all twelve souls she will be more powerful than any mortal man. No one will use her again.

No one,
she thinks.
Not even
you.

The adults around Eleanor each require different spells so that she can manage them, but they cannot stand between her and the gathering of souls. She spells her husband with illness, Marie with foolishness, Hugo with ignorance, and Cook with loss of memory. She fishes Mr. Storm out of the sea and turns his dreams to her own, casting a spell to shape him into a more useful form. She makes the school, the academy, a perfect pretense to bring the remaining children to her doorstep. She confuses Mr. Bateson and her teachers MacLarren and Gumble.

The children will be charmed, but they are too innocent to
be spelled like adults, so Eleanor must keep them from guessing her plan. Her clamor of rooks feeds her the news and secrets of war and the doings of all those within the castle.

Magic bides its own time. And there is always a price to pay for its use.

No Place for Holidays

T
HE RAIN CAME
down with a vengeance now, and the wind battered the windows. Once Kat had been able to calm herself, she built a fire to warm the room and then sat on her bed cross-legged and fingered her great-aunt's chatelaine.

Pen, scissors, thimble.

She held it up, the chains moving, and the watery light from the windows and ruby light from the fire reflected off the three objects and flashed around the room.

Kat realized that it was possible Storm, too, had seen the portrait of her doppelgänger wearing her family chatelaine, and that was why he was so interested when she brought it up.

And the Lady's chatelaine—had Storm seen that?

And did old things really gather magic like they collected dust?

It couldn't be real. If her great-aunt's chatelaine could help her make magic, Kat would magic away this dreadful war. She'd bring her father home safe and sound from the dangerous mission he was on, and she and Robbie and Amelie would all return to London, to a peaceful, serene London, and to their mum and father and great-aunt. If Kat could make magic, she'd find the fishing girl and magic her a coat, and find the crippled boy and magic him whole, and find the cat-boy and magic him well. She'd even magic Peter back to America, if that's what he wanted.

There is always a
price to pay for its use.

A dark shadow crept over Kat. What price would she have to pay? And, honestly: a pen, scissors, and a thimble. What in the world could they do besides the obvious?

She tossed the chatelaine back in her drawer and shut the drawer with a
thump
.

Sundays in Rookskill Castle were quiet days of “rest and contemplation,” said the Lady at breakfast. Kat had little choice but to rest and contemplate, as the other children were not around. Rob was acting cranky and surly. Amelie was under the spell of her new friendship with Isabelle. Colin was busy with homework—stewing over it, in fact—and Jorry “has taken ill,” said the Lady. “Marie is bringing him porridge and tea, but please do not disturb him.”

Had Jorry been so terrified by whatever had happened that he'd gotten sick? Kat fretted. She wasn't sure whom to trust with what she'd seen, and Peter was still not speaking to her.

Kat finished her homework and paced in her room. She'd started a fire, but it wasn't enough to warm her mood. It was almost as if she could sense that something bad was about to happen.

So when the knock came on the door, Kat's skin crawled.

It was Marie. “Telegram up from the station,” she said, handing it over before she walked off.

Telegrams were usually bad news. Kat closed the door and tore open the envelope.

FRANCE HAS PROVEN NO PLACE FOR HOLIDAYS STOP TAKE CARE OF ROB & AME REMAIN SCOTLAND STOP GREAT-AUNT M SAYS HANG ON TO HOPE & DON'T FALL TO PIECES STOP LOVE M

Kat sank onto the bed. That first line was code from Mum, their code phrase for news about Father. This news was bad.

Kat went to her window, staring out at the bleak mist, and winked back tears. Somewhere out there across the sea, somewhere in Belgium or France or maybe even in Germany itself,
her father on his mission had gone missing. How was she supposed to hang on to hope here in Scotland?

She thought back to the day Father had left them, not long after her embarrassing babyish behavior. They'd all said their good-byes, and Father had gathered his luggage—including the short-wave wireless—in the front hall, but he'd forgotten something in his workroom, and Kat had followed him out into the evening. He was closing the door when she burst out.

“Don't go!” And she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “Please! Please don't go!” And Kat began to sob.

“Kitty, what's this?” He held her and petted her hair.

“Please stay.” His jacket was wet with her tears. “I have a terrible feeling about it if you go.”

“Now, Kit. I'd expect this kind of talk from Amelie, but you're my big girl. My logical girl. You have to be strong. Carry on.”

“I can't.” Her voice was muffled and she shook her head no.

He pushed her away gently and held her at arms' length. “You must. I'm doing this for you. For all of you. It's important.”

“But . . .” She rubbed at her nose, the tears still running down her cheeks.

“You have to promise me you'll take care of them. Your mother, you know, she has her hands full. She can't manage without you. And I expect things from you.”

He'd held her eyes with his. Kat wanted to protest, tell him
she couldn't; but she would not let him down. She could not let Father down.

“All right then,” he said. “Promise?” Kat nodded. She swallowed her tears. “Keep calm, Kitty. Carry on. And remember, no matter what happens, keep faith.”

That was the last time she saw him, and the memory of being so weak shamed her.

After he'd left, she'd gone back out to his shop. The broken watch waited on the workbench. She'd strapped it onto her wrist and it hadn't been out of her sight since.

Now she gripped the watch face and then folded the telegram into little squares. Carry on, that's what she had to do. Take care of Rob and Ame. Do her best for her family's sake. For her father's sake. For her promise to him.

She looked at the clock on the mantle, still ticking away. She picked up her makeshift tools and knocked on Peter's door.

Peter wasn't friendly at first, but when he learned why she was there he gave her the clock, and then watched with curiosity as she opened the back.

“Can I help?” he asked, sounding shy.

She was glad to have him back as her one and only friend. She pointed out what needed to be done, and for the rest of the afternoon they worked side by side, first on his clock, and then on the one in Isabelle's room, and finally on one in an empty room down the hall.

“Funny that so many clocks aren't working,” Peter said.

“They've been neglected. Maybe the Lord and Lady don't have time since he's taken ill.”

“You're good at it,” he said, pointing to the clock as she dusted her hands.

“Thanks,” Kat said. “It's because my father taught me.” And worry crept back in.

Maybe he was in some safe house, hiding; the resistance in France had a good reputation, and the members of the resistance there were growing in number. Maybe someone had taken him in.

Maybe there were no children there looking to catch a spy.

She decided not to say anything to Rob and Ame about their father going missing for the moment. She didn't want to worry them; though maybe it wouldn't be fair to them not to tell. She'd have to think on that.

“I have to tell you,” she said to Peter as she set the clock back on the mantle, “something happened with Jorry.” And she described what she'd seen.

“You don't suppose it has anything to do with this illness of his?” Peter asked.

“He looked so odd. Like he was in the midst of something really painful.” She hugged herself. “Like he was being stabbed or torn to pieces.”

“He's a stuck-up jerk, but that doesn't make any difference,” said Peter. “What can we do?”

Kat twisted her watch. “I don't know,” she said. “I just don't know.”

It took her a long time that night to fall asleep, long after Amelie's breathing slowed and softened, long after the fire burned to glowing coals and the room grew cold and dark and still.