House of Furies Read online

  “Nothing like that, girl. Just scrubbing, sweeping, seeing to some easy guests. It can be hard work but honest, and you won’t want for a thing.”

  Not ideal, perhaps, but better than begging or thieving, or spending a full morning at work only to come up with a few lousy pennies.

  Or swinging from a noose.

  And the gold, I reminded myself; there could be more gold.

  “Where is this place?” I asked, hit by the smell of the butcher’s and the sourness of a fresh kill being gutted somewhere inside.

  “North, just north. Coldthistle House, they call it, a place for boarders, my girl, and a place for the wayward and lost.”

  Chapter Two

  We followed the road north as long as daylight persisted. My rump ached from the bouncing of the wagon wheels over broken cobbles. The crone spoke of comfort at this Coldthistle House, but there was none so far to be found on the journey.

  The horses began to plod as the last orange ribbons of dusk faded on the horizon. I sat huddled next to the old woman on the driving bench, soaked through from the leaky canvas roof of the wagon. Shivering, I listened to her singing a nonsense song, random snatches of words put to a familiar tune.

  “My mother sang a song like that, but those are not the words,” I told her through chattering teeth. “Are you from the island, too?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. The cold and the rain did nothing to drive the odd twinkle out of her good eye, and she flashed it at me now.

  “What could that possibly mean? One is either from a place or not.”

  “So sure of that,” she whispered, giggling. “You like to be sure of things, don’t you? What else are you decided on, girl? That there is a God in the heavens and a Devil down below?”

  I turned away from her, staring straight ahead as the road climbed, a steep hill carrying us higher and higher, as if we could reach those last golden bands of daylight. “Of course.”

  “For a teller of fortunes and fates, you are not a very convincing liar.”

  “I was taught the Bible,” I said shortly. “That should be answer enough.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. Nothing is. I thought you were cleverer than this, child. I only take clever children to Coldthistle House now.”

  “Now?”

  She giggled again, but it was not a mirthful laugh. “The dull ones never lasted all that long.”

  “What does that have to do with God or any of it? No, forget I asked at all. You’ll only offer more riddles and half-speak.” That drew another gurgle of laughter from the crone.

  “Lighter talk, then, to make the journey less bitter and damp,” she said. A sudden squawk from behind us drew my mind from the cold. It came again, louder, and then another bird chirped, and another, until an entire chorus of tweets and chirps and calls erupted from the covered wagon bed.

  “Is this . . .” I swiveled, drawing up one of the tethered corners of the canvas, tugging until the hooks in the wood gave. Behind the sodden covering were a dozen cages or more, all roped together, a different bird in each home, perched and alert, filling the road with song. “Birds? What are you doing with them all?”

  “Why, eating them. What else would they be for?”

  Yet I spied a finch and a pleasantly rotund little wren, and exotic creatures with feather plumes that I couldn’t possibly name. “Monstrous. How could you eat such lovely things?”

  “It’s all meat and gristle under the finest wrappings,” she replied. “We’re no different.”

  “So you wish to eat me, too?”

  Her nose wrinkled up at that and she shook her head, snorting. “They are pets, child. I am delivering them to their new master, who—I assure you—has no intention of doing them harm.”

  Gullible. Foolish. I blushed and tucked the covering back down, listening as the birds gradually calmed and fell silent. The old woman returned to her singing, and perhaps it was what kept the creatures so still and quiet during the bumpy ride.

  We crested the hill as night came on in earnest, the rain slowing and giving us momentary reprieve. The two hunched and plodding horses took the descent haltingly, hooves clattering unevenly as they tried to keep purchase on the slick ground. I could feel the tension in their bodies, the reins jerking in the crone’s hands as the beasts ignored whatever pulls and whistles she gave.

  “Come now, steady, ye nags!” she shouted at them, snapping the reins.

  It had the intended effect, but too much of one—the horses bolted, finding some last burst of energy to send us flying down the hill. The wagon bounced madly, the birds coming to life again. That drove the horses faster, as if they could outrun the piercing cries of alarm from the birds. Rattling and rattling, the wheels making only occasional contact with the road, we thundered toward the dip at the bottom, where the foul weather had left an enormous ditch of standing water.

  “Slow them!” I screamed, barely louder than the birds. “Slow down!”

  The crone clucked and called and heaved backward on the reins, but the horses ignored her, carrying us at reckless, mortal speed toward the bottom of the hill. I felt the wagon list before I heard the spoke crack. Then the wheel spun off into the darkness, vanishing over the swell of the hill. I scrambled to hold on to the seat, both hands braced on the wooden lip near the crone’s knee.

  The horses checked at the loss of the wheel, slowing, but it was too late; the momentum of the heavy wagon was already too great, carrying us at top speed toward the watery hole not ten yards away.

  I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth together, holding every sinew in tightly as impact loomed. The crone gave a sudden yip, and then a rousing, trilling sound like Alalu! and we were weightless, in the air, soaring over the ditch and to a rough but safe landing on the other side. The wagon stuttered to a stop, the horses snorting and stamping, refusing to pull us another inch. I stared at the ground below, ground that should have shattered the old wagon to pieces. Slowly, the horses nosed toward the grass on the right side of the road, angling us away from the ditch and toward a valley clustered with wildflowers.

  “How did you do that?” I breathed, shaking. The splintered remains of the wheel spoke dripped with mud and rainwater, and I could only tear my eyes away from them gradually and back to the crone. She shrugged and collected her dry bush of hair, smoothing it back from her ears.

  “You drive this stretch of road long enough, you learn to master its miseries.”

  The woman dropped the reins and vaulted with surprising vigor out of the seat to the ground. Her boots sank into the mud, and she high-stepped around to my side of the wagon, sighing and shaking her head as she inspected the damage.

  “And no spares with me on this trip,” she said, more to herself than me. “Perhaps I have not mastered every misery.”

  “So what do we do now?” I asked, still trembling from the shock of the landing. From the ancient wagon to the ancient woman to the ancient, weak horses, I could not imagine how we had jumped the ditch and come away from it in one piece. Judging from the quiet, lazy way the horses munched their grass, this was an everyday occasion for them.

  “We cook one of the birds,” the crone replied at once.

  Before I protested, she rolled her eye and beckoned me down. “I jest. We make a fire and eat a little porridge, and then, my girl, we hope for a miracle.”

  Chapter Three

  The old woman built a serviceable fire in the gravel-and-mud clearing on the other side of the ditch. She worked quickly, efficiently, the crookedness of her hands no hindrance as she unrolled a bundle of kindling from the back of the wagon and stacked the sticks into a tidy pyramid.

  “Are you just going to stand there gawping?” the woman barked.

  “I am likely to freeze unless you employ me,” I replied, pacing to demonstrate as much, trying to stamp feeling back into my icy feet and ankles. The blankets she supplied did little to banish the cold, even though the crone forwent them all herself and piled them on my shoulders.
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  “In the back,” she said in that same short way. “Gather the crockery and oats. There should be a can of grease and a pair of wooden spoons.”

  A part of me chafed at the idea of taking orders from this stranger. She had offered me an escape from the crowd at Malton, but what power did that give her? To respect and obey one’s elders, they taught at Pitney School, was the responsibility of every educated young woman. The idea seemed as laughable then as it did now. What did the teachers at Pitney School know, for all their advanced years? How to slap and scold, how to make a child stand in the freezing cold as punishment for dirty fingernails, how to deny bread, water, and sleep when it pleased them?

  Naughty children please no one but the Devil.

  I had heard it a hundred times or more from Miss Jane Henslow at Pitney, and recalling the phrase sent a shiver down my spine. Miss Henslow, cold, mousy, and fragile, gave a beating like nobody else at the school. I could feel the ghost of her rod smacking my shoulders as I hurried to the back of the wagon. The crone’s eyes followed me. I didn’t need to look at her to feel it; they were as real as a pinch.

  “You travel this road often,” I observed, eager for some distraction.

  “I said as much. What of it?”

  “You stoked that fire handily enough. It’s damp as a duck’s backside and yet it gave you not an ounce of trouble. Are you accustomed to cooking in the rain?”

  The wagon covering, drenched with icy rain, stung my fingertips. As she’d said, a handful of baskets heaped with necessities were crammed into the back. They seemed almost an afterthought, the numerous birdcages the clear priority. Those cages were quiet now, soft blankets masking the din of the birds within, but not their pungent smell. The boards of the cart glowed, slick and white with droppings.

  “I might have known you would be a nosy one,” the crone said with a sigh. “Did that serve you in the past? That sharp eye of yours?”

  “Sometimes, yes,” I said honestly, gathering the ingredients for supper. “And oftentimes no.”

  Naturally, my teachers at Pitney grew weary of my vigilance. And so did my grandparents. They were the ones who sent me off to school, happy to pay for it as long as I was none of their concern. From mother to grandparents to school, they all fancied a hard, stinging lesson when I happened to do or say the wrong thing. It was better to take a beating and forget the pain and humiliation at once. But I never forgot such indignities, and the compounding misery made me constantly shy, like the horse that knows only the whip and never the faintest touch of affection.

  “I cannot change your nature, girl,” the old woman said. She huddled by the fire while I returned with laden arms. “But I can recommend you keep what those sharp eyes see in that sharp mind, and not let it out with a sharp tongue. The master at Coldthistle House has no time for busybodies and gossips. Hard work is all he asks, and your opinions are not required.”

  Again I felt a pang of doubt. An actual roof and regular meals sounded attractive, but now I wondered at the cost.

  “I have never much enjoyed obedience.”

  “And so it is a miracle you yet live,” the woman said with a harsh laugh. “Now, quick, set the grease in the pot. I think another wagon approaches, and I do not intend to share much.”

  I turned away from the fire and squinted into the distance both ways—darkness and clouds and the very edges of far-off trees but no sign of travelers. “I hear it not.”

  “As you said, I travel this road frequently and I’ve learned to bend my ear a certain way.”

  It seemed unlikely that a woman of her advanced age would have keener senses than I, but I crouched and arranged my skirts politely, then dropped a knob of grease into the pot. When it was hot and nearly spitting, I added the dry oats and a bit of what looked like sheep’s milk. The crone produced a small packet of brown powder from the many folds of her cloak and tipped it into the food. At once, the glorious scent of cinnamon swirled around us, and my stomach roared with approval.

  No sooner had the crone slopped a portion of cooked oats into my bowl than a low, rumbling sound came from the road behind us. I stood and chewed, slowly, watching a wagon far finer than the old woman’s crest the hill. The horses slowed, and the carriage—for in truth it was such, and not a mere wagon, with a team of two matching chestnut beasts—descended safely. A driver in all black shrank inside his coat, the collar flapping around his face as the wind and rain picked up.

  “Eat what you want now. If they stop, I will have no choice but to share,” the crone muttered. Her portion was already gone. “A carriage that fine, their man will have what’s needed to fix our wagon.” As she predicted, the driver caught sight of our meager little camp and pulled over, hefting a rain-spattered lantern and shining it toward us.

  “Greetings now on this mild, seasonable night,” the crone said with a friendliness of tone I’d not heard from her before. She seemed less formidable suddenly, meek, hobbling toward the road with her head bent and shoulders hunched.

  “What’s the fuss up there?” I heard someone call from inside the carriage. It was the voice of an older man, not a rich accent but certainly not a poor one either. A Midlands accent with the roughness polished down.

  “Two women, sir,” the driver called back. He was of medium height and stocky, and even his heavy coat could not hide his muscled frame. The crone was right—we could use such a man’s help righting the wagon. He looked the old woman up and down and then glanced at me. “An old woman and a girl, sir.”

  “A broken wheel has left us stranded,” she explained. “We could be persuaded to share our humble meal with you all if you aid us.”

  The door of the carriage swung open. It was dark inside. I could not see the eyes of whoever studied us from within.

  “I do so hate to beg,” the crone continued, her voice trembling. Even I was briefly convinced of her desperation. “You would not leave two defenseless womenfolk on a cold and rainy road, would you?”

  “Turn off, then, Foster. Let us see this broken wheel for ourselves.”

  The driver obeyed, cracking a short whip and urging the bowed-head horses off the road. The animals looked as drenched and exhausted as I felt.

  When they had stopped, the driver leapt to the ground and muttered his way to the carriage door, kicking down the stand and opening the door for his charges. He had taken the lantern, and I watched two men descend, their collars flipped up against the deluge.

  It was an old fellow with thick gray hair and a heavy brow, and behind him came a young man so bright of face, curious, and golden, I forgot all about the hunger in my belly and the rain soaking my hair.

  Chapter Four

  “You’ve dropped your spoon.”

  “Sorry?”

  “There’s no need to apologize, only—”

  “Oh. Yes. There it is, isn’t it?” The spoon had landed scoop down in the mud right next to my shoe. A tiny glob of porridge dotted the leather toe, as if to punctuate this gloomy introduction. I knelt to retrieve the spoon, not anticipating that the young man would do the same. His far larger hand closed over the handle and then we both stood at the same moment, and he produced a handkerchief to wipe both mud and porridge from the wood.

  “Rawleigh Brimble,” he said, giving me the spoon. “Which is my name. Bit of a mouthful. Usually just go by Lee.”

  “Louisa,” I replied. My surname held so little value, I almost never offered it in these situations. The shock of his appearance had worn off, and I managed to grasp the spoon and deposit it safely in the bowl. I turned to put it back near the fire, where the crone was slopping out a meager portion into a bowl for the older gentleman. The driver strode off with his lantern, interested foremost in the state of our wagon.

  “Are you often in the habit of rescuing maidens and their spoons?” I asked.

  His smile widened at that, a feat which seemed impossible given how widely he already beamed. “I’m afraid not, but I should be! I do feel awfully gallant now.” His
turquoise eyes squinted into the darkness. “Have you been stranded here long, Louisa?”

  “Not very. With any luck we’re on to Coldthistle House soon. Do you know it?”

  Those very turquoise eyes widened in surprise and perhaps delight. “How extremely funny. Yes, in fact. That is our destination, too. What a chance this is! Uncle, did you hear? These ladies are destined for Coldthistle also!” He perched one fist on his hip and laughed, turning back to me. He wore a fine suit under his overcoat, but the wool had worn through in places and been artfully mended. “Are you boarding there as well? Uncle and I have business in the area.”

  “Oh! No . . .” I could feel the crone’s eyes on me. They burrowed. Nothing but the truth would suit, and it felt strangely embarrassing. Somehow my destitution, my anonymity, felt suddenly harsher. “I’m taking a position there.”

  “In the scullery,” the old woman helpfully finished.

  I did not glare. I had no idea yet if she was to be my employer, and perhaps I had annoyed her enough for one journey. “Exactly so,” I said softly.

  This did not seem to bother or offend Lee Brimble, whose smile dimmed not a jot. “Then you will know all the secrets of the place,” he said in a whisper too bright to come off as conspiratorial. “And you are honor-bound to share them with me, hm? Now that I have so bravely rescued your spoon.”

  “Magnanimous of you,” I said drily, but without irritation. “Somehow I feel I am gaining the more advantageous side of the bargain.”

  “Without a doubt,” he said, taking a few steps away from the fire. “Ho there, Foster, what do you see?”

  “A simple job,” the driver called back. He stomped back toward us, appearing like a yellow ghost under the lantern light. “We should all be back on the road in an hour, perhaps two. What the devil are all those birds doing in your wagon, old woman?”

  “Foster, manners,” Rawleigh Brimble corrected him sharply. Then he cringed. “And here I’ve forgotten mine—introductions! This is my uncle, George Bremerton, and that of course is Foster. We never call him anything else.”