Molly stopped humming. "Aye, but not in the usual ways. The whole thing's made of emeralds." She made a space for Penny on her lap. "Sit right here and I'll tell you all about it."
The girl immediately scrambled into her lap, forgetting all about the trunk. Molly reached out to either side, picking up the remaining clothes, answering the girl's questions as best she knew how: Were there fairies? (More than you'd think.) Could people fly and do tricks? (Yes, but no one likes a show-off.) Had she ever been chased by a monster? (Only a very tiny one, about the size of a toad.) With every word Molly spoke, Penny's eyes grew wider and wider-an effect made all the more pronounced by her thick glasses.
In a few short minutes, Molly's talk had utterly tamed the girl, who was now excitedly chatting about how much she might like to visit Molly's island and be chased by monsters. "We can catch fairies in a jar and then feed them to the monsters so they'll be our pets!"
The little girl turned to face Molly, her face screwed up in a way that suggested critical thought of the highest order. "Was it living on a magic isle that made your hair so orangey?" she asked.
Molly had never considered it quite that way. "I suppose it was, miss," she said, tucking a curl behind her ear.
Penny looked down at her own dark locks. "I wish I had magic hair," she said. "No matter how many ribbons Mummy puts in, it still looks terrible and dull."
Molly had to admit that the assessment was somewhat accurate. The girl's braids hung lifelessly from her head like a pair of black willow fronds. Still, Molly knew that no good could come of a person hating what they could not change. She put aside the last of the clothes and smiled at Penny. "Oh, but you do have magic hair!" She took a dark plait in her hands, examining it like a jeweler. "Have you ever heard of a lady named Queen Cleopatra?"
Penny shook her head.
Molly smiled. "Well, Cleopatra was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. Her hair was raven black…just…like…yours. And every man in the kingdom fell instantly in love with her. Even the great Sir Lancelot."
"Never heard of him," Penny said.
Molly tried again. "Perhaps you've heard of a man named Robin Hood?"
The little girl's eyes went wide. "Really? Who else?"
Molly leaned in close, her voice low. "You didn't hear it from me, miss…but some even say…the archbishop of Canterbury."
Penny gasped, both hands over her mouth. "His Grace fancies girls?"
"He most certainly does not," interrupted a voice behind them.
Molly turned to find a tall woman standing in the hallway. She had dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her skin was porcelain-white, just like Penny's, and she wore on her face a look of extreme unamusement.
"Mummy!" Penny sprang to her feet and ran for the woman, shouting, "This-is-Molly-and-she's-from-a-magic-island-and-she's-come-to-live-with-us-and-even-though-she-has-a-brother-I-like-her-lots!" in a single breath. She grabbed the folds of the woman's skirt and collapsed to her knees. "I've never wanted anything so much in the whole world. Can we keep her?"
Molly stood and curtsied, eyes on the floor. "Only if it pleases you, mum."
The woman stood upright, arms folded. "Tell me," she said coldly, "do I look pleased?"
4 THE HELP
Molly stood against one wall of the Windsor kitchen. It was a large space with a walk-in pantry, brick furnace, dumbwaiter, and two service stairs. Kip, who had been called in from the yard, was leaning beside her.
Constance Windsor paced in front of them, hands clasped together, shoulders erect. "Have you and I met before?" The woman fixed her dark eyes on Molly, awaiting an answer.
"No, mum," Molly said.
The woman paused, brushing something invisible from the lace on her sleeve. Behind her were two children: Penny and an older boy, who looked extremely bored. "And when you approached this property, did I greet you and say 'Come in'?"
"No, mum," Molly said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. She could feel her brother watching her, his eyes full of questions. She reached down and gently squeezed his hand.
"Interesting." Constance heeled around for another lap. "And yet I find you inside my home, uninvited, already unpacked, telling my daughter goodness knows what kind of nonsense about monsters and amorous clergymen." Even though she had not asked a question, the woman looked as though she expected an answer.
Molly shifted her weight, feeling the cold stone floor through the hole in her right boot. "It was just a story, mum. I didn't mean nothin' by it."
Penny, who had been listening from a safe distance on the far counter, hopped to the floor. "Mummy, you're not being fair. I was the one who let her in."
Constance gave her daughter a stern look, and the girl climbed back to her perch. The woman rubbed her temple, speaking slowly. "Surely you can appreciate how this looks from my perspective?"
Molly opened her mouth but was having trouble forming a response. At the present moment, she "appreciated" almost nothing. In the last half hour, what she knew-or thought she knew-about this house and this position had been turned on its head. "Forgive me, mum," she finally said. "I think there's been some sort of confusion. We was hired by an agency at the behest of your husband, Master Windsor."
"Were you?" Constance creased her lips. "I'm afraid that you, the agency, and my husband were mistaken. I have told him repeatedly, as I am telling you now, that I neither need nor want servants in my home. As you can see, I am managing just fine on my own."
Under other circumstances, Molly would have admired a woman who so boldly contradicted her husband. But now it only felt like some wicked joke. One look at the room they stood in revealed how little this woman knew about keeping house. The floors were thick with dust and grime. The walls, stained with mildew. Crumbs and spilled food covered every surface. Dirty pans and dishes spilled out over the basin. Molly had spent her whole life scrubbing and cooking alongside her mother. She knew what a well-maintained house looked like-this was not it.
"I say you have them both arrested. They're dirty and they smell like fish." The comment came from the boy leaning on the counter beside Penny. He looked about Molly's age. Like Penny and Constance, he had pale skin and dark hair. Unlike them, however, he was exceedingly ugly: his wide face was marred with pimples, and his deep-set eyes were connected by thick eyebrows that met in the middle to create a single line. He was presently digging through a bag of toffees, apparently trying to stuff as many pieces as he could into his mouth at once.
Constance turned toward him, her face filled with some complicated emotion that Molly couldn't name. "Alistair, what have I told you about sweets before supper?" The boy rolled his eyes and spit the whole glob of chewed toffee back into his bag. It was a disgusting sight, but food was food, and it was all Molly could do not to stare.
"Lucky for the pair of you," Mistress Windsor went on, "I cannot heed my son's advice. There are no such authorities in this backward place. If you leave immediately, I shall consider the matter done with. As you can see, I have children enough to care for already. Surely you and your brother can find jobs in town."
Molly felt a hot flush of blood prickle her cheeks. Did this woman honestly think they would have come all this way if that were true? She had spent weeks knocking on doors, begging for work, then for food, then for mercy. At every turn, people had made it clear: they did not want her kind. "There are no jobs in the city," she said. "Not for us. If it's a question of money, we'll work for room and board, you don't even need to pay us-"
Constance cut her off. "We do not need your charity." She said this with such force that Molly stepped back. Who had said anything about charity?
"Mum, I gather your family lived in town before movin' out here. If ever you walked a street after dark, surely you know what kind of work falls to those in our desperate position? Please, if you knew what we've gone through these last weeks, all that's happened…" She could have said more, much more, but not with her brother beside her. She shook her head, eyes brimming. "My brother's health is fragile-he's fragile." She knew Kip would hate her for talking of him like this, but she had no choice. "We're only askin' for a chance."
The woman studied Molly for a long moment. "How old are you, child?" she said, her voice softer.
"Mummy!" Penny said, mortified. "Don't you know a lady never tells her age?"
Constance ignored the rebuke and waited for an answer.
Molly dropped her head. "Fourteen, mum." When she had applied in town, she had told the solicitor she was sixteen. "I know it's young, but I swear to you I'll work harder than ten grown-ups put together. My brother and me was brought up hard on a farm. I've kept house my whole life, and Kip can grow anythin'. He's got ten green fingers, and toes to match. Why, give him a month and he'll have these grounds lookin' like your own personal Eden."
"That and then some," Kip said, standing tall beside her. Molly smiled down at him and mussed his hair.
Constance watched, her eyes pained, perhaps understanding for the first time the weight of duty upon Molly's shoulders. "Fourteen…," she said, as much to herself as anyone. "And your parents. What of them?"
Molly glanced down at Kip and then back to Constance. What could she say to make this woman understand? "Our Ma an' Da…they got slowed down a bit on the way over from Ireland. We're on our own."
"Goodness. I do hope it's nothing serious." If Molly didn't know better, she might have thought the woman was genuinely concerned.
"Oh, it's very serious," Kip said, eyes wide.
Constance raised an eyebrow at Molly, awaiting further explanation. Molly swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Well, mum, it seems that…as fate would have it…our folks was kidnapped…by pirates."
"They forced 'em to join the crew or else walk the plank!" Kip said, a proud smile on his face. "Just like young Saint Patrick!"
"How extraordinary," Constance said, her voice growing colder.
Molly wanted to say something-to explain that she wasn't mocking the woman-but she could only stare at her, eyes wide, trying to say with her face what she could not speak aloud. "Please, mum," she managed. "We've no one to turn to."
The woman blinked, shaking her head. "You do not know what you're asking, child. This house is no place for you." She said this without any bitterness. For a brief moment, it occurred to Molly that perhaps this woman did not want to be in this place, either. Constance kept her head down as she walked past Molly. "I suggest you leave before it gets dark." She opened the back door.
Molly stared at the wilderness waiting for her outside. Cold air rushed in from the door, cutting straight through her coat, rattling her bones. She watched Kip as he fixed his crutch under his arm and hobbled to her side, suppressing a shiver. Even in this moment, he was the picture of courage. "Not yet," Molly said, turning back to Constance. "Mum, we'll go, just like you told us. Out in the wild, not a word o' protest. But before we do, will you hear one thing?" If the woman had looked closely, she would have seen a tiny spark burning in the ring of Molly's green eyes.
"I suppose you're going to tell me I'm a wicked person," she said.
Molly shook her head. "No, mum…I'm gonna tell you a story." She swallowed, pushing away her fear and exhaustion so that she could focus on this woman in front of her-a woman who, like all people, longed to hear something that they had once known but since forgotten. "Imagine wakin' up tomorrow, like you always do," she began, "only there's somethin' a bit different. At first it's just a faint sound, a whistle at the back of your ear. The sound gets louder, and you realize: it's a kettle, callin' for tea." Molly spoke with a hypnotic lilt, and, behind her voice, you could almost make out the song of the kettle. "You open your eyes to a room flooded with warm sunlight. The curtains is already drawn apart, and your window's wide. You stretch and yawn-fresh air fillin' your lungs. Your clothes is already pressed and waitin' for you. And there, on the mantel, a jar of fresh-cut flowers from your very own garden." Molly saw Constance close her eyes and take a deep breath, as if smelling the phantom bouquet in the warm morning air. "You sit up, and your nose catches the delicious waft of hot sausages cracklin' in a pan and fresh rolls brownin' in the oven. And then, all of a sudden, there's a polite knock at the door, and…" Her voice trailed off.
"And?" Constance said after a moment.
Molly shrugged. "Afraid you'll have to hear the rest tomorrow."
The woman blinked, looking at her surroundings as if for the first time. Her eyes drifted from the dirty floor to the stained counter to the neglected pots and finally to her own children, huddled by the stove.
"You never make us sausages," Alistair muttered.
Penny slid down from the counter and rushed to Molly's side, hands clasped together. "Mummy, can't we pleeeeeeee"-she took a breath-"eeeeeeaaaaase keep them?"
Molly smiled down at Penny-this sweet little girl who wanted her when no one else did. She put an arm around her and faced Constance.
The woman shook her head and loosed a long breath. She shut the back door. "You will start this evening." She wrinkled her nose. "But first: baths."
5 PORTRAIT OF A LADY
Whatever warming effect Molly's story might have had on her new mistress, it did not last very long. The woman was as cold and impersonal as ever during her tour of the house and grounds. "Breakfast at eight. Tea at eleven. Supper at six," she said, moving briskly through the downstairs rooms. "I want new linens on the table before every meal. You shall cook from recipes I choose-you can read, can't you?"
Molly struggled to keep up. "Well enough, mum," she said, pinning back a strand of her still-damp hair. The bath had been her first in ages, and even though the water was cold, it felt wonderful to be clean. She was wearing a worn maid's uniform that was clearly meant for someone several years older (and several pounds heavier). She adjusted her apron and followed the woman into the hall.
"As you can see, I haven't had time to properly unpack our things," Constance said, passing some furniture and crates along one wall. "See that you take care of it."
"Yes, mum," Molly said. This phrase had quickly become the girl's answer to nearly every command. Even if Molly had wanted to ask a question about one of her tasks, Mistress Windsor moved so quickly that there was scarcely time. Chamber pots cleaned by ten! Yes, mum. Floors scrubbed twice weekly! Yes, mum. Silver polished every month!
Yes, mum.
Yes, mum.
Yes, mum.
Molly repeated these words until they were burned into her mind. She felt certain she would hear Yes, mum in her dreams, pounding against her skull like a drum.
"And what about that room there, mum?" Molly asked, pointing to a rather smallish green door at the top of the stairs, which Constance had passed without comment. Unlike most other doors in the house, this one did not have a simple latch but instead boasted a large iron bolt-the sort used to secure safes and storehouses.
"You needn't concern yourself with that door. I don't even think we have the key." She gestured toward some muddy boot tracks in front of the bedrooms. "Do clean those up when you get a chance."
Despite her terse manner, Mistress Windsor possessed a refined quality that appealed to Molly. Molly had not had much opportunity to mix with the higher classes of society, and watching this woman was a rare glimpse into another world. Her clothes were not only well made but beautiful. The dark folds of her skirt hung from her slender frame at a perfect angle, ending just above-but never touching-the floor. From her delicate neck and wrists hung diamond jewelry the likes of which Molly had never seen before. Even her movements were elegant. Like a picture come alive, she thought to herself.
Mistress Windsor's fine appearance was made all the more stark by her surroundings. The woman looked completely out of place in this distressed and crumbling house, and Molly suspected that her occasional comments about their previous dwellings in town were spoken with a touch of longing. Every so often, Constance tried to engage Molly in what seemed to be her version of friendly conversation. These exchanges usually didn't go very well. "Your brother," she said, mounting the stairs, "how long has he been a cripple?"
Molly gritted her teeth. "He was born that way," she said, trying not to let her irritation creep into her reply. "Leg turned in on itself."
The woman waved a dismissive hand. "Well, whatever it is, I don't want the children catching it. He's to sleep in the stables."
Molly slowed. "The stables, mum?" Her brother's health was worsening; he needed to sleep in a warm bed-not in some drafty shack with animals.
"Or the woodshed, if he prefers."
"He's only ten, mum." Molly knew she should not speak out, but she could not help it. "There's plenty of beds in the servants' quarters-surely he can sleep in one of the rooms down there."
Constance faced her. "Out of the question. There's a reasonable fear of illness in this home. It wouldn't be the first time sickness had spread inside these walls." Molly thought instantly of what the old storyteller had mentioned out in the hollow about Master Windsor being sent off to town as a boy. "The other thing," she had called it. "And Molly," Constance said, stepping closer, "I am unaccustomed to having my orders questioned. If you so much as think of contradicting me again, you and your brother will find yourselves out in the cold before the words even leave your mouth. Are we clear?"
Molly stared at the woman, cheeks burning. "Yes. Mum."
Constance brightened, smiling. "Excellent. Follow me, then."
It was nearly evening by the time Mistress Windsor concluded her tour in the library on the second floor. It was a large room with furniture covered in gray tarpaulin sheets that were stiff with age. "My husband spends much of his time in town," Constance explained, "and so we have little use for a study." She pulled apart the heavy curtains to light the room. "You can see a dusting is in order."
The space looked to Molly like it had not been occupied in some time. The high walls were filled to the ceiling with old books. Molly, who had dreamed many times of being in possession of so rare a thing as a book, was overwhelmed. "Is Master Windsor a scholar, mum?" she asked.
"A scholar? Heavens, no!" She said this with the passion of someone who had just been asked if her husband were in the circus. "These books belonged to Bertrand's father. I understand he was something of an eccentric."
There was an audible gust of wind outside, and a branch from the giant tree tapped against the window behind Molly. She moved away from the glass, slightly unnerved. It seemed that wherever she turned in this house, there was the tree. "You know, mum, I could have my brother prune back some of them branches. Maybe patch the walls where it's broke through?"
"Would that we could," Constance said lightly. "Unfortunately, the tree has grown too close to the house. Disturbing it might threaten the foundations."
"Surely clipping back a few branches wouldn't-"
Constance cut her off. "Under no circumstances are you or your brother to touch the tree," she said, her voice like an icicle. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, mum." Molly could feel her cheeks flushing again. She had only meant to be helpful. Just when it seemed like her mistress was becoming kinder, the woman would lash out at her for no good reason. She scanned the room with her eyes, trying not to let Constance see her frustration.
And that was when she noticed the portrait.
It was a large painting, almost up to Molly's shoulders. It leaned against the fireplace mantel, waiting to be hung. The impressive gold frame was wrapped in protective cloth that had come undone on one side, leaving it half-dressed like a Roman emperor. Behind the cloth, Molly could make out the four members of the Windsor family: Constance, Alistair, Penny, and a man she took to be Master Windsor. Only it wasn't the family as she knew them. Their faces were plump and healthy, with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks. Instead of dark hair, they all had chestnut curls. Molly studied the painting, unsure of what to make of the image. It was one thing for an artist to flatter his patrons, but this seemed altogether different.
"Is something the matter?" Constance said, startling her.
Molly looked at the face of the woman standing beside her. It was the same mouth, eyes, and nose-only now her skin had lost its color. Her once-blue eyes were pools of black ink. Compared to the figure in the painting, Constance looked drained and frail. "Is…is that you, mum?" she said, pointing to the portrait.
"Who else would it be, child? We had it painted last summer. Just before moving here, in fact." Last summer? Molly marveled at how the woman could have looked so different only a few months before. Constance stiffened, feeling Molly's eyes on her. She touched the back of her dark, straight hair. "Perhaps it's time you started supper," she said and walked away.
Molly remained behind a moment. A breeze wuthered through the house, and the tree outside scraped against the glass, almost as if it wanted in. She inched back a step, looking again at the painting. The four faces in the portrait smiled out at her, happy and healthy. Something sinister was changing these people, and they didn't even seem to know it. Molly covered the portrait and retreated into the hall.
6 THE FIGURE IN THE FOG
The servants' quarters were in the basement floor of the Windsor house. Molly had been allowed to pick any room she wanted, and she chose the one with the fewest spiderwebs and an actual bed-such as it was. Beyond those amenities, the space was dank and spare. She had a wardrobe and a small dresser with a mirror mounted above it. The ceiling was stained with mildew. In several places, roots from the tree had broken through the walls, creating a veiny relief pattern beneath the faded wallpaper.
Molly and her family had always slept together in one room, and the idea of having a space all of her own both thrilled and frightened her. She dressed for bed, making a mental list of all she needed to do the next morning. She took comfort in the idea that "next morning" was no longer a thing plagued by uncertainty and fear-too many nights she had gone to bed with an empty stomach and heavy heart. Upstairs in the foyer, the grandfather clock chimed twelve times. Midnight. As if awaiting the hour, a dark breeze swept across the grounds outside. Old boards groaned as the wind pushed against cracks, searching for a way inside the house. Molly's room had a window above the bed-just big enough for a person to fit through. She took her lamp and perched it on the sill. She blinked the light three times with her hand, like a mariner signaling a passing ship.
A few minutes later, she heard a rap at the glass. Molly opened the window to find Kip crouched in the mud. "Boo," he said, wind grasping at his hair.
"Boo, yourself." Molly took his crutch from outside and propped it against the bed frame. She grabbed him under the arms and helped him through the window. "Remember what we talked about: you're to be up and away by dawn-before anyone sees you." Molly knew it was dangerous to disobey her mistress, but she also knew that her brother needed some place dry and warm to sleep. "Watch your boots," she warned too late as he touched down on the mattress. "And shut that window before any leaves get in."
Kip was a little out of breath and his cheeks were flushed. He peered over his shoulder, searching the darkness outside. "Comin' over here, I coulda swore someone was followin' me." He shut the latch and carefully climbed to the floor.
Molly set to making the bed. "Well, did you tell him to stop?"
Kip sat on the floor to remove his boots and trousers. "I ain't foolin'. I was out at the stables, waitin' for your sign at the window. All of a sudden this wind comes and it gets real dark-no moon, no stars. That's when I seen your light, so I set to walkin' over here. I'm halfway to the house when the hairs on my neck stand straight up. It was like I could feel it, Molls, right behind me. I turned around, and there, in the fog…" He shook his head. "For half a heartbeat, I thought I saw someone there, watchin' me."
Molly continued with the bedding, trying not to look alarmed. It was her fault that he came up with such things. Her fault for stuffing his brain full of goblins and witches and giant squids. "I thought you said it was too dark to see," she observed.
"Well, I could see this," he said through the nightshirt over his head. "He was real tall, dressed all in black, with a tall black hat. I walked a few more steps toward the house and looked again…but he was gone."
Molly helped her brother into the freshly made bed. "He probably got a look at your face and was scared off," she said.
"It's no joke," he insisted. "Something's wrong with this whole place. You seen how pale they all are-it ain't natural."
"That's just how folks look in England." Molly suddenly felt very glad that she had not told Kip about the portrait in the library. There was no reason to add to his worry. "I'm sure we'll get used to it." She blew out the lamp and lay down beside her brother. She stared at the ceiling, letting her eyes adjust to the night. In the shadows, she could make out the place where a thick root had broken through the exposed wooden beams. After all these weeks of struggle, she and Kip had finally made it to a safe, warm bed. And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that they shouldn't be here.
"Molls?" Kip said softly. He was staring at the cracked button she had given him earlier that day. "Why'd they have to go round the world without us?"
Molly propped herself up on one arm. "You know well as I do, Kip. They didn't want us gettin' hurt."
He nodded. "Drowning."
Molly swallowed a lump in her throat. "Aye. Or that."
Kip turned toward her, his eyes shining in that little-boy way that spoke of distant adventure. "Do you think they've seen any dragons yet?" he asked.
"I'm sure of it. The ocean's full of 'em. Maybe, if we're good, they'll even catch one for us." She looked at him, very serious. "But in the meantime, we've got a job of our own."
"What's that?"
She smiled, pinching his side. "Gettin' sleep."
Kip might have protested were he not already in the middle of a yawn. Molly had observed that for children of a certain age, thought is action. No sooner had she put sleep in his mind than he was already halfway there. Molly could actually see it happen right before her eyes. His head grew heavy against the pillow, and his breathing became soft and regular. His fingers uncurled, revealing the wishing button, nested safe in his palm.
Molly turned onto her back and slowly shut her eyes. For the first time, she let herself feel the exhaustion that she had been fighting for weeks. Every part of her was worn out. Her hands, feet, legs, arms-even the tips of her hair felt tired. Molly was too tired to think about the strange pale family or the strange ugly tree or the strange portrait in the library.
She was too tired, even, to register the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps entering the house.
7 PIT AND POCKETS
