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.
ip was dressed and outside just after dawn. A good night’s sleep and two hot meals had done wonders for his spirit. Even his left leg, which usually ached in the mornings, felt better. Molly had said that Master Windsor was returning at the end of the week, and Kip thought if he worked hard, he might be able to tame the front lawn by then.
He started with the overgrown ivy at the base of the mansion. He trimmed around the back and sides of the house. He would have continued around front by the tree, but it appeared as though someone had already cleared the growth on that side. When the ivy was finished, he chopped some firewood, repaired the stable door, and swept Galileo’s stall.
Kip enjoyed working outside. It reminded him of hours spent with his father, tending their farm on the shore. It was a small farm—just a few animals, a vegetable garden, and a potato patch—but it had been more than Da could handle by himself. Kip had always secretly wondered, if he had been stronger, if he had been able to work as much as a healthy boy, whether their farm might have thrived. Then maybe his family wouldn’t have needed to leave Ireland for work, and they would all still be together.
It was early afternoon, and Kip was drawing water for Galileo at the well when he heard a pained voice in the direction of the house. “But Alistair, I’ll ruin my favorite dress!” It was the little girl, Penny. She was speaking to her brother, who was leaning against the big tree out front.
“You should have thought about that before you agreed to play,” Alistair said matter-of-factly. “Now get in there, or it’ll be a double penalty.”
Kip had known bullies in his life, and he could tell at one glance that Alistair was a bully of the highest order—the sort who took a special delight in torturing things smaller than himself. Show him a spider’s web and he would tear it. Show him a bird’s nest and he would kick it. Show him a lame boy? Kip preferred not to find out what he would do. He had thus far managed to avoid Alistair, which was not difficult, as both the Windsor children seemed to prefer playing indoors, and even when they were outside, the low hills covering the lawn created a sort of natural barrier between any two points.
Now, however, Kip found himself with an opportunity to study the children, unobserved. He watched the little girl lower herself into a hole near the base of the tree. He had not noticed this hole before because it had been covered with leaves. Kip made a note to himself that he should rake them clear when he got the chance. It was not a deep hole, for when Penny touched bottom, her chin was still aboveground. As soon as she was in, Alistair pushed leaves around her body with his foot until she was properly buried.
“Alistair, I don’t think I want to play this game,” Penny said. Her glasses had slipped down from her nose, and she was trying unsuccessfully to fix them without the use of her arms.
“Today’s game is entirely new.” The boy paced in front of the tree, hands behind his back like a captain of the guard. “It’s something I call ‘Pit and Pockets.’ You’ve likely already figured out the ‘pit’ part. Now for the next bit: I’ve got something in each of my pockets. In one pocket is a bag of sweets; in the other is …” He spun around dramatically. “Certain doom!”
Penny made a small, terrified sound. She blinked up at her brother. “I pick the sweets,” she said in a tone more befitting a question.
Alistair stood back. “No, stupid. You have to choose: Right or left? And whatever you pick, you have to eat.”
Kip could not say for certain, but something in Alistair’s voice made him suspect that no matter which pocket the girl selected, she would lose. He wat
ched as Penny screwed up her face, concentrating all her mental energy on determining which pocket was the winner. “I … I think it’s the left one,” she ventured after a moment.
“Left, she says!” Alistair reached a hand into his left pocket and pulled out a fistful of something dark and stringy. The prize hung limp between his fingers, squirming slowly.
Kip had spent enough years working in soil to know what Alistair was holding. “Earthworms,” he said under his breath. Penny gave a shriek that confirmed his suspicion.
Alistair held the creatures over his sister’s head. “Let’s see which one reaches you first.” With a great flourish, he sprinkled the worms around the edge of the hole.
Penny, who up until this point had been a commendable sport, broke down. “Alistair, pull me out of here.” She spun her head about, trying to keep clear of the worms blindly inching toward her. Suddenly she gave a sharp scream that surprised Kip for its sincerity. Even Alistair looked a bit taken aback. “Help!” she shrieked. “They’re getting my feet! I can feel them!”
“You’re just being hysterical,” Alistair protested. “I can see for myself the worms have barely made it past the first layer of leaves.” He crouched down and took one of the worms between his two fingers. “Look here, all you have to do is eat one worm, and then you’re done.”
Penny did not hear him, as she was too busy screaming about how she could feel the worms moving around her ankles. Seizing a perfect opportunity, Alistair raised the worm over her open mouth.
Kip had seen enough. He took up his crutch, Courage, and hobbled out from behind the well. “You leave her alone!” he called, moving toward them as fast as he could.
Alistair turned around slowly. A look of pure pleasure crept across his face. “If it isn’t our new groundskeeper!” he said. “I thought I smelled something foul.”
Kip ignored the comment and hopped closer. Alistair took a lazy step to one side, planting himself between Kip and Penny. The two boys were now only a few feet from each other. At this range, Alistair looked even bigger. Kip swallowed, steeling himself. “She ain’t done nothin’ to deserve that. Let her go.”
“Or else what?” Alistair said, tossing the worm aside. “One word to Mother, and you’ll be turned out—two fishy orphans, alone in the cold.”
“I ain’t no orphan,” Kip snapped. “And you’re a bully.” His face was flushed, his free hand clenched tight in a fist. He knew talking was useless; this was going to be a fight.
Kip was by no means a good fighter, but he had been in enough scraps to know a few tricks. The first trick was to always strike first—to guarantee he got in at least one good blow before things went bad. The second trick was to bite his tongue, as hard as he could, right before things got started. That way, when he was hit, the pain wouldn’t surprise him. The last thing, and this was important, was to level the field as quickly as possible by getting the other boy onto the ground. Down there, having only one good leg was not as much of a problem. None of these tricks had ever helped him win a fight, of course, but they usually helped him lose a little less badly.
Kip dropped his crutch and sprang across the grass, tackling Alistair at the knees. The boy shouted out as they both came crashing down onto the wet lawn. Kip concentrated on hitting the places he knew hurt most: the kidneys, just below the ribs, the back of the leg. It quickly became clear to him that, for all his posturing, Alistair knew next to nothing about proper fighting. The boy landed a few ineffectual blows upon Kip’s shoulder blades and elbows before resorting to a campaign of hair pulling and ear biting.
While Penny screamed from her hole, the two boys rolled back and forth across the lawn, fighting with everything in them. Kip heard a satisfying crack as his forehead struck Alistair square in the nose. Blood clouded his vision, and his head throbbed horribly. But from the way Alistair was howling and clutching his face, Kip knew he had scored a direct hit. He grinned as the significance of this fact dawned on him: he was actually winning.
The next moment, Kip felt someone grab his arm from behind. “Get off him!” Molly shouted as she pulled them apart. “What’re you thinkin’?” It took Kip a moment to realize that she was talking not to Alistair but to him.
He saw her cast a panicked glance toward the open front door. Mistress Windsor was rushing out to meet them. She crouched down and helped Penny out of the hole. The little girl clung to her neck like a barnacle. “Just what is going on here?” the woman demanded.
Alistair scrambled to his feet and ran to his mother’s side. “It was the cripple who started it! He came at me like a murderer!”
Constance looked between the two boys. They both had grass stains and mud on their clothes. They were breathing heavily, and Alistair had blood on his face. “Is this true?” she said to Kip.
Kip, still on the ground, stared up at her, unable to deny the charge.
Molly stepped in front of him. “Forgive me, mum, but your son’s lying. I saw the whole thing. My brother was only defendin’ himself as any person would.”
Kip stared up at Molly, confused; if she had really seen them, then she would have known that Kip had struck first.
“Don’t listen to her, Mother!” Alistair said, clutching his nose. “She’s just trying to protect him! Ask Penny—she was there.”
Unfortunately, Penny was too busy sobbing about the worms eating her toes to give any kind of testimony. Constance gave her son a weary look. “Tormenting little girls and crippled boys? Don’t think your father won’t hear of this.”
Alistair sneered. He fished a crumpled bag of sweets from his pocket and opened his mouth. “And then what? He’ll puh-puh-punish me?” He said this with an exaggerated stutter.
Constance snatched the bag from his hands. Her eyes were wide, dangerous. Every muscle in her body looked tense. “You will respect your father,” she said in a constricted tone. “Go to your room immediately.” For a moment, Kip thought she might strike the boy.
Alistair turned from her, his face burning. He gave Kip a special threatening look before marching back into the house.
The woman turned to face Kip. He thought for a moment she was going to apologize for her son, but she did not. “See that you fill that hole at once. Heaven forbid someone falls in and gets injured.” She looked at Molly. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” Then she turned and carried Penny into the house without another word.
Molly picked up Kip’s discarded crutch and offered it to him. “You fight with the young master on our first week? That’s a sure way to promise there won’t be a second. What were you thinkin’?”
What was he thinking? All Kip had done was the thing she had taught him. For as long as he could remember, Molly had defended him against other children. Not a week went by when she didn’t get into a fight on his behalf. Kip had just been doing the same for Penny—only now his sister was outraged.
Kip did not accept the offered crutch. Instead, he rose on his one good leg, which was sore and threatening to buckle. “You shouldn’t ’a lied about seein’ the fight,” he said, his breathing raspy.
“Better that than tellin’ the mistress her son got walloped by a boy half his size.” Molly made a silly face, but Kip refused to smile. She sighed. “Kip, I said that to protect us. It was just a story.”
“Was it?” He fixed her with as hard a gaze as he could. “Do they count as stories when the other person thinks they’re true?” He took his crutch from her and started toward the stables. Suddenly he felt exhausted and sore from the fight—and shaky. The exhilaration of his victory had been replaced by a cold gloom.
hough Molly had perhaps stretched the truth about her domestic prowess, she was determined to make good on the claim. She spent the first week at Windsor Manor scrubbing, scouring, and dusting every surface she could find. She made a sort of game for herself out of anticipating her mistress’s every wish so that she could fulfill it before being asked. (Penny helped in this matter, often acting as a spy who would come back with r
eports of half-filled wineglasses or drafty windows.) By the end of the week, Molly had succeeded in her efforts, as evidenced by not one but three separate instances of her mistress uttering “thank you” after being served.
It was mid-Friday before Molly finally met Master Windsor. When she heard his carriage rolling up the drive, she put aside her wash and fetched her brother in the yard. The two of them rushed to the front stoop so they might greet him at the door. Molly had enough sense to know the importance of winning her master’s approval—and if he was anything like his wife, she knew it would be a difficult thing to gain.
Molly and Kip both stood at attention, straight as candlesticks, like proper servants. They were wearing clean (if oversized) clothes and shined shoes. Molly had even gotten her brother to wash his face, though he hadn’t done a very good job around the ears, and his neck still had some red marks from where Alistair had bitten him. Molly wasn’t sure whether she should be furious with her brother or proud of him for getting into that fight. She imagined her parents would have shared her ambivalence—Ma, impressed with his courage; Da, disappointed in his hotheadedness. This thought made her smile. Then it made her sad.
When the carriage rattled to a stop in front of the house, Molly was surprised by the man who climbed down from the driver’s seat. His shoulders may have once been broad, but they were now severely sloped. He had a weak chin and round face. Even his mustache was halfhearted. Like the rest of his family, he had pale skin and dark eyes, which he blinked incessantly—as though he were afraid that someone might strike him. Looking at the man, Molly understood at once why Alistair had not been afraid of his mother’s threats: to put it plainly, Bertrand Windsor was a milksop.