Chime

“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats.”

“Off we go, then.” Us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.

“I want you to read to me,” said Rose. “I want a story where I’m a hero.”

Oh, Rose! I launched into my litany of the library fire and the books burning, and then she said what she always said:

“I wish my book had burnt in the fire.”

That blasted book again! Just tell me about it, Rosy dear. I’ll see that it burns. But Rose never tells her secrets. That would be breaking the rules.

Us be asking you for help. Don’t think about that, Briony!

Rose never breaks the rules.

But reminders of the ghost-children were everywhere. In the cemetery, the ground puckered with death. Outside the cemetery, the gravestones pointing every way but up, like bad teeth.

Stepmother lay beneath one of those careless gravestones, in the unconsecrated ground set aside for murderers and witches and suicides. How could Father have been married to Stepmother and not known she’d never kill herself?

The cemetery lay on Gallows Hill, the highest bit of the village. In the distance, the swamp stretched out in a crinkle of gray crepe. Below sat Hangman’s Square, anchored on the south end with the Siamese church-and- Parsonage twins. The other sides of the square offered everything one might need in life: the Alehouse, the jail, and the gallows. Sometimes, when a person visits the Alehouse, he goes right on to visit the others.

The present occupant of the gallows was Sam Collins, of the upriver Collinses, each of whom was born with an extra finger, the better to steal from you, my dear.

The ghost-children wanted me to tell the villagers how to stop the swamp cough. Let’s pretend I do. Here’s how it would go.

It would turn into a House That Jack Built.

This is the girl called Briony.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew.

This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew; which meant she was hanged by the neck until dead.

That was the girl called Briony.

I’m not really the sacrificing type.

“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose.

We descended Gallows Hill, each in our own way. I’m no longer a wolfgirl, but still, I’m fast and Rose is slow. She’s slow and clumsy and afraid of heights and speed and danger.

An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.

This is the girl called Briony; who wanted to hurry to the Alehouse; which would distract her from the memory of the ghost-children; which kept coming back to her until she wanted to scream; which she felt like doing anyway, because Rose doesn’t know how to hurry; which goes to show that Briony’s always waiting for Rose, and if Briony ends up on the gallows, it will be for murder.

This is the girl called Briony.

8 When in Rome

“I don’t like that man.” Rose spoke loud enough for Mad Tom to hear.

“Where be my wits?” shouted Mad Tom, who, aside from being irritatingly mad, stood between us and the funeral-baked meats. “They be lost, O my stars an’ strumpets. Lost forever an’ aye.”

“I don’t like that man.”

He rattled his umbrella. “It be you lovelies what taked my wits. I seen you when you done it. I spied you with my little eye.”

He’s harmless, poor thing. That’s what everyone said. It was true, but who cares? Lots of people are harmless, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them.

“Two hundred twenty-six steps until the Alehouse,” said Rose. “But we have to pass that man.”

“And pass him we shall,” I said, for Tiddy Rex was sure to be in the Alehouse, and I needed to listen to his cough. Just let it be different from Rose’s. Please let it be different!

“I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose.

“Come along, then.”

“Doesn’t I spy two black-eyed lovelies!” Mad Tom flapped his umbrella at us as we passed. “Has you such a thing as a pair o’ wits about you?”

“I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose. But we’d already pushed through the Alehouse door, into the smells of tobacco and lantern oil and the ghosts of fried sausages. A hand snuck into the crook of my arm.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

I looked up, into Eldric’s switch-on eyes.

“You came just in time,” he said. “I was about to auction off your seats. They’re going for a fortune.”

There weren’t many fortunes to be made in the Swampsea, but neither were there many chairs. Mourners crammed windowsills, leaned against walls, talking, laughing, drinking, as all good mourners do. But there, at a table occupied by Mr. Clayborne and Father, were two seats, tipped onto their front legs to show they were taken.

How would a regular girl feel if an Eldric boy-man saved her a seat? Eldric, from exotic, faraway London.

Would a regular girl be happy? I don’t know much about certain feelings, like happiness. I have thoughts, of course, but thoughts stay in one’s head. Thoughts don’t feel.

“Introduce me to the new fellow, won’t you?” said Cecil Trumpington.

Cecil was Judge Trumpington’s son, but he didn’t mind sharing the next-but-one table with the ratcatcher and a fellow from the willow yard. Cecil was democratic when it came to drinking.

Cecil and Eldric shook hands. Two lovely boys, face-toface: Cecil, all dark ringlets; Eldric, all tawny mane. Cecil a bit the taller; Eldric a bit the broader. Cecil, all pale and dead-poet-ish; Eldric all electric and alive.

Cecil leaned over me; he smelled of money. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen milady!”

Milady. Such an old-fashioned word makes him feel clever. “Only five days,” I