Chime

“That you did, miss, an’ ’twere a pleasure to receive.”

“But the sheer cheek of this fellow fighting you!” said Cecil.

“It’s the other way round,” I said. “I fought him. He was rude to Rose.”

“Robert sent me a birthday card too,” said Rose, “but he couldn’t send one to Briony because she hasn’t any birthday.”

“I don’t care about who fought whom,” said Cecil.

“Your father would care,” I said. “A judge would care who started it.”

Cecil’s eyes scuttled about like pale beetles. To Petey, to me, and back to Petey. Eldric stood before Petey, speaking to him in a lovely plum-jammy sort of voice and tick-tocking his finger in front of Petey’s eyes.

“Damn it all, Briony,” said Cecil very softly in my ear. “This Eldric fellow is keeping you to himself.” But I imagined I knew what Cecil really cared about. He cared that it was Eldric, not he, who looked so easy and expert. That it was Eldric who looked our way and said perhaps Dr. Rannigan should see the boy.

“I thought we had an understanding,” said Cecil, still very soft.

We did?

“Cecil, would you please escort Petey to Dr. Rannigan?”

Cecil paused, but there was no way he could politely protest.

Poor Cecil. It’s hard to be a devil of a fellow in these modern times. No stagecoaches to hold up. No princesses to rescue. Just Petey Todd to escort, while the easy, expert fellow walks the pretty girl home.

But perhaps the pretty girl should go straight to the jail. Perhaps it would be easier to turn herself over to the constable now rather than waiting until teatime.

“Robert will walk me home,” said Rose. “I asked him, and he said yes. He will walk me three hundred sixty- three steps until home.”

“Yes, miss,” said Robert. He gave her his arm and she actually took it. Extraordinary.

“All of our books burnt,” said Rose.

“Yes, miss,” said Robert. “I be right sorry for that.”

“But my book didn’t burn,” said Rose.

“No, miss?” said Robert, and off they went: step one. Only three hundred sixty-two more to go.

So there we were, Eldric and I, alone in the square, except for Mad Tom, and Mr. Clayborne’s men laying the London- Swanton line, and a few dozen snips and snails running about, puppy dogs’ tails between their legs.

“You’re a grisly sight,” said Eldric. “Best mop up before you go home. May I?”

He took my shoulders, faced me toward the sun. I leaned against the village well.

“I know a bit about head wounds,” he said, “having given and received so many myself.” I thought of the scar that dipped into his eyebrow, naked and pink as a baby mouse.

“Spit!” He held out his handkerchief.

I spat.

The handkerchief dabbed at my forehead. “Ouch! You’ll have a fine-looking bruise tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll be able to distinguish me from Rose.”

The handkerchief paused. “I could tell you apart from the beginning. You’re quite different to each other, you know.”

Perhaps he could tell, in the obvious ways. The odd one was Rose; the other odd one was Briony.

The handkerchief went to work again.

“So,” said Eldric.

It wasn’t quite a question. It was more of an invitation to tell him whatever I chose. I could talk about Petey, I could not talk about Petey. I could talk about Pearl’s baby or not talk about Pearl’s baby. Eldric gave me a choice, and it was this that made me want to tell him everything.

I’d never met anyone I’d wanted to tell. I wouldn’t, of course, but the thought was comforting.

Comforting in a suicidal sort of way.

“If Petey were a color,” I said, “he’d be puce.”

“Yes, of course!” said Eldric. “What if he were an animal?”

“Rat.”

“Historical personage?”

“Robespierre.”

“Robespierre and the reign of terror,” said Eldric. “Fancy that—I remember Robespierre. Some of the bloodier bits of my lessons must have stuck. Is Petey engaged in a reign of terror?”

“The word reign is a bit resplendent for Petey,” I said. “He’s just a two-bit bully. He and his lads were throwing stones at Nelly Daws just now.”

In a few hours, they’d be throwing stones at me too.

“If you were an historical personage,” said Eldric, “you’d be Robin Hood.”

“You must have missed the Robin Hood lesson. He’s not historically real. You’re wrong about me, in any event. I’m no hero.”

“I must respectfully disagree,” said Eldric, which was nice, but ignorant.

“What animal would I be?”

Eldric thought for a bit. “A wolf. It has to be a wolf.”

“I like that,” I said. “Cecil would have made me into a talking mouse with a ruffled bonnet.”

“Anything but that,” said Eldric. “You’re quick and elegant, loyal and fierce.”

Loyal? I wouldn’t correct him.

“If you were a sport, you’d be boxing.”

Ooh, boxing!

“I’ll teach you if you like.”

Some invisible string jerked at a squishy bit behind my ribs. “I should like that.”

Except, first I’d be in jail, and then hanged.

But hanging didn’t seem quite real just then. Perhaps it was because Eldric was taking care of me, which was something that had ceased to be real long ago. I only just remembered it, that hot-bread comfort of being cared for.

When I was ill, before Stepmother came, Father used to spread crisp, white sheets over the library sofa and tuck me up in a special goose-down comforter. I loved running my thumb over its shiny, satiny edging. He’d sit on the end of the sofa and count my fingers and toes, which were always all there. Then he’d pretend to snatch away my nose and tell me I had adorable apricot ears. There was always hot chocolate, and sometimes the smell of lemon and sugar.

“We’ll take it slowly,” said Eldric. “We’ll ease you into being a bad boy. First boxing. Next, stone hurling, which leads naturally to the breaking of windows. You’ll start with an ordinary window, work your way up to stained glass.”

“What next?” I said. “Set your father’s drainage project on its head? Set the water to running backward?”

“There!” said Eldric. “I knew you had proper bad-boy instincts.”

There are certain advantages to having a conversation. One is that a person like Eldric might make you laugh, and you might begin to remember how pleasant that is. Another is that you tell yourself things you didn’t know you knew.

Set the water to running backward. That’s easy. You don’t even have to be a witch. You just open the sluice gates at flow tide, and all the sea comes rushing back into the swamp.

I had to have this conversation in order to understand how to save my neck from the noose.

“Spit!”

I spat.

I mostly hate talking to people, but talking to Eldric revealed a dazzling possibility. I could sabotage the draining project, and lo, the gloriousness that would ensue: The water would stay in the swamp; which meant the Boggy Mun would be appeased; which meant he’d lift the swamp cough from Rose; which meant that everything would be fine, except for the small matters of concealing my witchiness, and controlling my powers, and keeping Rose safe from me. But once you’ve imagined your head in the noose, these inconveniences are as nothing.

How light I felt. I was ready to play! “We could have a club,” I said. “A bad-boy club.”