“Sure can! I can make a
“You can make a pee?” Another clown face of amazement. “How lovely! But don’t do it in front of the young ladies.”
“It don’t be like that!” Petey stumbled into an explanation of his code of honor as it appertained to girls. But I turned away. I was done with Cecil, I was done with Petey.
But there are always more people one has to deal with, and on this particular unlucky Friday, it was Leanne. She’d sprung, seemingly, from nowhere, although she was rather robust to be an apparition. The skip-rope girls surrounded her, reaching for her green lace overskirt, which floated over some silvery, satiny stuff. The effect was very pretty and watery, although water doesn’t wear huge ropes of pearls.
“I’m glad you like it,” said Leanne. “But no hands, please.”
Eldric must have seen her since the trial; of course he had. Just look at the way he came prowling over, crunching his tie into genial disorder.
“What a pleasant surprise.” He shook Leanne’s hand. “Come and play!”
“Your frock, miss, it be ever so fine,” said one of the skip-rope girls.
“Them flowers in your hat,” said another. “They doesn’t be real, does they?”
The flowers weren’t real, but what lay beneath the netting at Leanne’s breast was. It was real. She was, in short, like a gland.
Swollen.
Leanne feminina regularitatis est.
But she didn’t breakfast with Eldric every morning, as I did. She didn’t laugh with him as they expanded their bad-boy Latin vocabulary. She didn’t have boxing lessons with him, and surely, he never admired her fist. Did he?
The sky turned to ashes. It snapped and growled.
“To the Alehouse!” Eldric promised fish and chips all round, and a blue-ribbon fish for the ninety-four-times rail-jumping girl.
The children stuck to him. They clung to his arms, they snatched at his jacket.
I hate children.
Cecil took my arm. “I made a botch of it before. Let me try again, talking to you, that is.”
“Talk away,” I said, following the group to the Alehouse. It was a kind of test. Can Cecil Trumpington walk and talk at the same time?
“You’re not as kind as you could be.”
How true, lamentably true. I’m sorry, Father. I do not love my neighbor as myself.
The bloated sky opened up. Rain fell in ark-loads. Cecil and I ran for the Alehouse. The children were already seated at the bar, in fits of laughter because Eldric had ordered a plate of gold-medal fish and chips.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Eldric.
I’d have liked a plate of gold-medal fish and chips myself, but the rules were clear. Fisher-brats at the bar, gentry at the tables.
Leanne, Cecil, and I gazed at one another. The three of us, together, were thin as gruel. We needed Eldric as thickening agent.
The longer I looked at Leanne, the more I saw her as a bundle of clichés. Raven’s-wing hair, laughing eyes. Ruby lips, shell-like ears. You could probably mix them up and it would make no difference.
Ruby ears and shell-like lips?
Heaving cheeks and scarlet bosom?
I was rather surprised to find Cecil gazing not at the scarlet bosom but at my face. He’d spoken to me. He was waiting for my response.
Leanne helped me out, gazing at me with her curling eyes. “That frock does suit you wonderfully. Pity, it’s the sort of thing I can’t wear. It wouldn’t suit me at all.”
What did Leanne mean beneath her talcum-powder words? Was this one of those compliments that turns around to bite?
Then a marvelous piece of conversational good fortune came our way: The Hangman rose and walked past us. He was an enormous fellow. Heads turned, following him. Conversations faltered, leaving dribbles of silence, until he pushed out the door.
Don’t think about it, Briony; don’t spoil the day! Nelly’s hanging has nothing to do with you. It doesn’t matter that she’s a witch and is going to hang. Or that she’s not a witch and is going to hang. Just count yourself lucky you’ve avoided her fate so far. Just fall into the conversation about witches and hangings and ooh, isn’t it exciting!
Leanne was quite the witch hunter. Her entire family had been plagued by witches. Not only had witches driven her uncle mad, they’d brought her cousin out in boils; he had the scars to prove it. Not to mention her sister- in-law—
Leanne delivered herself of this information with a terrible sort of gusto. Her cheeks shone, her eyes were rosy. News of Nelly’s trial had brought her to Swanton initially, and now she’d returned to see Nelly hanged.
Don’t let her guess what I am! Let’s hope she’s like the others, who look only at the surface. Let’s hope she’d never think that a girl with black-velvet eyes and cut-glass cheekbones could be a witch.
“Please excuse me.” Leanne turned to the window. She didn’t want to miss a single thrilling moment. I understood now why she’d chosen a table by the window, despite the chill. I understood why every table next to a window was taken. A hanging is a good bit of fun, but not in the rain. Best get yourself a pint and watch from inside.
Two pints, rather. Don’t forget, it’s Two-Pint Friday.
I rose. “I’ll help Eldric with the food.” But he was already on his way back, loaded with hot pies and pickled eggs and bees-wine and ale. “And lemon tart for after.”
I pretended to be busy. I pretended I might need something at the bar. Let’s see, what was it? Oh, yes: I needed not to watch Nelly hang.
The spectators roared. I jumped. If we were in Spain, they’d have shouted
You’ve a lot not to think about, Briony. You mustn’t think about the delay of the London-Swanton line. You mustn’t think about what’s happening in the square, not about the crash of the trapdoor, the jerk of the noose, the twitching of—
Don’t think about it!
But you can’t ignore a hanging when you’re surrounded by the beating of fists and the stomping of feet and the cries of general good humor that accompany an execution.
The first chime. The Alehouse fell silent. The second chime, the third. A chime for every year of Nelly’s life.
The fifth chime—the seventh—twelfth—
Would Rose mind my hearing twelve chimes of a person’s life?
The eighteenth—the nineteenth—
Silence now. Nelly’s life had been counted out to its end.
Leanne swung back to her food. “Pity,” she said.
Pity?
“Father will be cross,” said Cecil. “He so dislikes making a mistake.”
A mistake. Nelly hadn’t turned to dust. She’d been no more than a girl with red hair.
“Here’s an idea,” said Eldric. “Let’s play that game where you ask the questions—you know the one, Briony.”
I could slap him—punch him! Didn’t he care that they’d hanged the wrong girl? “Most every game asks questions.”
My fingers arranged themselves into a terrifically nonstupidibus sort of fist.
“Questions such as, ‘Which Old One would you be?’ ” said Eldric. “Or, ‘Which Old One would attack you?’ ”
“Old Ones!” said Leanne, with a double-barreled sort of exclamation mark, perhaps to fill the world with all the exclamation marks Rose never used. Conservation of matter, and all that.
