I cover my face. Did my little sister burn alive? What could she have done to incur that kind of fate? Or was it something else, something gentler but no less lethal a loss of temper on Nelly’s part? A pillow pressed over an ever-open, ever-screaming mouth, in hope of a few seconds of silence… and suddenly those seconds dragged into minutes and Ena, true Ena, lay still and pale and blue at the lips? Was the fire a clumsy means of covering up?
But my parents…
Would they have believed it?
I can’t know my father, but my mother… she was a witch. She was Aoife’s daughter and no fool. When she saw her child’s body… I do not think she’d have believed in any accident not for one second. And so there was no way she and Liam could have been allowed to live. Nelly and Edward, plotting and scheming to cover up, stripping the house of other servants, pretending to be my parents leaving in the dark hours, telling tales until they seemed to be true, and replacing Ena with Meraud, a happy little girl who knew no better. Edward Elliott, protecting Nelly because he cared for her or because the chance to be lord of the manor was too enticing and he simply believed he could get away with it.
And then the estate began to fail.
And then I arrived and it began to flourish once again.
I might have been killed so very soon, but for his prurient interest in me, his boredom with Nelly (for what kind of a man would tell the woman he loves she is to be a drudge in a grand house while he enjoys himself?). No wonder she hates me so. She hates him too, I think, but isn’t brave enough or angry enough to show it in full yet. How long until that is displayed in all its glory, an inferno such as the one that engulfed my little sister, and how will Edward Elliott hide that?
I reach down to touch the partially burned baby blanket; it feels oily. Fat burned fat and that smell I could identify the first time I was here: cooked meat. My sister.
‘Miren!’
A shout from the doorway, fear and rage making it so very loud. Yet I don’t startle or spin around. I finish the action, rub the blanket with my fingers, feel the greasiness of it, the melted fat of once-Ena, and I clench my fist. Then I straighten and turn at my leisure.
Edward Elliott hangs in the doorway like one of those gallowscrows, as if afraid to enter, and that fear weighs more than his anger. His face is red and I think, if he could bring himself to cross the threshold, he would do me harm no matter what else he feels for me. He locked this room, didn’t get rid of the cradle, just locked the room and assumed no one would ask questions. Over-confident. Edward Elliott couldn’t have known I would arrive.
‘Miren. Miren, come out at once. It’s not safe,’ he says, trying for a semblance of control in his tone.
I don’t answer, I just stare at him, daring him. At last he knows he must enter or lose all authority (for he still seems to think he has some), and he comes, his gait strange, like a high-stepping uncertain horse. Until he is in front of me and he grabs my shoulders and shakes me.
‘Miren!’ He shouts as if my name is a command that will make me heel. ‘What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you not to come here, that it was dangerous?’
‘You tell a lot of stories, Uncle? You know how I love them. Won’t you tell me another?’ I smile. ‘What happened? What happened to my sister?’
35
Edward Elliot draws back his hand to slap me.
‘That might work on Nelly, but I’m a different kind of creature all together,’ I say softly. I lift my chin, keep my eyes on his and slowly the hand is lowered. He’s shuddering now, sweat breaking out all over his face, and I wonder what he saw in here. Then he rallies and pulls me along behind him, towards the door of the nursery so fast it’s hard to keep my footing, as if dragging me out of the room will change everything, as if we will go back in time and the new knowledge of this place will be forgotten, sins fading into a fog. That we will be able to revert to the way we were.
I dig my heels in before we get to the doorway, shake off his hand. He looks at me in surprise. He’s forgotten I’m almost as tall as him, that I’m not some tiny girl…
‘Shall I begin, Uncle? You’re not usually so reticent about your tales.’ My tone is encouraging. ‘Shall I tell you about changelings? One child swapped for another by the fairies or the trolls or stolen away by those of the sea? Kept as servants beneath the earth, or fattened up as tasty treats, or fed to the waters in the hope of prosperity? There’s always a bargain, Uncle, always a swap: my mother left me behind in order to gain a life of her own, that is my story. One thing for another: I will have this one in return.’
And Edward Elliott seems to deflate as if someone let the air out of him. He’s a big man, suddenly small. He sits on the floor, a sort of collapse, but slow, and I back away, the light in my hand retreating from him until I’m at the rocking chair once more. I put the lantern down,
