Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(10)

“Do I have any say in this?” I asked quietly.

“No,” Mum and Mrs. Winter chorused without looking at me.





3





The Death of Sarah Smith





And that was that.

Without any troublesome opinions from me, Mum and Mrs. Winter negotiated the terms of my “death.” My parents were instructed to tell our neighbors that I had become so ill that I’d been rushed to a special hospital near London. With my reputation as being “poor, sickly Sarah,” this would come as a surprise to no one. This was the pattern for most of my parents’ conversations. They would tell people that my condition was getting worse and worse, until I “died” in a few weeks. Mr. and Mrs. Winter would arrange for a tasteful closed-casket funeral and headstone in the Warren’s boneyard. And I would no longer be considered part of my own family.

Not everyone was agreeable to this arrangement. If my mother had been upset by the sudden change in my status in the Winter household, my father had been inconsolable. And Mary… While my father had wept openly as Mum led him away from Raven’s Rest, Mary hadn’t even looked back. She just marched away like she couldn’t get far enough, fast enough.

My father, who normally wouldn’t have said “manure,” if his boots were covered in it, weakly protested the scheme as Mum shushed him. This was the pattern for most my parents’ conversations. By the time Papa had grasped what was happening and came up with what he wanted to say, Mum had already decided that he was wrong and found some way to keep him quiet. Mary had been smart enough to keep her mouth shut as Mrs. Winter made it clear that any discussion of my whereabouts would result in a “sharp rebuke.” I had my doubts that Mary knew what the word ‘rebuke’ meant, but Mrs. Winter made it sound very unpleasant.

Sarah Smith was dead, or very close to it. No more pre-dawn walks to the house with Papa absent-mindedly quizzing me on proper Latin names for the plants in his garden. No more mornings in the kitchen bickering good-naturedly with Mary and Mum while we divvied up the chores. I would never walk through Rabbit’s Warren, listening to other children playing stick-ball or singing their silly jump-rope songs.

And in return, I was safe, hidden away in the Lavender Room, a cozy guest room done in a dozen shades of purple. I was given Mrs. Winter’s very own castoff gown to sleep in and was buried under a mountain of soft, sweet-smelling sheets when a strange tapping noise brought me out of the deepest sleep I’d had in years.

I sprang up from bed, dizzy and confused, and scrambled for the door. I’d overslept. I never overslept. It was my job to brew my father’s morning coffee to make sure he was… alert enough to work. We would be late for work. Why didn’t Mary wake me? Why didn’t Mum wake me? Mrs. Winter didn’t tolerate tardiness. And it was Tuesday, silver-polishing day. If we started late, we would be buffing forks all afternoon.

THWUMP.

My face bounced off of a wall and went sprawling across a delicately worked lavender floral rug.

I groaned, rubbing my nose where it had collided with the purple silk wallpaper. I’d run smack into a wall, right where the door would be in my tiny bedroom at home.

“Ow,” I muttered, thunking my head back onto the carpet.

The tapping sounded again, more insistent this time. From the hallway, I heard Mrs. Winter saying, “The usual response is to say, ‘Come in.’”

I rushed to the door, combing my fingers through my hair and slipping a pink shawl embroidered with warming charm runes around my shoulders.

I opened the door. Mrs. Winter wore a wry expression and one of her favorite morning gowns, peacock blue silk with lace trim. She was carrying a silver breakfast tray. In all my years at the house, I didn’t think I’d ever seen her actually carrying anything, except a lace fan or a fancy handbag.

Clearly irritated with my silent staring, Mrs. Winter said, “I can see our etiquette lessons will have to begin at the very beginning. As I mentioned, Lesson One, a lady does not leave her mouth hanging open as if she hopes to catch stray insects. Lesson Two, when someone arrives at your bedroom door with your breakfast, the polite response is to invite them in and say ‘thank you.’”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked, setting the tray on a little mahogany side table situated in front of the double doors leading to the balcony.

I frowned and whispered, “I’m not sure.”

Mrs. Winter’s lips quirked as she lifted the tray dome to reveal a small pot of tea, blueberry scones, a huge rasher of crispy bacon, coddled eggs, toast and a double portion of porridge. This was more food than I normally ate for breakfast in a week. My father, even with his hollow leg and love of Mum’s scones, couldn’t have put away this much food.

I hopped out of bed and dropped a curtsy, because I seemed to be physically incapable of not curtsying while in Mrs. Winter’s presence.

“No, no, your curtsy is all wrong, dear,” Mrs. Winter sighed, mimicking my quick bob. “That is the subservient pose of a housemaid. You have to carry yourself as someone who always been assured of her high-standing, of her self-worth. A little poise, please.”

I stared at her. I had no idea what it was like to move with poise. I barely, grasped how to move without tripping over my own feet.