Sir Barnaby climbed to his feet with the slow caution of a man who was almost certain he had no broken bones. He was as filthy as a chimney sweep. Relief at seeing him stand made the urge to cry even stronger. Merry blinked back her tears with determination. She was not going to cry.
“Bee! Barn-a-bee!” a faint, frantic voice called.
Sir Barnaby turned towards the rockfall. “I’m fine,” he called back, his voice low. “Are Noake and Rudkin all right?”
“Not hurt.”
“Thank God,” Sir Barnaby said, and then he pitched his voice to carry: “Sawyer, get his lordship out of there. Now.”
“I’m trying, sir.”
“Well, try harder,” Sir Barnaby muttered. He raked a hand through his hair, dislodging dust and grit, and turned to face her and Charlotte. “We’ll get out of here,” he said, with utter confidence. “It’ll just take a little longer, is all. Now, let’s get into that grotto. This cave’s not safe.”
“Sir Barnaby?” a low voice called. Not Marcus.
They all turned back to the rockfall. “Yes?”
“We’re going to clear as much of this rubble as we can and shore the roof with timber. Could take all night.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t rush,” Sir Barnaby said. “Take it slowly. Doesn’t matter how long it takes, just as long as no one’s hurt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“God, I hope they’re careful,” he said, under his breath, and then he turned back to her and Charlotte, and smiled cheerfully. “Show me this grotto, ladies.”
Sir Barnaby gave a low whistle. “This looks like something out of a storybook.”
“Yes,” Merry said, clutching her hands together, and trying to sound calm.
The grotto was the size of her bedroom in Woodhuish Abbey. Its ceiling was a dozen feet at the highest point, but less than three feet in the lowest corner. In half a dozen places, stalactites and stalagmites had joined to form slender, graceful columns.
“It makes me think of A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Charlotte said. “I can imagine Titania here.”
Sir Barnaby crossed to the nearest column and patted it. “This’ll keep the roof up.”
“Yes,” Merry said again. Don’t panic, don’t panic. But she was aware of the weight of rock and earth above her, crushingly heavy. She forced herself to smile, and peeled her hands apart. “There are three more caves off this one. One has bones in it, and the strangest skull, and teeth like the one Marcus found.”
Sir Barnaby’s head jerked around. “What?”
“The bones are as hard as rock,” Charlotte said. “They’re stuck to the floor.”
“This, I have to see.”
Sir Barnaby was delighted with the bones. “This is incredible! I don’t suppose either of you has a sketch pad?” He crouched and fingered the skull. “My God, what a gift to find something like this!” And then he paused, and frowned, and looked up at Charlotte. “Marcus said . . . Marcus told me to tell you to use your gift, if it would help. He said you’d understand what he meant.”
Merry understood what it meant, too. She exchanged a glance with Charlotte.
“There might be a sketch pad in the hamper,” Charlotte said. “I’ll look.”
Merry gave Sir Barnaby a bright smile, and followed Charlotte. “You should go,” she whispered, once they were back in the grotto.
“I can’t leave you here!” Charlotte whispered back.
“Yes, you can. Sir Barnaby’s here. I won’t be alone.”
Charlotte’s expression was miserable and indecisive.
“Go, Charlotte. It’s stupid staying, if you can get out. Think about Charles!”
Charlotte hugged her breasts as if they hurt. “I need to feed him . . .”
“Then go.” Merry pushed Charlotte towards the little arch-shaped exit. They both peered out at the rockfall. “Can you get through that hole?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, and then: “But Merry, I can’t. I have to keep my magic secret. If it becomes common knowledge . . .” She hugged herself more tightly. “It scares people. Marcus almost shot me, the first time he saw me do it.”
Merry nibbled on her lip. “Only show yourself to the nursemaid,” she suggested. “And Marcus, of course. Let everyone else think you’re here. Brough’s a sensible woman. She’ll keep your secret. Once the rockfall is cleared, come back and be seen to leave with us.”
Charlotte looked dubious. “You think it will serve?”
“Yes,” Merry said firmly. The fewer of us stuck down here, the fewer of us who can die. “Tell Brough the truth: that you have a Faerie godmother. She’s too level-headed to fly into hysterics. And she loves Charles. She’ll keep the secret for your sake and his sake.”
“And Sir Barnaby? He’ll have to know, too.”
“Sir Barnaby will be fascinated. You’re much more remarkable than an old skeleton.”
Charlotte huffed a wry laugh. “Thank you. I think.”
“Lady Cosgrove? Miss Merryweather? Is everything all right?”
Sir Barnaby stood behind them, his face filthy and alert.
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Sir Barnaby, there’s something I must tell you.”
Sir Barnaby didn’t believe the tale about the Faerie godmother. Merry saw it on his face; beneath the careful politeness was a flicker of alarm. He thinks Charlotte’s gone mad.
But he did believe when Charlotte removed her shawl and her spectacles, and knelt on the floor and changed into a monkey.
His mouth gaped open and he stared with such stunned incredulity that Merry almost laughed. He watched, speechless, as the monkey climbed out the neckhole of Charlotte’s gown, changed into a sparrow, and flitted up to perch on Merry’s shoulder. The sparrow gave a chirp—Goodbye? Be careful?—and flew out of the grotto.
They both hurried to peer into the debris-strewn cave beyond.
Charlotte was already gone.
“Good Lord,” Sir Barnaby said in a faint, awed voice, and then he turned to Merry. “What on earth?”
“You have a Faerie godmother, too?” Sir Barnaby said, when she’d finished explaining.
Merry nodded. “And I’ll receive my gift on my twenty-fifth birthday. The day after tomorrow.”
“Good Lord,” Sir Barnaby said again. He blinked several times. “Will Charles . . . ?”
“No. Only the women in our line.”
His gaze was intent, fascinated. “What will you choose?”
Merry hugged her knees. “I don’t know. I’ve had years to think about it, and I’m still not sure. Charlotte only found out on her twenty-fifth birthday, and she had minutes to decide, and she made the perfect choice for her. She wanted to earn her living, so she chose metamorphosis and became a man. She was Marcus’s secretary, you know.”
Sir Barnaby’s dusty eyebrows climbed higher. “His secretary?”
Merry nodded. “You saw him once. Or rather, her.”
“I did?”
“She was with Marcus when he visited you at Mead Hall.”
Sir Barnaby’s face tightened, as if her words had been a slap. She saw emotions chase themselves across his face—dismay, mortification—before his expression congealed into masklike blankness.
Idiot. You shouldn’t have told him Charlotte witnessed that meeting.
“If we’re still here on my birthday, I’ll use my gift to get us out,” Merry said hastily, to distract him. “I can do that, you know: choose a one-off gift, rather than a permanent one. Although most of the one-offs tend to be healing of some kind or other. One of my ancestresses was wall-eyed, and she used her gift to fix that.” She was gabbling, the words spilling over one another. “But I hope we’re out of here before then, because I would like a gift that lasts my life. Although . . . being alive would last my life, I guess.”
Sir Barnaby gave her a polite, unfelt smile. His attention was directed inwards.
Merry plowed on. “There are dozens of different gifts, you know. Some of them have warnings, because they can drive you mad, or . . . or make things worse than they already are. Like resurrection. You mustn’t ever resurrect a dead person. Someone tried that, back in the sixteenth century—her husband had died—and his body became alive again, but he was a raving lunatic.”
Sir Barnaby blinked. She’d caught his attention.
“I thought I might choose finding things as my gift,” Merry confessed. “So I can find a hoard of treasure, and not need to rely on Charlotte and Marcus’s charity. But it seems very selfish, and I can’t help thinking that I should choose a gift that helps people. Although, if I chose finding things I could find lost children, like Clem and Harry, and that wouldn’t be selfish.” She paused, her eyes on his face. Say something, Sir Barnaby.
After a few seconds, he did. “Marcus and Charlotte clearly enjoy having you in their household. Your keep would be inconsequential to them.”
“To them, yes. To me, no.” Merry looked at the hem of her gown and brushed at the dirt there, then looked back at him. “My father did leave me an inheritance, but it’s not enough to last my lifetime, and the only career I’m fitted for is dancing, and I will not be an opera dancer.”
Sir Barnaby rocked back slightly. “I should hope not.”
“And I can’t be a dancing master because I’m a female.” Merry sighed. “It would be so much easier if I were a man.”
Sir Barnaby blinked. The closed-in expression had gone from his face. He looked bemused.
Successfully distracted. Merry smiled cheerfully at him. “Would you like some food?”
Sir Barnaby blinked again. “I suppose we had better eat.”
“There’s water seeping down the wall, just past that skeleton. Enough to dampen a handkerchief with. Charlotte and I used it to wash our faces.”
“Ah.” Sir Barnaby’s eyes lit up. He climbed to his feet.