Agatha clapped her hands together with the rest of the crowd, only half watching the parade as it went by. Music thundered through her eardrums in an unpleasant cacophony, the band blundering past her spot only to be followed by another. It had been seventy years since the war had ended, but the crashing of the cymbals, the pounding of the drums, still brought to mind the sound of the bombs. She’d lived through many years of peace, and only a handful of war years, but she’d never forget. Times like this, the memories were brought to the forefront.
A flash of gold caught her eye. A little girl danced by her, flaxen hair catching the sunlight. She wore a simple plaid dress, square bib at her throat. Her socks were white and folded down over her ankles, touching the shiny black patent leather shoes. Her hair was cut in a short bob, a portion of it lifted in the breeze of the passing parade.
The girl looked up, eyes catching Agatha’s, and all sound blended together into one background hum. The girl squinted her blue eyes, brow furrowing. She pulled her chin down and studied Agatha, lips pressed together.
And Agatha remembered.
The scent of alfalfa and cow manure.
Gray skies.
Mrs. Pettigrew’s voice, full of poison and disgust.
Agatha was nine again. Before her stood the girl. The terrifying little she-beast who would haunt Agatha’s nightmares for the rest of her life. Sarah. Sarah was all sugar on the outside, venom lurking just below the surface. She wore a brown and blue plaid dress with a white collar, golden hair cut into a short bob, a black silk ribbon tied into a bow on top of her head.
Her voice, sweet and clear: “Tell her what I’ve done, and I’ll make you regret it, Aggie.”
Agatha hated that nickname. But she dare not argue with Sarah. Instead, she nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good. Now give me your biscuit. Mine is simply awful.” She threw the biscuit onto the grass and stomped on it, crushing the crumbs into the ground. She held out her little pink hand, fingers nearly touching Agatha’s chest.
Agatha looked down at the biscuit in her hand, her mouth watering. This was the only food she’d have until supper, and the first biscuit she’d had in months. Her stomach rumbled, but she handed it over, rubbing her stomach to ease the ache that permanently dwelled there these days.
Sarah took that biscuit and dashed it on the ground. “That one’s even nastier.”
With a devilish giggle, she turned and ran.
Agatha let out a breath and allowed her shoulders to relax, but only for a moment. With Sarah’s attention diverted from her, now was the time to find a quiet place where she might stay hidden until supper. She fled to the barn, slipping in through the opening left by two rotted planks that had been pulled loose and moved to the side. With a gentle hand, she insured neither plank had moved even a bit with her passage. It was best to leave no signs behind.
As she climbed the rickety ladder to the loft above, Agatha focused on the sounds around her. Above the gentle nickering of the horses, she heard muffled voices outside. There was no laughter. There was never laughter at Mrs. Pettigrew’s, where Agatha happened to be billeted until a foster family could be found for her. There had been a mistake, and she and the other girls had been sent here instead of Cornwall. That’s what the grownups had said.
At least out here there were no bombs or air raid sirens. Back in London, where her mother, father, and older brother remained, there was less food than here. There were buildings that lay in crumbles, much like those biscuits out in the grass, thanks to German bombs.
But here there was Sarah, who had arrived separately from the other girls. Agatha was convinced that she was more dangerous to her than any German bomb. There were hundreds of houses to act as targets there, but only three other girls here who could share in the negative attention Sarah cast upon them. One never knew who Sarah would choose to victimize at any given moment. Not until she was standing before you, menace in her eyes, nose smooshed up and wrinkled at the top as she studied you and schemed. Sometimes she even turned her head to the side, ever studious like a cat contemplating a furry meal.
Agatha buried herself in the mildewed hay in one corner of the hayloft and found a knothole to peer through. She could see Mary and Constance playing below, tucked into a corner near the barn. Mary was twice Constance’s age, and it showed in their height difference. Both had brown hair, but Mary’s was long where Constance had a bob like the rest of the girls.
She spotted Shelley over by the chickens, her back toward the barn. Sarah stood before her, face visible to Agatha, a red chicken hanging upside down from her hand. The chicken was flapping madly, cackling and calling. The other birds were pressed against the fence on the other side of the pen. Even animals feared Sarah.
Shelley’s hands were clasped behind her back, and Agatha watched her dark hair swing as she shook her head at something Sarah was saying. She shook her head faster as Sarah thrust the frantic chicken in her face, but she didn’t move, not even to take a step back.
Sarah shook the chicken and stomped her foot. When Shelley still shook her head, Sarah grabbed the chicken’s head with her other hand and jerked, her face unchanging.
Agatha gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth as Sarah looked up. Sarah was too far away and shouldn’t have been able to hear, but she was staring directly at Agatha’s knothole. She even held the still twitching, limp necked chicken up in a triumphant salute before turning her attention back to Shelley.
Whatever Shelley had refused to do would get her in trouble later. Sarah never punished you right away. She made sure you had time to worry.
***
At supper that night, Shelley stared at the carrots on her plate, pushing her fork through them.
Across from her sat Sarah, who had a healthy appetite. She ate her food, smiling around at everyone at the table. The tension was palpable, and no one but her seemed able to eat much. Agatha shuffled her own carrots around before taking a bite. Though she usually enjoyed the flavor of the fresh vegetables—so much better than the tinned carrots she got at home—tonight they tasted bland, developing into mush as she chewed, and choking her on the way down.
When Sarah had cleared her plate, she turned to Mrs. Pettigrew and said, “Thank you for the yummy food, Missus. It tastes ever so much better than the city food.”
Sarah was the only one who seemed capable of eliciting a smile from their sour, shriveled benefactor, and tonight was no different. Mrs. Pettigrew pushed her gray hair back and smiled at Sarah, saying, “Thank you, my dear. My little Annie loved her carrots. You remind me so of her.” Her eyes lingered on the beaming Sarah for a moment before shifting away. The smile disappeared as she looked pointedly at each of the others, eyes flicking down to their plates then back up to their faces. “What’s wrong with your food, girls? Not good enough for you?”
Shelley’s head jerked up for the first time since the meal had commenced. “No, ma’am. I mean, no, Mrs. Pettigrew. My stomach is feeling off today is all.” The others concurred in mumbled voices.
“Maybe you need some extra chores tomorrow to increase those appetites.”
“Yes, Mrs. Pettigrew,” they said together.
Mrs. Pettigrew nodded, sent a fond look Sarah’s way, her eyes big and dewy, and returned to her food, ignoring the girls again.
Agatha looked at Constance and Mary, both of whom were staring at their own plates. Now that the dark cast of Mrs. Pettigrew’s eyes had passed over them, they were shoveling in their food as if they were starving, though she imagined their appetites to be much the same as her own. Mary briefly looked up, nodding toward her plate in silent encouragement before returning to her own food.
When they were all finished, Mrs. Pettigrew excused them to take their plates to the sink for scrubbing. “Wash those nasty little hands and faces while you’re at it,” she called as they gathered around the sink. They stood back to allow Sarah to wash her hands and face first. Once done, she pushed her plate into Mary’s hand, and Mary washed it without question.
As they shuffled from the room, Sarah traipsed over to Mrs. Pettigrew and placed one hand on her arm. “Goodnight, Missus.”
Mrs. Pettigrew leaned her cheek down for Sarah to kiss and gave her yet another smile as she raced off to join the others. Her gaze hardened when she saw Agatha looking. “Off to bed with you lot. I’ll have a list of chores for you tomorrow to be sure you’ve earned your supper.”
Shoulders sagging, they climbed the narrow stairs to the attic, where each had a bedroll to sleep on. Sarah led the way, as always, selecting the space she wanted to sleep and the bedroll she preferred for the night. Once she had chosen, the rest could each find their own.
They all got their nightgowns on and had begun to settle in when Sarah’s high, clear voice sang out. “Oh no, Shelley, I want you to sleep here by me.”
Shelley’s shoulders tensed, but she picked up her bedroll and carried it over next to Sarah. Spreading it out, she knelt to say her prayers, grasping the bracelet her mom had given her as she did so. Sarah, who never said prayers, sat upright in her bedroll, hands folded in her lap, watching until Shelley had finished.
Agatha said her prayers with the other girls then climbed into bed, trying hard not to look in Sarah’s or Shelley’s direction, but failing miserably. Shelley was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Sarah, who had the sole candle, was on her side, staring at Shelley. She scooted the candle closer to the other girl before snuffing it out. The scent of the candle’s last smoke curled around the room, tickling Agatha’s nose.
The darkness was deep and complete. There were no windows here in the attic, and no light breached the room from the downstairs. Agatha listened for sounds of movement, but heard nothing, so she shut her eyes, forcing her breathing into a relaxed pattern.
Only a moment had passed when there was a scrape, followed by high pitched screams. A muffled giggle sounded between screams, followed by the slap of running feet, bare on the floorboards. A cool breeze blew past Agatha before one final scream preceded a series of thumps and bangs.
There were no further sounds.
Unable to see in the dark, Agatha lay motionless, waiting, afraid to breathe. A snick was followed by a bright flare and the fizz of a match, and the candle lit the room. There sat Sarah, a grin splitting her face, and in her hand was Shelley’s bracelet. Agatha watched as she fastened it around her wrist and examined it before looking at her. Sarah held a single finger up to her lips, exacting a promise of silence.
“Oh, lord, what has happened, you little wretches?” Mrs. Pettigrew’s voice sounded from the bottom of the staircase. There was a shriek, then: “This girl is dead. How am I supposed to explain this to the authorities? They’ll have my head! Get over here and explain what you’ve done.”
The girls stood and quickly made their way to the top of the stairs. Shelley lay at the bottom, body twisted. Across her eyes was a bumpy mess. It took Agatha a moment to realize what it was: candle wax. There were bloody scratches on her cheeks and forehead.
“I think she knocked over the candle, Missus. We couldn’t stop her from running.” Sarah said this in a little girl voice. Tears poured down her cheeks, and her body spasmed with her fake sobs.
Mary pulled Agatha and Constance into her arms. Together, they cried silently.
“Is that what happened, girls?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Pettigrew. It was terrible dark,” Mary answered.
“You girls should have been more careful. I’ll have to ring the doctor. Back to bed.” She shook her head and wandered away from them, leaving the girls to gaze down at their friend’s lifeless body.
Why hadn’t Shelley given Sarah what she’d wanted?
***
The next few days went without incident. Sarah was on her best behavior. Agatha, Mary, and Constance kept away from her as much as they could. And she let them.
Shelley’s body had been removed the next morning, the girls clustered in the attic to avoid seeing what they did with her. All, that is, except for Sarah, who sat at the top of the stairs, legs crossed, watching with interest. She even called down questions a few times. “Why is her neck bent like that, good sirs?” “What will you do with her now?” “Did she scratch her eyes out?” Agatha never heard any answers.
Other than a lecture on proper candle usage, Mrs. Pettigrew said nothing about the incident. Figuring it best to do the same, Agatha stayed mum during the day and cried quietly in the attic at night.
After five days of tense peace, Sarah grew bored. A bored Sarah was a restless and irritable Sarah. And dangerous.
At first, it was small things. A tack in Constance’s bedroll. Pepper in Mary’s porridge. Dirt in Agatha’s brush. Still, all told, the little pranks that occurred weren’t terribly harmful or dangerous, and the girls took them with grace, afraid to show a bad reaction.
Agatha was the first to realize the mistake they’d all made. Sarah needed to be entertained, and by not reacting, they had unwittingly made the situation worse. The next time Sarah played a prank on her, she made sure to play up her reaction.
It was the morning of the eighth day after Shelley’s death. Agatha went to take a drink of her milk, usually fresh, warm, and frothy. What she found, instead, was soured milk, thick and awful in her mouth. Instead of swallowing it down and pretending all was well, she choked and sprayed the milk across the table, gasping and coughing.
Mrs. Pettigrew, of course, was livid. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, Agatha Miller?”
“My milk is sour!”
“It’s no such thing. How dare you waste good milk.”
“Taste it yourself,” said Agatha, thrusting her partially emptied glass toward Mrs. Pettigrew, who jumped back just as the soured milk splashed onto her dress.
“How dare you!”
Her punishment was to clean the table, chairs, and flooring in the kitchen. As she scrubbed on hands and knees, Sarah skipped merrily about her, singing a song.
“Agatha got in trouble,
Agatha got in trouble.
She spilled her milk,
She spit it out,
Who gave her spoilt nasty?”
While Sarah wanted a reaction, Agatha still feared being impertinent to her. Being punished by Mrs. Pettigrew was one thing. Being punished by Sarah was a terrifying prospect she hoped to avoid, so she kept her eyes downcast and hoped taking the punishment was enough to entertain Sarah, at least for a little while.
Once her punishment was completed, Mrs. Pettigrew sent Agatha outside with the others, Sarah trailing behind her.
“What shall we do now, Aggie?”
The pet name rankled even more than usual.
“I’m rather tired, Sarah. I was just going to sit under the apple tree and rest a bit.”
“Well, I don’t want to rest. I want to play. With you.”
Agatha sighed. What was she to do? She couldn’t turn her down, but nothing Sarah wanted to play could end well.
“What do you want to play then?” She stopped and turned to face the other girl.
Sarah looked at her, a thoughtful expression on her face. Her eyes seemed to go far away for a moment, and then a smile spread slowly over her face.
“Want to go pinch the cows?”
“Why would I want to do that?” Agatha asked, without thinking. She realized her error when Sarah’s face scrunched, brows knitted.
“Because I said so.”
With a resigned huff, Agatha turned toward the field, figuring Sarah would follow. When she reached the side of the barn and found herself alone, she turned to look back at Sarah, who stood in the same place she’d left her. Her fists were curled at her sides, her shoulders raised and tense, and her face was dark like a thunder cloud, features tiny and scrunched.
“Aren’t you going to come play, Sarah?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh, please, won’t you come play? I’m sorry I angered you.”
“You will be.”
They stared at each other a moment longer before Sarah turned with a swish of that golden hair and stalked off in the direction of Mary and Constance. Agatha felt a tweak of remorse, like whatever happened to them now would be her fault for setting Sarah off, but she brushed it off. They wouldn’t get anything she wouldn’t suffer twice as much of later.
She went into the barn and climbed back up into the hayloft, her favorite place on the farm. The sweet scent of the hay surrounded her. Oh, when would they find her somewhere else to billet? How much longer would she have to deal with Sarah’s cruelty and Mrs. Pettigrew’s indifference?
***
Agatha awoke to a darkening sky and the sound of footfalls in the hay below. Shush-shush.
“Who’s down there? Is it time to go inside for supper?”
No one answered her call. The only sound was the shush of shifting hay.
“Mary? Constance? Is that you?”
Still no answer.
“Sarah?” This time her voice came out in a low trembling whisper. “Is it supper time?”
Shush, shush.
And then the ladder creaked, moving slightly as some weight rested upon it.
“Please, who’s there?”
The ladder continued to creak and shift, just a little, as someone moved slowly up its length.
Agatha scrunched back into the darkness.
“Sarah, if that’s you, I’m sorry. We can play whatever you like tomorrow.”
This time, a voice did answer from just below the loft. “Anything?”
“Yes, anything you like.” Hope flared in her breast.
“Okay. Meet me under the apple tree after breakfast then.”
Sarah’s movement down the ladder was much quicker than her climb had been. Agatha heard her jump off into the hay with a hushed thump, her feet clapping all the way out of the barn. Her voice drifted in through the door. “You’d better come in for supper, or you’ll be in trouble.”
Agatha hopped up and ran to the ladder, turning to climb down. As she put her foot on the second to last rung, it hit something slick and she slipped. She lost her grip, sliding down the rest of the ladder onto the ground. She landed on her feet, but scraped her palm. Examining it, she found a thick splinter embedded under the skin.
Sarah had made her point. She wasn’t happy.
***
The next day, Agatha made her way to the apple tree directly after breakfast. Sarah was already waiting there for her. She was hopping from one foot to the other, staring intently at the ground.
She didn’t look up as Agatha approached. Agatha drew up next to her and looked down, searching for what so interested Sarah. There, between the other girl’s feet, was a toad. Sarah was hopping over it, back and forth, back and forth.
“Hi, Sarah.”
Sarah continued hopping for a moment, still not looking up at Agatha. Hop. Hop. Hop. Hop. Then she let out a drawn out sigh and landed on the toad, which exploded out from under Sarah’s tiny shoe. Something pink dripped down the patent leather, and the grass was a deep red. She looked up at Agatha with a giggle and wiped her shoe in the grass next to the murdered creature. Agatha did her best to hide the dismay and disgust she felt at this, and stared back at Sarah. Inside her was a roiling sea of fear, her stomach sick.
Sarah didn’t speak to her, instead picking up the tattered remnants of the little creature she had killed. She cradled it in her hand and lifted it to her face. Her lips were moving, and Agatha realized she was singing to it, very quietly, just under her breath. A whisper of sound. As she sang, she walked over to the well, the metal lid having been removed, and dropped the frog inside. She stood there for a moment, looking down, and Agatha studied her back, waiting.
Finally, she took a breath, shoulders rising then falling again as she exhaled. Agatha felt a jolt when the other girl turned toward her with an abruptness that seemed impossible, her movements fluid.
“I want to play a game, Aggie.”
“What game?”
“Let’s call it ‘Fool’s Errand.’ How does that sound?”
“How do you play it?” Agatha chewed on her lip and waited.
Sarah clapped her hands and did a little hop. “You’ll be ‘it’ first. Ready for your fool’s errand?”
“I think so.”
“Your errand is to go into Old Pettigrew’s room and get a trinket from there. Then I want you to bring it to me.”
“She’ll never let me go in there!” Agatha cried.
“She certainly won’t. That’s why it’s a fool’s errand.”
“Can’t we play another game? How about hopscotch?” Agatha’s stomach turned as she said this, envisioning the poor toad exploding once more.
The smile on Sarah’s face fell. “I said I want to play Fool’s Errand. Do it or you’ll pay.”
Agatha closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then another. She didn’t have much choice in the matter. Denying Sarah would only cause her behavior to escalate, and who knew what she would come up with next.
“Fine. Do you have a preference for what I get?”
“No, but make sure it’s shiny. And pretty!” Again, she clapped and hopped. “Oh, this will be so much fun!”
Fun, sure.
Agatha turned away from Sarah, and headed back toward the house. Mrs. Pettigrew would be going to tend the horses soon, which might be her only chance to get into her room. She’d just have to be ready.
She sat on the bottom step of the porch, dragging her toe in the dirt to form shapes. First, a large circle, two smaller ones inside, followed by a half moon shape. Studying it, she realized she was drawing a face and finished it out with a nose and straight hair. Then wrote “Sarah” in the dirt beneath the face and stomped on it. Dirt puffed out from the drawing, some settling on her shoe in a light dusting.
A rustle nearby made her jerk her head up. She looked around, but didn’t see anyone. Had Sarah seen? Quickly, she wiped out everything she’d drawn in the dirt and pulled her knees close to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.
The door behind her opened, and she scooted to the side to allow the Missus to pass by her. Mrs. Pettigrew let out an irritated noise, almost a growl, but didn’t so much as look at Agatha or speak to her. When she disappeared into the shadows of the barn, Agatha jumped up and ran inside.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the house, but she knew her way through it well enough by now. She continued walking forward until the grays separated into the shapes of furniture. The bedroom was through the kitchen and down a hallway to the back of the house.
As she approached the doorway, she realized there was a chance it could be locked. The knob stood, stark against the whiteness of the door, and she reached out with a trembling hand to grasp it.
A creak sounded behind her, and she jerked her hand away as if it had been burned, turning to look down the hallway.
Nothing there.
She wiped her hand on her dress then reached out again, this time grasping the doorknob with purpose. She turned, and found that it moved easily beneath her palm. The door swung open with a creak, and she shot a look behind her again before slipping into the cool darkness beyond.
The room was simple, made up of a bed, a bureau, and a vanity table. Clothes lay strewn about on the floor and the bed was unmade. It smelled musty and unpleasant. She glanced around, looking for anything that might claim Sarah’s fancy.
There, on a cabinet. A locket. Agatha ran over to the cabinet and snatched up the locket, stuffing it into the pocket of her dress without studying it.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Agatha looked around for a hiding place, her gaze sweeping the room. A pile of clothes lay by the closet, and she dove beneath them, rolling onto her back and covering herself the best she could. The smells of cow manure and hay filled her nostrils, warm and dank beneath the pile of clothing.
The footsteps stopped at the doorway, and Agatha heard Mrs. Pettigrew say, “Hm? I thought I closed this.” There was a second of silence, and then a bit of a snort, followed by the footsteps coming into the room. “Now, where was that silly thing?”
Agatha kept very still, afraid to breathe. If Mrs. Pettigrew caught her in here, what would she do? She’d only used the strap once, on Constance, but the look on her face had said she’d enjoyed it. At the very least, Agatha would receive a beating for being in here.
There was shuffling and the sound of things being moved about. The steps drew nearer, and Agatha was certain she’d be revealed at any moment. Her whole body tensed as she waited for something to happen, her pulse throbbing in her throat and temple. Her skin crawled as she imagined Mrs. Pettigrew standing over her.
Any moment.
Instead, she heard, “Ah ha!” Then Mrs. Pettigrew left the room, a solid click telling Agatha she’d shut the door.
With a loud exhalation, Agatha crawled from beneath the stinking pile of clothes and brushed herself off. She felt in her pocket and found the locket still there. Carefully, she opened the door a crack and peered out. No sounds, no one there. She forced herself through the doorway and into the hall. Any moment, Mrs. Pettigrew’s form would steal the meager light coming from the front of the house, and she’d be discovered.
It took forever to move down the hallway, her feet filled with lead. Her ears picked up at the tiniest sounds and amplified them into footsteps. The shadows danced, changed shape. But Mrs. Pettigrew never appeared, and she made it to the door without incident.
Outside again, she made her way back to the apple tree, hand on the outside of her pocket to keep the feel of the locket. She didn’t want to lose it.
When she arrived at the tree, Sarah was up in its branches, dangling like a cat, arms and legs on either side of a thick branch. Her cheek was pressed to the wood and she was facing the house.
“What did you bring me, Fool?”
Agatha’s shoulders bunched up, but she reached into her pocket and held the locket up as high as she could. It glinted in the pale sunlight, and fell open. A child’s face looked back at Agatha, and she realized that this must be the daughter Mrs. Pettigrew had spoken of in the past, Annie, who had died in the well as a toddler. She really did look like a younger version of Sarah.
A warm sensation flushed through her system, and she knew she had to put the locket back. She pulled it toward her as Sarah reached for it, and Sarah overreached, slipping on the branch. She fell on the ground with a horrible thump, breath escaping her with an “Oof!”
And then she was still.
Agatha went down on her knees beside her, checking to see if she was okay. Sarah didn’t move for a moment, eyes staring up at the branches of the tree, mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish’s.
Sarah took a deep breath. As Agatha knelt there, Sarah’s eyes darted to her face. The pupils enlarged, filling her eyes, making them black as night. Agatha gasped and pulled back, away from what she saw there. She fell on her bum and back pedaled.
“I’m sorry, Sarah! Are you okay?”
“You. Will. Pay. For that.” Her words were gasps, strained and wheezing.
Without looking back, Agatha got to her feet and ran. She kept on running until she was as far from the apple tree as she could get, and then she hid. If only she never had to go back.
Sarah would be waiting for her.
***
Supper was quiet. The other girls kept sneaking looks at both Sarah and Agatha, but they kept their mouths shut.
Mrs. Pettigrew was tense, fidgeting with her dress, her utensils, her hair. She barely ate, pushing the food around on her plate. Had she discovered the locket was missing, or was there something else wrong?
Agatha’s stomach and chest burned as she looked between Sarah and Mrs. Pettigrew. Every time she looked at Sarah, she was staring at her, eyes dark, just as they’d been under the apple tree. She had no expression on her face, and as Agatha watched, she continued to eat, calmly forking food into her mouth and chewing, swallowing, and sticking the next bite in, all without looking down at her plate or away from Agatha.
As the fear grew inside Agatha, something happened. The fear began to change, to morph within her.
She became angry.
Sarah couldn’t keep doing this. She wasn’t even the oldest girl here. In fact, Constance was the only one younger than her. Why should they all be afraid?
The acidic burn within her ceased hurting, instead becoming a burn of passion, of righteous anger. The warmth that filled her now was pleasant, a throbbing that made her want to act.
And as this feeling grew, Agatha tilted her head to study Sarah right back. She ate, eyes never leaving Sarah’s.
Two could play at this game.
***
Mrs. Pettigrew went to bed immediately after supper, mumbling something about cleaning up. There was a wrinkled sheet of paper clutched in her hand.
Agatha and Sarah continued eyeing each other, a wicked smile playing across Sarah’s face every time Agatha lifted her chin and stared back. It faltered when Agatha smiled back.
Once they were upstairs, Sarah patted the spot next to her. “I want Agatha to sleep next to me tonight.”
“I don’t think I will.” It had been months since she’d felt this good about anything, and the look on Sarah’s face was even better. Her mouth gaped for a moment before clamping shut. Then her eyes narrowed to slits.
“We’ll see about that later, dear Aggie.”
Constance stared at Agatha, for once not intent on their nemesis. Mary’s gaze slid sideways between the two of them, brow furrowed. Her quizzical expression was the last thing Agatha saw before the light was blown out and darkness fell.
And then she listened.
It was quiet for a few minutes, long enough for one of the girls to fall asleep, her deep measured breaths filling the room.
There it was. Something stirring. The sound of wool sliding over cotton. Shuffling.
Agatha reached under her pillow for the fork she had hidden there. Sarah had washed the knives, but left the other utensils to the rest of them. The fork felt cool in Agatha’s hand, smooth to the touch. She rubbed her thumb over the handle, her grip tightening when a scuff sounded near her. Cool air washed over her from a nearby disturbance.
Something swiped by her face, so close she felt a tingle across her cheek. She jabbed out with the fork, sinking it into something soft. A gasp sounded above her, and she rolled away, toward the door, fork still in hand.
“Agatha?” A whisper. Mary.
Agatha crouched against the wall, shushed Mary.
Bare feet slapping the floor. Away from her.
A sharp smack. A scream. A scuffle. Mary?
She needed to get Agatha away from here, lead her out. The soothing sound of Constance’s breathing had ceased. Whimpers had taken its place.
“You want to play, Sarah? Meet me under the tree!” And Agatha ran. Through the door, down the steps, feet light on the rough wooden stairs. One step creaked as she neared the bottom. She froze, waiting for Mrs. Pettigrew’s voice or the sound of her footsteps.
Nothing.
Off again, like a shot. Feet patting the ground behind her. As she reached the back door, she heard a creak, knew Sarah had reached the bottom of the stairs.
She threw the latch, opened the door. Cool air embraced her, mist dotting her face as she stepped out into a thick fog. She could barely see in front of her, everything gray and featureless. So she ran down the stairs and aimed to her right, stumbling blindly across the damp grass, the cold infiltrating her skin. Her night dress clung to the skin of her legs.
The fog dampened sound, and Agatha couldn’t tell where Sarah was. Sounds and shapes moved around her, echoed off the droplets of water in the air. She refused to look behind her, afraid she’d trip over something hidden in the fog. It wasn’t until the apple tree loomed ahead of her that she stopped, throwing herself against its rough bark, pieces breaking off under the clutch of her hands.
“What game are we going to play, Aggie?”
Agatha turned around, now pressing her back to the tree. “Hopscotch, Sarah. Why don’t we play hopscotch?”
Sarah giggled, a sound that carried no joy. It made Agatha’s skin crawl, her neck tightening. Her breaths were coming in pants as she tried to catch her breath despite the pounding of her heart. But Sarah didn’t seem winded at all.
“Okay! You first.”
“I don’t know how to play. Can you show me first?”
Sarah turned away from Agatha and began to hop. Agatha walked behind her, bare feet soft and silent on the wet grass. When Sarah reached the well, she stopped and hopped into a turn, once again facing Agatha. But she hadn’t expected Agatha to be standing right behind her. She jerked her head up and looked into the other girl’s eyes. They studied each other for a moment, then Agatha reached forward with both arms and shoved as hard as she could.
As Sarah fell into the well, Agatha glimpsed a flash of gold. The locket? She heard her say, “Aggie?” And then there was a splash. No screams. No further sounds. Agatha picked up the cover and slid it over the mouth of the well, goosebumps rising when metal grated over stone. She padded back toward the house, following the bent grasses to find her way back.
Shivering, she made her way back inside, closing the door behind her, and up to her pallet. Mrs. Pettigrew hadn’t woken, but Mary had lit the candle and was waiting, back against the corner. Constance was snuggled into her lap, fast asleep again. Relief shown on Mary’s face when Agatha was the one to enter, and they bedded down for the night, no questions asked.
***
They never found Sarah. Not even when they checked the well.
Agatha overheard the constable speaking with Mrs. Pettigrew the next day, voice gruff. “One girl dead was bad enough, but now another girl missing? Worse, we can’t seem to find where this child was sent here from. How will we reach her parents? The warning we sent you wasn’t enough?”
“Please, Mr. Owens, how could I have stopped either one? She ran out in the middle of the night. Was I to get no sleep? To guard them every moment?” She dabbed at her soggy, red eyes.
“I’m taking these children with me when I leave. Fetch them, and have them pack their things.”
Agatha jerked back behind the side of the building as he turned, jowls wiggling with the movement. She watched his ample back as he moved down the steps and into the yard, turning his head to study the other two girls, who stood next to the chicken coop. He didn’t turn when Mrs. Pettigrew called out to them. “Girls, come pack your things.” Her voice was choked, shaking, but it firmed when she said, “At once!”
Mary and Constance ran inside. Agatha made her way around the porch and up the stairs, a few steps behind them. As she packed her meager belongings into a sack, the other girls did the same, no one speaking. Agatha slid into her thick brown coat, making sure the large cream tag with her name on it was pinned to the front lapel.
There was a weight in her pocket, and she stuffed her hand inside to investigate. Something smooth and cool met her fingers. When she pulled it out, she discovered the locket. It dangled there, swaying below her palm, until she threw it across the room to where Sarah had slept each night. The other two looked at her, eyes wide. She shook her head, signaling them not to say a word.
***
Agatha was pulled from her reverie by the feel of a cold hand on hers. The band had moved away, the sound dampened, blunted. She looked up to see the young girl there in front of her, a smirk on her face. Her eyes were dark. Hadn’t they been blue?
The girl leaned forward, giggled, and said, “Let’s play a game.”