I did not believe Miss Pinecroft when she said it was too dangerous for me to spend a night in the china room. Now that morning has come, I wish I had listened to her.
I retch into Miss Pinecroft’s chamber pot again and again.
A spell. It must be a spell.
Creeda has done this to me.
The muscles of my stomach heave, beyond my control. How they burn. Either side of the chamber pot, my hands appear soft and bloated. I drive my fingernails into the floorboards as an anchor.
Every spell requires a lock of hair. That was why I found Miss Pinecroft’s brush picked clean. The crone must be controlling my mistress, somehow, causing harm in subtle and insidious ways through the power of hair.
And now she has mine.
‘Hester?’ It is Miss Pinecroft. Through watery eyes I peer at her; the lady and her chair are nothing more than a blur to me.
I cannot answer her.
Dawn dribbles beneath the curtains, pale as death. It grazes my hands but does not light the china room. Nothing, it seems, can illuminate this infernal chamber and its paganism.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing.
The tide draws breath with me, lapping in and out.
Gradually, my insides cease their bubbling. My belly settles. Exhausted and giddy with relief, I fall back onto my haunches.
Floorboards bump upstairs. I hear clattering down the corridor and realise it must be Merryn, going to wake the kitchen from its slumber.
Should I tell Merryn?
Once, I might have done so. But if my behaviour has not already convinced her I am soft in the head, this story will do it. I can picture myself streaking into the kitchen, dishevelled and gaunt, rambling about Creeda cutting my hair for witchcraft.
Can she be a witch? Both Merryn and Lowena mock her, yet no harm has befallen them. I recall my own brew, mixed in the cold white-tile kitchen of Hanover Square. There was no dark magic involved there. The fault was entirely human.
Scrabbling to my feet, I lurch towards the door.
Miss Pinecroft releases her breath.
The corridor rocks. With every step, the floor tilts in a different direction, but somehow I manage to stagger on, through the white haze of the stucco hall and beyond.
Heat reaches out and takes me by the hand, leading me to the kitchen where the fire spits.
‘Merryn.’
She jumps as I haul myself into the room. How young she looks. I realise now that Merryn does not hate me for my previous outburst: she is frightened of me.
She shrinks close to the wall, no informant ready to run to the magistrate; just a poor girl who does not want to be shouted at.
‘I need water. Hot water.’
She nods, mute.
Leaning against the doorframe for support, I watch her work, aware of the unsightly birthmark upon her cheek. Is that why she was hired here? Because she is a girl the fairies would not wish to take?
No, that cannot be. Mrs Quinn hires the staff, not Creeda. Although she told me with her own lips that Creeda read my reference letters . . . Creeda needed to approve of me cleaning the china.
How far does the clawed hand of that woman reach?
The water heater hisses.
I thought I had run here to save my own skin, but perhaps there is a higher purpose behind my arrival. Only a person like me can spot Creeda’s tricks, stop her. Maybe this is how I will make amends.
The pail Merryn warily places on the floor is scalding hot, but I do not wait for it to cool. Seizing the handle, I totter back the way I have come.
Since the moment I arrived eleven days ago, I have heard nothing but entreaties to keep the china room cold, to wash the plates with tepid water. I will not play their games any more. We will have flames and heat and cleansing steam: I will smoke this evil out.
Miss Pinecroft turns in her chair to see me stumble across the threshold. It is the first time she has done so.
‘Hester?’ she whispers.
I think I might be sick again. Swallowing down the bile, I pull a cloth from my apron and hold it against my mouth. Nothing comes.
‘Hester?’
‘I have left it long enough. I am going to wash the china.’ I lower the cloth and plunge it into the searing water.
Pain bites instantly, but it is satisfying, somehow reassuring, like a steadying drop of gin. Gin . . . I have not taken liquor for many hours. My body craves it, yet the thought of putting anything past my lips now . . .
Later. There will be time for everything else later, once I have broken the hateful woman’s spell.
Determined, I step up to the rack and remove the first plate. Nancarrow Bone China. I scrub furiously, front and back. The skull leers from the base, knowing.
The next plate. The next. I am not taking the time to dry them but slam each back into place. Water drips like tears onto the floor. My wet thumb squeaks against the varnish.
‘Careful,’ Miss Pinecroft gasps.
I hear movement, as if she is attempting to stand.
What has Creeda hidden here? What is her secret – and why can I see nothing of it?
Excitement and fear quake through me. Only with great difficulty do I manage to pick up another plate. This one is familiar: the Willow pattern with the missing figure.
No.
Two missing figures.
Blinking, I reconsider the bridge. It is no mistake: there is the man with the staff, standing alone. Reddish brown speckles the place his bride once occupied, flecks of something dried onto the plate.
Shakily, I pass my cloth over the spots, leaving a slick trail. Down, down, run the droplets, snaking their way from the painted bridge to the white void representing a lake.
And there it is.
The missing figure, the one that I looked for, is in the water. She has jumped off the bridge.
A bead of water magnifies the head, bobbing just above the surface. Blue painted lines indicate ripples around the body as it thrashes. Little use in that now. The stones in her pockets will weigh her down: I know, for I have read the report. I have seen this so many times in my nightmares.
I reel backwards, desperate to put space between myself and this terrible sight, but my hands have set rigid and will not release the plate.
Look what you have done, Esther. Look what you have done.
I stumble into something; there is a crunch like bones.
‘No! No!’ Miss Pinecroft cries hoarsely. ‘How could y- y—?’
Whipping round, I see that I have dislodged one of the urns off its shelf and it has smashed. The lining, revealed at last, glows curd-white.
There is liquid. Thick and dark, like honey. It spreads, slowly forms a viscous pool. Rosemary needles are sprinkled through, but they do nothing for the stench.
Little wonder Miss Pinecroft did not want a fire in this room. Heating such a monstrous potion would make its stink unbearable.
‘What on earth is this?’
It is not just rosemary caught in the liquid. There are nail clippings. Pins. A lock of human hair.
I cannot help it; I retch.
Miss Pinecroft makes no noise at all.
It is as though lightning has struck her. She stands before the chair, one arm extended to point at the urn, but she cannot support it. Her hand droops; everything seems to droop.
Her palsied mouth works, unable to catch words. Then it clamps shut. The blue eyes bulge.
Without a sound, she drops.
‘Miss Pinecroft!’
Now my fingers do fall slack against the plate. It smashes to the floor. I do not care. I am on all fours once more, turning my mistress over, cradling her head.
‘Help!’ I scream. ‘Fetch help!’
Merryn and Lowena tear into the room together. They take one look at the mess, the china scattered like broken teeth – and they freeze.
I see myself through their eyes: drink-deprived, retching, grovelling uselessly over the woman I swore to protect.
‘Help me,’ I plead.
Merryn begins to cry.