“Why don’t you damn well knock?” said a voice.
“Who are you?” asked Millie.
Caspar Vyner was sitting on a bed, a snarl of dislike twisting his face.
Sanchez pushed past Millie. Sam was beginning to struggle and Sanchez could feel his weight. “Hello, Caspie,” he said, as he moved into the bedroom. “You shouldn’t be in here, man. This is our room.”
“You’re the one that’s trespassing. I own this house, remember? I was looking for your gun—is it true you have one?”
They were high in the tower. The room was timber-paneled with five elegant windows. The park spread out around them, glorious in the sunset. Millie hadn’t realized how high they’d climbed. Five beds were set out like the spokes of a wheel, with five little lockers and five little rugs on the stone flagstones.
“Another thing, Sanchez. I’ve told you before—don’t call me Caspie.” He stood and moved to the wall. His voice was reedy with irritation.
Sanchez laid Sam gently down on the nearest bed.
“Hang on a minute!” said Caspar. His eyes went from Sam to Millie. Back to Sam, then back to Millie. His nose lifted, as if he was trying to catch her scent. “Oh no. You’re the girl!” he shouted. “What on earth is a girl doing here? And in the boys’ room, that’s so not allowed!”
Millie looked coolly at the child, her eyes narrowing with dislike. Caspar had a nasal voice; he was skinny, with bad skin, and his tufty hair didn’t seem to grow evenly. His school uniform was immaculate, but he had a wizened look, not unlike a little old man.
“That’s my bed!” said Caspar, looking at Sam again. “Move him to another one, Sanchez, I don’t want a dirty oik dying on my bed. Is that the one we hit? Full-on strike with a teapot! That was me!”
“Caspar, you don’t even sleep here.”
“I can sleep wherever I want. If I want that bed, it’s mine. And, look—answer me. What’s a girl doing up here? That is so against the rules—and you let her come in! You must be the weirdo girl that the government’s paying for. My granny knows all about you!”
“Who is this?” said Millie, moving toward him.
“Caspar Vyner,” said Sanchez.
“Lord Vyner, actually,” said the boy. “I inherit this place in eight years, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll damn well remember it.” He stood up and brought his right hand from behind his back. He had the flintlock pistol still, and the boy took great delight in cocking it and aiming with two hands straight at Millie’s face. Millie stood her ground. “How would you like to lose an eye? You will if you don’t get out.”
“Caspar!” barked Sanchez. “You don’t do that!”
“Look at her, she’s a scaredy!” laughed Caspar, stepping forward. “A little sissy girl—now why don’t you turn around and beat it!”
Millie stared at the pistol and at Caspar’s twisted face. Her adrenaline had been rising steadily for the last ten seconds and she knew enough about first encounters to know they were important. Moving fast, she slapped the gun to the side and punched Caspar hard, full in the face. He went backward, tripping over the bed and onto the floor. Millie followed, kicking, though the boy’s arms were protecting his head so she didn’t connect. She dropped to her knees instead, all her weight on his stomach. The pistol went skittering across the floor, and Caspar was gasping and twisting. Millie had him now, though. She went for his hair, but there wasn’t enough to hold on to. As the boy’s head came up, she had to content herself with slamming it back onto the flagstones with her open palm.
Sanchez was yelling and Caspar had found the air from somewhere for a long, high-pitched howl.
“Little swine!” hissed Millie. She grabbed the boy’s tie and looped it once round his bare throat, jerking it tight. He was half on his side, scrabbling to protect himself. Sanchez was between them, levering her backward, but she still managed a hard punch on the child’s ear. She was being dragged off now, and all she could do was kick at the backside that was curling away from her. Caspar got to his feet, his screams coming in furious panting sobs.
“You cow!” he whispered. “You rotten, damn . . .”
He stumbled from the room, clutching his head. He bashed into the door and nearly fell again. Millie went to kick him once more, but Sanchez had her from behind and was dragging her backward. “Let him go!” he was shouting. “It isn’t worth it, Millie, it’s just not—”
“Get off me, Sanchez!” hissed Millie. Her voice was trembling. “Nobody asked you! Get your hands off!” She twisted out of his grip and stood ready, fists clenched.
“I’m sorry, but it makes things worse! If he tells his granny, the headmaster has problems—”
“I’ll decide if he’s worth it! He was going to shoot me in the face!”
“It’s an antique, he’s always playing around with stuff like that.”
The two children were staring at each other, Caspar long gone. Millie was trembling, but the joy of triumph was taking over. She had forgotten how invigorating a good fight could be, and she stood there drunk and dangerous.
“Honestly,” said Sanchez, trying to calm her, “what he says is true. His grandmother owns the place—his parents are dead. She wants to close the school anyway, so you just give her more reasons to make trouble.”
“He got just what he deserved. I don’t let anyone mess me around, Sanchez. Nobody.”
“Well, we spent all last term trying to ignore him,” said Sanchez. “He does a few lessons with us—he’s not worth worrying about. We don’t fight him.”
“Sanchez, I don’t need anyone telling me what I can and can’t do.”
“Mum?” said a quiet voice. It was Sam.
“I don’t want to tell you what to do,” said Sanchez, patiently. “I don’t want you or him getting hurt, and . . . what are you doing?”
“I’m having a cigarette.”
Millie had produced a slightly crushed packet. She fiddled with the contents, one eye on Sanchez still.
“You shouldn’t smoke. Let’s just look after Sam.”
“Look,” said Millie. “He’s left his little gun.”
“Mum? Dad?” moaned Sam. Sanchez moved quickly to the boy’s bedside. He sat beside him and drew the blanket up to the child’s chin.
“Sanchez,” said Millie, “how am I supposed to sleep in a boys’ dormitory?”
“I don’t know. Ask the headmaster.”
“It’s illegal for one thing. Who sleeps here, apart from you?”
“Look at him, man,” said Sanchez. “He’s yellow.” Sam’s eyes were wide open. He was staring at the ceiling, licking his lips. “Sam? Are you awake?”
“Where am I?” whispered Sam.
“You’re at school, okay?” said Sanchez. “You had an accident. Hey, Millie: he’s hot. We need water or something. Do you want to go downstairs and get the captain?”
Millie sat down heavily on the nearest bed. She had a cigarette between her lips, but the lighter had disappeared. “I’m not a nurse,” she said. “The cook said he’d be fine—I’d leave him alone if I were you.” She put her feet up on the bed and found what she was looking for. From her breast pocket she extracted a thick silver lighter and lit up expertly. Lying back on the pillow, she inhaled and blew a smoke ring.
“Everything’s . . . watery,” whispered Sam. “I can’t see properly, I don’t . . .”
“Millie!” said Sanchez. He was torn between his patient and the strange, dangerous girl. He wiped Sam’s forehead under the bandage, but his attention was caught by another plume of smoke. Then he saw the cigarette lighter. Millie had put it on the little chest of drawers next to the bed. “That’s my father’s,” he said.
“What is?”
“That lighter.”
“Yes, he gave it to me.”
“He gave it to you? That’s the one my mother had made for him.”
“Do you want a cigarette?”
“No, I don’t. And I told you, we don’t do this here.”
Millie blew a smoke ring. “You don’t do much, do you, Sanchez?”
“When did he give you his cigarette lighter? How come I didn’t see?”
“Some time at the wine bar. You must have been kissing good-bye to your bodyguards.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re very insulting, and I don’t think—”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
Sanchez stood up and moved toward Millie. Sam moaned again, but he ignored it. “I’m asking you if you stole my father’s lighter. My mother gave him that; I think it’s unlikely he gave it to you.”
“I think Sam needs you, Sanchez.”
“Yes or no, did you steal it?”
“Look at him—he’s trying to get his bandage off.”
Sanchez turned and saw that it was true. Sam was sitting up now, in panic. His hands were fluttering around the dressing on his head. “Where’s Mum?” he said. His eyes were focusing now and he looked in terror from Sanchez to Millie.
“Not here,” said Millie. “You’re all alone.”
“Where am I?” said Sam. “I want my dad!”
“Memory loss,” said Millie. “He should be in a hospital; he’s going to die on us.”
“We need help,” said Sanchez. “Go and get the headmaster.”
Millie came forward and leaned over the injured boy. “You got hit,” she said, slowly and loudly. “You got your skull cracked, all on your first day.”
Sam yelped, his right hand clutching his head.
Millie put the cigarette between her lips and forced him down. “Don’t touch your bandages, you twit!”
“Hey, be gentle! You’re breathing smoke on him, Millie, leave him alone!”
Sanchez could stand it no more. He moved in swiftly and snatched Millie’s wrists, yanking them away from Sam. Then he swung her away from the bed, toward the door. “Go and get the headmaster,” he said.
“Sanchez, I told you not to touch me—get your hands off!”
“We need help, and you need to leave him alone . . .”
“Get off me, Sanchez, I’m warning you!”
Her hands were behind her back, her arms twisted. She could feel Sanchez’s strength, and her instinct took over. She tried to pull away, but Sanchez was in control. “I don’t want you in here,” said Sanchez. He was moving her to the door. “He’s sick, Millie! Please!”
Millie bent forward slightly, aware that Sanchez was close behind her. She clamped the cigarette firmly in her lips and smashed her head backward, hoping to crunch it into Sanchez’s face. The next moment, she stamped with her right foot, aiming at the boy’s ankle. Sanchez was fast, though, and he just avoided both blows. Now she was twisting, and she knew he couldn’t hold her for long. He put his arms right round her, but Millie was all elbows and kicking feet and in a second she had one arm free. She grabbed the cigarette from her own lips and plunged it forward. Sanchez ducked clear, so she pushed it into his shoulder, burning his shirt. He had to leap back, she’d caught the skin and he was gasping. He was better than she’d thought, though: he knew to come in under her arm, and she was in a headlock suddenly, bent backward and round. Then she was on the floor, the cigarette gone. She thrashed with her legs and got one good, heavy kick in somewhere: then she was pinned down hard, both arms wrenched up again behind her back. Sam was wailing and Sanchez was panting furiously; Millie could hardly breathe. She could hear Sanchez at her ear, muttering in Spanish. Then his arms were under her again, and she was lifted and steered toward the door. She bent and writhed, but his hands had her wrists, folding her over. She tried to spin round but Sanchez pushed hard and her head cracked into the open door: a white light dazed her. She kicked out, but was thrown.
Suddenly it was all over: she was in the passageway. The door slammed shut and a bolt clicked into place. She sat down heavily on the floor and waited for the world to stop spinning.
“Damn,” she said. Her nose was bleeding.