Midwinter Nightingale by Joan Aiken Page B

he threw a glance that was by no means indulgent at the other occupant of the room.
    Even Jorinda's extremely self-confident nature was fairly quelled by this unwelcoming reception, though she felt, deep inside her, that given time and favorable circumstances, she could certainly win her father's favor and fondness. In the meantime she was not particularly sorry to find that her brother seemed held in no better esteem. When they were younger, living in royal grace apartments in Saint James's Palace, Lot had often teased and plagued her and made her life miserable. After he had been sent to school and she to Coldacre, they had met only on his brief visits there, and she looked at him now with some curiosity to see how he was turning out.
    Not particularly well, she decided. True, he had grown very bulky and tall, but his complexion was pasty. His face was not at all handsome and it wore a smug, self-satisfied expression: Plainly he was delighted at his sister's unfavorable reception. His thick, dust-colored hair stood up all over his head in spikes, and his skin was marked by some red, angry pimples.
    Eats too many greasy cakes, decided Jorinda. He always used to.
    “Papa, what happened to your leg? Was it something they did to you in prison?”
    “Oh, really, you wretched girl, will you please go away and stop pestering me?”
    “I know a lot about looking after legs,” persisted Jorinda. “Granda was always breaking his, out hunting, and now he has terrible gout. Nurse Mara taught me—”
    “That old witch. Is she still alive?”
    “Yes, but what did happen to your leg, Papa?”
    “A sack full of sixpences fell on it,” Lothar informed Jorinda. His voice was decidedly malicious, as if he relished his father's slightly ridiculous mishap. He refilled the wineglass that stood on a table near his elbow and took a gulp.
    “Sixpences?”
    “From the roof of the Tower. They had been left there for safekeeping, and the idle, good-for-nothing guard, to save carrying it down a few hundred stairs, dropped it over the battlements. It fell on Pa's toe, just as he was leaving. How we did laugh!”
    “Were you there, then?” Jorinda was surprised. “When he was released?” It's not like Lot to act the dutiful son, she thought. What did he hope to gain from it? Money, probably.
    “O' course I was. And what's more, I brought the sack of sixpences away with us. I love sixpence, pretty little sixpence!” he sang in a loud raucous voice.
    “Stop that infernal row this instant!” hissed his father. Their eyes met. Lot abruptly quieted down and took another swig of wine.
    “Did they give you leave from school, then?”
    “This ain't a school anymore. After I burned old Pentecost's book that he was writing—”
    “Hey, wait—who is old Pentecost?”
    “The Beak, o' course! So he fired me from the school. Or would have. But just at that time, Pa was due to come out of jug, so Pa bought Fogrum Hall, lock, stock and barrel; old Costpenny got the sack and Foggers Hall belongs to Pa and me now.”
    Jorinda glanced at Baron Magnus and saw that he was inhaling from a jeweled vinaigrette with an expression that made her shiver slightly; she did not quite know why. There was something cold, folded and withdrawn about his look. Not quite human.
    “Why did you burn old Pentecost's book?” she asked her brother.
    “Oh, I dunno. Just for a jape.”
    “Stupid sort of jape.”
    “Better than what's happened to some of the otherfolks that the Dad didn't care for.” Lot sniggered. “The archbishop, the doctor, the jailer—they've all had their quittance….”
    “Will you two pray
leave this room
if you are going to whisper and mutter to each other.”
    “Sorry, Pa.”
    “But, Papa dear, is your toe really broke? Or is it sprained? May I not take a quick look at it? For inflammation of the members, an opodeldoc plaster is
«sovereign.
When I sprained my ankle hunting, Nurse Mara put one on …and the pain went in a twinkling! I