and, with Comfort at her shoulder, began to ask questions.
At first she tried to make them sound casual. How old was the museum? Who started it? Where did the exhibits come from?
But Sinew’s answers were so vague that she quickly lost patience with him and began to snap out questions one after the other, as if she was conducting an examination.
Exactly how many rooms were there? What was in them? How many of them were locked? Who had the keys? Where did this door lead to? Where did that door lead to? How many employees did the museum have? How long had they been here? Where did they sleep? Where did they eat?
At last, irritated beyond measure by Sinew’s useless answers, she said, ‘I wish to inspect your records.’
‘Our what?’ said Sinew.
‘In the last couple of hours,’ said Hope, ‘I’ve seen broken glass. I’ve seen loose rocks that any passer-by could pick up and throw. I’ve seen chairs that would collapse under the first person who sat on them. This building is a death-trap, and there may well be an unSeparated child loose on the premises. If I’m to find her, I’ll need your records. Your pay sheets. Your floor plans.’
Sinew nodded uncertainly. ‘Will the records for the last five years be enough?’
‘That’ll do for a start. Go and fetch them. Quickly now.’
Sinew wandered out of the office, looking as if he had already forgotten what he was about. Comfort leaned down and murmured in Hope’s ear. ‘Under the desk.’
Hope slid her chair out a little way and peered beneath the desk. And there, tucked into a corner, so grubby that it was almost (but not quite) beyond recognition, was a scrap of white silk Separation ribbon.
‘Ah!’ said Hope. And she pressed her lips together so that Comfort wouldn’t see how pleased she was.
.
hy are they asking all those questions? What do they want? Here, wake up, I’m talking to you! What do they want ?’
Goldie yawned and mumbled, ‘Go away, Jube! What are you doing in my bedroom, anyway?’
She stretched, expecting to feel the tug of the guardchain. It didn’t come. Her eyes flew open . . .
Kneeling beside her was a boy. His face was dirty. His black hair stood up in spikes. And on his shoulder – so close that Goldie could see its wrinkled eyelid, could smell the musty stink of its feathers – sat the slaughterbird!
She tried to scramble off the other side of the mattress, but the boy grabbed her arm. ‘Why do your Guardians want to see our records?’
‘Let go of me!’
The boy shrugged and let go. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. But the slaughterbird on his shoulder blinked its wicked eyes at Goldie as if she had no right to suit herself. No right at all.
Goldie stumbled to her feet. ‘Well?’ said the boy. ‘Why are they so interested in our records?’
‘Reco-o-o-ords,’ croaked the slaughterbird. Its great beak was only inches from the boy’s face, but he hardly seemed to notice.
Goldie tried to gather her scattered wits together. ‘I-I don’t know!’
The boy shook his head in disgust. ‘They’ve never taken any notice of us before. But they’re here now and it’s all your fault.’
When she heard those words, the last scraps of sleep fell away, and Goldie remembered what she had done . . .
For a moment, she couldn’t move with the awfulness of it. Ma and Pa were to be tried and sent to the House of Repentance. And it was all her fault.
She swallowed. ‘I’ll have to go back,’ she whispered, feeling sick at the thought.
‘Back where?’ said the boy.
‘Whe-e-e-e-e-ere,’ croaked the slaughterbird.
‘To— To the Guardians. I— I’ll tell them that it was just me.’ Goldie bit her lip. ‘They should imprison me and let Ma and Pa go.’
She tried the door that led to the museum’s front rooms, but it was locked. ‘Have you got a key?’
‘Maybe,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe not.’ And he turned and walked off.
Goldie ran after him, keeping well away from the slaughterbird.
At first she tried to make them sound casual. How old was the museum? Who started it? Where did the exhibits come from?
But Sinew’s answers were so vague that she quickly lost patience with him and began to snap out questions one after the other, as if she was conducting an examination.
Exactly how many rooms were there? What was in them? How many of them were locked? Who had the keys? Where did this door lead to? Where did that door lead to? How many employees did the museum have? How long had they been here? Where did they sleep? Where did they eat?
At last, irritated beyond measure by Sinew’s useless answers, she said, ‘I wish to inspect your records.’
‘Our what?’ said Sinew.
‘In the last couple of hours,’ said Hope, ‘I’ve seen broken glass. I’ve seen loose rocks that any passer-by could pick up and throw. I’ve seen chairs that would collapse under the first person who sat on them. This building is a death-trap, and there may well be an unSeparated child loose on the premises. If I’m to find her, I’ll need your records. Your pay sheets. Your floor plans.’
Sinew nodded uncertainly. ‘Will the records for the last five years be enough?’
‘That’ll do for a start. Go and fetch them. Quickly now.’
Sinew wandered out of the office, looking as if he had already forgotten what he was about. Comfort leaned down and murmured in Hope’s ear. ‘Under the desk.’
Hope slid her chair out a little way and peered beneath the desk. And there, tucked into a corner, so grubby that it was almost (but not quite) beyond recognition, was a scrap of white silk Separation ribbon.
‘Ah!’ said Hope. And she pressed her lips together so that Comfort wouldn’t see how pleased she was.
.
hy are they asking all those questions? What do they want? Here, wake up, I’m talking to you! What do they want ?’
Goldie yawned and mumbled, ‘Go away, Jube! What are you doing in my bedroom, anyway?’
She stretched, expecting to feel the tug of the guardchain. It didn’t come. Her eyes flew open . . .
Kneeling beside her was a boy. His face was dirty. His black hair stood up in spikes. And on his shoulder – so close that Goldie could see its wrinkled eyelid, could smell the musty stink of its feathers – sat the slaughterbird!
She tried to scramble off the other side of the mattress, but the boy grabbed her arm. ‘Why do your Guardians want to see our records?’
‘Let go of me!’
The boy shrugged and let go. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. But the slaughterbird on his shoulder blinked its wicked eyes at Goldie as if she had no right to suit herself. No right at all.
Goldie stumbled to her feet. ‘Well?’ said the boy. ‘Why are they so interested in our records?’
‘Reco-o-o-ords,’ croaked the slaughterbird. Its great beak was only inches from the boy’s face, but he hardly seemed to notice.
Goldie tried to gather her scattered wits together. ‘I-I don’t know!’
The boy shook his head in disgust. ‘They’ve never taken any notice of us before. But they’re here now and it’s all your fault.’
When she heard those words, the last scraps of sleep fell away, and Goldie remembered what she had done . . .
For a moment, she couldn’t move with the awfulness of it. Ma and Pa were to be tried and sent to the House of Repentance. And it was all her fault.
She swallowed. ‘I’ll have to go back,’ she whispered, feeling sick at the thought.
‘Back where?’ said the boy.
‘Whe-e-e-e-e-ere,’ croaked the slaughterbird.
‘To— To the Guardians. I— I’ll tell them that it was just me.’ Goldie bit her lip. ‘They should imprison me and let Ma and Pa go.’
She tried the door that led to the museum’s front rooms, but it was locked. ‘Have you got a key?’
‘Maybe,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe not.’ And he turned and walked off.
Goldie ran after him, keeping well away from the slaughterbird.
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