border collie darted out from beneath a lorry cart and raced up to them, ears back and tail wagging. Amelie smiled and leaned forward, holding out her hand. Fanny stiffened. The last thing she needed was some dog leaping into her arms. Especially this one, an ardently affectionate female she occasionally petted, but only when no one was around to witness.
“Don’t encourage it, Amelie,” she said. “It’s probably riddled with fleas and filth.”
Amelie ignored her, reaching down to pat the dog’s head. “I will never understand,” she said, “how it is that the most kindhearted of women has an aversion to animals.”
Of course, she didn’t. But again, Amelie would never know this. For six years Fanny had lived as a forthright but unremarkable woman and still had fulfilled her duty to Amelie and Colonel Chase. As far as her situation had allowed, Amelie had grown from an exuberant girl to a charming (albeit guileless), uninhibited, and happy young woman. Even better, one free of any poltergeist association.
The phenomena had stopped shortly after Colonel Chase’s death. Unfortunately, not before several Little Firkians had witnessed episodes, cementing the girl in the town’s imagination as a witch.
“I’m not sure where you have come up with this notion that I am kindhearted, but as I hate to disillusion you, I shall forbear comment,” Fanny replied.
Amelie laughed. “I know you. Beneath your self-contained facade you are most compassionate. You simply are not given to demonstrativeness. Like petting dogs.”
Gads, she hoped not. Demonstrativeness for Fanny had potentially dire ramifications.
The mention of dogs brought Amelie’s thoughts back to Grammy Beadle. “I don’t believe I would regret it even if I did alarm the old witch today,” she said.
“A deluded old woman,” Fanny corrected her. “Not a witch. You should pity her.”
“She claimed to have used mouse feet in one of her spells!” Amelie said, regarding Fanny with righteous indignation.
“She only made that claim to shock and discomfort you,” Fanny said.
“Well, it worked,” Amelie muttered darkly. “I say she deserved a taste of her own medicine.”
Fanny stopped Amelie with a hand on her wrist. “To what exact medicine are you referring?”
“There were ravens in the sky. She thinks I sent them.”
Fanny felt her pulse quicken. “ Dear Amelie,” she said, “it’s all fine and good to tweak Little Firkin’s nose a bit now and again. But someday you will leave here. You can’t go about play-acting in London.”
“What if it wasn’t all play-acting?” Amelie said, glancing sideways.
Fanny started. She hadn’t paid much attention to what was going on in the street between Amelie and Grammy Beadle; all her attention had been on Oglethorpe. Now she realized that Amelie had not only seen the ravens but felt that she’d somehow been responsible for them.
Fanny had spent years trying to convince Amelie that her childhood brush with the paranormal had been nothing but an unfortunate anomaly, a phase she’d gone through. She’d thought she’d succeeded. But she’d always suspected that Amelie had felt a little let down when the “magic” ended.
“Oh, don’t look like that, Fanny. All pinched and disapproving.”
“How else am I to look when you make such absurd statements?”
“They’re not absurd.” Amelie could not keep the excitement out of her voice. “Why do you always insist anything magical must act as a barrier separating me from the rest of the world?”
“Because, Amelie, your view of the world is skewed by having spent your early childhood in a part of India where magic is the norm and the inexplicable is acceptable.” It was an old conversation. “But magic is not acceptable here. Just see how people treat us. If it weren’t for the promise of your father’s fortune we would be complete pariahs.”
“This is Little Firkin,” Amelie said.
“Don’t encourage it, Amelie,” she said. “It’s probably riddled with fleas and filth.”
Amelie ignored her, reaching down to pat the dog’s head. “I will never understand,” she said, “how it is that the most kindhearted of women has an aversion to animals.”
Of course, she didn’t. But again, Amelie would never know this. For six years Fanny had lived as a forthright but unremarkable woman and still had fulfilled her duty to Amelie and Colonel Chase. As far as her situation had allowed, Amelie had grown from an exuberant girl to a charming (albeit guileless), uninhibited, and happy young woman. Even better, one free of any poltergeist association.
The phenomena had stopped shortly after Colonel Chase’s death. Unfortunately, not before several Little Firkians had witnessed episodes, cementing the girl in the town’s imagination as a witch.
“I’m not sure where you have come up with this notion that I am kindhearted, but as I hate to disillusion you, I shall forbear comment,” Fanny replied.
Amelie laughed. “I know you. Beneath your self-contained facade you are most compassionate. You simply are not given to demonstrativeness. Like petting dogs.”
Gads, she hoped not. Demonstrativeness for Fanny had potentially dire ramifications.
The mention of dogs brought Amelie’s thoughts back to Grammy Beadle. “I don’t believe I would regret it even if I did alarm the old witch today,” she said.
“A deluded old woman,” Fanny corrected her. “Not a witch. You should pity her.”
“She claimed to have used mouse feet in one of her spells!” Amelie said, regarding Fanny with righteous indignation.
“She only made that claim to shock and discomfort you,” Fanny said.
“Well, it worked,” Amelie muttered darkly. “I say she deserved a taste of her own medicine.”
Fanny stopped Amelie with a hand on her wrist. “To what exact medicine are you referring?”
“There were ravens in the sky. She thinks I sent them.”
Fanny felt her pulse quicken. “ Dear Amelie,” she said, “it’s all fine and good to tweak Little Firkin’s nose a bit now and again. But someday you will leave here. You can’t go about play-acting in London.”
“What if it wasn’t all play-acting?” Amelie said, glancing sideways.
Fanny started. She hadn’t paid much attention to what was going on in the street between Amelie and Grammy Beadle; all her attention had been on Oglethorpe. Now she realized that Amelie had not only seen the ravens but felt that she’d somehow been responsible for them.
Fanny had spent years trying to convince Amelie that her childhood brush with the paranormal had been nothing but an unfortunate anomaly, a phase she’d gone through. She’d thought she’d succeeded. But she’d always suspected that Amelie had felt a little let down when the “magic” ended.
“Oh, don’t look like that, Fanny. All pinched and disapproving.”
“How else am I to look when you make such absurd statements?”
“They’re not absurd.” Amelie could not keep the excitement out of her voice. “Why do you always insist anything magical must act as a barrier separating me from the rest of the world?”
“Because, Amelie, your view of the world is skewed by having spent your early childhood in a part of India where magic is the norm and the inexplicable is acceptable.” It was an old conversation. “But magic is not acceptable here. Just see how people treat us. If it weren’t for the promise of your father’s fortune we would be complete pariahs.”
“This is Little Firkin,” Amelie said.
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