an idea: we can share this bangle. I’ll wear it today and you can wear it tomorrow, and I’ll wear it the next day and you —”
“It doesn’t matter.” May raised her head. “You keep it, Cecily.”
“It suits your white arm,” said Peregrine.
“So if he isn’t an artist, what does your father do, May?”
“Before the war he was a school teacher.”
“A teacher.” Peregrine sighed. “And here you are, brain turning to mush.”
“She learned about Snow Castle,” Cecily pointed out.
Peregrine scoffed. “There’s a lot more to Snow Castle than those few facts. There’s an entire terrible legend around that castle. Some people say it is called Snow Castle not because of the stone it’s made from, but because its story is as hard as winter.”
“Really?” Jeremy’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve never told us this before.”
“I have not. You are children, and the tale is cruel. Unfit for childish ears.”
Jeremy made a face as if he’d never heard such rubbish. Cecily said, “You can tell us a cruel story — we’re brave! May’s not scared of
anything,
remember?”
“Tell it, Uncle Peregrine.”
The master of the house shook his head. “It’s a very long story, and I’m too busy for long stories.”
“You don’t do anything except read and write letters! That’s not being busy.”
“I’m busy thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Things such as the past and the future.”
“
Those
aren’t important!”
“Then give us a clue,” said Jeremy. “Is the castle haunted?”
“Every castle is haunted. Hauntings are as common as cats. Ghosts are nothing to fear. It’s
real life
you should worry about.”
“So the story is about real people?”
“Yes, real people.”
“Children?”
“Some children, yes.”
“So it’s a true story,” said Jeremy. “It’s history.”
“I cannot vouch for its absolute truth, but it is certainly history. The story is almost as old as the castle itself.”
“Five hundred years old!” Cecily’s mind swam.
Jeremy leaned forward, scheming in his eyes. “Uncle Peregrine, what if you told us the story in pieces, just a bit now and then? That way, it wouldn’t take up too much of your time. And if the story is history, we’d be learning something — it wouldn’t matter that we’re not going to school.”
“Good idea!” cawed Cecily. “Then I wouldn’t be so stupid!”
Peregrine considered them, sipping his tea. The children watched him, intent as collies. His nephew knew his weakness: Peregrine Lockwood was clever, and like all clever people he liked to share his cleverness around. Yet he would not concede easily: “You’d whine when it became scary.”
“We would not!”
“You’d wake up screaming in the night.”
“We never would!”
Peregrine turned to May. “You’re the wisest child at the table. What’s your opinion?”
May said, “My dad used to tell stories.”
“And he’s not here now,” said Cecily, “so you’ll have to tell them instead, Uncle Peregrine.”
The man looked closely at the girl. “Would you like that, May?”
May’s fingertip circled the rim of her glass. “Yes,” she decided.
Peregrine sighed, as if much put-upon. “I suppose even a little education is better than none,” he said. “I cannot promise an instalment every day, mind you. I am not at your beck-and-call, and unlike you three loafers, I have things to do.”
Triumphant Cecily squiggled in her seat. “Tell it!” she screamed.
“No.” Peregrine placed his cup on its saucer, dusted his hands and pushed out his chair. “Now I’m busy. Tonight, after supper, we will begin. In the meantime, I wish you good day.”
He limped from the room and left them sitting at the table, their young faces buttered with sunshine, the last piece of toast standing, a lone soldier, cold on the rack.
Cecily lost sight of her protégée after breakfast, having gone to the bathroom to wash jam from her cuffs and returned
“It doesn’t matter.” May raised her head. “You keep it, Cecily.”
“It suits your white arm,” said Peregrine.
“So if he isn’t an artist, what does your father do, May?”
“Before the war he was a school teacher.”
“A teacher.” Peregrine sighed. “And here you are, brain turning to mush.”
“She learned about Snow Castle,” Cecily pointed out.
Peregrine scoffed. “There’s a lot more to Snow Castle than those few facts. There’s an entire terrible legend around that castle. Some people say it is called Snow Castle not because of the stone it’s made from, but because its story is as hard as winter.”
“Really?” Jeremy’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve never told us this before.”
“I have not. You are children, and the tale is cruel. Unfit for childish ears.”
Jeremy made a face as if he’d never heard such rubbish. Cecily said, “You can tell us a cruel story — we’re brave! May’s not scared of
anything,
remember?”
“Tell it, Uncle Peregrine.”
The master of the house shook his head. “It’s a very long story, and I’m too busy for long stories.”
“You don’t do anything except read and write letters! That’s not being busy.”
“I’m busy thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Things such as the past and the future.”
“
Those
aren’t important!”
“Then give us a clue,” said Jeremy. “Is the castle haunted?”
“Every castle is haunted. Hauntings are as common as cats. Ghosts are nothing to fear. It’s
real life
you should worry about.”
“So the story is about real people?”
“Yes, real people.”
“Children?”
“Some children, yes.”
“So it’s a true story,” said Jeremy. “It’s history.”
“I cannot vouch for its absolute truth, but it is certainly history. The story is almost as old as the castle itself.”
“Five hundred years old!” Cecily’s mind swam.
Jeremy leaned forward, scheming in his eyes. “Uncle Peregrine, what if you told us the story in pieces, just a bit now and then? That way, it wouldn’t take up too much of your time. And if the story is history, we’d be learning something — it wouldn’t matter that we’re not going to school.”
“Good idea!” cawed Cecily. “Then I wouldn’t be so stupid!”
Peregrine considered them, sipping his tea. The children watched him, intent as collies. His nephew knew his weakness: Peregrine Lockwood was clever, and like all clever people he liked to share his cleverness around. Yet he would not concede easily: “You’d whine when it became scary.”
“We would not!”
“You’d wake up screaming in the night.”
“We never would!”
Peregrine turned to May. “You’re the wisest child at the table. What’s your opinion?”
May said, “My dad used to tell stories.”
“And he’s not here now,” said Cecily, “so you’ll have to tell them instead, Uncle Peregrine.”
The man looked closely at the girl. “Would you like that, May?”
May’s fingertip circled the rim of her glass. “Yes,” she decided.
Peregrine sighed, as if much put-upon. “I suppose even a little education is better than none,” he said. “I cannot promise an instalment every day, mind you. I am not at your beck-and-call, and unlike you three loafers, I have things to do.”
Triumphant Cecily squiggled in her seat. “Tell it!” she screamed.
“No.” Peregrine placed his cup on its saucer, dusted his hands and pushed out his chair. “Now I’m busy. Tonight, after supper, we will begin. In the meantime, I wish you good day.”
He limped from the room and left them sitting at the table, their young faces buttered with sunshine, the last piece of toast standing, a lone soldier, cold on the rack.
Cecily lost sight of her protégée after breakfast, having gone to the bathroom to wash jam from her cuffs and returned
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