to find May, whose cuffs were never jammy, absent-without-leave for the second time that morning. She ran through the house feeling not angry or disappointed but like a child in a department store who has turned to discover itself separated from its mother. One after another of the big rooms proved empty, however, and finally Cecily stopped, confused. A puzzled part of her put forward the idea that she’d invented the evacuee’s entire existence.
Byron barked, far away. Cecily spun like a rabbit and ran.
By the time she reached the cobbled yard, May and Byron were already way across the field, heading in the direction of the woods from which they had emerged that morning. “Wait!” Cecily shouted. “Wait for me!” She ducked past the gate and hared off over the grass, gratified to see that they’d heard and halted and were looking back. She could not understand why they hadn’t simply waited for her in the first place.
The earth was still slithery with dew, and the girl and the dog were further away than they had seemed — Cecily was puffing when she reached them. “Where are you going
now
?” she panted. “Back to those old ruins?”
May said, “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’ll come. I need some exercise. At school we used to do exercises every morning. Star jumps — like this! I didn’t like it. Why are you carrying that plate?”
May was holding a dinner plate over which she’d draped a kitchen cloth. The cloth bulged with whatever lay hidden beneath it; Byron could not tear his eyes away. A thin breeze was blowing, and it blew strands of hair across May’s white face. She said, “Let’s go into the woods so they can’t see us from the house. Then I’ll show you.”
Cecily glanced back to Heron Hall. From this distance the house looked half its proper size. She and May would be, from its windows, tiny Kewpie dolls on the landscape. She looked at her shoes, which were new and now splattered with muck and torn grass. Nothing was good: yet Cecily was a follower, and she followed her companions at a clump.
There were too few trees — pallid alders with spindly arms, brawny ash with fleshy leaves, oaks as monolithic as Nordic warriors — to make a true forest; but frothy thickets of shrub and bracken grew between the trees, and the copse was thick enough to disappear into, and to hide Heron Hall from view. It was shadowy and still beneath the branches, and a dark bird flew clatteringly away. May wove through the undergrowth until the meadow beyond the woods was visible and sunlight was nosing the shade. Cecily was about to whine, “Aren’t you going to show me?” when the girl stopped, looking up at her with treasure-chest eyes.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course!” Cecily huffed, although it was obvious to anyone, and certainly to May, that secret-keeping would tremble at the very edge of Miss Lockwood’s abilities.
Nevertheless the evacuee balanced the plate on one hand, and drew the cloth away. On the plate were breakfast leftovers: the last slice of toast and two eggs, a scarlet lump of blackberry jam and a greasy knot of butter, a scorched pikelet and, pride of the collection, a very chill-looking omelet. “I took it from the kitchen when Cook wasn’t looking.”
“I won’t tell. Why do you want it?”
“Promise again you won’t tell.”
“I promise-promise!”
“There are two boys hiding in Snow Castle,” said May.
Cecily absorbed this. She had always liked boys, and having a brother meant she knew a lot about them; but part of what she knew was that boys could have a rough, unpleasant side, and not merely the unpleasantness of Jeremy in his moods. Driving with her father around London’s streets, she’d seen boys of the wilder kind throwing stones and chasing each other, kicking fences and wrestling on the ground. She had no desire to make the acquaintance of boys like that — and boys who’d hide in ruins seemed likely to be the kicking kind.
Byron barked, far away. Cecily spun like a rabbit and ran.
By the time she reached the cobbled yard, May and Byron were already way across the field, heading in the direction of the woods from which they had emerged that morning. “Wait!” Cecily shouted. “Wait for me!” She ducked past the gate and hared off over the grass, gratified to see that they’d heard and halted and were looking back. She could not understand why they hadn’t simply waited for her in the first place.
The earth was still slithery with dew, and the girl and the dog were further away than they had seemed — Cecily was puffing when she reached them. “Where are you going
now
?” she panted. “Back to those old ruins?”
May said, “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’ll come. I need some exercise. At school we used to do exercises every morning. Star jumps — like this! I didn’t like it. Why are you carrying that plate?”
May was holding a dinner plate over which she’d draped a kitchen cloth. The cloth bulged with whatever lay hidden beneath it; Byron could not tear his eyes away. A thin breeze was blowing, and it blew strands of hair across May’s white face. She said, “Let’s go into the woods so they can’t see us from the house. Then I’ll show you.”
Cecily glanced back to Heron Hall. From this distance the house looked half its proper size. She and May would be, from its windows, tiny Kewpie dolls on the landscape. She looked at her shoes, which were new and now splattered with muck and torn grass. Nothing was good: yet Cecily was a follower, and she followed her companions at a clump.
There were too few trees — pallid alders with spindly arms, brawny ash with fleshy leaves, oaks as monolithic as Nordic warriors — to make a true forest; but frothy thickets of shrub and bracken grew between the trees, and the copse was thick enough to disappear into, and to hide Heron Hall from view. It was shadowy and still beneath the branches, and a dark bird flew clatteringly away. May wove through the undergrowth until the meadow beyond the woods was visible and sunlight was nosing the shade. Cecily was about to whine, “Aren’t you going to show me?” when the girl stopped, looking up at her with treasure-chest eyes.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course!” Cecily huffed, although it was obvious to anyone, and certainly to May, that secret-keeping would tremble at the very edge of Miss Lockwood’s abilities.
Nevertheless the evacuee balanced the plate on one hand, and drew the cloth away. On the plate were breakfast leftovers: the last slice of toast and two eggs, a scarlet lump of blackberry jam and a greasy knot of butter, a scorched pikelet and, pride of the collection, a very chill-looking omelet. “I took it from the kitchen when Cook wasn’t looking.”
“I won’t tell. Why do you want it?”
“Promise again you won’t tell.”
“I promise-promise!”
“There are two boys hiding in Snow Castle,” said May.
Cecily absorbed this. She had always liked boys, and having a brother meant she knew a lot about them; but part of what she knew was that boys could have a rough, unpleasant side, and not merely the unpleasantness of Jeremy in his moods. Driving with her father around London’s streets, she’d seen boys of the wilder kind throwing stones and chasing each other, kicking fences and wrestling on the ground. She had no desire to make the acquaintance of boys like that — and boys who’d hide in ruins seemed likely to be the kicking kind.
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