her own importance she was, Mistress, like I didn’t have no feelings nor nothing, lording it over us all with her jangling keys.’
She paced the floor, her hands crushed into fists. Her voice took on a flinty edge. ‘It were time for Mistress to know what it feels like, to be left waiting.’
Sadie twined her hair round her index finger. She did not know how to respond, so she simply sat and waited for Ella to burn herself out. Even when they were small, she had often watched as
Ella’s storms blew up and then abated, and like the weather they seldom lasted too long. Ella had the knack of setting things to one side, putting them away neatly in sealed boxes in her mind
and pretending that they never happened, whereas Sadie could never stop one thought from leaking into the next, so that her thoughts crashed into each other in a sea of worries. Now her disquiet
began to mount as she tried to make sense of the fragments of Ella’s story.
‘What is it?’ Sadie whispered, when Ella stopped pacing and her shoulders showed that her breathing had settled. ‘What is it you’re telling me?’
Ella turned half away as if ashamed.
‘Go on,’ Sadie said.
‘He needed someone to love him, see. Great soft thing. But now I’m thinking, mayhap I was wrong, and Alice Ibbetson might be a witch after all. She cursed me afore she went –
not in words, but I caught it well enough. It were a look of hell and brimstone and I’ll not forget that look as long as I live.’
Sadie stared. ‘Is she dead?’
Ella did not look up.
‘Did they hang her?’
Ella nodded, as if she could not trust herself to speak.
There was a moment’s pause. Pigeons cooed in the rafters.
‘Then she can’t harm us,’ said Sadie, ‘whatever’s passed between you. God rest her soul.’ But the words seemed hollow and empty. She had not forgotten the
sight of the body in the bedroom, and here was Ella talking about another death. She had a sense that she had only just scratched the surface of the story; that the events of the night they left
Westmorland were like an underground river, deeply hidden, treacherous, so that the ground beneath them might suddenly collapse and drag them down and sweep them away in a black tide.
Ella’s face took on a closed look. She took hold of Sadie’s shoulder and her fingers pressed into her collarbone. ‘Never go out without locking that door. And keep your head
down when you’re out and about. That’s why I bought you that hooded cloak. That stain marks you out.’
Sadie felt her words like a slap. Ella hardly ever referred to her face, though plenty of other people used it as a stick to beat her with. But her sister had always ignored it, treating her
with a rough tenderness, partly bullying, partly loving, and for this she had been grateful.
Sadie went red, and her hand sprang up to her forehead as if she was pressing it over a headache. It was a gesture she used often, her hand resting on her eyebrow, half cupped over her left eye,
shadowing her cheek.
Ella looked uncomfortable. She picked up the potage bowls and took them purposefully out of the front door to empty the dregs into the gutter, before dropping them into the sand bucket next to
the fireplace. Sadie watched her sister scour the bowls with sand, rubbing hard round the edges with a cloth, put the lid back on the cooking pot with a clatter and wipe her hands. She turned back
to Sadie, a softer look on her face.
‘’Tis only for a time. Till the fuss dies down,’ she said, gruff now, almost apologetic. ‘Come on, brace up. That potage were foul. I’ll go out to the pie shop and
get us a savoury to share.’
‘Can we manage it?’ Sadie said. ‘There’s not much left from selling that ring, and you said it had to last us a month.’
‘I know what I said,’ snapped Ella, suddenly belligerent again. ‘Just stop moaning, will you. Lock the door after me, and don’t open it till you hear my knock – two
short raps.
She paced the floor, her hands crushed into fists. Her voice took on a flinty edge. ‘It were time for Mistress to know what it feels like, to be left waiting.’
Sadie twined her hair round her index finger. She did not know how to respond, so she simply sat and waited for Ella to burn herself out. Even when they were small, she had often watched as
Ella’s storms blew up and then abated, and like the weather they seldom lasted too long. Ella had the knack of setting things to one side, putting them away neatly in sealed boxes in her mind
and pretending that they never happened, whereas Sadie could never stop one thought from leaking into the next, so that her thoughts crashed into each other in a sea of worries. Now her disquiet
began to mount as she tried to make sense of the fragments of Ella’s story.
‘What is it?’ Sadie whispered, when Ella stopped pacing and her shoulders showed that her breathing had settled. ‘What is it you’re telling me?’
Ella turned half away as if ashamed.
‘Go on,’ Sadie said.
‘He needed someone to love him, see. Great soft thing. But now I’m thinking, mayhap I was wrong, and Alice Ibbetson might be a witch after all. She cursed me afore she went –
not in words, but I caught it well enough. It were a look of hell and brimstone and I’ll not forget that look as long as I live.’
Sadie stared. ‘Is she dead?’
Ella did not look up.
‘Did they hang her?’
Ella nodded, as if she could not trust herself to speak.
There was a moment’s pause. Pigeons cooed in the rafters.
‘Then she can’t harm us,’ said Sadie, ‘whatever’s passed between you. God rest her soul.’ But the words seemed hollow and empty. She had not forgotten the
sight of the body in the bedroom, and here was Ella talking about another death. She had a sense that she had only just scratched the surface of the story; that the events of the night they left
Westmorland were like an underground river, deeply hidden, treacherous, so that the ground beneath them might suddenly collapse and drag them down and sweep them away in a black tide.
Ella’s face took on a closed look. She took hold of Sadie’s shoulder and her fingers pressed into her collarbone. ‘Never go out without locking that door. And keep your head
down when you’re out and about. That’s why I bought you that hooded cloak. That stain marks you out.’
Sadie felt her words like a slap. Ella hardly ever referred to her face, though plenty of other people used it as a stick to beat her with. But her sister had always ignored it, treating her
with a rough tenderness, partly bullying, partly loving, and for this she had been grateful.
Sadie went red, and her hand sprang up to her forehead as if she was pressing it over a headache. It was a gesture she used often, her hand resting on her eyebrow, half cupped over her left eye,
shadowing her cheek.
Ella looked uncomfortable. She picked up the potage bowls and took them purposefully out of the front door to empty the dregs into the gutter, before dropping them into the sand bucket next to
the fireplace. Sadie watched her sister scour the bowls with sand, rubbing hard round the edges with a cloth, put the lid back on the cooking pot with a clatter and wipe her hands. She turned back
to Sadie, a softer look on her face.
‘’Tis only for a time. Till the fuss dies down,’ she said, gruff now, almost apologetic. ‘Come on, brace up. That potage were foul. I’ll go out to the pie shop and
get us a savoury to share.’
‘Can we manage it?’ Sadie said. ‘There’s not much left from selling that ring, and you said it had to last us a month.’
‘I know what I said,’ snapped Ella, suddenly belligerent again. ‘Just stop moaning, will you. Lock the door after me, and don’t open it till you hear my knock – two
short raps.
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