staircase leading to the balcony to watch for the light in the window of the deserted house, she heard a sound in the shadow behind her.
Not a voice.
She looked back down the corridor, saw nothing but doors and squares of floor stretching out before her.
There it was again.
A creaking noise.
Like . . . a door.
The noise stopped just as suddenly as it had started, and Jess walked down the corridor, hurrying slightly now, checking each room. She could hear the creaking sound in her head now; it didn’t need to be real.
The parlour door—shut.
Her mum’s and dad’s door—shut.
The storeroom door—shut.
Her grandfather’s door—shut.
The study door—partially open, a little space between door and doorpost exposing only more darkness.
What?
Breathless, she gave it a push, just a little push, with the tip of her finger, and slowly, impossibly, the door opened. She felt a thickness in the back of her head somewhere. Her tongue? Her brain ? How could this door be open?
A face appeared around the edge, and Jess smiled with a deep, wondering joy.
It was TillyTilly, who had broken into her grandfather’s study.
“Come in,” whispered TillyTilly. Jess could hardly hear her over the other sounds of the night. She saw Tilly’s eyes shining.
“It’s dark in there, TillyTilly,” Jess whispered back, still unable to stop herself from smiling. They both knew they couldn’t put a light on in there. In case someone saw, and wondered.
“Don’t worry,” Tilly whispered, and held out her hand. Jess took it, feeling Tilly’s cool fingers link with her own, and then Tilly drew her into the darkness, and she wasn’t at all afraid because someone was holding her hand.
SEVEN
“Wait a minute.”
TillyTilly let go of Jess’s hand and Jess heard a thin, scratching sound, then saw a flare of light go up. A little flame danced atop a candle in a saucer in Tilly’s hand.
Jess gasped quietly.
“You’re the candle thief!”
The two of them smiled conspiratorially at each other in the candlelight, Jess noticing how the flame held up to Tilly’s lean face highlighted the triangles of shadow, the hollows of her cheekbones. Her eyes seemed even darker.
Tilly smiled.
“Let’s look around,” she said.
She took Jess’s hand and guided her slowly past each shelf. She passed the candle over the rows of leather-bound and hardback books, bringing the flame so close to some that Jess’s breath caught in her throat with amazement at her daring.
“You might set them on fire,” she warned, and Tilly looked at her seriously, the ends of the string in her hair bobbing as she nodded.
“I know!”
Jess carefully took some books down from the shelf, thick tomes of poetry by Samuel Taylor Coleridge that sounded exciting, especially in the dark, with bookshelves and a window lit with faint moonlight.
“ ‘ And all should cry, Beware! Beware! / His flashing eyes, his floating hair! / Weave a circle round him thrice, / And close your eyes with holy dread, / For he on honeydew hath fed, / And drunk the milk of Paradise, ’ ” she whispered to Tilly, who obligingly held the candle so that words were discernible but no wax would drip onto it.
TillyTilly nodded sagely.
“It’s a good poem,” she said, with a knowledgeable air. “Ancestral voices, and all that.”
She actually said and all that , with the unconcerned tone of an English person. Jess’s expression grew more incredulous when she remembered the first thing she had said, in that pure Nigerian accent: Hello Jessy . The girl was a mystery.
TillyTilly smiled almost wickedly, as if she knew what Jess was thinking, but persisted in her line of discussion.
“D’you like it? The poem, I mean? It’s called ‘Kubla Khan.’ ”
Jess nodded.
“I like it a lot,” she said awkwardly. Tilly had knelt on the floor and begun examining some books at ground level. Jess couldn’t remember the last time she’d told anyone what she thought about a poem,
Not a voice.
She looked back down the corridor, saw nothing but doors and squares of floor stretching out before her.
There it was again.
A creaking noise.
Like . . . a door.
The noise stopped just as suddenly as it had started, and Jess walked down the corridor, hurrying slightly now, checking each room. She could hear the creaking sound in her head now; it didn’t need to be real.
The parlour door—shut.
Her mum’s and dad’s door—shut.
The storeroom door—shut.
Her grandfather’s door—shut.
The study door—partially open, a little space between door and doorpost exposing only more darkness.
What?
Breathless, she gave it a push, just a little push, with the tip of her finger, and slowly, impossibly, the door opened. She felt a thickness in the back of her head somewhere. Her tongue? Her brain ? How could this door be open?
A face appeared around the edge, and Jess smiled with a deep, wondering joy.
It was TillyTilly, who had broken into her grandfather’s study.
“Come in,” whispered TillyTilly. Jess could hardly hear her over the other sounds of the night. She saw Tilly’s eyes shining.
“It’s dark in there, TillyTilly,” Jess whispered back, still unable to stop herself from smiling. They both knew they couldn’t put a light on in there. In case someone saw, and wondered.
“Don’t worry,” Tilly whispered, and held out her hand. Jess took it, feeling Tilly’s cool fingers link with her own, and then Tilly drew her into the darkness, and she wasn’t at all afraid because someone was holding her hand.
SEVEN
“Wait a minute.”
TillyTilly let go of Jess’s hand and Jess heard a thin, scratching sound, then saw a flare of light go up. A little flame danced atop a candle in a saucer in Tilly’s hand.
Jess gasped quietly.
“You’re the candle thief!”
The two of them smiled conspiratorially at each other in the candlelight, Jess noticing how the flame held up to Tilly’s lean face highlighted the triangles of shadow, the hollows of her cheekbones. Her eyes seemed even darker.
Tilly smiled.
“Let’s look around,” she said.
She took Jess’s hand and guided her slowly past each shelf. She passed the candle over the rows of leather-bound and hardback books, bringing the flame so close to some that Jess’s breath caught in her throat with amazement at her daring.
“You might set them on fire,” she warned, and Tilly looked at her seriously, the ends of the string in her hair bobbing as she nodded.
“I know!”
Jess carefully took some books down from the shelf, thick tomes of poetry by Samuel Taylor Coleridge that sounded exciting, especially in the dark, with bookshelves and a window lit with faint moonlight.
“ ‘ And all should cry, Beware! Beware! / His flashing eyes, his floating hair! / Weave a circle round him thrice, / And close your eyes with holy dread, / For he on honeydew hath fed, / And drunk the milk of Paradise, ’ ” she whispered to Tilly, who obligingly held the candle so that words were discernible but no wax would drip onto it.
TillyTilly nodded sagely.
“It’s a good poem,” she said, with a knowledgeable air. “Ancestral voices, and all that.”
She actually said and all that , with the unconcerned tone of an English person. Jess’s expression grew more incredulous when she remembered the first thing she had said, in that pure Nigerian accent: Hello Jessy . The girl was a mystery.
TillyTilly smiled almost wickedly, as if she knew what Jess was thinking, but persisted in her line of discussion.
“D’you like it? The poem, I mean? It’s called ‘Kubla Khan.’ ”
Jess nodded.
“I like it a lot,” she said awkwardly. Tilly had knelt on the floor and begun examining some books at ground level. Jess couldn’t remember the last time she’d told anyone what she thought about a poem,
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