Go ahead, Briony, knock. That's what a regular person would do, and really, it's not so very difficult. But I was lying to myself.

I always lie.

Father sits beside Rose. Eldric sits beside Dr. Rannigan. I'd almost forgotten Eldric lives here, that he's slept here for ten whole nights.

"How are you, Rose?" I say.

There comes a long pause, and Father answers for me. He tells me that Rose has the swamp cough. He tells me that the cough's not terribly bad-it never is at first-and that scientists in London are working on a cure, and that surely before Rose falls very ill, the scientists will have found a remedy.

Father always lies.

Dr. Rannigan knows Father is lying. He says there's nothing to do when the cough gets bad, save for injections of strychnine to stimulate her heart. And morphine, of course, morphine at the end, to ease her pa.s.sing.

Ease her pa.s.sing. The words rang in my head like the bells of some lunatic cathedral. Morphine to ease her pa.s.sing.

"Rose," I said, "I've a mind to call at the firehouse tomorrow. Would you like to join me?"

Father glanced at Dr. Rannigan. Dr. Rannigan nodded and said a bit of fresh air wouldn't hurt, and went on to tell us how to wrap her up and how long she might stay out, but I was too busy regretting my offer to listen. Rose is besotted with the firehouse and the firemen, and a besotted Rose is a tedious thing indeed.

Morphine to ease her pa.s.sing.

Father looked from me to Rose and back to me again. For the first time since Stepmother died he noticed our clothes. He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded remarkably like "Good G.o.d!" He said we couldn't go about dressed like twin versions of the Little Match Girl; and that we certainly couldn't testify at Nelly Daws's trial like that; and that Pearl would know how to fix us up.

We were to have new clothes.

We were to have new clothes because I tried to bargain with the Boggy Mun and he outwitted me. I should feel guilty, but I don't. Father shouldn't feel guilty, but he does. We were to have new clothes because I made Rose sick.

This, to me, is h.e.l.l.

On and on ring the lunatic bells.

Storybook events come in threes. So, it seems, does h.e.l.l. Here's the third strand of h.e.l.l woven into that night.

I lay in bed, listening to Rose cough. It was a wet, skin-sc.r.a.ping cough, very different from her earlier cough. Rose had never had the swamp cough. I was a fool.

I was a fool, yet I was clever.

It was the clever Briony who'd called up Death. She called it up so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Mr. Dreary, who wouldn't have died had she not called it up. It's rather unbearably circular.

But there are more unbearable circles.

It was the clever Briony who dreamed up a plan to save Rose. She dreamed up the plan so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Rose, who wouldn't have contracted the swamp cough had she not gone into the swamp.

The clever Briony knows that when she enters the swamp, people die. The clever Briony intended that Rose contract the swamp cough. She has always been jealous of Rose.

This to her is the third strand of h.e.l.l.

10.

Lo: the Gloriousness That night, the swamp craving returned.

What a strange word, craving. What is it, really? It's hard to describe, despite the fact that it keeps you up all night. It's trickier than pain. It's an itch stuck below your skin. You lie awake on your side of the do-not-cross line, listening to your sister heave and cough. You scratch at itch-ants that tunnel through your bones. You never can reach them.

It makes me sympathetic to Fitz the Genius's craving, which was for a.r.s.enic. It sounds a peculiar thing to crave, but apparently more people than one might expect are addicted to the stuff. That's what Father said after he dismissed Fitz, even though that meant I had no tutor. Even though he was still a genius. I couldn't see that the a.r.s.enic affected him a bit.

Father sacked the Genius, I banished the Brownie, and then I was alone.

Night faded into blue ink. I was bored, I didn't want to be hanged. I was bored. I b.u.t.toned myself into collar and cuffs. I tied myself into ribbons and shoes. Dawn clung to me like cobwebs.

I find it impossible to be bored when I help Rose get ready for the day. That's because I'm too busy loathing her. Loathing and boredom don't mix.

"Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station," said Rose.

"Before you take any of those steps, you must put on your shoes."

"Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station."

Honestly, if I don't save her life, I'm going to kill her!

Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I'm to trade my life for Rose's, I'd appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.

"You talked last night while you were asleep," said Rose.

"Your shoes, Rose!"

"How can you talk when you're asleep?"

I could blame myself for her good spirits, if I wanted to, which I didn't. Rose's fascination with the fire station began when I set the library fire. I'm still astonished that it was Rose herself who alerted the fire station. She told me all about it-how the alarm bell went off, and the firemen went rushing about, harnessing the horses and checking the ladders, and how it was the handsome Robert himself who lifted her onto the fire wagon and stood right behind her so she wouldn't fall, and off they went, the hose-carts rattling behind.

"I prefer that you not talk," said Rose.

I myself preferred not to talk, but I'd have to talk to say so. "Robert wears shoes."

"I don't like my shoes," said Rose.

"I'm wearing my shoes and you don't see me complain."

"You only hear a person complain," said Rose. "Not see."

How has Rose lived for seventeen years and no one has ever killed her, not once?

"Perhaps you ought to put your shoes on in the wardrobe." Rose was irritatingly agreeable. She crawled into the wardrobe and shut the door. Rose has a theory that time goes more slowly in the wardrobe, which may be true, given the amount of time she spends in there.

"Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station."

"How many steps to the breakfast table?"

"I don't want breakfast," said Rose. "I want to go to the fire station."

We ended up compromising. We'd have toast, only toast, which as Rose said, is quick to eat. But Eldric was waiting for us in the dining room, wearing one of Pearl's ruffled ap.r.o.ns. "You look very beautiful," I said. "Is this a special occasion?"

"I suppose you could say so," he said. "I'm in charge of breakfast this morning."

"Boys don't wear ap.r.o.ns," said Rose.

"This boy does," said Eldric. "He does when he's cooking eggs."

"But Pearl cooks our eggs," said Rose. "Anyway, I prefer toast today and so does Briony."

I looked at Eldric, into his eyes. My fingers knotted themselves together. Eldric looked at me all the while he spoke.

"Pearl's baby died." He swallowed, cleared his throat. And then, because he already knew Rose well enough to know she might not understand, he said, "She's very sad and wants to stay at home."

My fingers hurt. I looked down. They were twisted all about one another.

I didn't know what to say, but Rose filled the silence.

"I like poached eggs," said Rose, "but Briony thinks they're disgusting. She likes fried eggs. I think scrambled eggs are disgusting because they're all one color."

"No scrambled eggs." Eldric curtsied with his ap.r.o.n and vanished into the kitchen.

"I know what you're going to say," said Rose. "That we should eat the eggs because it's Eldric making them."

I nodded.

What did one say when a baby died? I should think of something before Eldric joined us, practice something regularly girlish. But it turned out he wasn't to eat with us. Perhaps he'd lost his appet.i.te. Perhaps he thought it heartless that I could eat my fried eggs. Unfair that Rose could eat her poached eggs and no one would think anything at all.

"Now for your cloak." Wearing a cloak is on Rose's list of the thousand things she hates most. The problem is that each of the thousand is ranked number one.

"But Dr. Rannigan says you must, and anyway, it hardly weighs a thing, it's so full of holes." I swung mine round my shoulders. Rose hates any bit of clothing that constricts, but I say, Chin up and bear it. Life is just one great constriction.

"Ventilated," I said, "that's the word. Our cloaks are terrifically ventilated."

The Brownie waited for us beside the door, then followed us like a double-jointed cricket. By all Brownie rules, he ought to have stayed in the Parsonage. He made a poor Brownie. He worked no mischief in the house; he helped with none of the ch.o.r.es. He was reserved and affectionate, devoted to me, or so it seemed.

"Go away!"

He didn't go away.

The sky was white and went on forever, and so did the wind, right through our ventilated cloaks.

Mr. Clayborne's men were at work, clanging about with the lengths of steel that were to grow into the London-Swanton railroad line. Too bad it hadn't been built while my Genius Fitz was still here. He was forever going off to Paris, and Vienna, and other places with delicious pastries, and complaining about how long it took just to get out of the Swampsea. I might be happy about the train myself had I any opportunity to take it. But I'm stuck.

In front of the jail stood a gangle of boys throwing stones at Nelly's cell. At her window, actually, which was shut and barred, but it was the principle of the thing that counted. It's not that I dislike every boy in the world, but this particular pack was uncommonly hateful, all snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails.

They'd throw stones at me too, once I was in jail. But at least I was a witch and deserved it. I wasn't so sure about Nelly. You'd think I'd recognize a fellow witch, but no: I'd find out with everybody else. If Nelly was a witch, she'd turn to dust once she was hanged. If not, we'd know we made a mistake.

Petey Todd, leader of the snips and snails, must have spotted us, for a moment later, the boys' voices rose in a singsong chant.

When Daftie Rosy pa.s.sed away,

What do you think they done?

Sold her off as fishing bait:

A copper for a ton!

Daftie Rosy. I couldn't let that stand. I approached Petey. He was only thirteen, but big as a man.

"Fe-fi-fo-fum." I poked my finger at Petey's chest. "I smell the stink of a big boy's b.u.m!"

I was in a fighting mood. Daftie Rosy set me off, of course, but there was also Pearl's ugly baby. The baby had died and I wanted to fight.

"Hey!" said Petey, then his invention dried up.

Dearie me! What to say?

You don't have to be big to do a lot of damage with your elbow. I jabbed mine into the front bit, where Petey's ribs gave way to some softer stuff. Down he went. I stamped on his stomach, which resulted in a most satisfactory sound.

I flung myself upon him, grabbed his ears.

"Help!" he bellowed. "She be like to pull 'em clean away!"

"They're wonderfully handy," I said. "Big as soup plates." Up went his ear-handles, down went his skull. Crash! Onto the cobbles.

You can win a fight if you don't care about getting hurt. I have a good head, and I used it. Crack went my skull against his.