Lily Read online

  She had been hurrying to fetch the baskets from the jetty, hardly looking at the beach, when out of the corner of her eye, she had seen one of the rocks move. She had thought it was a seal, until it stood up, and she was rooted to the spot, so she said, too shocked even to scream. Lily was sure she’d seen Peter roll his eyes at this, so she suspected that Martha had screamed, quite loudly, the way she had the time a mouse ran over her fingers in the flour-bin.

  She had to bring him back to the house, of course. There was nothing else she could do with him. Merrythought was the only house on the island, and everyone in the house had either been born there, or sent from a particularly discreet employment agency. Even Martha and the other maids had signed year-long contracts before they so much as set foot in a boat. They had to promise not to leave, and consent to having all their letters read. Their wages were rather high in consequence.

  So Martha had carried one basket back to the kitchen door, and a small, silent child had carried the other.

  Lily had been in the kitchen, begging for breakfast, when Martha and the boy turned up. She had gazed at him in amazement – she had, after all, never seen a boy her own age, or any other child but Georgiana.

  Mrs Porter looked as though she might fling the dough she was mixing at Martha. ‘What on earth is that?’ she snapped. ‘I sent you to fetch rice, and the pheasants. Am I supposed to roast this scrawny little thing?’

  Martha dumped her basket on the kitchen floor and prepared to argue. She was never afraid of Mrs Porter. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do, leave him there for the seals to eat? And we’ve got the groceries, he’s carrying half of them!’

  ‘Where did he spring from?’ Mr Francis, the butler, was drinking a cup of tea at the table with his waistcoat unbuttoned. He eyed the boy’s basket. ‘Did they remember the newspapers? She’ll be ringing for them, any moment.’ He beckoned the boy towards him, right past Lily.

  Her eyes were fixed on him as he trailed past, still with his skinny arms wrapped round the basket. Smaller than her, or at least thinner, so thin his cheeks had hollow shadows in them. Dark, spiky hair, and light grey eyes that changed colour, like the sea water he’d appeared from.

  ‘Where did you come from, boy?’ Mr Francis asked, peering at him. ‘You can put the basket down now.’

  The boy said nothing, and didn’t put down the basket. He simply stood there.

  ‘He doesn’t talk, Mr Francis, I tried,’ Martha put in. ‘I’m not sure he can hear either.’

  The butler frowned, and patted the table, gesturing to the boy to put the basket there. The child did as he was shown, and rubbed his hands over his arms, as if he were cold.

  ‘Well, he’s not stupid, even if he can’t speak,’ Mr Francis muttered. ‘We’ll have to keep him, I suppose. He hasn’t been in the sea, his clothes are dry, and no salt stains, so he hasn’t fallen out of a fishing boat.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor little rat’s been abandoned, I should say. Whoever he belongs to didn’t want a mute.’

  ‘What do we do with him?’ Mrs Porter folded her arms. ‘I don’t want another child cluttering up my kitchen.’

  Lily looked at the cook reproachfully, but then tucked her feet under her chair, to make herself smaller.

  ‘This one you can make wash up. Scrub the floor. Set the mouse traps, whatever you like. No one’s going to complain, are they?’ Mr Francis shrugged. ‘No one else wants him.’

  Lily flinched for the boy when Mr Francis said it, but then she realised he was lucky enough not to be able to hear all the things that were said about him.

  Mrs Porter sighed expressively. ‘Miss Lily, where’s that slate Violet found you from the nursery? Let’s see if the brat can read.’

  Lily fetched the slate from where it was leaning up against the dresser shelf, with the carving platters. Violet, the housemaid, who was just now laying the family’s fires upstairs, thought it was shocking that Lily couldn’t write. Any village child, she pointed out, would have been dragged to school by an attendance officer by now. She was doing her best to teach Lily in the odd moments she could snatch out of her day, but Lily was slow at it, and slipped out of the kitchens when she heard Violet pattering down the stairs.

  Mrs Porter snatched it hurriedly out of her hands – her dough needed time to rise – and scrawled Name?, before thrusting it at the boy.

  He blinked, and produced a crumpled and raggedy piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. All it said was Peter.

  Mrs Porter nodded grimly, and pushed the plate of bread and butter that Martha had been cutting at him. ‘He’d better eat something before he gets started,’ she muttered, clearly feeling she had to explain her generosity. ‘He looks like he might keel over if I ask him to bring the firewood in.’

  After that, Lily had been rather more keen on learning to write than before. Her handwriting was nothing like Violet’s own delicate copperplate, but it was sufficient to scrawl messages to Peter, inviting him to go and climb the trees in the orchard, or to play ducks and drakes on the beach. It was only rarely that he had time for such games, since everyone in the house gave him all their odd jobs to do, and he couldn’t argue back. Often the only way for Lily to be able to borrow him for a game was to do his work for him. By now, she could chop wood, weed a vegetable garden, and polish silver (provided no one was looking, of course). Peter could lip read, when he wanted to, and if people bothered to look straight at him, but notes were still the best way to talk.

  Lily sighed, and stared at the blackened mess on the orangery floor, and all over her fingers. Her drawing wasn’t much better than her writing, today. She dipped a piece of old rag into a puddle that had leaked through the broken doors, and scrubbed the tiles clean. Then she sat staring at the damp surface for a while, thinking what to draw next. The frogs were impossible, she decided, for they wouldn’t sit still long enough for her to get a proper look. And besides, if her drawing should come to life, as her self-portrait had seemed to, did she really need another frog? There were quite enough in the orangery already. There was nothing else in the orangery to copy, so she would have to draw something from memory. She considered another self-portrait, but actually, she didn’t want another version of herself either. It would be too odd, and at the same time rather boring. She would much rather have a stranger to talk to.

  Lily smiled to herself, as a picture came into her mind. A painting, in fact. One that had hung in the passageway between the drawing room and the library for as long as she could remember. She had always liked the look of the girl – there was something about the way her hair was very smoothly brushed down and bound with ribbons that made Lily suspect it was usually a mad frizz like her own. And the little black pug dog in the girl’s arms was clearly on the point of leaping down and running off with the paintbrush.

  With her eyes half-closed, Lily began to draw in the girl’s face, wishing that she knew her name. She supposed the girl was some sort of relative – perhaps that was why they shared such unruly hair. It was an old painting, though. Lily stared down at the round, amused eyes she had just drawn, and shivered. What if it worked, but the girl appeared as an old, old lady?

  Lily sat looking at her stick of charcoal for a few moments, and then sighed, and started to draw the black pug. It wasn’t going to work anyway, so it hardly mattered.

  The pug was difficult, with all those strange furry wrinkles. She remembered it looking like a little old woman of a dog, apart from those bulgy, sparkling eyes. Lily drew, and smudged away, and drew again, struggling to remember the little face. At last she gave up for a while, and concentrated on the girl’s lace-frilled dress. It was very beautiful, pale pink silk. She must have had dresses like that for every day of the week, Lily thought, or she would never have held the dog on her lap in such a beautiful dress. The black paws had scrumpled up the silk a little, just here, and the polished jet claws would tear it, if the girl wasn’t careful.

  But the dog’s face was still wrong, even if she tried to come at it from the
paws, and change the angle. It should be rounder, and almost smiling – why wouldn’t it work?

  Frustratedly, Lily flung the charcoal down, and leaned back against the wall, scrubbing her eyes with her sleeve. What was the point of crying over it? It was only a charcoal scribble, and it would never be anything else.

  Another mouse scrabbled its claws over the tiles, and Lily shuddered, twitching her skirts to scare it away. Her charcoal was pressed back into her hand, and she sighed, wondering whether to carry on and try to get the dog right, or scrub the whole thing out.

  Lily gulped. How was she holding the charcoal again? Had it just rolled back into her hand? She stared at the dusty little prints smudging their way across her drawing, and her fingers clenched suddenly around the charcoal stick. It snapped.

  Lily looked down, and the dog sitting politely by her knees gazed up at her reproachfully.

  Why did I bother to fetch that for you, if all you’re going to do is break it? its expression said.

  ‘It worked,’ Lily murmured, staring down at the little black dog. ‘It really worked.’

  The dog stared back solemnly.

  ‘You are real, aren’t you?’ Lily whispered, slowly reaching out a hand. The dog watched as she advanced trembling fingers, then darted at her. Lily flinched, then laughed nervously, realising that all the creature had done was lick her. Its tongue was an odd shade of purple – exactly the same as it had been in the painting. Lily had always thought it looked wrong.

  ‘I wonder if your tongue really was that colour…’ she whispered. ‘Or did I call you back just as you were in the picture?’ She frowned. That sort of thing mattered. ‘You’re a puppy, I think. Not big enough to be a full-grown dog. But does that mean you’re a puppy for always?’

  The dog turned its head thoughtfully to one side, and then back again, rolling its marble-like eyes. It couldn’t have said No idea any more clearly.

  It stood up, and pattered over to the handkerchief, sniffing it carefully, and then looking as disappointed as Lily had earlier.

  ‘There are lots of mice,’ Lily suggested hopefully. ‘Wouldn’t you like a nice fat mouse?’

  The pug’s upper lip curled in disgust, and Lily frowned. The dog understood her, she was sure. She supposed it was hardly surprising. Or no more surprising than a dog that had appeared out of a drawing, anyway.

  ‘Maybe not. I wouldn’t either, I suppose. I think there are some biscuits in a tin in my room.’

  The pug jumped up and ran to the door of the orangery, where it connected back into one of Merrythought’s many odd little passageways. It capered around in a circle, waiting for Lily to follow.

  ‘Yes, yes. But you have to hide, you see?’ Lily crouched down next to the dancing dog. ‘Shh, listen. They won’t let me keep you, I’m sure they won’t.’ Lily blinked. ‘Or perhaps it’s that I don’t want to ask. It doesn’t matter. You have to be a secret, do you understand? Quiet?’

  The dog nodded solemnly, and Lily laughed. It was such a funny little thing. Then she coughed apologetically, as the huge black eyes took on a look of outrage. She had offended its dignity. She ducked her head. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m sorry. This is all – very strange. I mean, I’m talking to a dog. And that’s especially odd for me – I don’t get to talk to anyone a lot of the time. This is the first time I’ve done magic, too.’ Lily shook her head. ‘Actually, I didn’t really do it. It did itself, it wasn’t anything to do with me.’ She bent her head down, so she was nose to nose with the pug, its polished fur shining in the evening sun of the orangery. ‘Or did you do it?’

  The dog looked at her for a second, and then barked. A sharp, demanding little noise, very quick, as though it had remembered Lily’s instructions on staying hidden.

  ‘Hurry up with the food?’ Lily asked, standing up, and the little dog skittered around her feet joyfully. ‘Stay close then. And you might have to hide.’

  There was a streak of black, as the dog shot back across the orangery to seize the empty napkin, and trotted back with the cloth trailing like a banner across its back.

  ‘Oh! Good idea.’ Lily bent down to take it, and gasped as the dog sprang into her arms, and then licked her cheek affectionately. It sat up high in her arms, riding like royalty – it was a look Lily remembered from the painting. Carefully, she draped the napkin around the dog’s head. ‘Just duck down, if anyone comes,’ she murmured, slipping out into the passageway.

  But they didn’t meet anyone as they moved swiftly through the house. It was early evening. Mama would be resting, and the servants would take the chance to rest too, gathered in the kitchens, getting under Mrs Porter’s feet.

  Lily stopped in the passage between the drawing room and the library, eyeing the library door anxiously. She was almost sure Mama was upstairs, but one never knew… There wasn’t a sound. Breathing a little more easily, she scurried to the gilt frame of the painting she wanted, and looked up curiously. In her arms, the dog looked up too.

  The girl was still there, but she had no pretty little black dog. Instead she held a flower in her hands, gripping the stem remarkably tightly. Almost as though she were twisting it between her fingers. Her pretty painted smile was practically a grimace, Lily noticed. And there was just the faintest little dark smear on her pink silk skirts – a tiny muddy paw mark.

  ‘I didn’t mean to steal you,’ Lily whispered guiltily to the dog. ‘She looks furious.’

  The dog wriggled forward a little, and placed its claws on the gilt frame, sniffing at the canvas. Then it tried a delicate lick, its head on one side in that curious pose again. Then it snuggled back into Lily’s arms, in a way that suggested it much preferred being where it was now.

  Lily laughed quietly to herself, as the dog’s solid little body nuzzled up against her. She could feel the muscles moving under the smooth pelt of black fur as it wriggled. The dog didn’t feel like a spell, or a ghost, or something she’d imagined. The solid warmth against her chest was comfortingly real.

  There was the faintest rustle behind the library door, and Lily jumped, and turned in one quick movement to race for the stairs. No one came after her.

  She was still looking back down into the hall, wondering if her mother had somehow learned what she had done – surely the others in the house would notice the furious little girl in the painting? So when she brushed against someone on the stairs, she cried out in surprise, and flung herself back against the wall. The dog had had the sense to duck under the napkin, but a coal-black nose was still poking out, sniffing with interest at this new person.

  Luckily, the girl on the stairs hardly seemed to notice. She simply glanced dismally at Lily, and turned to carry on down into the hallway.

  Crossly, Lily stuck out her tongue at her sister, and hissed, making the dog prick up its tiny ears. Georgiana might at least say something. Obviously she was too grand and important to talk to her little sister now.

  Georgiana turned round and looked back up at Lily. It was hard to see in the gloom of the dark-painted stairwell, but Lily took a step back in surprise, almost falling up the stairs. Georgie looked like a ghost. Her white-blonde hair was straw-like, and her pale skin had faded to a greyish, unhealthy tint. It made the red rims around her eyes stand out even more.

  ‘Are you crying?’ Lily asked her curiously, feeling half-guilty. What did Georgie have to cry for?

  Her sister made a strange hiccupping noise, and ran back up the stairs, her skirts brushing against Lily and the dog as she swept past. Lily heard her race along the passage, and fumble with her door, finally slamming it behind her.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Lily muttered crossly. It was the first time she had seen Georgie in days. Now she couldn’t even feel properly indignant about her sister ignoring her any more, she was going to have to worry about her instead.

  ‘I don’t know. Who was she?’ a muffled voice asked from under the napkin. The black pug shook itself, emerging out of the folds of fabric with an air of relief. �
��She smelled nice.’

  Lily’s eyes widened, so that they were almost, but not quite, as round as the pug’s.

  ‘What?’ the dog asked, twitching its eyes from side to side irritably. ‘I know this cloth looks stupid. You told me to hide. I was trying my best. The other girl didn’t see me, I don’t think, but then I suppose she wasn’t in much of a state to notice anything, was she?’

  Lily shook her head dumbly.

  The dog put its head on one side again. ‘Ah. Were you not expecting me to talk?’

  ‘No…’ Lily whispered. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you at all.’

  ‘But you asked me!’ the dog protested. ‘Not that I’m not grateful. I don’t really remember being stuck in that painting, but it can’t have been very exciting. You called me here.’ It eyed her doubtfully. ‘I do hope you’re not going to send me back?’

  ‘Oh, no, no!’ Lily shook her head, and unconsciously tightened her hold on the dog. ‘Please don’t go. I wanted someone to come, although I did think it might be your mistress, the girl in the pink silk dress. I thought she looked interesting, and I was desperate for someone to talk to. I’m just honestly surprised that anyone came at all. I didn’t expect it to work.’ She frowned down at the dog. ‘Where did you actually come from? I mean, how did I get you here?’

  The dog shrugged. ‘You’re the one who’s supposed to know that, I’m afraid. It was something I couldn’t help doing. Like chasing a ball. And the talking is new, I ought to add, I don’t think I could do it before. It’s your fault, I think. You wanted someone who would talk back.’

  ‘But…what are you?’

  The dog gazed up at her, its wrinkled little face giving it a look of amusement. ‘I’m a dog.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  The dog shrugged. ‘You’ll have to be satisfied with that. It’s all I can tell you. Now, biscuits? And while we’re finding them, who is the other girl? The one who looks like a miserable mouse?’