Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

I hurt her. I hurt Pen. Maybe I hurt her badly.

Not-Triss stared at her fingertips again, still uncertain how she had managed to draw blood. Perhaps she had claws that hid, like those of a cat. She did not want to think about hurting Pen, or consider the possibility that she had scarred her small face. Even as her stomach squirmed at the thought, a more fearful, selfish concern slipped into her mind. What if Pen had run home and been interrogated about her injuries? What if she had broken down in pain and terror and told the truth? What if her parents were waiting, even now, for the imposter?

Not-Triss had the presence of mind to enter by the back door. Thankfully it was still unlocked. Cook had finished washing up but had evidently retreated to her own room in the basement. Not-Triss crept in, slid off her boots and tiptoed through the kitchen. The house was silent, so she eased her way back up the stairs, and hurried to Triss’s room.

She was just reaching for the handle of the door, when it opened and her mother stepped out.

‘Triss.’ Her mother’s voice had a tone she had never heard before, faint and winded-sounding. ‘Where in the world have you been?’

Not-Triss boggled at her. Somehow, amid the torrent of fears and feelings, she had not thought to put together a story that would serve if she was caught.

‘I…’ Not-Triss thought about claiming that she had seen Pen sneaking out, and had gone after her to bring her back. But what if they asked Pen to corroborate? ‘I… was sleepwalking.’ She could feel her face becoming hot.

‘Sleepwalking?’ whispered her mother, in the same tense, breathless voice. ‘Did you say sleepwalking?’ She swallowed, then held the door fully open. ‘Then what is that?’ Not-Triss was treated to a view of her own bed, and her heart sank as her eye fell on the covers, still clumped to look like a sleeping figure.

Not-Triss had no answer. Her own precaution had incriminated her.

‘I… don’t know,’ were the words she mouthed, but she seemed to have no voice for them. It was a baby’s excuse, transparent as gauze.

‘You went outside. Without telling anybody. Why would you do that, Triss? Why would you betray my trust in you? Look at me!’ Not-Triss risked only the briefest glance at her mother, and was stricken to see that she was actually trembling, a great tear gleaming under one of her eyes. Not-Triss dropped her gaze again, fearful that her mother might look into her eyes and see a monster lurking there.

‘I said, look at me!’ Large hands took a firm grip on her shoulders. ‘Did Pen talk you into this? Where has she run off to now?’

So Pen had not returned after all, and Not-Triss had a chance to blame the whole escapade on the younger girl. She could even feel the right words curling into shape on her tongue, and her mother’s ear waiting for them. But instead, quite unexpectedly, amid the pity, guilt and alarm, a tiny spark of outrage managed to flare in Not-Triss’s mind.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t Pen.’

There was a pause, and a gasp, then Not-Triss felt herself shaken slightly by the shoulders.

‘You know it was! You would never treat me this way unless Pen had made you do it!’ There was almost a tone of pleading in her mother’s voice.

‘It wasn’t her!’ Not-Triss felt choked by claustrophobia. ‘I just… felt better. And… I really wanted to go for a walk. And… I knew you wouldn’t let me go. You never let me go anywhere.’ The words were out before she could do anything about them.

‘Triss!’ Her mother’s voice had a choked, tear-mangled tone. ‘Enough! You are ill ! Now… go back to bed. You’ve made me very unhappy, Triss, and you knew I already felt under par.’

There was nothing Not-Triss wanted to do more than to leap into the woman’s arms, but there was no safety there, no hope.

Help me , she begged her silently as the door closed between them. Help me, help me, help me…

There was no help. There was no help from anybody. Not-Triss had nobody to trust but herself.

She wiped the cobwebs from her eyes with the heel of her hand and listened. Her mother’s steps were moving into the study at the end of the landing. The door closed, and then she could make out the very faint sound of her voice.

The telephone. Her mother was using the family telephone. After a moment’s confusion, Not-Triss realized that this was to be expected. Pen was missing again. Her mother would doubtless wish to tell their father. But would she report their other daughter’s disgrace at the same time?

Not-Triss crept out and along the landing. She was aware now of the ease with which she softened her steps. The floorboards were her accomplices, swallowing their creaks as her soles pressed them. Her breath made no more sound than a flower petal falling.

With her ear to the door she could make out her mother’s half of the conversation in the room beyond. Her tearful tone tugged at Not-Triss’s heart. But was it really her heart that was tugged? Did she even have one? She could not be sure.

‘… oh, I know that I should not be calling you like this, while you are at work. Believe me, I would not have done so, if I were not quite, quite desperate. I must talk to you.’

Pause.

‘Yes… yes, it is! And I am completely at my wits’ end. I thought… I thought she seemed better. I really did. But… there is something terribly wrong. Ever since the fever. And as time goes by, I am ever more certain of it.’

Not-Triss stiffened against the door. Whatever she had in the place of blood ran cold. Her mother had not phoned her father to report Pen’s disappearance. She had called to talk about Triss.

‘What makes me certain? A hundred things!’ her mother went on, now sounding almost hysterical. ‘I would be anxious enough if it were just the weight loss, or the way she eats, eats, eats like a mad thing – like a plague of locusts! But… there’s something more than that. She is different . There’s something slow and strange about the way she talks to me. It’s as if she is pausing to listen to somebody else before she answers. It’s more than just a worrying symptom, it’s… eerie.

‘She never used to have a temper, and now she does. Sometimes in her eyes I see this… this wild thing I don’t recognize! I don’t know what it is! I don’t know what it is doing in the face of my little girl!

‘And she creeps everywhere.’ Her mother’s voice dropped to a hushed, oppressed almost-whisper. ‘Over and over she startles me half to death by turning up unexpectedly without a sound. Even now… Even now I almost want to go the door to make sure she is not behind it, listening.’

Behind it, listening, Not-Triss held her breath, remembering Pen’s words.

You’re doing everything just a little bit wrong. And sooner or later they’ll notice.

‘And this afternoon,’ her mother continued, ‘she crept out of the house. She claimed that she had a headache and was taking a nap. Then she made this… this lump out of her bedclothes, so if anybody peered in through the door it would look as if she was still sleeping, and she sneaked out into the cold and wind. I don’t know why. I don’t know where. I caught her coming back, but she wouldn’t tell me where she had been. She just stared at her feet with this cold, stony expression…’ There was a pause while Triss’s mother gulped down tears. ‘And when she finally looked at me, there was such anger in her eyes… This… This just isn’t like her. This isn’t Triss at all.’

Every sobbed word was caught by the girl who wasn’t Triss at all. The eavesdropper would have given every dress in Triss’s wardrobe to hear the other end of the conversation. Was her father agreeing? Was he soothing her mother’s fears, or laughing at them?