Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

‘Perhaps you should read this.’ Mr Grace did not advance, remaining a pace away from the table, but pulled out a letter and carefully held it out towards Violet. With an air of reluctance and suspicion she took it, unfolded it and began to read.

Standing behind Violet, Not-Triss could see very little of her face, but just enough to observe that her frown was deepening. Parts of the letter were visible, however, and Not-Triss recognized the handwriting of Piers Crescent.

…are asked to assist the carrier of this letter, Mr Joseph Grace, in recovering my daughters Theresa and Penelope…

It was all happening again. Violet would listen to Mr Grace now. Everybody always listened to Mr Grace. All the adults did. Violet was louder than he was, but he was calmer, and his calmness would win out over her loudness in the end. It was all happening again.

Not-Triss had to run. Everything was an enemy. She was shaking like a flag in the wind. For the moment she pushed herself back into the corner, hard enough that the walls bruised her shoulders.

‘Miss Parish, you have done nothing wrong.’ The tailor continued to talk in a steady, measured voice, maintaining eye contact with Violet. He kept his hands slightly raised and spread, as if Violet’s temper was a gun. ‘I am sure the girls turned up on your doorstep in a state of distress. You have been looking after them and trying to calm them down, so that you can decide what to do next. Any reasonable and humane person would have done the same.

‘You have kept them both safe, and I am sure their parents will be very grateful. But as you can see from that letter, I have been sent as a representative of Mr and Mrs Crescent, who are desperate to recover their daughters. Miss, I am sorry to trouble you further, but I must ask for your help – we need to take Penny and Theresa home.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Violet!’ shouted Pen.

‘Pen, will you be quiet !’ snapped Violet, then turned her attention back to the tailor. ‘Mr… Grace, is it? This letter –’ she flicked at it with a forefinger – ‘says that you’ve been sent by Pen and Triss’s parents, right enough. But there are a lot of things it doesn’t tell me. I still don’t know who you are, or what happened to make both these girls run away.’

Mr Grace hesitated, pressing his lips together.

‘There are certain delicate family matters that I would be uncomfortable discussing without the permission of Mr and Mrs Crescent,’ he answered carefully.

‘Well, you’ll damn well have to if you want to get past me!’ Violet’s temper seemed to be slipping its reins, all attempts to moderate her language in front of the girls forgotten. ‘Triss is terrified by the mere sight of you, and I want to know why!’

Through the numbness of her terror, Not-Triss felt the wheels of disaster catch on an unexpected stone. Mr Grace had played a trump card, and his victory was inevitable. However, somehow the inevitable did not seem to have happened quite yet.

‘Very well.’ Mr Grace sighed. ‘So be it. The family does not want this widely known, but… there is a problem with young Theresa. You know she has been ill for some time?’

Violet nodded.

‘Perhaps,’ continued the tailor, ‘you are also aware that sometimes a severe brain fever has… lasting effects. Theresa was very ill recently, and since then she has been, well, unpredictable. Extremely unpredictable.’ His tone was delicate but meaningful. ‘She urgently needs the proper treatment – for her own sake, and the sake of everybody around her. Unfortunately it looks as if the first course of the treatment scared and confused her, so she ran away –’

‘VioletVioletViolet!’ Pen was dragging at Violet’s sleeve, almost on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t believe him, Violet! You can’t believe him! You can’t !’

But Not-Triss knew that Violet could believe him and would. On the one side there was Mr Grace, a respectable adult carrying the authority of the great Piers Crescent, and on the other a mad girl, whose words could no longer be trusted. There was still Pen, of course, but nobody would ever, ever listen to Pen.

With the odd lucidity of panic, Not-Triss’s gaze flitted round the room. Hot tea in the pot. I can throw that at somebody if I have to. Door to the kitchens. But there might not be a back way out. Front door…

There was something hanging from the ‘open/closed’ sign that had not been there when she entered. A small set of scissors. The tailor had blocked her retreat.

‘I need you to take Penny home,’ the tailor was continuing. ‘I will look after Theresa. I know I am a stranger to you, but you must trust me.’

‘This treatment,’ Violet said slowly, ‘did it involve… fire?’

Mr Grace hesitated a moment too long. ‘Fire?’

‘Yes, fire.’ Violet’s voice had an edge of steel. ‘Triss is terrified of it. I noticed that last night. And she’s scared witless of you . Why would that be?’

Mr Grace nodded slowly as if surveying a chess board and realizing the inevitability of checkmate. His look of sadness deepened.

‘Because of these,’ he answered, before pulling handfuls of small metal objects out of his pockets and casting them on to the table.

Some of the pairs of scissors fell open as they landed. Many were old and blackened, a few looking as if they had been hammered into shape by hand. All sent something singing in Not-Triss veins. They hated her. Their blades could sense her skin.

The wail that had been trapped inside her since the appearance of Mr Grace finally escaped. Wallpaper bulged, burst then peeled away. In a dresser by the door, crockery exploded like plates at a fairground rifle range.

Violet swore violently and spun to look at Not-Triss. The colour drained from her long face.

‘Look at her!’ called out Mr Grace. ‘Miss Parish – take a good look at her! I am sorry to have misled you before… but I wanted to avoid this scene, for your sake. Now, please , take Penny’s hand and lead her away from the creature in the corner. It is not Theresa. I think you can see that now. Quickly! You are both in danger!’

‘Triss!’ hissed Pen, urgently and vainly. ‘Don’t! Don’t! You need to stop it!’ The younger girl’s face was a picture of dread, but Not-Triss only made sense of her words when she looked down at her own hands and saw the long thorn-claws extending from her fingertips and the fine, deep grooves they had already etched in the wall. She knew that her mouth must be a horror of thorns, her countenance wild and unchildlike.

Violet’s eyes were fixed on Not-Triss’s face. They were a dark, wet-weather grey, and they had a question in them.

Not-Triss managed to find her own tongue again.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was still hoarse from the scream, and fluted strangely, like a breeze in a chimney flue. ‘I’m not Triss. I thought I was – I wanted to be – I tried to be – but it wasn’t good enough. I can’t be her. I’m something else, and I can’t help it. And when they found out I wasn’t their little girl, they tried to burn me. They thought it would bring their daughter back, but it won’t. It will only kill me.’

‘It is pitiable,’ murmured Mr Grace sadly, as if answering an unspoken thought. ‘Its instinct is to tug at the heart, even after the mask has slipped. Like a cuckoo trying to sing.’

Violet stared at Not-Triss, apparently hypnotized. The wet weather behind her eyes was on the move, clouds shifting formation. Then her scowl deepened again and she turned back to Mr Grace.

‘All right,’ she growled. ‘I’m convinced. She’s not Theresa.’