Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

The wind stilled and the flakes fattened. Before long the air was a ballet of chill tufts, each the size of a farthing. The first settled on the earth and melted, falling in on themselves. Their successors left a skin of fine, grey slush. But there were more and more, falling faster than they could melt, and soon the whole scene had a downy pallor. Both girls in the boat were shivering now, and Trista was glad of the blanket.

‘I haven’t had my tea,’ Pen muttered mournfully as supper smells seeped from dozens of houses.

‘We don’t have any money,’ Trista reminded her.

‘There’s snow! We could go carol singing, and people might give us food if we look sad.’ Without further ado, Pen began pulling at the underside of the jetty, so that the boat began to swing out from beneath it.

‘Wait!’

‘You said we could get out of the boat when it snowed!’ protested Pen.

‘All right, but be careful getting out, and stay close to me!’ Trista helped Pen climb up on to the jetty, the smaller girl tottering slightly with stiffness. Triss wrapped the blanket around the pair of them, so that it shrouded their heads and figures like a cloak. ‘Let’s keep this over us, so people don’t recognize us.’

At the back of the tea room, a kindly under-cook passed some leftover currant scones to the girls through the kitchen door, telling them that she shouldn’t really, but it was a shame for them to go to waste. The girls stood in an alley and munched the scones, watching the whirl of white around them. The few scant gas lamps on the streets were now surging into solemn, flickering life, each illuminating a halo of flurrying flakes.

‘I’m cold. ’ Pen hiccuped down the last mouthful of her scone, then peered into the darkness. ‘I bet they would let us sit by their fire.’

Following the direction of Pen’s pointing finger, Trista made out a reddish gleam in the shadow of an abandoned auction house. Against the wall she could just see a stumpy black crate that had been pressed into service as a brazier. Around it stood three figures, hunched against the cold.

‘All right,’ she whispered back. ‘But let’s creep over, in case they’re Besiders.’

‘Besiders like you, don’t they?’ Pen frowned.

‘They won’t when they hear I’m against the Architect,’ Trista muttered. ‘And they’ll find that out as soon as they talk to the Architect’s people. They might know already.’

Trista and Pen padded down the powdered road, keeping to the darkest parts of the street and avoiding the pools of gaslight. Finally they found a shadowed doorway from which they could watch the firelit group with more ease.

The murmur of voices from beside the brazier was subdued, but sounded human. There was no eerie overlaying, no sinister under-voice. The figures seemed to be dressed in ordinary jackets and coats, furthermore, not the strange feather-garments the Besiders in the tea room had worn.

‘They seem—’ Trista began.

‘Shh!’ hissed Pen furiously.

Trista shushed, and a voice from the group at the brazier floated over to her.

‘They were definitely here. That much is certain.’

The speaker had his collar turned up and a scarf wrapped protectively around his chin, hiding most of his face. Nonetheless, there was no mistaking the voice of Mr Grace.

‘The girls were in the tea room with Miss Parish,’ Mr Grace continued. ‘We are not likely to get a statement from her any time soon, of course.’ He sighed. ‘I still think she might have been an innocent dupe in all of this. I did try to reason with her when we first met, but she wouldn’t listen.’

Trista’s heart gave a flip-flop of anxiety. What did he mean, Violet would not be giving a statement any time soon? Please let him mean that she’s being stubborn, or just unconscious! Don’t let her be dead! She had been so sure that the snow meant Violet was alive. Now she felt the chill of doubt.

‘But everybody says the children left again,’ remarked a girl by the fire, rubbing her hands frenetically over the dull embers of the brazier. ‘In a yellow car.’ With a shock Trista realized that it was Dot from the cottage. Dot of the eggshells.

‘Yes. Yes, they do.’ Mr Grace pensively pushed more lengths of wood into the fire. ‘Over and over again. In exactly the same words.’ The firelight made his face look narrower and more haunted, a collage of sharp edges. ‘There is something odd about this place. Have you noticed that?’

‘Yes. It’s covered in snow. In September.’ The third figure at the brazier was a middle-aged man Trista had never seen before. He had shaky hands, thick eyebrows and a moustache that made him look like a colonel. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘No,’ answered Mr Grace, ‘though I dare say the snow is their doing as well. No, the snow seems to be falling all over Ellchester. But here, right here , there is a feeling…’ He trailed off.

‘People here make my thumbs prick,’ muttered Dot.

‘Well put, Dot.’ The tailor gave her a smile softened by avuncular affection. ‘We are all feeling uneasy for a reason. There are Besiders in the Old Docks, I would lay money on it – and we have probably spoken to some in the last hour.’

‘Well, if you think the story of the yellow car is bunkum, then what—’ The moustached man came to a halt abruptly, seeing Mr Grace raise one hand in warning.

‘Charles,’ the tailor said evenly, ‘it would seem we have guests.’

Trista stiffened, ready to grab Pen’s hand and run. However, she soon realized that Mr Grace’s gaze was not trained their way. Instead he was peering down the street towards two figures who were hobbling with a stilted but relentless gait towards the light of the fire.

Both individuals wore the strange grey-brown feather-coats, and peeping out beneath them Trista glimpsed a plum-coloured hem and brown ribbon garters. It was the Besider couple they had met on the jetty.

‘May we join you?’ asked the woman, as she advanced into the halo of the brazier. ‘Your fire has such a gentle light.’ Her wet-looking gaze flickered disapprovingly towards the yellow aura of the gas lamps.

There was the briefest hesitation and exchange of glances among the huddled threesome before Mr Grace hurried forward.

‘Of course – let me find you something to sit on.’ He hastened around a corner and returned with a pair of crates which he set down as seats for the newly arrived ‘guests’. Trista was uncomfortably reminded of the way he had played gracious host to her, during her visit to his shop.

There was a growing knot of tension in Trista’s stomach. It was like watching a perilous scene in a play, and desperately wanting to call out a warning. At this moment, though, she was not sure whom she wanted to warn.

Charles, the colonel-like man, passed a flask of brandy to everyone around the fire except Dot (who seemed a little disappointed). Everybody remarked on how peculiar the weather was.

‘So what brings you out into the snow?’ Mr Grace asked the couple after a pause.

‘We have just arrived in this town,’ answered the Besider man serenely. ‘We are waiting to be shown to our new home. The snow does not trouble us.’

‘Really?’ Mr Grace’s smile was perfectly charming. ‘Then welcome to Ellchester! Are you and your wife travelling alone?’

‘No,’ answered the woman in the plum dress. ‘We have… many…’ She trailed off, and locked gaze with her companion for several seconds in silent communion. ‘Friends,’ she hazarded at last. ‘Many… friends.’

At this revelation, Dot shot her human companions an alarmed glance. Charles paused in refastening the lid of his flask.