And in her head, she hears the song over and over:
It’ll bite off your arms,
It’ll bite off your head
The floor will be red
And you will be dead.
Then they are standing in front of a fence. It is tall and rusty and overgrown with climbing plants, nettles, and all kinds of greenery. Miss Amalia rattles the gate. It does not open.
“Oh, fiddlesticks…” she says angrily. She rattles it again. “And there’s no bell or anything. How are we supposed to get inside?”
The bushes move, and a man appears on the other side of the fence, a thin man in a big leather coat. Without saying a word, he opens the gate and, after the two of them have entered, he locks it up again with a grinding creak.
“Thank you most kindly,” says Miss Amalia in a loud voice. Birds fly up out of the bushes, startled by the sound. “Say thank you, Emilia.”
“Thank you,” mumbles Lampie, but when she looks around, the man is no longer there.
They walk between the tall hedges to the house. Miss Amalia rings the doorbell, her other hand resting heavily on Lampie’s shoulder. Far away, down a long corridor, they hear it ringing. They wait, but no one comes to the door. Impatiently, Miss Amalia rings again. They hear the bell, followed by some howling and barking. An angry voice. But no footsteps approaching.
“My goodness!” Miss Amalia’s fingers drum irritably on Lampie’s collar. She tries to peer through the letter box and, when that does not work, she takes a couple of steps back and looks up at the front of the house. “I can quite clearly hear that someone is at home.”
Lampie looks along with her: three floors of black windows peer back through the ivy. They look like angry eyes.
Go away, child, says the house. What business do you have here? Secrets dwell in this place, dark secrets and monstrous…
“Excuse me! You in there!” Miss Amalia has bent down to the letter box. “Can someone come and open the door? I’m standing out here with a child!” She turns and glares at Lampie, as if it is all her fault.
Maybe there’s no one at home, hopes Lampie. Then maybe she won’t have to stay. She can earn the money another way, back at home, or in a shop, perhaps at Mr. Rosewood’s, if she is very neat and careful and…
Inside, a key turns, and the big front door slowly begins to move, groaning as if it is an effort. A woman’s face appears in the gap between the door and the doorpost. The face looks angry and its eyes are rimmed with red.
“Oh good, it’s about time,” begins Miss Amalia. “Good day to you. I have come to—”
“We don’t need anything,” mumbles the woman. “Maybe next week.” She starts to shut the door.
“Wait just one moment!” Miss Amalia blocks the door with her outstretched arm. “I’m not some tradesperson. I’ve come to bring the child. This child, to be precise. Emilia Waterman. It’s all been agreed, and this letter is—”
The woman tries to close the door again. “This is not a good time,” she says. “Anything but, in fact.”
Miss Amalia flaps the white envelope at her. “This letter is for the admiral, and I would like to—”
“The master is not at home.”
“So when will he be at home?”
“No idea. Not for a while.” The woman tries, yet again, to close the door. “I told you, now’s not a good time. This afternoon is not a good time.”
“Not a good time, not a good time…” Miss Amalia simply pushes the door open. “The least you could do is let us in. We’ve had quite a walk. Come on, Emilia, get a move on.” She pushes Lampie past the surprised woman and into the Black House.
Lampie steps into the corridor. It is cold inside. A long row of doors disappears into the darkness. The wall feels cold and wet to the touch, and when she brushes her hand against it, it leaves dirty white marks on her fingers. Miss Amalia gives her a slap.
“Stop that! What a terrible impression you must be making!”
The woman in black does not look at Lampie or at her fingers. She takes the letter from Miss Amalia and walks off down the corridor, with a blank expression on her face.
“I’ll give it to him,” she says. “To the master. When he’s home. But he isn’t now. And now is not a good time.”
“That may well be,” says Miss Amalia, her voice booming along the corridor. “But I’m leaving this child here in your care, um…Mrs.…er?”
“Martha, Martha’s my name. Now I’ll thank you to leave.” She angrily shoos the visitors away, but Miss Amalia is not finished yet.
“And I am sure, Mrs. Martha, that you will provide her with food and a place to sleep. Won’t you? And maybe something else to wear, as the child owns nothing but rags. There’s no shame in that, but it’s not very nice to look at, of course. Will that be a problem?”
Martha looks at her in surprise. “You’re not leaving her here, are you?”
“Oh, that’s all in the letter. Now make sure you work her hard. She’s perfectly capable, and hard work never killed anyone.”
“A child? I don’t need a child. What am I supposed to do with a child?”
“Well…” Miss Amalia stares at the ceiling. Cobwebs are climbing up the lights, and the corners are black with them. “It looks as if you could do with some help. Couldn’t you? With the, um, spring cleaning, shall we say?”
Martha flushes with fury. “That’s not…It’s because…”
“This is none of my business,” Miss Amalia says, sweeping her hand around to take in the dust, the dirt, the cracked tiles. “It just seems to me that any extra hands would be welcome.”
“I’m all on my own!” Martha shrieks. “They’ve all left. No one stays here, especially since…”
That noise comes again, from far away down the corridor. Howling or barking or something.
Lampie feels in her pocket to see if her mother’s shard is still there. She slides it over her fingers. No, Mother. Really, truly. I really don’t want to stay here.
Martha takes a few steps toward the sound. “Stop it!” she shouts. “Lenny, keep them quiet!” Silence falls, and she shuffles back to them, shaking her head. “I keep telling you. This is not a good time!” An angry tear rolls down her cheek. “We have to bury him, and I need to get changed. I can’t bury him wearing this, can I?” She points at her fraying apron. “And I always have to do everything!”