“She might like to eat,” Bram murmured to Minnifer. “We have all those leftovers from dinner.”
“Or she might like a bath,” said Minnifer, sizing me up. “Did you walk the whole way from Hackenden?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said, adjusting my hat for what felt like the twentieth time that evening. “But no, just up the hill.”
“Minnifer,” said Bram, shaking his head. “You practically called her filthy.”
“I did not! I offered her a bath! That’s manners.”
“She just doesn’t think very often,” said Bram to me.
“And Bram thinks so much he forgets to breathe sometimes,” said Minnifer. “In fact, you’ll find us all insufferable once you get to know us. Now, how about food and a bath, and then—”
Just as I was thoroughly charmed by both of them, another voice sounded from the top of the stairs. A ball of light from a kerosene lamp was descending toward us, and I saw for the first time the enormous hall that we were standing in. The floor was a checkerboard of black-and-white marble. A chandelier in the shape of a flock of crows attacking a serpent hung from the ceiling. Tapestries lined the walls, their faded threads depicting parties of men and women in black cloaks and pointy shoes trooping through woods and fording rivers. And on the landing of the staircase, half illuminated by the lamp in her hand, stood a woman.
She was very pretty, very pale. Her fingers were encrusted with jewels, like some sort of sprouting multicolored fungus. Her auburn hair was swept up into lacquered curls, and her dress was deep blue silk, dark and frothy as the breakers against a nighttime shore. I could not tell if she was young or old—she looked confusingly ageless—and as she stood there on the landing, one arm curled around the newel post, I felt she reminded me most of a glamorous cat.
“There’ll be no baths,” she said, in the loveliest, chilliest breath of a voice I had ever heard. “And she can have a tray in her room. No need to make a fuss. Mr. Grenouille will be here in the morning to sort out this . . . unfortunate mistake.”
Mistake? My heart sank. I could tell by the way she looked at me that the “unfortunate mistake” was me, standing there in my scuffed shoes and patched coat.
“Good evening, ma’am,” I said, forcing my chin up. “I don’t mean to be a bother, and I’m sorry to arrive so late, but—”
“Late?” said the lady, gliding down the stairs and across the tiles toward me. “But are you? Zita was lost all these years, and now a girl claiming to be her comes waltzing back as soon as there’s a castle to inherit? Rather too punctual, I should say.”
She leaned down, so close I could smell the rose-tinted powder on her cheeks. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you: either Mr. Grenouille is a fool, or you are a liar.” She lifted my chin with two long, elegant fingers. “You’re not a Blackbird, are you? You’ve got the look of a housemaid!”
“I am a housemaid,” I said, twitching away from her grasp. “But I got a letter, and my name’s Zita, just like it says.” I pulled the letter out of my pocket and held it up for her to see.
The lady’s eyes flickered to the black wax seal. “A letter was sent, yes. Whether the real Zita Brydgeborn ever received it is another matter. Of course you were aware this family is the most powerful—and indeed last—of the reigning witch families of old?”
“W-witch families?” This time I could not keep the stammer out of my voice. Had the coachman not been fibbing at all? “There was nothing about that in the—”
“And you’ve never read a history book?” she inquired pleasantly, relishing my discomfort.
“Not one with witches in it,” I whispered.
The lady drew back, her blue eyes shifting slightly. Then she pursed her lips in some secret amusement and said, “How convenient. Well, whether you are a Brydgeborn or not will be made quite clear in the morning. You two . . . find someplace to put her.” And with that, she swept away, vanishing into the murk of the hall.
I gaped after her. Bram tried to take my carpetbag, but I shook him off. I wasn’t wanted here, that much was clear. I wasn’t going to give these people any reason to make me beholden to them.
“Who was she?” I demanded.
“A wicked goat,” said Bram.
“And terribly rich,” Minnifer added in an awestruck whisper. “Ysabeau Harkleath-St. Cloud. A Cantanker by marriage, and a great friend of your mother’s. The custodians gave her temporary responsibility of the house after . . . well, after everything that happened.”
My mother. The word sent the faintest fluttering memory of violets and rosemary straight to my heart.
“What do you mean, ‘everything that happened’?” I asked as Minnifer opened a panel in the wall, and she and Bram led me up a wrought-iron servants’ staircase. “What did happen? Where is everyone?”
Again Minnifer and Bram exchanged that odd, inscrutable look. “Gone,” said Minnifer softly. And then she turned to me suddenly, the candlelight throwing a ruddy shadow across her face. “You’ve got to be careful, Zita. They’re all dead. All of the Brydgeborns. Your mother and father, aunts and uncles. No one’s left. No one but you.”
“Oh!” I said, half delighted to be made aware of such an extensive family, half horrified to be informed they were dead.
“Murdered—” Minnifer started to say, before her mouth clamped shut like a bear trap. Her eyes bulged. She struggled for a moment, her fingers clawing at her jaw. Then her mouth popped open again and she turned away, hunched over the stairs and crying.
“What on earth?” I murmured. “What was that? Are you all right?”
I turned to Bram, but he was only watching helplessly, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m fine,” Minnifer snuffled, probing at her cheeks with one cautious finger. “It was just a hiccup.”
That wasn’t like any hiccup I’ve ever heard, I thought, but Minnifer was already climbing the stairs again, so quickly Bram and I had to run to catch up.
We exited the servants’ staircase and crossed a landing, past two small windows. The windows were side by side, only inches apart, but one of them looked into an ivy-shrouded court in the dead of night, and the other onto a misty field at twilight, its rows full of frosted pumpkins and a few solitary scarecrows. I barely had time to wonder about it, however, before we were climbing another staircase, and a third. At last we arrived in a high corridor, in front of a lovely gilded door painted with windmills and sky.
“Here we are,” said Bram, his voice now very low and angry.
“Mrs. Cantanker didn’t say which room to give you,” said Minnifer, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “And there are thirty-seven bedrooms to choose from. But we thought you’d like this one best.”
“Don’t go any farther down this passage,” said Bram, unlocking the door. “It has been known to lead to places one might rather not visit.”
“Don’t go into the room labeled Parlor of Psychosis,” said Minnifer. “And if you see a blue staircase, do not climb it.”
“You know, it might be best if you didn’t leave your room,” said Bram quickly. “We’ll come for you in the morning.”