“The dress is very nice,” said Bram. He looked pained and began walking briskly away. I ran to catch up, wondering if this had been a bad idea after all. We went down the tiny wrought-iron stair again, into the bowels of the house, to a servants’ hall with garlic and lavender drying along the vaults of the ceiling. Beyond its archways, I could just make out a hive of kitchens, pantries, and cellars. I was expecting them to be bustling with cooks and scullery maids, but there was only Minnifer, sitting atop a mountain of pillowcases and mending one with a spool of blue thread. She waved at me, her face alight. But her expression fell too when she saw the dress.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, I’m not sure that was a good idea.”
“My traveling clothes are all dirty,” I said weakly. “I thought—”
“No, it’s all right,” said Minnifer. “It’s just . . . well, that was her dress, you see? She was going to wear it for her birthday. Only she never got the chance.”
“Who?” I asked. “There’s no point being mysterious about it. Whose room did you put me in?”
“Greta’s,” said Minnifer, looking down at the pillowcases. “Greta Brydgeborn. The young mistress.”
I shivered, and the lovely garment felt suddenly uncomfortable, the bone stays biting into my back. All of the Brydgeborns are dead. . . .
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I took it. I’ll go put it back.”
And I would have too, but when I turned, there was Mrs. Cantanker standing in the doorway, staring at me with terrible, tightly wound fury. She was clad all in purple this morning, a severe dress with the cut of a gentleman’s frock coat, silver buttons running across her chest to her neck, and skirts that flared in the back like the sails of a ship.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, and I remained stock-still, caught in her gaze.
“I thought no one would mind,” I said quietly. “I’m . . . I’m . . .”
Sorry, I was about to say, but the word did not quite reach my lips. Instead, a sudden fury boiled up inside me and I snapped, “Annoyed.”
Minnifer gasped. Bram looked horrified. But there was no turning back now. “No one’s told me anything since I arrived here. Who are the Brydgeborns? What happened to Greta? Am I the heir? Or am I just expected to stumble about making a fool of myself until you throw me out? I received one letter and a very rude welcome, and now I’d like to know what I’ve been dragged into, thank you very much.”
I was practically shouting. Mrs. Cantanker gave me a look of disdain. But I was not going to be cowed by her now. I flashed her a glare to melt iron and noted with some satisfaction a flicker of alarm in her eyes. Then she pinched her lips together and swept forward, dragging me out of the kitchens by the arm.
“Mr. Grenouille is waiting,” she snapped, her rings pressing into my skin. “This way, whoever you are, and stop shrieking. You sound like a dying rabbit.”
She pulled me up the stairs and into the front hall. Then we turned through a pair of high mahogany doors, into a room that was hung with painted silk scrolls and whose windows looked out across a desolate rose garden. The lamps were not lit, but a fire was roaring and breakfast was laid. A tiny plump gentleman of about fifty was sitting at the table, hunched over a plate of eggs and steaming potato cakes.
He stood in a flurry at our arrival, looking at me as if he’d seen a ghost, which in a way I suppose he had. But he recovered almost at once, shedding his surprise with a shiver, like a little dog after a bath, and came forward, smiling nervously.
“Zita Brydgeborn! It is good to see you—”
“Oh, sit down, Charles,” said Mrs. Cantanker. “We’re not sure she’s anyone yet. No doubt the gutters are crawling with girls who, with a little rouge and Tipwick’s Raven Hair Dye, could be made to look like one of the Brydgeborn Blackbirds.”
The lawyer cast Mrs. Cantanker a frightened look and drew me hurriedly to the table. “Will you eat with us, child? I’m sure you don’t mind, Ysabeau. Do you mind? I hope not. I’ve always found one should discuss difficult subjects over delicious delicacies, as it makes them easier to digest—the difficult subjects, if not the delicacies.”
Mrs. Cantanker glared at Mr. Grenouille, and I sat down quickly in front of the feast before the offer could be taken back. It was the grandest food I had ever seen. There were eggs and bacon, peaches bobbing like gleaming islands out of glossy peaks of Chantilly cream, mountains of golden potato cakes, a small bowl of hothouse raspberries, and a lovely bronze-glazed pastry that fell to buttery flakes at the touch of a fork. I wondered if I could take any of it to Minnifer and Bram. Then again, they probably ate the leftovers anyway, and who would stop them? I heaped my plate with as much food as it would hold and set to work with my fork and knife, glancing sharply at Mrs. Cantanker and Mr. Grenouille between bites.
Mrs. Cantanker looked horrified. But Mr. Grenouille watched me eagerly, one perfectly round spot of red on each cheek. I would have found him tiresome had he not had such a merry, guileless face. He wore spectacles, and his chin was receding, and so was his hairline. In fact, everything about him was receding, as if he was shrinking away from the world as far as he could without actually turning inside out or imploding.
I liked him at once. I always felt I could trust worried, anxious people more than brash ones. Those who strode through life too bravely always struck me as either foolishly unaware of the world’s terrors, or else frighteningly powerful and immune to them, neither of which I found endearing. Mr. Grenouille, losing faith in his sentences, regretting every gesture, was someone I felt would not harm a fly, or a housemaid. As for Mrs. Cantanker, lounging in the periphery like a storm cloud, watching us both intently, well . . . I felt no such certainty with her.
Once I’d eaten and Mr. Grenouille had inquired after my travels and my life so far, he said, “Now. I suppose we might talk business? There is much for you to catch up on.” Mrs. Cantanker raised her eyebrows and blinked down at her kippers and toast. “You say you remember nothing of your early childhood. I suppose you wouldn’t. You were so tiny when . . . when you left. But you are aware that yours is one of the last great families of witches on the continent?”
“Mrs. Cantanker told me,” I said. “I didn’t really believe it. Of course I’ve heard about witches, and Mrs. Boliver once took a train to visit one about her gout. But they seemed awfully important and far away. I never would have thought they’d have anything to do with me.” I set down my fork and squinted at the lawyer. “Mr. Grenouille, what happened to the Brydgeborns? Where are they?”
“Well . . . ,” said Mr. Grenouille, plucking at his shirt cuffs and avoiding my gaze. “They’re here. In the castle.”
My hand twitched, rattling the silverware. Here? But Minnifer had said they were dead! A wild hope sprang up inside me. How lovely would it be if my welcome last night had been a strange little joke and my family was waiting for me, and I would meet them soon!
“She doesn’t understand,” said Mr. Grenouille to himself. “She will have to see.” Then he turned to Mrs. Cantanker and said, “Ysabeau? Will you open up the dining room?”