My dog’s name was Teenzy, short for Tintinnabulum. . . . I was out in the garden when my old life ended.
An image flashed across my mind: something tall and thin standing just inside the shadow of the woods, and me in my white pinafore, dwarfed by those vaulting trees, a pale smudge against the dark. A little black dog was growling behind my ankles. We were watching the figure sway, one long arm outstretched toward us but never touching the light.
The figure in the woods sang to me in a voice like winter, like black water stirred suddenly by a ripple. I’d started toward it curiously. Teenzy had barked, shrill and desperate. And then all had fallen still.
The snapping of buckles from Mr. Grenouille’s briefcase brought me to my senses. He was moving briskly, spreading papers across a cluttered writing desk, procuring a bottle of fine blue ink and a poppy-colored quill.
“Come, Zita. Sign here. It’s almost midday, and I really don’t want to trouble you any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
It occurred to me that we must be quite an unpleasant family to deal with, and Mr. Grenouille no doubt wanted to see the end of the matter.
I sat down at the desk and picked up the quill. I scanned the lines of the document quickly, catching words such as “bequeathed,” “woods,” “castle and outbuildings,” “accounts.”
It may seem that I had no choice at all in that moment, that the decision was an obvious one, but I hesitated all the same. “A true Blackbird is graced with cunning, sly wits, a sharp tongue, and the power to repel the evils of night and fog. But! In return, they bear a great burden and are feared by both the living and the dead.”
So it was a crossroads for me, a gallows towering over it and a hawthorn tree hunched at its edge. I could go back to Cricktown, dust and polish for the rest of my life, listen to the radio box tell the weather while Mrs. Boliver exclaimed, “Rain! Rain on Wednesday! Oh, my joints.” And then I could fade away, peaceful as you like, an old woman who’d never caused any trouble, never witnessed anything too dreadful, and never done anything too terrible or too good.
Mr. Grenouille smiled at me encouragingly.
Mrs. Cantanker pinched her mouth into a thin, bloodless line.
I dipped the quill, and very carefully, making sure I did not wobble or place a single letter wrong, I wrote my name on the paper.
Chapter Five
JUST like that I went from being a penniless housemaid to the mistress of Blackbird Castle, Pragast Wood, and several desolate mountain peaks, as well as a bank vault in Manzemir in which resided hundreds of thousands of gold galleons and, according to Mr. Grenouille, a unicorn horn and several priceless medallions stolen from the seventh circle of hell. But to me, being a sentimental creature, the greatest gift was my name.
With a few splatters of ink, I had become part of something. I had been given roots and history, a place in a family that did good and battled the darknesses of the world. I wasn’t sure yet whether I deserved that place. I wasn’t sure I belonged in this castle, with its grand spires and peaked roofs, and its hundreds of magic-drenched rooms. I felt I still had to prove myself, and that Blackbird Castle was waiting for me to do so. But I was a witch, and with the sudden flood of certainty that accompanied this knowledge, I felt capable of anything.
“Well,” said Mrs. Cantanker as we stood facing each other in the entrance hall. Mr. Grenouille had departed, whistling away through the gardens and down the wooded path into the valley. “I suppose you’re to be a Blackbird, then.”
“I suppose so,” I said, trying not to grin ear to ear.
Mrs. Cantanker frowned. And then her expression shifted, and suddenly it was no longer cruel or haughty. It was weary and resigned, a look that said, I am tired, and this is not what I want for my life, but I am determined to do my best. I had worn that expression myself on many a grim morning at Mrs. Boliver’s, when the floorboards froze my feet and I’d not gotten half the sleep I would have liked. It was a look I could respect.
“I will remain here as your guardian,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “I will supervise your education and prepare you as best I can for the life of a Blackbird. Your mother would have wanted that.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m awfully grateful—”
“I have no need for your gratitude,” she snapped, and whatever sympathy I’d kindled for her went out in a puff of smoke. “You’re the most unfit Blackbird ever to set foot in this house. Years behind in your training, gawky, ungainly, unrefined. But you’re all we have, and life does like to play its little jokes. . . . You’ll attend lessons every day. You’re to come down to breakfast at the bell and eat dinner with me in the Amber Room at seven. And keep away from the servants. They’re superstitious villagers and will have nothing good to tell you.” She eyed me up and down, her gaze seeming to pick me apart like a bit of roast beef. “Oh, and we’ll have to do something about that hair. You look like a paintbrush.”
Better than looking like a great big bully, I thought, fighting the urge to shrink into my collar. Plenty of people had made fun of me at the orphanage—for my hair, and my awkward height, and my penchant for keeping small animals under my bed. And not just the other children. The nuns had too, and Mrs. Boliver, and the insults always felt worse coming from grown-ups, because it made one realize that no one ever changed much or became much better.
But I was not going to give Mrs. Cantanker the satisfaction of seeing her words hit their mark. Instead I mustered all my courage and said, “I know I’m not what you were expecting. I’m not beautiful or clever, and I’m not a proper Blackbird. But I’ll work hard. I always have. And I . . .” I swallowed. “I will associate with the servants. They’ve been much kinder to me then you’ve been.”
We stood staring at each other across the checkerboard floor, and for a moment I was sure she was going to slap me. But in the end she simply nodded slowly and I nodded back, and we parted not as friends—not even remotely—but perhaps as a little closer to equals.
As soon as Mrs. Cantanker was out of sight, I burst into a run, galloping all the way back to my room. I closed the door and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. Then I screeched with delight and kicked off my shoes, lying flat on my back on the great fur in front of the fireplace. I stared up at the ceiling, my sumptuous dress spread around me, admiring the dark beams and paintings of sky and trees and winged creatures. The white fur against my neck was springy as a cloud, and I wondered what strange animal had lost its life to make the rug.
My mind began to wander, darting from thought to thought. I wondered if the Brydgeborns had hunted in other lands than these, if they had traveled to the spirit realm and traversed it in carriages and boats. . . .
After a while, I rose and lit a candle with the flint box on the mantel. Then I set to exploring every nook and cranny of my new domain.
I could tell all sorts of things about Greta simply by digging about in her closet. Everything was arranged just so at the front, but in the back was an enormous mess of piled-up dresses and empty candy tins, shoes with no partners, coats with no buttons, and an old stuffed rabbit in a faded dress that looked as if someone had spent years chewing on one arm in particular. I knew that meant it was very well loved indeed.