undone the wrong lock first. Now the full weight of the iron cage pulled against his face, where the spiked strap still held his chin.
Iron dug into his mouth and under his jaw. Grimacing, he fit the wire into the chinstrap lock, twisting and tugging until it, too, fell open. Then the whole brank, devil’s tongue and all, fell off his face and clattered to the foundation.
Charles spat out the foul taste from his mouth. He felt heavy scratches on his face, but the spikes hadn’t penetrated his tongue or chin. He was by no means through—the bilboes would be next. But he felt raw exhilaration as he never had before. “Ahoy, James!” he cried.
Unmoving in the pillory, James managed a weak “Hello.”
It took only a few seconds to undo the bilboes, but during his labor, Charles noticed that the light from the windows had dimmed. More bad weather, perhaps.
“I see wheels. Carriage wheels,” James observed.
“Jenks is escaping. He’s probably taking our surrey. Oh, he’s in trouble.” Charles rubbed at his ankles. He limped across the room, to work on the ancient lock that kept James in place. “I’m rescuing you,” he said flatly.
“Thank you,” James replied, weakly, but no longer crying.
“We’re going to get Jenks,” Charles declared.
James rubbed one foot against another. “We don’t have to.”
The lock fell open, and Charles lifted the top beam wide. James pulled his head and hands out, and then sat down in a chair by the wall. Charles crouched before him, outlining a plan for revenge. James looked everywhere but at his brother, and when Charles finished talking, James said, “I want to go home.”
Charles stared at him. “We are home.”
The carriage’s wheels were on the driveway side of the house. Charles pried open a window on the opposite side, boosted James out first, and slipped through himself next. They raced around the back of the house, to the kitchen door, to better spy on the carriage to see if Jenks had escaped yet.
“Papa!” James cried.
“What are you—” Then Charles saw what his brother had already seen. Their father, in his impeccable cravat, vest, and coat, stood by the spider phaeton, one hand lifting his leather satchel from the luggage rack, the other waving at them. He was clean, and smiling, and as impossible as a mirage. But here he was! The boys raced toward him, half tackling him, and he responded with delight.
“Hello, little men! I hear you’ve had an adventure.”
He went down on one knee while James and Charles fell on top of him, explaining everything all at once. Mr. Carter put on a concerned face when listening to the most awful parts, but his underlying smile told Charles his father in no way understood what they were saying.
“Jenks tried to kill us. Where were you?” Charles asked, and the heat of his tone made his father stare at him.
“I was surveying our new vineyard,” Mr. Carter explained. He had more to say: the purchase had been phenomenal, far more complex than he’d anticipated, they would appreciate it when they were older, there was nothing wrong with the servants’ watching them for a few days.
“But Cook and Patsy—” Charles started.
“Did you know they’re heroes?” Mr. Carter interrupted. “The tent at their revival meeting collapsed in the snow, and they’ve been tending the injured. It even made the newspaper.”
“Why didn’t they come back for us?” Charles asked.
Mr. Carter looked disappointed. “These were poor people. The most wretched. You boys had Mr. Jenks to look after you.”
“You have to let Jenks go,” Charles said. “He put us—”
“He already told me and I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“You have to let him go!” Charles touched his face, where the deep scratches from the brank ached.
“He shouldn’t have taken you into my collections room.” Mr. Carter wet his thumb and rubbed roughly at Charles’s cheek. “That place isn’t for young eyes, and you could have
Iron dug into his mouth and under his jaw. Grimacing, he fit the wire into the chinstrap lock, twisting and tugging until it, too, fell open. Then the whole brank, devil’s tongue and all, fell off his face and clattered to the foundation.
Charles spat out the foul taste from his mouth. He felt heavy scratches on his face, but the spikes hadn’t penetrated his tongue or chin. He was by no means through—the bilboes would be next. But he felt raw exhilaration as he never had before. “Ahoy, James!” he cried.
Unmoving in the pillory, James managed a weak “Hello.”
It took only a few seconds to undo the bilboes, but during his labor, Charles noticed that the light from the windows had dimmed. More bad weather, perhaps.
“I see wheels. Carriage wheels,” James observed.
“Jenks is escaping. He’s probably taking our surrey. Oh, he’s in trouble.” Charles rubbed at his ankles. He limped across the room, to work on the ancient lock that kept James in place. “I’m rescuing you,” he said flatly.
“Thank you,” James replied, weakly, but no longer crying.
“We’re going to get Jenks,” Charles declared.
James rubbed one foot against another. “We don’t have to.”
The lock fell open, and Charles lifted the top beam wide. James pulled his head and hands out, and then sat down in a chair by the wall. Charles crouched before him, outlining a plan for revenge. James looked everywhere but at his brother, and when Charles finished talking, James said, “I want to go home.”
Charles stared at him. “We are home.”
The carriage’s wheels were on the driveway side of the house. Charles pried open a window on the opposite side, boosted James out first, and slipped through himself next. They raced around the back of the house, to the kitchen door, to better spy on the carriage to see if Jenks had escaped yet.
“Papa!” James cried.
“What are you—” Then Charles saw what his brother had already seen. Their father, in his impeccable cravat, vest, and coat, stood by the spider phaeton, one hand lifting his leather satchel from the luggage rack, the other waving at them. He was clean, and smiling, and as impossible as a mirage. But here he was! The boys raced toward him, half tackling him, and he responded with delight.
“Hello, little men! I hear you’ve had an adventure.”
He went down on one knee while James and Charles fell on top of him, explaining everything all at once. Mr. Carter put on a concerned face when listening to the most awful parts, but his underlying smile told Charles his father in no way understood what they were saying.
“Jenks tried to kill us. Where were you?” Charles asked, and the heat of his tone made his father stare at him.
“I was surveying our new vineyard,” Mr. Carter explained. He had more to say: the purchase had been phenomenal, far more complex than he’d anticipated, they would appreciate it when they were older, there was nothing wrong with the servants’ watching them for a few days.
“But Cook and Patsy—” Charles started.
“Did you know they’re heroes?” Mr. Carter interrupted. “The tent at their revival meeting collapsed in the snow, and they’ve been tending the injured. It even made the newspaper.”
“Why didn’t they come back for us?” Charles asked.
Mr. Carter looked disappointed. “These were poor people. The most wretched. You boys had Mr. Jenks to look after you.”
“You have to let Jenks go,” Charles said. “He put us—”
“He already told me and I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“You have to let him go!” Charles touched his face, where the deep scratches from the brank ached.
“He shouldn’t have taken you into my collections room.” Mr. Carter wet his thumb and rubbed roughly at Charles’s cheek. “That place isn’t for young eyes, and you could have
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