wind, right through our ventilated cloaks.
Mr. Clayborne’s men were at work, clanging about with the lengths of steel that were to grow into the London-Swanton railroad line. Too bad it hadn’t been built while my Genius Fitz was still here. He was forever going off to Paris, and Vienna, and other places with delicious pastries, and complaining about how long it took just to get out of the Swampsea. I might be happy about the train myself had I any opportunity to take it. But I’m stuck.
In front of the jail stood a gangle of boys throwing stones at Nelly’s cell. At her window, actually, which was shut and barred, but it was the principle of the thing that counted. It’s not that I dislike every boy in the world, but this particular pack was uncommonly hateful, all snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
They’d throw stones at me too, once I was in jail. But at least I was a witch and deserved it. I wasn’t so sure about Nelly. You’d think I’d recognize a fellow witch, but no: I’d find out with everybody else. If Nelly was a witch, she’d turn to dust once she was hanged. If not, we’d know we made a mistake.
Petey Todd, leader of the snips and snails, must have spotted us, for a moment later, the boys’ voices rose in a singsong chant.
When Daftie Rosy passed away,
What do you think they done?
Sold her off as fishing bait:
A copper for a ton!
Daftie Rosy.
I couldn’t let that stand. I approached Petey. He was only thirteen, but big as a man.
“Fe-fi-fo-fum.” I poked my finger at Petey’s chest. “I smell the stink of a big boy’s bum!”
I was in a fighting mood.
Daftie Rosy
set me off, of course, but there was also Pearl’s ugly baby. The baby had died and I wanted to fight.
“Hey!” said Petey, then his invention dried up.
Dearie me! What to say?
You don’t have to be big to do a lot of damage with your elbow. I jabbed mine into the front bit, where Petey’s ribs gave way to some softer stuff. Down he went. I stamped on his stomach, which resulted in a most satisfactory sound.
I flung myself upon him, grabbed his ears.
“Help!” he bellowed. “She be like to pull ’em clean away!”
“They’re wonderfully handy,” I said. “Big as soup plates.” Up went his ear-handles, down went his skull. Crash! Onto the cobbles.
You can win a fight if you don’t care about getting hurt. I have a good head, and I used it. Crack went my skull against his.
Petey howled.
“See the lovely stars, Petey?”
I saw them myself, red blobs splatting against my eyeballs.
“She’s kilt me!” screamed Petey.
Not just yet, Petey, but give me a minute: You’ll wish you had been kilt.
Crash!
“Dear, oh dear!” I said. “A splat of brains just dribbled out your ear.”
I lifted his head for the third crash. “Pity your mother didn’t cook you longer.”
Blast! An arm scooped me round the middle, lifting me up. Lifting me off Petey.
Whoever it was would be sorry. When I rammed my elbow this time, it connected with muscle and bone, which is far more satisfactory than blubber. A person feels she’s really doing something.
“Steady, miss.” It was Robert’s voice. It was Robert’s arm that had picked me up and was setting me down.
“I fetched him,” said Rose. “I didn’t prefer you to fight.”
“She were in a pother, Miss Rose were, an’ so, miss, I taked the liberty.”
Now that’s true poetic irony. I rush into battle to defend the fair name of Rose Larkin, and what does she do but fetch Robert to stop me.
“I don’t match up today,” said Rose. “I wish Robert could have seen how my ribbon matches my petticoat, but the witches took my ribbon.”
Robert blushed.
I turned away from the Brownie, but he followed along, his absurd knees clicking every which way. I mustn’t talk to him again. If I kept on, it would be easy to slide back to my old ways, stepping into the world of the Old Ones, letting my powers run wild.
Ten paces away, a bubble of
Mr. Clayborne’s men were at work, clanging about with the lengths of steel that were to grow into the London-Swanton railroad line. Too bad it hadn’t been built while my Genius Fitz was still here. He was forever going off to Paris, and Vienna, and other places with delicious pastries, and complaining about how long it took just to get out of the Swampsea. I might be happy about the train myself had I any opportunity to take it. But I’m stuck.
In front of the jail stood a gangle of boys throwing stones at Nelly’s cell. At her window, actually, which was shut and barred, but it was the principle of the thing that counted. It’s not that I dislike every boy in the world, but this particular pack was uncommonly hateful, all snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
They’d throw stones at me too, once I was in jail. But at least I was a witch and deserved it. I wasn’t so sure about Nelly. You’d think I’d recognize a fellow witch, but no: I’d find out with everybody else. If Nelly was a witch, she’d turn to dust once she was hanged. If not, we’d know we made a mistake.
Petey Todd, leader of the snips and snails, must have spotted us, for a moment later, the boys’ voices rose in a singsong chant.
When Daftie Rosy passed away,
What do you think they done?
Sold her off as fishing bait:
A copper for a ton!
Daftie Rosy.
I couldn’t let that stand. I approached Petey. He was only thirteen, but big as a man.
“Fe-fi-fo-fum.” I poked my finger at Petey’s chest. “I smell the stink of a big boy’s bum!”
I was in a fighting mood.
Daftie Rosy
set me off, of course, but there was also Pearl’s ugly baby. The baby had died and I wanted to fight.
“Hey!” said Petey, then his invention dried up.
Dearie me! What to say?
You don’t have to be big to do a lot of damage with your elbow. I jabbed mine into the front bit, where Petey’s ribs gave way to some softer stuff. Down he went. I stamped on his stomach, which resulted in a most satisfactory sound.
I flung myself upon him, grabbed his ears.
“Help!” he bellowed. “She be like to pull ’em clean away!”
“They’re wonderfully handy,” I said. “Big as soup plates.” Up went his ear-handles, down went his skull. Crash! Onto the cobbles.
You can win a fight if you don’t care about getting hurt. I have a good head, and I used it. Crack went my skull against his.
Petey howled.
“See the lovely stars, Petey?”
I saw them myself, red blobs splatting against my eyeballs.
“She’s kilt me!” screamed Petey.
Not just yet, Petey, but give me a minute: You’ll wish you had been kilt.
Crash!
“Dear, oh dear!” I said. “A splat of brains just dribbled out your ear.”
I lifted his head for the third crash. “Pity your mother didn’t cook you longer.”
Blast! An arm scooped me round the middle, lifting me up. Lifting me off Petey.
Whoever it was would be sorry. When I rammed my elbow this time, it connected with muscle and bone, which is far more satisfactory than blubber. A person feels she’s really doing something.
“Steady, miss.” It was Robert’s voice. It was Robert’s arm that had picked me up and was setting me down.
“I fetched him,” said Rose. “I didn’t prefer you to fight.”
“She were in a pother, Miss Rose were, an’ so, miss, I taked the liberty.”
Now that’s true poetic irony. I rush into battle to defend the fair name of Rose Larkin, and what does she do but fetch Robert to stop me.
“I don’t match up today,” said Rose. “I wish Robert could have seen how my ribbon matches my petticoat, but the witches took my ribbon.”
Robert blushed.
I turned away from the Brownie, but he followed along, his absurd knees clicking every which way. I mustn’t talk to him again. If I kept on, it would be easy to slide back to my old ways, stepping into the world of the Old Ones, letting my powers run wild.
Ten paces away, a bubble of
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