climb the hill, going up from terrace to terrace the way she had the day before. She wanted to find somewhere where she could sit quietly alone for a while and think. What was happening to her? Was she ill? Was she going mad?
On the top of the hill the mist moved among old, burned timbers, between the fallen walls. Something splashed in the marshes -- a bird, Fever guessed. She walked through the roofless, ruined rooms and found she knew them. This one had been carpeted; this one had been tiled. In this corner had stood a fine teak bookcase, glass-fronted, whose silver handles she uncovered with a bit of scrabbling, little dirty blobs of pooled metal buried in grass and clinker underfoot.
I must have been here before, she reasoned. I must have been here when I was a tiny child. But she knew that she could not have been more than a few months old when Nonesuch House burned. Surely a child that tiny would not know what a bookcase was, let alone remember it?
Along the hall she walked, through the arch where the grand front door had been, out onto the gravel drive, gone all to moss and nettles now, where the guests used to leave their sedan chairs. She hummed a dance tune from twenty years before, and it stirred up fresh memories. The ghosts of Scriven dancers moved around her, shadowy, the great dresses of the women rustling and sighing. But they were not real. They were in her head. It's not the house that's haunted, she thought. It's me ....
There, across the lawn, was the dear old summer house, its roof fallen in now, its walls thick-grown with ivy.... She walked toward it, and remembered walking toward it one warm evening, with music spilling from the house behind her and ahead of her in the night, a soft laugh, a sigh...
She stopped short, clutching her head, wincing at the pain that hammered there. When she opened her eyes again a boat had drawn up at the foot of the hill, and a man and a boy were climbing the overgrown lawns. For a moment, confused, Fever thought they were guests arriving late for the party. She started downhill to greet them, then realized her mistake. She would never have invited such a shabby pair to one of her parties....
It was the old man from Summertown and his ragged boy.
"Master Creech!" the boy shouted, looking up and seeing her standing there.
The old man came straight for her, and his pale eyes were shining, fixed upon her face. He stopped ten feet from her, facing her across one of the ponds. "What are you?" he asked again, in a hoarse voice. " Who are you?"
"I'm not sure," said Fever.
The boy came panting up the hill behind him, and stopped, and they stood side by side, staring at Fever.
"Lily Dismas was right," said the old man, more to himself than the boy. "Whatever she is, she ain't proper human."
Something hot touched Fever's lips. She tasted redness, put up a hand to her mouth, and took it away smeared with blood. Her nose was bleeding again. "Sorry," she mumbled, reaching for her handkerchief. When she looked at the old man again he had taken out a spindly gun and he was pointing it at her.
"This ain't personal," he said. "It's my reckoning that you must be some kind of Scriven half-breed, so I'm doing what's needful for the good of London and the human race...."
But the cough which had been building up inside Bagman Creech's chest while he was speaking burst out of him as he pulled the spring gun's trigger. He doubled over, blue-faced, hacking. The bolt whirred past Fever's cheek like a May bug and the sound seemed to jar something loose in her. She turned and started running.
***
Chapter 15 Hunting Fever
Master Creech!" shouted Charley, as the girl spun about and set off into the mist. The old man was folded over, choking. He held one hand out, waggling the gun at Charley. "Get her, lad!" he managed to gasp, before another fit of coughing started.
Charley snatched the gun and hared after the girl. She was a white blob in the mist, turning a corner of
On the top of the hill the mist moved among old, burned timbers, between the fallen walls. Something splashed in the marshes -- a bird, Fever guessed. She walked through the roofless, ruined rooms and found she knew them. This one had been carpeted; this one had been tiled. In this corner had stood a fine teak bookcase, glass-fronted, whose silver handles she uncovered with a bit of scrabbling, little dirty blobs of pooled metal buried in grass and clinker underfoot.
I must have been here before, she reasoned. I must have been here when I was a tiny child. But she knew that she could not have been more than a few months old when Nonesuch House burned. Surely a child that tiny would not know what a bookcase was, let alone remember it?
Along the hall she walked, through the arch where the grand front door had been, out onto the gravel drive, gone all to moss and nettles now, where the guests used to leave their sedan chairs. She hummed a dance tune from twenty years before, and it stirred up fresh memories. The ghosts of Scriven dancers moved around her, shadowy, the great dresses of the women rustling and sighing. But they were not real. They were in her head. It's not the house that's haunted, she thought. It's me ....
There, across the lawn, was the dear old summer house, its roof fallen in now, its walls thick-grown with ivy.... She walked toward it, and remembered walking toward it one warm evening, with music spilling from the house behind her and ahead of her in the night, a soft laugh, a sigh...
She stopped short, clutching her head, wincing at the pain that hammered there. When she opened her eyes again a boat had drawn up at the foot of the hill, and a man and a boy were climbing the overgrown lawns. For a moment, confused, Fever thought they were guests arriving late for the party. She started downhill to greet them, then realized her mistake. She would never have invited such a shabby pair to one of her parties....
It was the old man from Summertown and his ragged boy.
"Master Creech!" the boy shouted, looking up and seeing her standing there.
The old man came straight for her, and his pale eyes were shining, fixed upon her face. He stopped ten feet from her, facing her across one of the ponds. "What are you?" he asked again, in a hoarse voice. " Who are you?"
"I'm not sure," said Fever.
The boy came panting up the hill behind him, and stopped, and they stood side by side, staring at Fever.
"Lily Dismas was right," said the old man, more to himself than the boy. "Whatever she is, she ain't proper human."
Something hot touched Fever's lips. She tasted redness, put up a hand to her mouth, and took it away smeared with blood. Her nose was bleeding again. "Sorry," she mumbled, reaching for her handkerchief. When she looked at the old man again he had taken out a spindly gun and he was pointing it at her.
"This ain't personal," he said. "It's my reckoning that you must be some kind of Scriven half-breed, so I'm doing what's needful for the good of London and the human race...."
But the cough which had been building up inside Bagman Creech's chest while he was speaking burst out of him as he pulled the spring gun's trigger. He doubled over, blue-faced, hacking. The bolt whirred past Fever's cheek like a May bug and the sound seemed to jar something loose in her. She turned and started running.
***
Chapter 15 Hunting Fever
Master Creech!" shouted Charley, as the girl spun about and set off into the mist. The old man was folded over, choking. He held one hand out, waggling the gun at Charley. "Get her, lad!" he managed to gasp, before another fit of coughing started.
Charley snatched the gun and hared after the girl. She was a white blob in the mist, turning a corner of
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