trace of pity “We must say nothing about this,” she said, as if she relished the thrill of such a secret. “It’s
safest to keep silent at Murkmere.”
“What will happen to the body, though?” I said, my voice trembling. “Will the keepers come for it?”
She turned away as if suddenly bored, beating her mittened hands together like a dirge. “They’ll move it soon enough when
the thaw comes — what hasn’t been eaten by the night dogs.”
I think a fit of the horrors seized me then.
I scrambled to my feet and forced my numb legs to move as quickly as they could from that forsaken spot. Leah was making for
the gray dome of the icehouse between the trees, and I followed her into the covered walkway that led from it. There was a
paved surface beneath our boots, thinly powdered with drifting snow. Beyond the stone arches that supported the roof, the
flakes still whirled relentlessly, but under its shelter it seemed unnaturally calm, so that her voice, loud in my ear, made
me start.
“I’m sure I recognized that packman’s face too. Strange, isn’t it?”
“You said no packmen came to Murkmere, Miss,” I said, in disbelief.
“But I think I saw him once, in the house. I remember his healthy, outdoor look. I thought he must be a new keeper.”
“One face looks like another in death,” I said shortly. “The flesh shrinks to the skull.”
“Certainly you couldn’t call him healthy now,” said Leah, with a grimace, and she fingered the bones of her cheeks thoughtfully.
I thought Leah would take her book straight to the Master when we returned. He’d be alone in his room waiting for her, his
iron cage wheeled to the window so he could stare out at the falling snow.
But Leah didn’t turn down the passage to his room. Instead, she gathered her skirts together and dashed at her usual pace
up the dark back stairs, the servants’ staircase, as if she wanted to talk more about the murder. I’d no choice but to follow
her all the way to her bedchamber.
As we went in, Dog looked up, startled. She was at the table by Leah’s bed, setting down a silver tray on which stood a steaming
goblet. The smirk that still hung round her lips began to fade as she saw us together: her mistress in high good humor with
the disgraced companion.
“Oh, Miss Leah,” she gabbled, avoiding my eyes but all little smiles and bobs to Leah. “The Master told me you’d gone out
in this dreadful weather! I ordered Scuff to make you a hot posset —“
She didn’t get any further, for Leah flew at her like a madwoman, knocking off her cap and sending the goblet bouncing onto
the polished floor so that the posset spilled out in a rich golden froth. Dog began to squeal, clutching the silver tray to
her bosom like a shield, while Leah danced around her in a frenzy, belaboring her with her mittens and yelling insults.
“Sneaktongue! Malicemonger! Crudspreader!”
“Not me, Miss!” shrieked Dog. She pointed at me with ashaking finger and the silver tray clattered to the floor to join the goblet. “It was her, Miss! Her who done wrong!”
“It was you who reported it, fool!” cried Leah, and she swooped on her again.
With her long arms beating around the unfortunate Dog’s head and the mittens flapping, she reminded me so much of a scrawny
mother hen defending its chick that I felt bubbles of hysterical laughter burst from me. I ran forward and restrained my mistress
as respectfully as I could, and Doggett staggered back still shielding her face. I received only a sullen glare for trying
to rescue her.
“To tell Silas!” Leah hissed at Dog. “Silas of all people!”
Dog shook her greasy head wildly. “Mr. Silas asked me, Miss. I had to tell him.”
“Indeed?” said Leah, looming over the maid. “And what was Silas doing outside alone? I believe you both left the Hall together.”
“No, Miss!” Dog began to gabble as if the speed of her story might persuade her mistress
safest to keep silent at Murkmere.”
“What will happen to the body, though?” I said, my voice trembling. “Will the keepers come for it?”
She turned away as if suddenly bored, beating her mittened hands together like a dirge. “They’ll move it soon enough when
the thaw comes — what hasn’t been eaten by the night dogs.”
I think a fit of the horrors seized me then.
I scrambled to my feet and forced my numb legs to move as quickly as they could from that forsaken spot. Leah was making for
the gray dome of the icehouse between the trees, and I followed her into the covered walkway that led from it. There was a
paved surface beneath our boots, thinly powdered with drifting snow. Beyond the stone arches that supported the roof, the
flakes still whirled relentlessly, but under its shelter it seemed unnaturally calm, so that her voice, loud in my ear, made
me start.
“I’m sure I recognized that packman’s face too. Strange, isn’t it?”
“You said no packmen came to Murkmere, Miss,” I said, in disbelief.
“But I think I saw him once, in the house. I remember his healthy, outdoor look. I thought he must be a new keeper.”
“One face looks like another in death,” I said shortly. “The flesh shrinks to the skull.”
“Certainly you couldn’t call him healthy now,” said Leah, with a grimace, and she fingered the bones of her cheeks thoughtfully.
I thought Leah would take her book straight to the Master when we returned. He’d be alone in his room waiting for her, his
iron cage wheeled to the window so he could stare out at the falling snow.
But Leah didn’t turn down the passage to his room. Instead, she gathered her skirts together and dashed at her usual pace
up the dark back stairs, the servants’ staircase, as if she wanted to talk more about the murder. I’d no choice but to follow
her all the way to her bedchamber.
As we went in, Dog looked up, startled. She was at the table by Leah’s bed, setting down a silver tray on which stood a steaming
goblet. The smirk that still hung round her lips began to fade as she saw us together: her mistress in high good humor with
the disgraced companion.
“Oh, Miss Leah,” she gabbled, avoiding my eyes but all little smiles and bobs to Leah. “The Master told me you’d gone out
in this dreadful weather! I ordered Scuff to make you a hot posset —“
She didn’t get any further, for Leah flew at her like a madwoman, knocking off her cap and sending the goblet bouncing onto
the polished floor so that the posset spilled out in a rich golden froth. Dog began to squeal, clutching the silver tray to
her bosom like a shield, while Leah danced around her in a frenzy, belaboring her with her mittens and yelling insults.
“Sneaktongue! Malicemonger! Crudspreader!”
“Not me, Miss!” shrieked Dog. She pointed at me with ashaking finger and the silver tray clattered to the floor to join the goblet. “It was her, Miss! Her who done wrong!”
“It was you who reported it, fool!” cried Leah, and she swooped on her again.
With her long arms beating around the unfortunate Dog’s head and the mittens flapping, she reminded me so much of a scrawny
mother hen defending its chick that I felt bubbles of hysterical laughter burst from me. I ran forward and restrained my mistress
as respectfully as I could, and Doggett staggered back still shielding her face. I received only a sullen glare for trying
to rescue her.
“To tell Silas!” Leah hissed at Dog. “Silas of all people!”
Dog shook her greasy head wildly. “Mr. Silas asked me, Miss. I had to tell him.”
“Indeed?” said Leah, looming over the maid. “And what was Silas doing outside alone? I believe you both left the Hall together.”
“No, Miss!” Dog began to gabble as if the speed of her story might persuade her mistress
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