Murkmere by Patricia Elliott Page B

it’s still hard.”
    She saw my baffled expression and a sudden torrent of explanation poured from her. “For the icehouse. Every winter they must
     break new ice to be layered in straw and keep our food stores fresh. They take sled-loads of it. The grooms and ostlers help
     the keepers. They alarm the swans with their din.” Her lips twisted. “It’s foolish to bait a swan in its territory. Last time
     a youth had his arm broken.”
    “Will you watch the ice breaking, Miss?”
    “I’ll go there when they’ve all gone.” She looked at me with a half-smile, as if testing me. She knew about my fruitless searches
     for her by the mere. How I must have amused her, day after day, as I trailed after her in the mud and bitter cold.
    But something had hardened inside me since the morning. I wouldn’t let her humiliate me any longer with her cruel games. I
     looked back at her steadily. “The mere’s a dangerous place alone, Miss. I’ll come with you tomorrow. It’s my duty as your
     companion.”
    She stared back at me, then to my amazement dropped hergaze and flung herself down on the daybed. “Oh, very well. Come with me if you must.”
    As the howling of the night dogs passed my window that night, I lay and shuddered, thinking of Matt’s body being torn limb
     from limb, his blood dark on the snow. Matt, who had visited the village all the years of my growing; who’d go there no longer.
     What had possessed him to come to Murkmere?
    And what had possessed me too?
    Tomorrow I’d give in my notice when I collected my wages from Silas. I’d tell him I needed to return to my aunt and take care
     of her. He’d know my true reason for leaving, of course, but I wouldn’t let him stop me.
    I promised myself that soon I’d lie on my own pallet next to my aunt; and with that thought I was comforted. Soon I’d be away
     from this dreadful place, where servant girls were driven to drown themselves and innocent men were murdered. No wonder my
     poor mother had run away.
    And what of Leah, with her heathen ways and doomed soul?
    I didn’t care what became of her. Not a jot.
    But I didn’t sleep well. Next morning, I looked out of my window as I wearily fastened my bodice, and saw that drizzle had
     pitted the snow with tiny holes as if mice had supped on it. Leah had been right about the thaw.
    Her mood hadn’t improved. At breakfast, she almost threwthe oatmeal at the old footman, complaining that it tasted bitter and had black pieces stuck through it. All the time we ate
     we could hear the unruly clamor from the stable block as the men made themselves ready for the ice breaking.
    I didn’t see her again that morning, but I knew she’d be with the Master at her books. They’d hear the tumult of the ice breaking
     from his rooms: even indoors it seemed impossible to escape the distant chipping and thudding, the crack as the ice broke,
     the roar from the men as the shards were successfully netted from the water.
    I’d seen the stable hands troop out earlier, trailing the long wooden handles of the nets behind them, their dark figures
     silhouetted against the snow that was tinged yellow under the overcast sky. There was much joshing and guffawing as they met
     the keepers, who were standing ready with their sledges and mallets. Then they set off together, a small militia set on destruction.
    Our luncheon was late, but Leah seemed relieved now that the rowdiness of the ice breaking was over, and merely grumbled to
     herself when a strangely black suet pudding was put on the table before us.
    “You needn’t walk with us today,” she told Dog when we were upstairs later, and Dog had helped her fasten her boots. “There’s
     my mending for you to do instead.”
    As Dog passed me at the chamber door, she shot out her hand and pinched me. “Them swans nip harder than that,” she hissed.
     “You’ll see!”

X
Swanskin
    L eah and I followed the black lines the net handles had made as they were dragged along