The Frost Child by Eoin McNamee Page A

fields, Owen’s mother was leading a party of Rutgar’s men from the shop. They were carrying what looked like a grandfather clock with great care.
    “Wonder what they’re doing with that old thing,” Rosie said.
    “Why do you want to know that?” a sharp voice came from behind. Samual had come up on them so quietly that they hadn’t heard.
    “No reason,” Rosie said, “just wondering.”
    “I wouldn’t do too much wondering around here if I was you,” the man said, his thin lips drawn tight.
    “She can do what she wants,” Wesley said.
    “You’d be well advised to stay out of this, Raggie,” Samual said, his eyes fixed on Rosie. “I wonder how many of her rat friends from Hadima came through the tunnel with her and are out there spying.”
    It was more than Rosie could bear. She thought of how her friends had suffered during the attack by the Harsh and the misery that they were enduring in the frozen city. Without thinking she felt in her hair, and a long sharp hairpin appeared in her hand.
    Samual’s eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to her, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
    “Drawing a knife on an officer of the Workhouse guard, that’s a serious offense,” Samual said.
    “So is being rude to guests of the Workhouse, Samual.” The voice came from above. Rosie turned to look. To her great surprise and delight, Dr. Diamond was standing on the top of the Nab staircase.
    “And it’s not a knife,” Wesley said, “it’s a hairpin.”
    “She’s a spy,” Samual snarled.
    “I appreciate your suspicious mind, Samual,” Dr. Diamond continued in the same mild tone. “In time of war and intrigue being alert could save lives. But I can vouch for the young lady. She helped and guided us bravely in Hadima.”
    “Hello, Doctor,” Rosie said.
    “Good afternoon, Rosie. I’m glad to see you, although I hear that things are not good in Hadima. Now put the hairpin away, and let’s not see it again in the Workhouse—unless, of course you are showing it to one of the Harsh. Samual is a generous man, and I don’t think he would bring charges against a refugee.”
    Rosie put her hairpin away, blushing. Samual snorted but took his hand from his sword.
    “I would be careful whom you vouch for, Doctor,” he said coldly, and then, with a dark look in Rosie’s direction, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
    “Bleeding twit,” Rosie said.
    “He’s been a faithful soldier for the Workhouse,” the doctor said, “and I did mean what I said. You have to be suspicious in times of war, sadly. But how are you, Rosie, and what are you doing here?”
    Rosie opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so music mingled with pain swelled in her head.
    There was a shout from Wesley. He had caught sight of a movement in the clouds. Far above their heads, but closing every second, the
Wayfarer
descended toward the Workhouse, Owen standing at the tiller, pale-faced and tired but defiant.
    For a moment Rosie and Wesley stood openmouthed and staring. Then they started to jump up and down and wave their arms. Owen saw them and altered course. The
Wayfarer
soared toward them in a great curve. Just in time, he leaned back, and the
Wayfarer
came to rest on the snow-covered battlements of the Workhouse.
    “Rosie!” Owen said, leaping out onto the ground and throwing an arm around her. “What are you doing here?”
    He grasped Wesley’s hand and grinned. Cati rushed up the stairs, followed by Contessa.
    “I thought you were killed or something,” Cati said crossly.
    “Good to see you too, Cati,” Owen said. Other people came onto the battlements: soldiers in red, and some Raggies who crowded around, wanting to see the marvelous boat that sailed in the air. Among them was Silkie, who gazed shyly at Owen.
    “I would like to spend time on greetings,” Contessa said, “but we have need of news. What about the Harsh, Owen?”
    “Not far behind.” He told them about the chase and his meeting with the