The Girl in the Gatehouse by Julie Klassen

these sightings, Mariah saw George and Lizzy Barnes walking along the road, coming from the direction of the village. Their father, George had told her, had once owned one of the mills in Whitmore. But three mills in one village had proved one too many, and the mill had gone under. Mariah could imagine George grown, a spotless apron over his ample belly, fine white powder in his hair and in the creases of his hands, cheerfully serving customers at the mill that would have been his one day, had his father not lost it.
    Their mother now lived as companion to an elderly woman in Bourton. Mariah had asked George once why their mother did not come to live with them at Honora House. George shook his head. “Says it would kill ’er to enter a poorhouse. Her a gentleman’s daughter and all. Nearly killed her to send me and Lizzy. But after Papa died, she couldn’t afford to feed us, could she? And the ol’ tabby she works for hasn’t room for us and can’t abide children either.”
    George’s sister, Lizzy, was a girl of seventeen with golden-brown hair a shade lighter than her brother’s and blue eyes a shade darker. She was a slender girl, not much taller than her brother, though six years his senior. George would no doubt soon surpass her in height, as he had already done in girth. As the daughter of a miller and a gentlewoman, Lizzy would likely have married well, thanks to a generous dowry or at least an endless supply of bread and other good things to eat. Instead, she whiled away her youth in the poorhouse, her bloom radiant, though few had opportunity to see it.
    Mariah wondered at the liberty George Barnes seemed to enjoy. She had heard that poorhouse children were required to attend three hours of school each weekday, when the old village schoolmaster came out to teach basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. And each child had chores to attend to, depending on age and ability. But George seemed to roam about the countryside at will.
    Mariah saw Lizzy less often. By rights, Lizzy should no longer have been in the poorhouse. When boys turned thirteen, and girls sixteen, they were considered able-bodied adults and were sent off to the workhouses in Cirencester or Stroud, or the “house of industry” in Oxford. Grim fates indeed compared to the life of relative ease afforded by Honora House.
    But Lizzy had been kept on, employed by the poorhouse matron, and so was allowed to remain with her brother.
    Mariah unlatched her window and pushed it open. “George?” she called down.
    He smiled, altering his course toward the gatehouse. “Yes, miss?”
    “May I ask you a question?”
    “Of course, miss. You know I’ll do anything for a biscuit.”
    “Greedy boy,” she teased. “I haven’t any biscuits today. But come back tomorrow.”
    His small eyes lit in anticipation.
    She asked, “Who is the man who walks about the poorhouse roof ?”
    George’s smile instantly faded. “Couldn’t say, miss.”
    “You don’t know his name?”
    He ducked his head in uncharacteristic unease. “No, miss.”
    Lizzy walked over and put her arm around George. “Please don’t ask him. We are not meant to know about any man on the roof, and definitely not to speak about him.”
    “But why?”
    Lizzy’s brow furrowed, her normally sweet expression sparking with irritation.
    Mariah winced. “Sorry. But I cannot help wondering. I cannot abide a mystery.” Unless I am the one writing it, she added to herself.
    Mariah bid farewell to the Barneses and closed the window. She heard Dixon’s half boots in the passage and called out to her. “That man is up on the roof again.”
    Dixon stepped into the room and joined her at the window. Watching the distant man, she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “If he isn’t careful, he’ll fall to his death. Crazy fool.”
    Mariah grew alarmed. “Do you really think he is in danger? Perhaps I should walk over and make sure the matron knows he’s up there.”
    Mariah knew the