an old lady, Mère Lauriel, who was famous in the district. They called her a
septième étoile
.”
“
Septième étoile?
A seventh star?” said the Professor. “What – or who – is that?”
“It is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,” said Miss Lillingsworth patiently. I could see that she’d have been a good teacher.
“Please go on, Maria,” said SP.
“A
septième étoile
may have a number of gifts. Mère Lauriel could see the future. But she told me that others can look back into the past. And some of them …” Here she turned to me. “Some of them, Verity, can find that which is lost.”
“Ah,” breathed the Professor. “I see.”
“What happened?” I asked, still caught up in the story. “Did your employer have a son, after all?”
“She did. As a matter of fact, she had twins.” Miss Lillingsworth held out my lucky piece again. “This is Verity’s, Saddy. Her mother gave it to her. I recognised it as soon as I saw it. Mère Lauriel had a little medal just like this, engraved with the sign of the seventh–”
“The seven stars!” I burst out. So that was the point of Miss Lillingsworth’s story. Could it be that my gifts – teleagtivism and psychometry, as the Professor would put it – were something handed down to me, mother to daughter, like family jewels? I thought of Ma, just after Pa died, feverish with typhoid. What did she know about the seven stars? My mind was whirling around so fast that it was hard to think or speak clearly. Or even speak at all. “Miss Lillingsworth, are you saying … do you think … am
I
a seventh star?”
She took my hand. “You have very special gifts. Now, tell me, how many sisters do you have?”
They were all watching me, kind and concerned, expecting an answer. And what could I tell them?
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” The Professor was taken aback. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t rightly know if I’ve got any sisters or not. You see, my uncle Bill told me something the day I left Madame Louisette’s.” I took a deep breath and got it over with. “He told me that I was a foundling left in a basket outside my father’s shop. Ma and Pa adopted me for their own, and never told me nothing about it. They was –” I remembered Judith’s grammar lessons at last, and I gulped back a sob as I corrected myself “–
were
the best, the kindest, the lovingest …”
A handkerchief was pressed into my hand. I blew into it, and straightened my shoulders.
“Verity, why didn’t you tell me this?” asked the Professor.
“You never asked.”
The Professor winced ever so slightly. But it was true. All he’d been interested in was his blessed experiments, not me.
“I’m sorry, Verity.” He stared at his polished boots for a few seconds before he met my eye. “Harriet would be ashamed of me. She would have asked you about your family. She would have been kinder to you than I have been.”
Harriet was the Professor’s wife, who’d passed on three years ago. Judith had told me a bit about her. She sounded like she’d been very clever and very kind. The Professor blew his nose very loudly, and handed the lucky piece back to me.
“Did your mother tell you anything about this medallion, Verity?”
“No, she gave it me just before she died. I’ve kept it all this time.” I held up the battered little piece. “I haven’t got much to remember them by, you see.”
“So,” said Miss Lillingsworth. “Is it possible, Saddy, that you could find the identity of Verity’s real mother?”
“Ma
was
my real mother,” I said.
She gave me a sad smile. “Quite so, my dear.”
“Why can’t
you
help us to find Verity’s birth mother, Maria?” the Professor burst in. “Surely the token would be enough to accomplish some kind of a reading?”
“I have held it already,” she said. “I was receptive, and I received nothing clear. I sensed a long history, and many hands, and great
septième étoile
.”
“
Septième étoile?
A seventh star?” said the Professor. “What – or who – is that?”
“It is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,” said Miss Lillingsworth patiently. I could see that she’d have been a good teacher.
“Please go on, Maria,” said SP.
“A
septième étoile
may have a number of gifts. Mère Lauriel could see the future. But she told me that others can look back into the past. And some of them …” Here she turned to me. “Some of them, Verity, can find that which is lost.”
“Ah,” breathed the Professor. “I see.”
“What happened?” I asked, still caught up in the story. “Did your employer have a son, after all?”
“She did. As a matter of fact, she had twins.” Miss Lillingsworth held out my lucky piece again. “This is Verity’s, Saddy. Her mother gave it to her. I recognised it as soon as I saw it. Mère Lauriel had a little medal just like this, engraved with the sign of the seventh–”
“The seven stars!” I burst out. So that was the point of Miss Lillingsworth’s story. Could it be that my gifts – teleagtivism and psychometry, as the Professor would put it – were something handed down to me, mother to daughter, like family jewels? I thought of Ma, just after Pa died, feverish with typhoid. What did she know about the seven stars? My mind was whirling around so fast that it was hard to think or speak clearly. Or even speak at all. “Miss Lillingsworth, are you saying … do you think … am
I
a seventh star?”
She took my hand. “You have very special gifts. Now, tell me, how many sisters do you have?”
They were all watching me, kind and concerned, expecting an answer. And what could I tell them?
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” The Professor was taken aback. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t rightly know if I’ve got any sisters or not. You see, my uncle Bill told me something the day I left Madame Louisette’s.” I took a deep breath and got it over with. “He told me that I was a foundling left in a basket outside my father’s shop. Ma and Pa adopted me for their own, and never told me nothing about it. They was –” I remembered Judith’s grammar lessons at last, and I gulped back a sob as I corrected myself “–
were
the best, the kindest, the lovingest …”
A handkerchief was pressed into my hand. I blew into it, and straightened my shoulders.
“Verity, why didn’t you tell me this?” asked the Professor.
“You never asked.”
The Professor winced ever so slightly. But it was true. All he’d been interested in was his blessed experiments, not me.
“I’m sorry, Verity.” He stared at his polished boots for a few seconds before he met my eye. “Harriet would be ashamed of me. She would have asked you about your family. She would have been kinder to you than I have been.”
Harriet was the Professor’s wife, who’d passed on three years ago. Judith had told me a bit about her. She sounded like she’d been very clever and very kind. The Professor blew his nose very loudly, and handed the lucky piece back to me.
“Did your mother tell you anything about this medallion, Verity?”
“No, she gave it me just before she died. I’ve kept it all this time.” I held up the battered little piece. “I haven’t got much to remember them by, you see.”
“So,” said Miss Lillingsworth. “Is it possible, Saddy, that you could find the identity of Verity’s real mother?”
“Ma
was
my real mother,” I said.
She gave me a sad smile. “Quite so, my dear.”
“Why can’t
you
help us to find Verity’s birth mother, Maria?” the Professor burst in. “Surely the token would be enough to accomplish some kind of a reading?”
“I have held it already,” she said. “I was receptive, and I received nothing clear. I sensed a long history, and many hands, and great
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