from the circus.â
âI donât know what exactly, but if Hetty says itâs going to be diverting I believe it will be.â
âItâs difficult not to be diverted when thereâs a diminutive cyclops making off with the silverware.â
This time Mrs Tiltman was unable to hide a smile as well, but it did not stop her from chastising her daughter for giggling.
âPlease can I stay up and meet Hettyâs person?â asked Clara.
âNo,â stated her mother. âChildren do not attend dinner parties.â
âI could write an article about it.â
âYou wonât be writing any such thing,â said Mrs Tiltman.
âButââ
âIâll hear no more about it.â
Mr Tiltman smiled indulgently at his daughter. âIf the person seems appropriate, Iâll ask Hetty to bring them round again to meet you one day soon,â he said kindly. âBut we are probably doing you a great favour by keeping you out of sight. I should prefer to be upstairs hiding away too.â
Mrs Tiltman stood up angrily. âYou are as bad as each other.â
Lady Aysgarth stood too. She remembered as a child being given in church a vivid picture of Hell. Burning flames, fire and brimstone. She recalled sitting up one night reading Danteâs account of each layer, filled with sinners, toiling away for eternity. This was worse. Sitting at a table, listening to this family, planning a dinner party of vulgarity, spending their money on vile objects that seemed specially designed to uglify the house that bore her family name. She stepped through the wall into the hallway, turned to Ether Dust and drifted up to the attic.
9
The Anger of Viola Trump
Jack sat down heavily on the bed Sam had made for him in the corner of his room.
âSo how did you get the gift then?â he asked.
âIâve always been able to see Them,â replied Sam. âFather used to think I was talking to myself, but it was always Them.â
âSheâd heard of you, that one in the kitchen. You donât want to be getting a reputation as a Talker. They all got things they want said to people, donât they? You wanna spend your life running errands for deadâuns?â
Sam shrugged.
âAnd why help her? Because sheâs got a pretty face? You wonât get satisfaction from a dead woman.â Jack laughed crudely.
âItâs not like that,â snapped Sam, more angrily than he had intended. âShe asked sweetly. She didnât try to scare me or anything like that. Iâll help her this once.â
âThe dead canât be helped,â replied Jack. âYou want some female company youâd be better off doing what your old man did and preying on grieving widows.â
âFather met my mother when she came to bury her own father,â said Sam.
âThat right, is it?â sneered Jack. âThen I stand corrected.â
Sam didnât want to talk about his mother. âHave you always been able to see Them?â he asked.
âNo.â Jack unlaced his boots and pulled them off, releasing a terrible stench from within. âMy first was a lad by the name of Browninâ. We were outside a pub up town. There was a drunken quarrel over somethinâ. I forget what. A girl? A bet? Somethinâ. Anyway, Browninâ started saying things he shouldnât. Speaking out of turn. So I silenced him with my blade.â
Jack pulled out a knife. The handle looked grubby but the blade was as sharp and clean as Samâs best bread knife. Jack held it up admiringly. Tenderly, even.
âYou killed him?â asked Sam.
âWeâre all on paths towards our graves,â said Jack, shrugging. âSome of us are goinâ faster than others is the only difference. Browninâ was always headinâ fast. My little incision just pushed him on a little. I held him while the life drained out of him to keep him from
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton