The Elemental Detectives, page 2
The Dragon fire streaked out and splashed on to the wood. The kindling sparked immediately and Marisee shoved the cork back in. She let her breath out slowly but made the mistake of taking another breath in too quickly. The stink of sulphur spiked up her nostrils and down her throat. She really must learn to hold her breath longer, especially if she was ever going down that well. (Grandma insisted that she didn’t need to hold her breath in there, but Marisee planned on being careful – if Grandma ever did take her.)
She replaced the jar of Dragon fire and unwrapped the cloths from her hand and face. How did other people get their fires going? She wasn’t allowed to ask “other people” in case she gave away their own secrets. People must surely know that Grandma was a bit – well – different, but Grandma said that it suited everyone to pretend otherwise.
The door opened. The flames swayed with the whoosh of air, then jumped higher.
“It’s cold down there this morning!” Grandma shut the door behind her. “I suppose it’s the bottom of a well. It’s not going to be like a summer meadow, is it?”
Marisee ran over to help Grandma remove her cloak. As she hung it on the coat stand, it stopped shimmering. There was dirt streaked across the back. Hanging there, it could belong to any street vendor, not the Keeper of Wells. Grandma’s hat followed. She ran her hands through her hair, loosening her curls from her plaits. The heavy old soldiers’ boots she wore beneath her gown were crusty with clay.
“Do you need help taking them off?” Marisee asked.
Grandma slumped on to a chair. “Not yet, my darling. I am hungry, though.”
Marisee headed to the pantry and took out the butter dish. In spite of the cold, the butter was perfect for spreading. She lay it next to the bread and plum preserves on the table.
“How were the Chads today, Grandma?”
Grandma stared into the flames. “They were frightened.”
“Frightened? Do they think more rivers will be covered over?”
“I’m certain that will happen, though some Chads will fight it all the way.” Grandma picked up the bread knife. “Or make me fight it. They don’t like change. But if they want to survive, they have to flow with the modern world.”
Marisee spooned plum preserve into a dish. Grandma started sawing away at the loaf with much more force than she needed. A thick, uneven slice of bread thumped on to the plate. Her slices were usually thin and precise. Her hands must be cold from the morning visit. Marisee had tried to make Grandma wear gloves, but Grandma said she liked to feel the moss and the cracks between the bricks on her way down. It was how she knew her well was healthy.
“So why are they frightened, Grandma?”
The knife went backwards and forwards.
“Grandma?”
Grandma speared a hunk of bread with a toasting fork. “They think something in London has changed. Something very big and very wrong.”
“Something?”
“Yes.”
“They don’t know what it is?”
“They say they don’t.” Grandma looked thoughtful. “But I think they may know more than they’re telling me.”
“It’s not like… It’s nothing like what happened before the truce, is it?”
Grandma held the fork over the fire. The crust immediately started to singe around the edges. She moved it away from the flames. “No, Marisee. They’re not fighting the other elementals. I would certainly have heard about that. But they are right: something is wrong. I’ve known it in my heart but I’ve been ignoring it. I should have noticed the rock doves.”
Marisee had no time for the fat bully birds that swooped down and seized the food from her hand. “What about them?”
“I’m sure they want to be human. They prefer to steal the food from our hands than the corn in the fields. They could fly anywhere, but linger on our streets and live in the ruins of our houses. If they are troubled, we should worry. Have you seen one recently, Marisee?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. Have they disappeared?”
“No. If you look carefully, they are everywhere, except in the air. On Monday, I saw three in the gutter by the map-maker behind St Paul’s.”
“Dead?” Would that be so wrong?
Grandma eased off the slice of bread, turned it over and jabbed the fork back through. “No, not dead. Just still. Even when a cleric dropped a husk of corn right next to them, they didn’t stir.”
“Were they sick? Or poisoned?”
“I don’t know, Marisee. Later, I found a rag seller sprawled across Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I thought it was drink or fever because his breath had turned yellow. But now I believe it was neither. I know a blacksmith near the square. We dragged the poor man to the forge and laid him on blankets in a corner, but still he didn’t wake.”
Grandma handed the toasting fork to Marisee and started hacking off another slice of bread.
“The strangest thing,” Grandma said, “was his face. The man was so thin that I could see the blade of his bones beneath his skin, but he was smiling like his pockets held more coin than King George.” Grandma shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’ll forget that soon.”
By now, Grandma was usually slathering her toast with butter and heaping on the jam. She was just sitting there, staring into the fire, one hand on the loaf, the knife discarded.
“You’re sure it isn’t one of the other elementals causing trouble, Grandma?”
A knot of worry was tugging at Marisee’s stomach. She imagined the streets collapsing, rivers bursting their banks, walls of fire, wind-storms – everyone fleeing with nowhere to go.
“I don’t think so,” Grandma said. “But I can’t know for sure. They don’t like humans. They won’t speak to me and they won’t speak to each other.” Grandma yawned and rubbed her temples. Then her eyes opened wide. “Can you hear that, Marisee?”
“Hear what?”
Grandma was as still as the stones beneath Marisee’s feet. Even the firewood stopped crackling for a moment. Marisee didn’t move, just listened. She could feel her heartbeat. Her head was thumping, too. It wasn’t a headache, more like a tiny bass drum being beaten hard between her ears. A woman was singing far away, perhaps on the edge of the field nearest the village. It was too distant to hear the words.
There was a hard knock on the door. Marisee and Grandma looked at each other.
“Were you expecting a visitor, Grandma?”
“No…” Grandma didn’t sound very sure about it.
“Perhaps it’s one of the women from the workhouse,” Marisee said.
The workhouse mothers were always welcome to free healing water, but they were often too shy to come to the pump room.
“I’ll go and see who it is.” Grandma’s chair scraped as she stood up. She pulled her cloak off the hook and fastened it around her neck, then jammed her hat back on. “But do you know what I’m really hungry for, Marisee? Seville marmalade. Get the jar down, but wait before you open it.”
Marisee grinned. “Of course, Grandma!”
Grandma bent over Marisee and kissed her on the forehead. “Take care, my gorgeous girl!”
Marisee laughed. “I always hold on tight. You know I do!”
Grandma opened her mouth as if she was going to say something else, then just gave Marisee a little smile and headed out. The flames whooshed again as the door opened and closed. Marisee made her way towards the pantry. It was always well stocked with preserves and pickles, many of them gifts from grateful customers. The Seville marmalade was kept on the top shelf to help Marisee and Grandma resist temptation. It was usually eaten on St Chad’s Day.
Marisee grasped the ladder that ran from the floor to the marmalade shelf. Grandma had fixed perfect round wheels into the inside of the handles so it could easily roll along the shelf. Marisee stepped on to the lowest rung – well, the only rung – stamped down with her left foot and waited for the whoosh of air. The rung slowly rose, sliding through the long grooves on both sides of the ladder. It paused with a click at each shelf, then carried on until it reached the top. Why would Grandma worry about Marisee being careful? She’d been doing this since she was nine. Marisee grabbed the clay pot of Seville marmalade. It felt lighter than it should. They would need to buy some more soon. She shoved it in her apron pocket and tapped the rung with her right foot to descend. The Fumis might be airheads but you couldn’t complain about their air tribute to Grandma. Who wouldn’t want a ladder that was powered by air?
She ran back into the kitchen and placed the marmalade bang in the middle of the table. She wouldn’t open it until Grandma came, because one quick taste led to a spoonful, then a bigger spoonful. Then that led to an even bigger spoonful and a slice of toasted bread spread with butter and a thick layer of marmalade.
“Come on, Grandma!”
Even untoasted bread was good with Seville marmalade. It was better when freshly baked, shiny with butter, then topped with bitter shreds of orange seeped in syrupy sweetness.
“Hurry up, Grandma!”
Would there be any harm if Marisee just lifted the lid? She didn’t have to taste it. But could she stop herself? As soon as the lid was up, her spoon would be in there.
“Grandma! Where are you?” It wasn’t fair to tempt Marisee with Seville marmalade and then disappear again.
She opened the back door and peered outside. She could see across the field and down to the village. No sign of Grandma, just the large clay boot print she had left on the step as she had headed out. But, of course, Grandma would have walked down to the pump room to fill a flask. She’d be asking after the health of every woman, girl and baby at the workhouse and probably filling up a few extra flasks to take back.
Marisee sighed and shut the door. She sat down at the kitchen table and slid the marmalade jar from side to side. The lid rattled gently like it was asking to be removed.
Just one spoonful, Marisee, it was saying. One spoonful!
She would do it! Just one. Marisee took a spoon from the pot on the cabinet. It wasn’t the smallest spoon, because then she’d only have to return for a second spoonful. It was a good-sized spoon that would keep her happy until Grandma returned.
She waited and listened. No footsteps. No anything. It was the quietest Friday that she could remember. It felt like there was nothing else in the world except for her and the marmalade. She picked up the spoon and lifted the lid.
She stared into the jar. There was no marmalade. A folded sheet of paper was curled around inside. Had Grandma already eaten it all? Was this a joke? If it was, Marisee was not laughing. She tipped out the note, smoothing it on the table.
My beautiful girl, if you are reading this, I have had to leave urgently. I am so sorry that you must find out this way. I keep telling myself that I must teach you more about your full duties, but I didn’t want to lay that weight on you yet. But if you are holding this note in your hand, I am too late. An emergency has befallen us.
Marisee, there is something I keep that is even more important than the wells. It is called the Freedom of London. If it falls into the wrong hands, the city will be lost again. I must protect it. Danger will follow me and I fear that it will follow you too. I need you to be brave. I need you to gather your strength and your wits. I will fight the danger that will hunt me. You must fight the danger that will hunt you. Together, we must stop this threat and keep London safe.
You will not be alone. If you need help, ask the well.
I love you.
Grandma
What … what was this? It was a joke, wasn’t it? No. It was a test. That’s what it was. Grandma must have written the note, ready for the day that she planned to test Marisee. And today was the day! If Marisee solved the puzzle, Grandma would let her help with more Well Keeper duties.
But what was the Freedom of London? Grandma had never mentioned anything like that before. Was it something real or did it just mean that Grandma could go anywhere in London that she wanted? Why did she need to keep that safe? Marisee felt so confused.
She read the note again. Perhaps there was a clue that she’d missed. She stopped at If it falls into the wrong hands, the city will be lost again.
That sounded much too serious to be a puzzle, especially after what Grandma had told her about the rock doves and the rag seller. Even worse, the Chads were frightened.
Marisee ran and flung open the door again.
“Grandma!” she yelled. “Grandma!”
There was no answer. Just like Mama, Grandma had left her.
DREAM PIE
Robert Strong was sitting on top of a giant pie. The pastry was sagging beneath him, but he knew it was thick enough to hold his weight, even though he’d never actually ridden a pie before. It was warm, like it had been taken out of the oven an hour ago, so perfect for eating without burning the roof of his mouth. He breathed in the rich meaty smell. It was chicken. And mutton. And beef. And potato.
His hands brushed against the slits in the pastry. They stopped the pie from exploding in the oven. He’d seen Mrs Wandle, the Hibberts’s cook, stab the supper pie she made every Thursday. How many times had Robert wanted to dab his hand in the thick gravy and taste it? How many times had Mrs Wandle run her finger across the side of the heavy knife, gathering every drop of gravy and shoving it in her mouth? Then she’d grin at him so he could see the gravy between her teeth. If Robert tasted even the tiniest crumb without permission, Mrs Wandle was allowed to beat him. And, of course, she never gave permission.
Mrs Wandle kept a willow switch on the shelf above the flour barrel especially for beating purposes. Once, she’d threatened Robert with the poker, but Lady Hibbert had caught her. The Lady hadn’t wanted Robert bruised as she’d arranged a supper party for that evening and Robert was to look his best as he stood behind her chair.
But who cared about Mrs Wandle and Lady Hibbert when this pie was Robert’s? No one was going to take it away from him. He stretched out his leg. If he could jam his foot between the top and bottom crusts and lever them open… He just needed to shift closer to the edge, and then he would swivel himself upside down and dive right in.
The pie swerved. Was it trying to escape? No! He hadn’t even had a taste yet! This wasn’t what should happen. Robert clung on, his nails scrabbling against the pastry. He was so hungry. He would not let go. This was the biggest pie so far. It was for him. He dug his nails in further, felt the pastry crust giving. Just a little bit harder and he could break through…
Another hard swerve. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his fingers down harder. The meat was there, just below the surface, waiting for him to scoop it up and – a jolt! Like a giant hand was trying to shake it free from its dish. Robert slipped and scrabbled for a hold as the pie bucked like a ship in a storm.
“Robert! Wake up!”
He landed.
The ground was hard and cold beneath him. He should be used to that by now. He’d been sleeping in this corner for more than a year and a half, but every morning he still woke up aching all over.
“You’ve got to get up, Robert! No one’s lit the fire yet!”
It was Lizzie’s voice. Maybe if he kept his eyes tight shut he could bring back the dream and this time she’d be there with him. There was definitely enough pie for two. Only last week, he’d dreamed that both of them were enjoying a very well stocked hamper of cakes in Bloomsbury Square.
She shoved him. “I haven’t got the time for this, Robert!”
It was no good. He opened his eyes. It was darker in the real world than it was in his dream. Lizzie was holding a tallow candle close to him, already dressed in her scullery maid pinafore and bonnet. The stinking tallow blotted out the last memories of pie aromas. Robert made his unwilling body sit up.
“At last!” Lizzie muttered.
“It’s not my job to light the fire.”
“Doesn’t matter. If Mrs Wandle finds it’s not been done, who do you think she’s going to blame?”
Robert arched his back. It was still sore from the whack Mrs Wandle had given him when he spilled coffee over Lady Harbinger’s stole last week. It had only been a couple of drops and the stole was so furry it would have soaked it up easily, but Lady Hibbert had seen. And Lady Hibbert didn’t forgive. He still didn’t want to unroll himself from the blanket, though. This corner of the kitchen was always cold, even when it was sunny outside. At this time of the year, it was worse. No sunshine, and today no fire. He rubbed warmth into his bare toes.
“Where’s Percy?” Usually the kitchen boy already had the kindling cracking and was feeding in the small logs.
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. “But you must get up, Robert. Mrs Wandle left some pots out for you to scrub.”
“I finished them last night!”
“Well, she found some more! I’ll try and help you later, but there’s some plates for you to clean too.”
Robert gritted his teeth. The pewter dishes had to be scoured with sand, then rinsed over and over. It made his fingers sore.
“And the Duchess of Bedford is visiting this afternoon,” Lizzie said. “So you need to trim the candles in Mistress’s parlour. She’ll want you to serve them tea, won’t she?”
Robert pushed himself out of the blanket. It felt like he was pushing himself right out of the dream too. These dreams were always so real. It made the hard, hungry days better knowing he could dream food like that.
“It took ages to wake you up.” Lizzie yawned so hard he thought her face would split. “It almost made me go back to sleep myself.”
“I was having the best dream.”
“So was I. I was falling down the chimney.”
