A Most Magical Girl - Karen Foxlee Page 0,6

made her drowsy. Mr. Ladgrove, who taught Latin grammar at Miss Finch’s Academy for Young Ladies, had a voice like a sleeping potion.

She supposed she didn’t need to worry about Latin now anyway. Or the green ice skates. There would be no present to open on Friday morning for her birthday. Not now that everything had changed. She began to drag the dresses, one by one, into the basket. They were the heaviest things she had ever dealt with, and none of it was fair.

She was pulling out the last dress when she saw something moving beneath the surface. It was something darker than the dresses, and it made her stop. She leaned forward. There was her own face mirrored, rippling, in the purple water, but something moved deeper. Something coiling and unraveling. She leaned closer still. There it was, a dark wave, moving just below the surface. And just beneath the surface there was a house—the house she had seen before, the terrible dark house. Her mind screamed at her to look away.

All about the house she saw the city now, the jumble of streets and intersections and bridges and buildings. She saw it clearly, and she could not help the moan that escaped her lips as she peered closer.

The dark wave was spreading; it was rising and rising, but it did not crest. It was rushing out from the dark house, gushing from the windows, spreading out into the black streets. It was rushing out to destroy the city. It was all she knew. A great black wave of destruction ready to wipe away houses and fences and churches, schools and hospitals and poorhouses.

“Save them!” she cried.

She felt hands beneath her arms, someone dragging her backward from the tub. The wild girl’s face appeared suddenly, then vanished.

“Sit up,” Annabel heard her say. “Stop leaning so.”

Annabel struggled to free herself, right herself. The whole washroom seemed on its side. The wild girl’s face appeared again, and her green eyes were filled with curiosity.

“What’s happened?” came Miss Henrietta’s voice.

“Nothing,” Annabel whispered.

“I was taking my victuals under the eaves and heard her hollering,” said Kitty. “ ‘Save them!’ she was shouting, looking in the water here.”

“What did you see?” asked Miss Henrietta.

Annabel pulled herself up and leaned against the stone wall.

“Nothing,” she whispered. She examined the mud on her skirt, refusing to look at Miss Henrietta or the girl. “I must have taken faint—that’s all.”

Here was the secret she kept from the world. She would like to bury her face in her hands, but she stared at the tub instead. It was just plain purple water, nothing else. The wind whipped in through the open doorway.

“You have used too much soap,” said Miss Henrietta at last. “Our dresses are quite ruined.”

It was true that in the evening light the dresses glowed purple in the wash basket.

“Ruined!” shouted Miss Henrietta, and Annabel flinched at the word.

“Forgive me, Aunt,” whispered Annabel.

“You’ll be good for nothing,” said Miss Henrietta.

In the kitchen Annabel helped Miss Henrietta drape the dresses before the fire, where their purplish glow grew. Annabel’s cheeks stung at the sight, but no more was said. She shivered and watched Miss Henrietta unwrap bread and cut the mold from it. She sliced hard cheese and handed a plate to Annabel.

“You will be tired, no doubt,” said Miss Henrietta, pouring tea.

Annabel ate, ravenous, and gulped down the tea that Miss Henrietta passed to her. She was overcome with weariness. She shivered again and wondered after the girl Kitty, who had not been asked inside. Miss Henrietta had not even bid her good night. Annabel had never been in such a place, where no one had manners.

“I hope you do not take ill,” said Miss Henrietta. “Our last girl did. She faded away in a matter of hours.”

There was nothing Annabel could think to say to that.

“Follow me. I will show you to your room. Take the bowl and the rest of the hot water in the pitcher.”

Beside the fireplace at the end of the kitchen, there was a door, and behind the door, narrow, twisting steps. Annabel followed Miss Henrietta up three flights, past a single closed door on each turn, to the very top. The pitcher and bowl were heavy. In her old life, the maid, Mercy, would have carried them. In her old life, the maid would have said in a soothing voice, “Come along now, Miss Annabel, or you’ll fall asleep on your little feet.” In her old life, the maid would