The Curse in the Candlelight. Sophie Cleverly

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      We got dressed, putting on matching dark blue dresses that were some of the few clothes we owned, and headed downstairs. It was early in the morning and the house still hadn’t warmed up, even though it was the last day of August.

      “I suppose a birthday breakfast is too much to hope for,” Ivy whispered.

      It was. We arrived in the chilly kitchen to find our stepmother lazing in a chair, a glass of something pale and unappetising in her hand.

      “Oh,” she said when we walked in. “You’re up. Well, make yourselves useful, then. Get the fire swept and lit.”

      I looked at her in disbelief. “I’m not your servant,” I muttered under my breath.

      Ivy gave me a wary look.

      Edith stood up and slammed her glass down on the empty table, sending the drink splashing from the sides. She must have heard me. “When you’re in my house,” she said, pointing a finger at us, “you live by my rules – understood?”

      I was about to protest further, but that was when Father walked in. “Good morning,” he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other tugging on his tie. “Everything all right?”

      It was like someone had flicked a light switch. The murderous expression evaporated from our stepmother’s face and was replaced with a calm, serene look. “Quite wonderful, dear. The girls had just volunteered to make a fire for us, hadn’t you, girls?”

      I had a good mind to set fire to her pinafore just to spite her, but that definitely wouldn’t have gone down well with Father. Ivy obviously didn’t fancy getting into trouble either, because she went over to the fireplace without a word and began sweeping it out. I muttered a few choice words under my breath and went over to help her.

      When we’d finished, Edith told Father that we’d also volunteered to make everyone breakfast. Father just yawned and smiled, his eyes staring somewhere into the past.

      I couldn’t take much more of this. “You know it’s our birthday, don’t you?” I said. “After all, isn’t that why you brought us here?”

      There was a cloud over his expression for a moment, and his eyes shut. Our mother, Ida, had died just after we were born. I could almost see her image painted on the back of his eyelids. Our birthday was a painful reminder.

      But then his eyes opened again, as if nothing had happened. “Of course I know that, Scarlet. And you’re very kind to offer to make breakfast on your birthday.”

      So we made breakfast while Edith just sat in her chair by the now-roaring fire and smirked. When the bacon and eggs were done, she jumped up and pushed us out of the way. “You’ve done enough now,” she said. “Go and sit down.”

      Reluctantly, I let go of the frying pan and sat down at the table.

      “BOYS!” Edith yelled. “BREAKFAST!”

      There was a sound like a stampeding herd as our stepbrothers came pelting down the stairs and into the kitchen. All neatly dressed, I noticed, in clothes that were shiny and new, not covered in ash and cooking grease like ours.

      I watched, open-mouthed, as Edith, once again, gave them the biggest helpings. She dished out plates that were nearly as full for herself and Father, and then for us …? Well, we were given the burnt scraps from the bottom of the dish. Father didn’t even seem to notice.

      I was hungry, and even scraps of burnt bacon and scrambled egg were better than nothing, so I ate it. But I could still feel the anger burning in my stomach.

      “Good boys,” Edith said, as they devoured their food. “You can go out to play now. Your sisters will wash up.”

      One of them, Harry – the youngest – just started laughing. And that was when I snapped.

      I stood up, my chair scraping the floor loudly. “Really? Do you want us to mop the floors and make the beds, too? Happy birthday to us!”

      “Don’t talk to your stepmother that way,” Father said, tracing his fork around his empty plate without even looking at me.

      Ivy grabbed my dress and tugged me back down to my seat. I knew how much she hated conflict, but I couldn’t put up with this for a moment longer. It was so unfair!

      “You’re making a scene again, Scarlet,” Edith said, swirling the drink in her glass. She seemed to have refilled it.

      “Oh, this isn’t a scene,” I muttered. I tied my dress in angry knots round my fingers. “You should see me make a scene.”

      Ivy decided to take that moment to make a desperate attempt at limiting the damage. “Father,” she said. “Do we have any presents?”

      “Oh, of course,” he replied. He stood up and brushed some invisible dirt from his trousers. “I’ll get them from my study while you wash up.”

      I sat and seethed until Ivy dragged me and an armful of plates over to the sink. I just knew that our stepmother was smiling smugly behind our heads.

      “Here you go,” Father said as he returned. He laid two small packages wrapped in brown paper on to the table. “Now, I’m afraid I have a lot of work that I need to be getting on with. I’ll see you in a few hours.” And with that, he wandered away again, whistling something that wasn’t even a tune, but that sounded absent-minded and sad. I’d always thought that Father and Aunt Phoebe couldn’t be more different, even though they were brother and sister, but now I was beginning to see the similarities. Neither of them seemed to be on quite the same planet as the rest of us.

      “See you later, darling,” Edith called after him. She stood up and went to the doorway. “I’m going for a lie-down,” she said in our direction. “Sort yourselves out.”

      I slammed a pile of soapy plates on to the sideboard, making Ivy jump, but Edith had already gone.

      “Could they be any more unwelcoming if they tried?” I asked.

      Ivy didn’t answer but just stared down into the dirty water. I could see a tiny tear in the corner of her eye, so I put my arm round her shoulder and led her over to the presents …

      She quickly cheered up, and together we eagerly ripped off the paper. I reached into the box and … oh.

      Socks.

      I pulled them out. They were our school regulation ones – dark blue and made of fairly soft wool that was only slightly itchy to the touch. But still. Socks.

      Ivy held up her pair in front of her face. “Oh. Rookwood socks,” she said, echoing my thoughts.

      I put them back down, curled together like little fluffy rats.

      “Well, it’s better than nothing,” she said.

      A suspicion was starting to build inside me. I went out into the hallway and down towards Father’s office where I knocked on the door.

      “Busy!” came the reply.

      I ignored СКАЧАТЬ