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  Ever had found in her mother's mind a series of fascinating locked doors where secrets were kept. Secrets that must be hidden from the world and so never acknowledged. Behind one of them there was a woman, thin and brittle as a dead leaf, sitting on a bed, crying and alone. Astrid worried that her own daughter would end up like that woman, whoever she was. It was never mentioned out loud in Ever's hearing, of course.

  As a child who came along late in their life— an unexpected "gift"— Ever had disrupted her parents' routine. She was usually the cause of any quarrel they had, the source of their worries and tensions. Whenever she walked into the room, she caught the tentacles of an interrupted discussion left dangling in the air, severed syllables wafting by her head, their purpose and their partners suddenly withdrawn. But they didn't know how their thoughts continued within their daughter's hearing, crowding her mind with frenzied whispers. Private thoughts to which she should never have had access.

  So now she would leave them in peace to finish the conversation they were having before she came along and rudely intruded; let them be easy without her to worry about. Miss E. Greene— she glanced again at the smart letters on her new suitcase— had her own adventure ahead of her and for once her old-fashioned parents encouraged her to step out and be brave. In the past they had held her back, sheltered her from the world, using her "illness" as an excuse to control their daughter and keep her where they felt she should be.

  But somehow, at last, they were both ready to let go. They said it was time.

  And that time, apparently, was thirteen minutes after seven o'clock.

  Her emotions were scattered in all directions, racing from elation to fear, joy to despair. Is this how a fledgling bird felt as it took its first flight from the nest?

  And every one said who saw them go,

  "Oh! Won't they be soon upset, you know,

  For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long;

  And happen what may, it's extremely wrong

  in a sieve to sail so fast.

  She turned her head to peer out of the side window of her own troubled vessel. The unrelenting rain fell so hard and fast now that as it hit the glass it melted her view of the street, leaving only a blur of dirty grey, relieved by the occasional ball of yellow fire that flew by at greater speed than the Hansom cab seemed to move. Some of the gas lamps must still be alight. Perhaps, with the morning being so dark, cold and grim, the lamplighters were slow to get around the streets and extinguish them today.

  When the wheels bounced her roughly over a series of hard bumps, Ever hurriedly removed a hand from the warmth of her muff again, this time seeking something to hold onto, and discovered a loop of leather strap that hung from the roof of the small cab. It provided little relief— she was still thrown from side to side, but like a marionette puppet on a string. At least it gave her the illusion of safety.

  They raced along the esplanade now, with tall houses on their left and churning, gun-metal grey water on the right. There was nobody down on the sands today, no soul brazen enough to withstand the bleak weather. In the distance, white-flocked waves pounded against the pillars of an iron pier, and seagulls, lifted on the wind like pages torn in pairs from a book, spiraled and hovered above those angry peaks.

  Although she was far from home now, that glimpse of sea brought her a strange sense of comfort. It was wild and wind-lashed, yet when she looked out to the merging watercolor of sea and sky, to the wet blur of a distant horizon, she felt calmer inside. It was almost like coming home. Yet she had left all that was safe and familiar behind her.

  Just as she thought the driver must have lost all control over the galloping horse, its metal-clad hooves came to a clanging halt and the cab rocked backward before finally braking. Still at last, she took a deep breath of the damp, salty air and looked out at the grand, white-painted house beside which they now stood.

  Through the hatch above her, the driver announced that they had arrived. He did not move to help her out, nor would he release the doors until she paid the charge— a fact she was slow to realize, having never, as far as she could recall, traveled alone in a Hansom cab. Once she had passed the coins up through the hatch, he released the lever that opened the doors, and then, with the handle of her suitcase gripped tightly in one hand, her muff in the other, she stepped down onto the wet pavement.

  There was no "Good day, madam", nothing muttered before he drove the horse on again. It was almost as if he didn't see her there once she got out. Huddled beneath winter-laden skies, with his collar turned up against the icy drizzle, his sights set on the road ahead and his next fee, the coachman had soon disappeared along the grim seafront.

  Well, she was here now, away from her parents' house and the world she knew before. The unfriendly driver was just one example of what she might meet here. Better toughen her skin. She certainly didn't care to be pampered, did she? She had wanted to be out on her own at last, to prove herself capable, and that meant being a brave adult woman, not a nervous ninny girl.

  So she squared her shoulders, ascended the short flight of steps, set down her suitcase and rang the bell.

  But as the sound announcing her arrival rang through the corridors of the house, it was accompanied by something else.

  Ever was only too familiar with the screams of a child. A child who had just burst free from the suffocating grip of a terrifying nightmare.

  She glanced across at the frosty window panel on her left and saw four words marked there by a narrow, childish fingertip.

  Wrong Way No Exit.

  "I care not," she whispered. "That's the way I mean to go. So there." Ever Greene was ready to face her fears head on. To stare them down once and for all. Like the Jumblies of Edward Lear's poem, she was off to sea in her sieve.

  Chapter Three

  "My name is Mrs. Palgrave. I manage the house and staff for Mr. Hart. I've put you in a garret room as it was the only one available at present. I'm afraid it's not very warm and welcoming, but at short notice it was the best I could do. Needs must."

  Following the housekeeper closely, struggling with her heavy suitcase, Ever felt all hopes slowly sinking. Was she an unexpected arrival here too, as she had been in her parents' life? Mr. Hart's letter had said for her to arrive at thirteen minutes past seven o'clock—underlined thrice. Although adamant about the date and time of her coming, it seemed as if he had forgotten to warn anybody else.

  "Mr. Hart only thought to tell me about you this morning. Well, he's a busy man with many other things on his mind."

  This last sentence was said in a defensive tone, although Ever had made no comment and merely tried to keep up with the housekeeper's vigorous march.

  "Once Mr. Hart says goodbye to some guests I can move you to a more comfortable room, but I cannot say for certain when that will be. Mr. Hart likes to keep the house full and noisy— likes to be the life and soul of the party— but they all move on eventually. Thank goodness. He opens this house to all sorts, and it certainly means my life is never dull and drear. But he's a charitable soul and turns nobody away. You'll find us a bit at sixes and sevens, I daresay, at first, but I do try to maintain order where I can, to make up for days like these." The lady paused to glance over her shoulder. "Is that case heavy? I can get one of the footmen to carry it for you."

  "No, no. I can manage, Mrs. Palgrave. Thank you." Already a disruption to the housekeeper's morning, apparently, the last thing she wanted was to be heralded as a woman who couldn't even carry her own luggage.

  One of the first things Mrs. Palgrave said when she saw Ever that morning was, "Good gracious, there's not much flesh on your bones, is there? And you're white as a ghost! No wonder William thought you were collecting for the waifs and strays!"

  William, one of the footmen, had answered the front door bell but refused to let her in, directing her instead, with chilly hauteur, to the steps that led down to the servants' entrance. There she was met by the housekeeper, who chided her in a harried voice, "From now on,
always come and go by the servants' entrance, Miss Greene, not the front door. Don't they teach you young girls anything these days?"

  Mortified by her mistake, Ever was now anxious not to make any further faux pas.Leading her up the backstairs, the housekeeper continued, "Breakfast every morning is at seven o'clock sharp in the servants' hall and it's cleared away by half past. If you miss it you'll have to wait until luncheon, which is usually a cold buffet and put out promptly at twelve. Lingerers, Miss Greene, are not tolerated. God made creatures called sloths to hang about on trees, but if he'd wanted us to do the same he would have given us longer toes and fingers." With barely a pause for breath, she continued, "Our dinner is served depending on when the master of the house wants his own. Sometimes it's before and sometimes after." She paused at the turn of the steps. "Of course, I don't know exactly what he's hired you for. Far be it from him to enlighten me. Just left me a note this morning saying that a new member of staff by the name of Greene was coming and I was to look after you. But you're too refined to be a housemaid— nor do you possess the aggrieved countenance most chambermaids develop these days. I would have guessed lady's maid, but there's no permanent lady here to need one."

  Puzzled by Mr. Hart's apparently offhand manner in hiring her, Ever explained, "But I'm the governess."

  "Governess?" The housekeeper leaned back and clutched the banister. "Governess, of all things. Whatever next? I swear he does this to try and catch me out. Amuses himself at my expense. What have I ever done to deserve it, I wonder? One acquisition closer to a hellish motor car!"

  After this mystifying exclamation they were on their way again, Mrs. Palgrave moving at an even brisker pace, her feet falling heavier and louder once they met uncarpeted steps. The instructions were likewise resumed.

  "If you need anything laundered, you must bring it down to the scullery by Sunday evening before you go to bed and one of the maids can do it for you the next day. The household linen, of course, is always sent out, but the maids can manage smaller items. Post is collected daily. Now... what else am I forgetting? Oh yes, ablutions." She thrust a pointed finger toward the ceiling as she continued her ascent, one hand holding her skirt up so she didn't trip. "Please note, this is a clean house. No little intruders."

  "Little intruders?" Ever had visions of tiny pixies, with bells on their shoes, running up and down the stairs, stealing buttons and lace handkerchiefs just for mischief.

  The housekeeper lowered her voice, "Fleas, Miss Greene."

  "Oh."

  "Cleanliness is next to godliness. There aren't many houses that can lay honest claim to being twelve months free of the little intruders. But I've managed to keep this house secure against an invasion. Every room, cupboard, carpet, and curtain gets a good going over regularly and each member of staff maintains a regime of thorough personal cleanliness. There is no bath up here and no running water in the house except for downstairs, unfortunately, but we keep a tub in the scullery and female staff can use it during the allotted time between two and four on Thursday afternoons." The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder again as they started on the next flight of stairs. "I daresay you'll need someone to help you heat and carry the water. There's not much to you, is there? Looks like a good gust of air will blow you over." She shook her head and continued on her way. "'Tis a pity you haven't a few extra layers of good fat for the winter nights. You won't have a fire in your room, of course, but I can find you some extra blankets and a hot water bottle." With a proud sniff, she added, "Mr. Hart is generous with the candles. There's no gas pipe installed in the uppermost rooms here, but you can use all the candles you like. Good ones too. The master of the house cannot abide the smell of cheap tallow wax."

  Ever nodded, trying to retain all this information, but feeling much of it slip out again as quickly as it went in. There was simply too much for her senses, and as the stairs took her higher and higher inside the tall house, the sounds and the smells multiplied. The walls rumbled with voices, some distant, others close. Occasionally there was laughter. The scent of cigar smoke, polished leather, wax, and coal fires mingled in the air, curling around her in thin, ghostly grey sighs. The steps now passing under her boots were greatly worn by the many footsteps that must have traipsed up and down the servants' stairs over the years. Likewise the wooden banister bore the scratches and dents of a rough life in service.

  If not for the housekeeper, Ever would have taken the stairs at a much swifter pace, despite the added weight of her suitcase, but Mrs. Palgrave was the solid no-nonsense sort who would probably not appreciate the vision of a woman traveling along with both feet off the ground. It seemed highly unlikely that the good lady had any experience of such abilities. Ever was accustomed to being the only person she knew who had the fortune— or misfortune, depending upon your view point— to bring certain things out of her dreams with her when she woke, and one of the things she had brought out with her, as a child, was the skill of moving through the air simply by putting her mind to it.

  "All the staff in his house get one half day off a week and one full day off a month. As far as I know you'll get the same, but that depends upon Mr. Hart. As I always remind the maids, you're expected to conduct yourself with decorum, to remember that you are representatives of this house even on your day off. Woe betide any member of staff I catch gossiping or tattling about the business of this house to anybody outside. I have a simple rule for all my girls, always be well-shod, clean, courteous and discreet. There's no excuse to let those standards slide. And no gentleman callers. Of any description."

  "Oh, you needn't worry about that," Ever replied with a smile. "I prefer books."

  "Books?" The housekeeper stopped again to look at her. "You're one of them then, are you?"

  Not sure what exactly "one of them" might be, Ever was about to ask, when Mrs. Palgrave announced, "This is where we'll put you then, for now." They had arrived, it seemed, at the door of her new room. The air rustled with anticipation, like a tantalizing taffeta petticoat about to reveal a wayward ankle. She watched as the housekeeper struggled a moment with the stiff handle, but eventually it gave way and the door opened with a splintering crunch, followed by a low shuddering groan of despair from the old hinges.

  Despite the scientific law of hot air rising, the upper floors felt no warmer than the lower. In fact, the opposite was true and, the further they got from the main rooms of the house, the deeper a chill set in. By the time she walked into that garret room, Ever could see the breath before her mouth.

  The housekeeper had marched ahead, checking the place with her exacting eye and dust-seeking fingertips. "I see Kitty didn't give the place a going over as I asked. It needs a good airing too. No doubt she was distracted again, careless girl! I'll send her up at once."

  "That's quite alright, Mrs. Palgrave, I can dust a few cobwebs myself. Don't trouble anybody else." She didn't want some poor, over-worked maid sent up all those stairs by the housekeeper's chiding tongue.

  "I'll leave you to settle in then. Come down to the servants' hall when you're ready. I usually have a pot of tea about now in my parlor, so you're welcome to share it. You look as if you could do with a cup to warm you up."

  "Thank you. That's very kind."

  Despite the housekeeper's concern about stale air, there was a definite draft in the room. Although perhaps breeze would be a better word for it. Ever felt no inclination to remove her fur-trimmed coat— the warmest garment she possessed and a going-away gift from her parents. "You'll need something to keep you warm out there," her mother had muttered in the rigid tone of a person who refused to shed tears. Reasoning away the sudden and rare purchase of such an extravagant item of clothing for her daughter, she'd added, "I don't believe in being penny-wise and pound-foolish, as you know. When money is worth spending, it's worth spending. This is well made and hard-wearing, not flimsy, and it will last you a good long time."

  Ever certainly felt the benefit of her lovely warm coat now as she stood inside that
sparsely furnished bedchamber.

  "Mr. Hart will see you this afternoon I expect, when he gets around to it. Although what he thinks he needs a governess for, I don't know." The housekeeper heaved a sigh, her gaze narrowed as she surveyed Ever with troubled bemusement. "A governess indeed. At his age. What on earth can a dainty bit of a girl like you teach him?"

  Ever set down her suitcase. "I thought...I thought I was here to teach Mr. Hart's children."

  "Children?" The lady's eyebrows arched high. "There's no child in this house."

  She stared, her mind spinning in confusion. "I heard a child when I rang the doorbell. A child screaming. I'm quite certain."

  "I can't imagine what you heard, Miss Greene, but there's no children here, I can assure you of that. I'd know if there were any. Wretched, messy things!" The housekeeper gave a little shudder and walked over to the window. "And there's no mad wife shut up in the attic either."

  "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Palgrave?"

  "I hope you're not one of those young girls who've taken to reading books like that dreadful Jane Eyre, getting moon-eyed, romantic ideas about your employer. That's all we need in this house. I've got enough trouble with day-dreaming scullery maids learning to read from romantic drivel, and vainglorious footmen who think they ought to be on the music hall stage."

  Jane Eyre? No. If she read fiction at all, she preferred Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, or Dracula by Bram Stoker. Naturally, she had to keep these favorites concealed from her mother, who thought she was only encouraging her dark imagination into worse nightmares by reading such fare. But Ever believed in fighting fire with fire. Besides, if she was absolutely truthful with herself, filling her mind with romance was a more frightening prospect for her. At least she knew where she was with a good horror story. She could relate to it.

  She quickly assured the housekeeper, "My books are for study— science and history. Not popular novels and romances."