1 STORYTELLER AT THE CROSSROADS
The calendar said early March, but the smell in the air said late October. A crisp sun shone over Cellar Hollow, melting the final bits of ice from the bare trees. Steam rose from the soil like a phantom, carrying with it a whisper of autumn smoke that had been lying dormant in the frosty underground. Squinting through the trees, you could just make out the winding path that ran from the village all the way to the woods in the south. People seldom traveled in that direction, but on this March-morning-that-felt-like-October, a horse and cart rattled down the road. It was a fish cart with a broken back wheel and no fish. Riding atop the bench were two children, a girl and a boy, both with striking red hair. The girl was named Molly, and the boy, her brother, was Kip.
And they were riding to their deaths.
This, at least, was what Molly had been told by no fewer than a dozen people as they traveled from farm to farm in search of the Windsor estate. Every person they spoke to muttered something ominous about "sour woods" and then refused to tell them more.
"The Windsors?" said one lanky shepherd, whom Molly had stopped in the road. "I'd just as soon lead my flock to a lion's den." He propped himself against his crook, eyeing Molly from heel to head the way that men sometimes did.
"Be that as it may," Molly said in her most polite voice, "it's where we need to be. The Windsors were expectin' us last week."
"Then they can wait a little longer." The man summoned up some phlegm from his throat and spat it on the ground. "My advice: go back to whatever country you came from. The sourwoods is no place for anyone." He shuffled across the road and into the trees, a trail of bleating sheep behind him.
Molly sighed. That was the third shepherd that hour.
"What do you think they all mean by sourwoods?" Kip asked when the flock had passed and they were moving again.
Molly did not know, and so she made something up. "You dinna know about the sourwoods?" she said, pretending to be astonished. "Why, it's a whole forest of nothin' but lemon trees and lemon blossoms and lemon moss and lemon weeds. They say that when summer comes and the fruit is ripe, just breathin' the air will make your whole face pucker." She said things like this to let her brother know she wasn't worried.
But she was worried.
She and Kip had been riding almost nonstop for four days through rain and cold, led by a horse that barely tolerated them-due in part to the fact that Molly did not know the creature's name (she had told her brother it was Galileo, but the horse seemed to disagree). She had somehow imagined that English roads would be broad and level, but these roads were even worse than those back home. The mud was black and greedy, holding on to whatever touched it-including their back wheel, which had lost three spokes only the day before. What little food there had been in the back of the cart had long since been eaten, and now only a rancid, fishy odor remained.
"Are you cold?" she said, noticing her brother shiver under his coat.
He shook his head, which she could now see was damp. "I'm hot."
Molly's heart fell. Kip had been sick for weeks and showed little sign of getting better. He needed clean clothes. He needed a bed and a bath and a proper meal. He needed a home.
Kip stifled a cough against his sleeve. "Maybe all these folks is right," he said. "Maybe we should turn back to town…or go back home."
Molly couldn't allow herself to wish for that. She and Kip were an ocean away from the place they called home. She put a hand on his forehead, which was warm. "To hear you talk, a person'd think Ma an' Da raised a pair of quitters. We'll find the place soon enough-directions or not-and there'll be hot food and a warm bed and honest work."
They rode on, growing ever more lost, until midafternoon, when they came across someone unexpected. First they heard her song-a sonorous drone that crept around the bend, slow and seductive. The music became louder as they approached, and they could soon make out a voice singing. It was an old manikin woman, not much taller than Kip, seated in the middle of a crossroads, singing to herself. The woman was clearly some sort of vagrant, for she carried upon her shoulders a huge pack bound with twine. The pack contained a clutter of random objects-hats, blankets, and lamps-as well as more interesting things like books, birdcages, and lightning rods. It reminded Molly of a snail's shell. The woman was hunched over a strange instrument almost the size of her body. The instrument had a crank at one end, and when she turned the handle, deep notes came out that Molly thought might be what it would sound like if honeybees could sing.
Molly slowed the cart and observed the woman from a safe distance. She was singing about an old man and a tree; her voice was surprisingly sweet. Molly had seen beggars playing instruments like this before in the market at home. A "hurdy-gurdy," they called it.
"You think she's a witch?" Kip whispered to his sister.
Molly smiled. "If that's a witch, she ain't much of one…hardly a wart on her! Only one way to know for sure, though." She flicked the reins, and their horse moved a little closer. "Pardon me, mum?" she called out to the woman. "My brother here'd like to know if you're a witch or not."
The manikin woman continued playing, her fingers darting along the keys. "I fear my answer will disappoint," she said, not looking up.
"So you ain't a witch, then?" Kip called, apparently wanting to be completely clear on this point.
The woman set down her instrument and peered at him, eyebrows raised. "Not everything old and ugly is wicked. I daresay that with enough years your lovely sister will look no better than I do…and it'll be her that's frightening children that come by!" She punctuated this with a suspiciously witchlike cackle. The woman struggled to her feet-which seemed a difficult task with so heavy a pack-and offered a neat curtsy. "The name's Hester Kettle. I'm the storyteller in these parts. I travel here and about, trading my songs for lodgings and food and odd things." She wiggled a shoulder, jangling the forks and wind chimes that hung from her pack.
Molly hadn't known there was such a job as storyteller, but it sounded like fine work. Telling stories was one of the things she herself did best. She had told stories to sneak her brother out of the orphanage. She had told stories to get a horse. And if she encountered any questions at her new job, she would tell stories once more. Still, there was something about this woman that made her uneasy. "And pray, mum," Molly said, "what's a storyteller doin' all the way out here? On foot, no less?"
The woman shrugged, sucking something from her teeth. "I'm on foot because I've got no horse. As to why I'm here: new stories are rare in these parts. It's not every morning we get strangers come through the hollow. And two foreigner children with nary a parent between them riding due south on a stolen fish cart?" She clucked her tongue. "Why, that's a story if I ever heard one."
Molly caught her breath. It took everything in her not to look at her brother. "Wh-wh-who says the cart was stolen?"
The woman grinned at her. "That look on your face says it twice over, dearie."
"You take that back!" Kip said, surprising Molly. "We're no thieves. My sister bought the cart from a fisherman who had no use for it. He was joining the navy to fight giant squids." He beamed at his sister. "Ain't that right, Molls?"
Molly nodded vaguely. "More or less." She stared at the woman, silently pleading with her to drop the subject.
The old woman whistled. "Giant squids, you say? Seems the truth is more compelling than the lie." She nodded to Molly. "I apologize for accusing you in front of your brother. And let me congratulate you," she added, "for picking such a fine name for your vessel." She winked. "I've a feeling it suits you."
The woman was talking about the letters painted on their wagon. The side had once read ST. JONAH'S COD SHOPPE in gold script, but the paint had mostly worn off so that only the letters S, C, O, and P remained. "It's just a random jumble," Molly said. She didn't like this conversation. Something about the way the woman looked at her-looked into her-made her wary. "If you don't mind, mum, my brother and me are expected somewhere this morning."
The woman stepped near, blocking their path. "You're headed to the Windsor home, is that right?"
Molly tried not to look startled. "Do you know 'em?" she said.
"Not really. I did meet Master Windsor once, when he was no older than you. That was near thirty years back. Right before they shipped him off to live with relations in the city, poor thing." The old woman shook her head. "When he moved back here last autumn, family in tow…well, let's just say that surprised a few folks."
Molly didn't think there was anything strange in returning to the place where one grew up. Only a few weeks here, and she would give anything to be back home in County Donegal-famine or not. "We're a little turned around at the moment," Molly said. "We asked some farmers what roads to take, but they were a bit shy with the answer."
Hester Kettle nodded, looking out into the forest behind her. "Folks here think they're doing you a good turn by not telling you the way. None of them wants to be the one who steered two innocent babes to the sourwoods, foreigners though you may be."
"And what's so bad about the sourwoods?" Molly asked.
"Why, everyone in Cellar Hollow knows to keep clear of that place. Children are warned off by their parents, who were warned by their own parents, and so on as far back as any soul can remember."
"So you don't know," Molly said.
"Firsthand accounts are rare, but most folks claim to know someone who knew someone fool enough to venture across the river into those woods." The woman hesitated for a long moment, her fingers playing at the edge of her patchwork cloak. "They say the sourwoods changes folks…brings out something horrible in them. And then there's the other thing. Tragic, really."
Kip leaned forward. "Wh-wh-what's the other thing?" he asked.
Molly clenched her jaw. The last thing she needed was this old loon filling her brother's head with frightening nonsense. She caught Hester's eye. The old woman seemed to weigh Molly's glare and then smiled at Kip. "Just rumor and hokum, luv. Why, half of it's stories I made up just to earn a meal. You'll be fine."
Molly nodded a silent thank-you. Whatever the rumors about this place were, it didn't matter. This job was their only chance to be safe and together. Who else would take in two Irish children with no guardians or references? Besides, if it were so bad, why would Master Windsor have moved his family there? "So, you'd be willin' to point us the way, then?" Molly asked.
Hester rubbed her chin as if thinking it over. "I would. But I might ask a small favor in return."
"We got no money," Molly said.
Hester waved her off. "Nothing so large as that, dearie. I only ask that you come around and tell me a story or two about what you find there. Ever since the Windsors moved back, the hollow's been all abuzz with curiosity. A woman of my trade could eat for a month on that information."
"That, I can do," Molly said.
The old woman stepped aside and pointed down a path to the left. "Ain't three miles as the crow flies. Follow the sound of the river, and if you hit a fork, take the way that looks overgrown-sourwoods is the road less traveled by far. When you come to an old bridge, well, you're right on top of it."
Molly still wasn't sure whether the woman was being completely honest, but she decided that some directions were better than none. She thanked Hester Kettle, snapped the reins, and rode past her onto the rougher path. She and her brother descended into a gorge, and behind them she could hear the woman resume her singing. The haunting melody carried through the air, growing more and more faint. Molly wondered about what might be awaiting her and her brother at the house in the sourwoods, and what sort of story she might bring back for the strange old woman.
She wished, silently, that it would be a happy one.
2 THE SILENT TREES
Kip held tight to his bench as his sister drove them down ever-rougher roads. Despite all the old witch-lady's warnings, he still didn't know what to expect inside the sourwoods. At first the landscape remained largely unchanged-tangled forests abuzz with the life of early spring-but as they traveled deeper into the hollow, a prickling sense of dread came over him. Galileo must have felt it, too, for the horse became increasingly reluctant to go on. Kip glanced up at his sister, who watched the road with a stoic expression. "Have you noticed how quiet it's got?" he whispered.
Molly had apparently been too busy driving to notice. "And what of it?" she said, tugging the reins to keep them clear of a ravine.
"There's no birds, no insects, just the woods…" Kip swallowed, eyes searching the silent trees. "Like the whole forest is waitin' for us."
To this, his sister gave no answer.
Kip knew she was taking him to a house called Windsor. She had been hired by a man in some kind of office in town. But what sort of place that might be, she would not tell him. He suspected that this was because she herself did not know-though he would never say that aloud.
They pushed through the silence until they came upon a deep river that cut like a scar through the valley. They soon saw a large parcel of land right in the middle of the water. It was flat and covered with trees: an island of woods.
"That's the place!" Molly said to him. "We made it."
Kip forced a smile for his sister's benefit. To him, the sourwoods looked no more inviting than the rest of the valley. "I suppose I do like the idea of livin' on an island," he offered by way of encouragement. "Reminds me of home."
The only way across the river was an ancient bridge made from rope and wood that looked like it might collapse at the slightest provocation. Galileo took one look at it and stopped. He snorted and stomped, trying to back away from the water. After some coaxing and some more threats, Molly convinced the horse to venture onto the bridge. The structure groaned and sagged as their wagon rolled over the rotting slats, littering bits of debris into the river below. Kip held his breath the entire way.
The heart of the island had been cleared away to create an open field surrounded by dark trees. The lawn was not flat but covered in a series of miniature hills, each ranging between one and two feet in height. Wind swept across the grassy mounds to create an effect that reminded Kip of rolling ocean waves. At the far end of the lawn stood the Windsor mansion. The house had obviously been left vacant for some years, and in that time it seemed to have become one with the landscape. Weeds swallowed the base. Ivy choked the walls and windows. The roof was sagging and covered in black moss.
But strangest of all was the tree.
The tree was enormous and looked very, very old. Most trees cast an air of quiet dignity over their surroundings. This one did not. Most trees invite you to climb up into their canopy. This one did not. Most trees make you want to carve your initials into the trunk. This one did not. To stand in the shadow of this tree was to feel a chill run through your whole body.
The tree was so close to the house that they almost seemed to have grown together-its gnarled trunk running up the wall like a great black chimney stack. Palsied branches crept out in all directions like a second roof-including a few that appeared to cut straight through the walls. "It's almost a part of the house," Kip said softly.
Why any person would build a home so close to such a terrible tree was beyond him. Had it been too difficult to cut down?
His sister smiled and pulled him closer with her arm and mussed his hair with her fingers. Kip hated that. "Maybe they'll let us tie a swing to it. Or build a fort," she said.
Kip did not think building a fort in this tree would be a very good idea. He shrugged his sister's arm off and slid down from the bench, landing expertly on his good leg. His head was a bit light, probably from all that sitting still, and he had to steady himself with one hand on the sideboard. He reached under the bench and retrieved his crutch. His father had carved the crutch from the branch of a fallen wych elm on the farm back home. It was strong and thick and had just enough spring to be comfortable when he walked. His father had named it "Courage," saying that all good tools deserved a good title. Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use. He fit the crutch under his left arm and tried to ignore how it was getting a bit short for him.
Kip hobbled around the back of the cart and lowered the gate. Inside was a battered wooden trunk with leather straps and no proper handle. It looked like something a pirate might use to store gold pieces, but instead of treasure, it held ratty clothes-everything they owned. "I still dinna see why we had to come all the way here," he said, struggling to pull the trunk free. "We coulda just stayed in town."
Molly hopped down and helped him. "You'd prefer the orphanage?"
He glared at her. "No, 'cause I'm no orphan." The trunk dropped to the cold ground, nearly crushing his left foot-not that it would matter.
Something passed over his sister's face that Kip couldn't quite read. It was the same look she had been giving the old witch when they were talking in the road. It was a look that made his stomach clench up. Then Molly smiled at him, bending her knees so their faces met. "Of course you're not an orphan," she said, "but they'd have to put us somewhere until Ma an' Da came round to fetch us."
Kip swallowed his anger. He wished for the hundredth time that his parents were already with them; they would know better than to take a job in some ugly old house in the middle of some ugly old forest.
"Look here," Molly went on. "I got a present for you." She ripped the last remaining button from the flap of her coat. She cupped it in her hands like a treasure. "Do you know what this is?"
Kip tensed his jaw. He knew what his sister was doing, and he did not want to play along. "A button," he said flatly.
Molly shook her head. "Not just any button-it's a special wishing button. Watch close." She lifted her hands to her mouth and whispered, "Dear Button: I wish that right now my brother would give me…a kiss on my cheek."
Kip didn't move. Nearly eleven, he was a bit old for kisses and make-believe.
Molly shook the button. "Did you get that, Button?" she said a little louder. "All I'm askin' in the whole wide world is one teensy, wee, bitty, little-"
Kip knew from experience that she would carry on like this until he gave in. He leaned over and gave the smallest peck he could manage.
Molly gasped, staring at the button. "It worked!" She sprang to her feet, eyes aglow with awe. "Did you see that?! It really worked!"
"You shoulda picked a better wish," Kip muttered.
"Aye, perhaps." Molly took his hand and pressed the button into his palm. "I'm givin' this button to you, but only if you promise to make really great wishes. And also, you must promise not to cry or grouse or lose hope. I need you to be brave." She shrugged. "I dinna care neither way-but it's important for Galileo…He's a bit of a scaredy." Kip glanced up at the horse, who, for his part, snorted back at him. "You think you can do that for me?" she said.
Kip nodded, releasing a slow breath. He turned the button over in his hand. "But…maybe Gal's got reason to be scared. Horses got good sense."
"Not this horse," Molly said. "He hardly knows his own name."
She put a hand on his shoulder, and the two of them turned back to the Windsor house, which towered over them. A breeze moved past Kip, and the giant tree groaned against the siding.
Kip peered at something behind one of the branches. "Did you see that?" he said. Some movement behind one of the second-story windows had caught his eye. He stared at the heavy curtain behind the glass. It was swinging back and forth, gently-
As if someone had been hiding behind it.
As if someone had been watching.
3 MISS PENNY
While her brother set out to find the stables for Galileo, Molly went to the house to speak with her new employers. She dragged her trunk to the front door and took a deep breath. All these days of travel-all the exhaustion and hunger and cold-had led her to this place: her only hope. Molly had resolved to keep a brave face for her brother, but now she allowed herself a moment of honesty. The house looked like something from a horrible fairy tale. It might as well have come with a drawbridge and boiling cauldron. "Be brave," she said to herself.
Molly had not been hired directly by the Windsor family-she had been hired by a solicitor in the city. The solicitor, a nervous man who licked his lips entirely too much, had apparently had some difficulty filling a position in so remote a place. Molly had been prepared to lie about references, but the man had assured her none were required. She need only make the journey and the job was hers. It was more than she could have possibly wished for. And now, at last, she had arrived.
Molly smoothed her skirt, pinched her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ears. Standing as tall as she could, she knocked against the door-
Creak.
It opened slightly. Molly hesitated, unsure if she was meant to enter. She peered through the crack in the door but could see nothing. "Hullo?" she called into the shadows.
"You can come in, if you'd like," said a small voice from somewhere inside. "We haven't a butler, and I'm not allowed to answer the door. But if you come in by yourself, I can't get in trouble."
Molly pushed the door open and carried her trunk inside. She shut the door behind her, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She was standing in what once must have been a stately foyer. The air smelled stale, like an attic. Dust and dry leaves crowded the corners. Cobwebs dangled lazily from lamps and furniture. But strangest and most alarming by far was the presence of the tree, which seemed to have insinuated itself into the very architecture: crooked limbs grew straight through the plaster walls, thick roots pushed through the floorboards, and a broad, twisted branch hovered just below the high ceiling like a black chandelier. She stepped over some muddy tracks, peering into the unlit hallway.
"Up here!" shouted a voice above her. On the far side of the room was a great curved staircase that led to an upper hallway. Crouched at the top of the stairs was a pale-faced little girl with dark hair and extremely thick spectacles. The girl peered through the banister rails like a prisoner. "Who was that lame boy who kissed you outside?" she called down.
Molly raised an eyebrow. "The boy's name is Kip," she said.
The girl narrowed her eyes. "Is he your husband?"
Molly did her best not to smile. "He's my brother, miss."
The girl stood up. "Well, that's a rotten trick. Papa said someone might be coming from town, only he didn't say anything about one of them being a brother. I hate brothers-they're pests." She descended the staircase, hopping, feet together, down each step. Molly watched the girl, feeling a sense of relief. Surely a house with a child like this could not be too frightening. The girl took a giant leap from the bottom step and landed in front of Molly with an impressive thump. "Does your Kip have a tin cup?" she said, adjusting her glasses, which had slid down her nose.
"Pardon, miss?"
"A tin cup. I've seen boys like him back in the town where I used to live. They'd sit on the road looking cold and sad and hold out tin cups for people to put money in."
The question was innocent, and Molly tried not to let it annoy her. "The only cup he's got is for drinkin' water, same as you."
The girl nodded, as if filing this information away for future reference. "What is your name?" she demanded.
Molly bowed. It was clear enough that this little girl was a member of the Windsor family, and it would serve her well to win the child over. "Molly McConnachie. And yours, miss?"
"Penelope Eleanor Windsor, but you can call me just Penny because that's what everyone does. Or you can call me 'miss' like you already did-that's all right, too. I'm almost seven. How old are you?"
Molly demurred; she hadn't been exactly honest with the broker about her age, and she wasn't sure she wanted these people to know just how young she was. She put a hand to her chest. "Miss Penny," she said with a touch of horror, "a lady never tells her age."
The girl looked down, embarrassed. "I didn't know that…I suppose I shouldn't have told you my age, either. Can we pretend you guessed it all on your own?" She looked at the case at Molly's feet and then back to Molly. "Is it true you've come to live with us?"
Molly nodded. "It seems that way, miss."
"Well, I hope you do," Penny said. "You have no idea how tedious this place is. That's a word Alistair taught me that means no fun at all." She plopped down in front of Molly's trunk and started fiddling with the straps. "In our old home in town, we had all sorts of lovely things to play with-jewelry and silver teapots and china statues." She glared up at the house. "Here, there's nothing but cobwebs and spiders and nasty brothers." She finished with the straps and lifted the lid to expose a mess of old clothes.
"May I ask what you're doing, Miss Penny?" Molly said.
"Opening your valise. I want to see what's inside." The girl examined each item briefly before tossing it aside in search of something new. Her interest seemed to grow considerably when she discovered the unmentionables that were packed at the bottom, and she soon had a petticoat around her head like an Indian war-bonnet.
Molly looked down the hall to see if anyone might be coming. She didn't exactly relish the idea of her new employer walking into a foyer littered with her underwear, but Penny didn't strike her as the sort of child who was accustomed to hearing the word "no." Perhaps it was time for a more artful approach.
For as long as Molly could remember, she had possessed a gift with words. It was not magic, exactly. Rather, it was a way of talking that made other people believe in magic things, if only for a moment. It was a skill her parents had taught her to use carefully. "You know, Miss Penny," she said, sitting beside the girl, "where I come from, it's bad luck to wear someone else's clothes on your head."
"Where is it you come from?" asked Penny, squinting at her through a hole in the toe of some stockings.
Molly shrugged, affecting a casual tone. "Oh, an enchanted isle."
The girl dropped the stockings. "You do not!"
Molly pretended not to hear her. She hummed to herself, folding a discarded shift and replacing it in the trunk. Penny picked up the stockings and did the same. "Is it really enchanted?" she said, scooting closer.
