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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
An enchanting, suspenseful story of a curious girl, a family curse and impossible alchemy from the acclaimed author of School for Nobodies Mim grew up surrounded by secrets. On the day she was born, her mother died and a strange curse was cast upon her family. Ever since, she's been isolated in a dismal castle behind high walls, forbidden from venturing to the Outside. But Mim has never been able to stop asking questions. And when her father hires a bogus governess, Madam Marionette - who brings along an entourage of thugs and a secret caged "pet" - Mim sets her enquiring mind to work on unravelling the mysteries all around her. Longing for a taste of freedom, she is willing to break all the rules to set out on an epic quest for the truth. But will it be enough to bring happiness back to the lonely castle?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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For Jamie with love
‘“Be curious” is the best advice I’ve ever been given. It came from my dad. He also said: “Be bold”. I think that was quite useful.’
—michael rosen
‘It always seems impossible until it’s done.’
—nelson mandela
CONTENTS
HAPPY CURSE DAY
BONGHHHHHH…
The tolling of the bell echoes round the stone walls of my bedroom in the castle. It will ring twenty-four times, like it does on this day, every year. Once for each hour of Curse Day.
It’s the twenty-first of December, the winter solstice. The darkest, shortest day, when you wake in the dark, and the dark creeps up on you in the middle of the afternoon and clings to you all night.
Also, it’s my eleventh birthday.
Shivering, I throw back the thin blanket and, sitting on the edge of my bed, grope in the dark for the stub of candle on the rickety chair. With icy fingers, I strike a match. Nothing happens for a moment, then a blue-yellow flame creeps along the wick, opening up the room like a book, with its empty walls and curtainless window. My comfy old trousers and holey jumper aren’t on the chair where I dropped them last night. Foggy must have come in while I was asleep and hung them in the cupboard. She never knocks, which is why I hide things. (I’ve hidden the book 10I’m reading—Volcanoes—under my bed.) But at least my slippers are where I left them.
I creak open the cupboard door.
All my clothes are gone.
‘Foggy!’ I yell. ‘FOGGY!!!’
The sound of the bell tolling is the only reply.
I grab the blanket from my bed and wrap it tightly round my shoulders. Then I pad to the castle window and scratch at the frost on the glass with my fingernail, clearing a patch big enough to see out.
Icicles hang from the lintel in cold spears. Last night I sat shivering at the window for two whole hours, watching and waiting for the exact, magic moment when the dripping water would turn into ice. But Foggy came in right before it happened and groused at me for not being asleep. I told her I had an Enquiring Mind and she sniffed, muttering that curiosity killed cats.
BONGHHHHHH…
Below my window, the castle courtyard glistens with frost. And beyond that, the path—which runs right round the inside of the Great Wall—lies in deep shadow. Father built the Wall, thirty feet high, around our town to protect us from the Outside. Set into the Wall is the Gate—closed, the way it always is. A flag hangs at half-mast from the flagpole, like it does every Curse Day. Beyond the grounds of the castle, the cobbled streets of the little town of Galena are silent and empty, shrouded in darkness, and the low buildings hunch against the cold. No one’s supposed to leave their house on Curse Day. 11
Further along the path, just beyond the Gate, a small stone building is built against the Great Wall. That’s the forge, its single window glowing from the furnace inside. A lantern hangs from a metal hook; its dim, glimmering light falls over the rickety wooden platform outside the forge. The light shines down on the executioner’s block, with its gleaming axe.
A mountain of a man, wearing only a vest and trousers, stands on the platform: his huge black arms strain at the bell rope, his breath sends smoke into the air and dreadlocks start from his head like electric shocks. The bell is bronze, half the size of Smith himself, and made by his father.
I rap hard on the window, though Smith is much too far away to hear. But somehow he turns, raises one arm with a black armband, and gives a Happy-Birthday-Mim sort of wave. A flicker of warmth tickles my heart. Sam Smith’s my best friend—my only friend—in the world.
The cold from the stone floor has seeped through the soles of my slippers, so I jump up and down a few times to get the life back in my feet. Then the door flies open and in marches Foggy, carrying a pair of shoes and a long black dress.
‘Was that you, Miss Jemima, yelling in that coarse manner? On this day, of all days? And what are those feet doing, stamping about in such an uncouth way?’
Every Curse Day, Foggy gets gloomier and tighter-lipped and snarkier, and the dank cloud she always seems to carry round with her becomes even chillier and clammier. For the thousandth time, I wish I had a proper mother, 12instead of a Foggy. But my real mother died on Curse Day, on the day I was born, and Foggy took over; first as nanny, then as governess. And I might just as well be an orphan, since Father spends most of his time shut away in his rooms.
‘Mim,’ I correct her, like I always do. I hate being called ‘Miss Jemima’. ‘And I’m stamping my feet to keep warm. Where are my clothes?’
Foggy glares at me through her thick spectacles. She looks even more like a crow than usual today. Everyone wears a black armband on Curse Day, only Foggy wears black all over, from the moth-eaten muffler around her neck right down to her thick black stockings and her black scuffed boots. She’s exactly the same height as me, which means I get a close-up of her red nose and the drop of water hanging from it. Will that turn into an icicle too? She gives a sharp sniff, and it leaps back inside her nostril, probably grateful to get out of the cold.
‘Look sharp, Miss Jemima. Wash the sleep out of your eyes. And brush that bird’s nest hair!’
Foggy throws the dress onto the bed. It’s shiny and thin-looking, nothing like my usual patched-up, comfy things.
‘What’s that? Where are my clothes?’
Foggy scrapes her hair behind her ears and pulls a spotted handkerchief from her sleeve. She blows her nose with a mighty honk, then she pulls off her misted-up spectacles and fixes me with a watery eye.
‘Today is your eleventh birthday, Miss Jemima.’
‘I know that,’ I mutter. ‘Only no one else seems to.’ 13
Foggy ignores this. She ignores pretty much everything I say.
‘His Majesty’—her eyes go all dreamy and gooey like they always do when she mentions Father—‘wishes to see you.’
‘Father? Why?’ Father never usually sees me. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I remind him of my dead mother.
‘Apparently he has a special gift for you.’ Foggy sniffs again, as if gifts are something to be suspicious of.
‘A gift? For my birthday?’ My heart gives a little jump, and my feet do too. ‘What is it? Is it… could it be…?’ I hardly dare say the words ‘telescope’ or ‘globe of the world’.
‘The sooner you’re washed and respectable,’ snaps Foggy, ‘the sooner you’ll find out.’
The water in the basin is iced over. I use my toothbrush to break it. Taking a deep breath, I plunge in my hands and wet my face as quickly as I can, drying it with the threadbare towel which hangs on a hook beside the basin. Then I dip my toothbrush in the water and shove it into my mouth. My teeth jump and throb like it’s an ice cube, which it nearly is.
‘Get a move on, Miss Jemima, and get dressed.’
‘Mim.’ I turn to the dress lying on my lumpy pillow and pick it up. It’s cold too, and thin, made of black silk.
‘Why have I got to wear this? Is it because of seeing Father? Or because of Curse Day?’
‘Please stop calling it Curse Day and give it its proper title.’ Foggy’s lips tighten into a thin line. ‘The Day of the Catastrophic Curse. And you ask too many questions, Miss Jemima. Try to show some restraint, on this of all days.’
‘It’s not my fault there are so many secrets.’ 14
Foggy glares at me. ‘That’s enough, Miss Jemima.’
Living in a castle of secrets is like playing a game of hide-and-seek that never ends: you know the person you’re seeking is near, maybe even close enough to touch, but you can’t ever find them. You glimpse pale shapes, or catch the whisper of a voice, but if you reach out to touch them, they’re gone.
I know that my mother died on the day that I was born, on Curse Day. But I don’t know how she died, or why. That’s the first secret.
After that, Father built the Great Wall right around Galena—a Wall so high I’ve never seen over it. People say that beyond the Wall live the Outsiders, but who they are and why Father shut them out is another secret.
One day I shall find out. I wasn’t born with an Enquiring Mind for nothing. I’ve asked and asked, but grown-ups are full of cunning ways to avoid telling you what you want to know. Father does it by locking himself away. Foggy does it by ignoring my questions or telling me off. Even Smith, who I tell everything to, won’t give me the answers to these secrets.
I slip the black dress over my head. It slithers over my skin like an icy waterfall and spreads out, way past my toes, over the floor. I poke my arms into the sleeves. They are long and tight to my elbows, then they flare out like trumpets and cover my hands. The back of the dress gapes open and I grope about behind me, searching for a zip. There are rows and rows of buttons and hooks instead. I fumble at them. 15
‘Will you never learn dexterity?’ Foggy wrenches the material out of my hands and begins to do up the buttons. I can hardly breathe. ‘We have no time to waste. His Majesty must not be kept waiting.’ The higher she fastens, the less room there seems to be for me in the dress.
‘It’s too small,’ I tell her.
‘The dress is not too small,’ Foggy snaps, buttoning, hooking and squeezing. ‘You are too big.’
‘I don’t see how,’ I mutter. ‘There’s never enough to eat.’
‘Impertinent child!’ Foggy sniffs and a cold drip lands on the back of my neck. ‘His Majesty has fed and clothed you for eleven long years. Under extremely difficult circumstances.’
‘Since Curse Day? I mean, the Day of the Catastrophic Curse?’ I try to roll up the trumpet sleeves, but they unroll immediately. ‘Foggy, what exactly happened on—’
‘MissFogarty, if you please!’ Foggy hands me the pair of shoes. ‘Put these on.’
The dress is so long I can’t see my toes. I hoist it up, then push my feet into the shoes. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing high heels. I stand up—and nearly topple over. Everything is wrong and off balance. My chest is squashed against my backbone, my hands are smothered by the trumpet sleeves and my toes feel like they’re diving head first at the floor. No wonder grown-ups look so miserable, even when it isn’t Curse Day, if they have to wear clothes like this! I can’t wait to get the meeting with Father over, and go back to my own comfy, scruffy clothes.
BONGHHHHHH…16
That must be twenty-four bells. Soon, Smith will go back into the heat of his forge and busy himself with the bellows and the furnace.
‘Here.’ Foggy hands me a black armband, and I shove it up my arm.
As the echoes of the final bell settle into the castle walls, there’s a strange, ominous silence, as if the castle’s waiting for something to happen.
On Curse Day, that something isn’t likely to be good.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
‘Enter.’
Father’s thin, finicky voice calls from inside the throne room. Foggy pats her hair, sniffs, straightens her skirts and pushes me inside ahead of her. I almost trip in the high-heeled shoes and grab at Foggy’s muffler to steady myself. She gives a strangled yelp and tugs it free.
Of all the buildings in Galena, our castle is the coldest and the emptiest. Most of its rooms are shabby and cold, with crumbling plaster, leaky windows, white squares on the walls where paintings once hung, and empty spaces on the bare flagstones, where grand furniture used to stand. But the throne room is warm. Logs crackle in a fireplace big enough for half a dozen people to sit inside it. Jewel-coloured carpets lie soft on the floor.
The first thing I look for is the painting, just to make sure it’s still here. The paint’s cracked and faded. It shows the ocean, with a ship sailing on it. I’ve never seen the ocean in real life, but I know it’s right outside the Great 18Wall because I hear it roaring and crashing when I’m lying in bed.
‘Stop dreaming, Miss Jemima!’ Foggy gives me another shove. I stumble up the long, crimson rug which leads from the doorway to the dull, grey throne.
There sits Father. All around him hang mirrors. Their frames, like the throne, are dull grey. Each has a candle flickering beneath it, so that there seem to be dozens of him. He, too, wears a sombre black armband, but his silk waistcoat shines like the sun, embroidered with exotic birds and flowers. He studies a letter written in crimson ink, all the while twirling his white-blond moustache into curly points. Beside him, on a bow-legged table, is a parcel wrapped in black crêpe paper.
Foggy clears her throat.
‘Your Majesty…’ She puts on an extra posh voice when she speaks to Father. ‘Your daughter, Jemima.’ Just as if she’s introducing me to him for the very first time! She drops into a deep curtsy, her ancient black boots squeaking.
Father folds the letter evenly in two and lays it down so that its edges line up with the edges of the table. Then he looks up. His cold grey eyes widen in surprise at the sight of my dress.
‘Jemima,’ he says. ‘Is that you?’
I nod, trying not to breathe out. I’m sure if I do the buttons will ping off in all directions and I’ll burst out of the dress.
‘Come.’ Father beckons me with a manicured finger, ignoring Foggy, like he always does. She backs away, still 19bent in a curtsy, until she almost disappears into a black curtain at the back of the room. Foggy gazes at Father through her misty spectacles with a hungry expression, as if he’s a juicy tomato.
I hoist up my skirt and totter towards the throne. Now there are dozens of reflections of me in the mirrors: small and dark with too-high heels and a too-tight dress. I don’t look like Mim any more. And I don’t look like my tall, blond father either. I must take after my dead mother, who I’ve never seen. Foggy says Father locked away all the pictures of her after she died.
He stares at me for a long time without saying anything. Then, as if reluctant to squeeze the word out, he says: ‘Jemima.’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘I am disappointed in you.’
‘But why, Father? I haven’t done—’
‘Sssst!’ He clicks his fingers. ‘Fogarty informs me that you have become wild and undisciplined. That your speech is slovenly and common. That you ask too many questions and do not think before you speak. That you spend your time hanging around the forge with Samuel Smith, stinking of smoke and daubed in soot—or else lying in the library with your head in a book.’
‘But I’m learning, Father! Smith teaches me about black-smithing and metals and making things. And books teach me about volcanoes and xylophones and… and woodpeckers and vegetables. Books fill up my head with ideas—’
‘Books don’t fill stomachs,’ says Father coldly. ‘Or purses.’ 20
‘So very true, Your Majesty,’ sniffs a voice from the curtain at the back of the room. Father glances at Foggy, as if noticing her for the first time.
‘You may leave, Fogarty.’
Foggy hesitates, clearly longing to stay.
‘Now!’ Father slams his fist down on the table. The parcel shakes, and Foggy’s shoes squeak out of the room. The door creaks shut behind her.
Father turns back to me.
‘Eleven years ago,’ he glances at his black armband, ‘your poor mother, the Queen, perished on the day of your birth. Since then I have laboured to restore the fortunes of this castle, and to protect Galena from the threats of the Outside. I cannot be expected to oversee your education as well. I trusted Fogarty to tutor you, to teach you to be a daughter who would one day be a credit to me. Clearly, Fogarty has failed.’
His eyes flicker towards the letter on the table.
‘It is your eleventh birthday. And I intend to remedy Fogarty’s neglect. Today, Jemima, is the first day of the rest of your life.’
I consider this idea. ‘But that’s true of every day, isn’t it, Father? Every day is the first day of—’
‘Sssssst!’ he snaps. ‘Your tongue runs away with you. Show some respect before your king!’
He picks up the parcel. My fingers itch to take it, to tear open the paper and discover what’s inside.
‘You are growing up, Jemima. It is time to put childish ways behind you and follow your destiny.’ 21
‘My destiny?’
‘What is inside this parcel,’ Father turns it over and over in his white hands, ‘will change your life for ever. Take it and unwrap it.’
He hands me the parcel, and I almost drop it, it’s so heavy. My heart thrums in my chest. With shaking fingers, I tear the black crêpe paper away.
In my hands lies a circle of dull, greenish-grey metal with spikes on it.
‘Oh.’ I try not to show how disappointed I am. When you’ve been waiting for a present from your father your whole life and the one you finally receive turns out to be so different from what you hoped for, how do you keep your mouth from turning down and tears from pricking at your eyes? But I do my best.
‘Kneel, Jemima.’
I lift my dress and shuffle down to kneel on the red carpet. Father takes the object from my hands. He lifts it high into the air, muttering words I don’t understand, and then lowers it onto my head. It lies heavy over my eyebrows. Now my head feels squashed, as well as my chest and my tummy and my toes.
‘Arise, Princess Jemima,’ says Father.
Foggy leaps back as I jerk open the throne room door and hobble into the corridor. Her long face is flushed. She must have been eavesdropping. Then she notices the crown on my head.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ She bends in an awkward curtsy. 22
‘Stoppit, Foggy,’ I say. ‘My name is Mim.’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness.’
‘C’mon!’ I lift my skirt and set off along the corridor towards my room. ‘I want to get back into my proper clothes.’
But Foggy hurries past me and stands in front of me, barring the way.
‘Oh no, Your Royal Highness.’
‘What?’
‘These are your clothes from now on.’
I stare at her.
‘As His Majesty told you. Today is the first day of the rest of your life—your life as a princess.’
My mouth is suddenly dry. I open it, and all that comes out is a croak. I lick my lips. ‘I don’t understand—’
‘One day you will be Queen. What sort of a queen wears patched trousers and old shoes? What sort of a queen associates with blacksmiths, daubed with soot and grime? What sort of a queen has her nose always stuck in a book, and a mouthful of idle questions? From now on, you will dress as a princess and wear your crown to remind you of your future.’
‘You, you mean I’ve got to wear these… all the time?’
‘Correct, Your Royal Highness.’
I stare at her. ‘You can’t make me!’
‘Impudence!’ Foggy sniffs. ‘Your father can.’
I turn and hobble away, as best I can in the shoes and the dress.
‘And exactly where do you think you’re going, Your Royal Highness?’ 23
‘Out!’ I shout.
Foggy lunges forward and grabs my arm.
‘That is strictly forbidden, on the Day of the Catastrophic Curse.’
‘Who cares about Curse Day?’ I shake off her hand and stumble towards the door.
If this is the first day of the rest of my life, is there anything left to look forward to?
IN THE FORGE
There’s only one place to go.
I hobble along the corridor to a circular hall. It has three doors: one to the library; one down to the old dungeons; and the front door of the castle, with seven steps leading to the courtyard. I pull this one open, slip through and slam it shut on Foggy’s whingeing. Then I teeter and slide down the slippery steps in my high-heeled shoes. At the bottom, I look back at the castle, with its grand entrance and small arched windows. The throne-room window is empty so I tuck the long dress into my knickers, pull off the heavy crown and the horrible shoes and, clutching them in my icy fingers, run diagonally across the courtyard.
Luckily, there’s no one to stare, because of Curse Day, but the cold flagstone floors of the castle are nothing compared with the frosty cobbles under my bare feet. The wind tears at the thin dress and my breath mists about my face like smoke. I grit my teeth and run on, along the path beside the Great Wall. I hurry past the Gate, up towards the forge.
‘STOP! Who goes there?’ 25
The sentry, high on the Great Wall, holds a loudspeaker to his mouth, a grey shadow against the dim sky. Father orders a pair of sentries to patrol the top of the Wall, turn and turn-about, and it’s their job to open and close the Gate.
‘It’s me—Mim.’
The light from a flaming torch flickers down over the Wall.
‘Miss Jemima?’ The sentry’s voice echoes through the loudspeaker. ‘Didn’t recognize you in that get-up.’
I nod and walk on, but the voice booms out again.
‘Miss! Why are you out here on the Day of the Catastrophic Curse?’
‘I-I have to see Smith.’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Father sent me.’
‘All right, miss,’ the sentry grunts.
Even though the forge is only a few yards further on, my feet are numb by the time I race up the steps to the wooden platform. My eyes squirm away from the executioner’s block, with its stained, neck-shaped hole and the gleaming axe. Even though I know the block hasn’t been used since the first Curse Day, it seems to crouch on the platform, waiting for its next victim.
I untuck the dress from my knickers and bang on the door of the forge. It opens with a rush of hot air, and a massive figure wearing a heavy apron and thick leather gloves stares down at me. Smith’s eyes are black as coal and his skin is smoke-dark. His mouth splits in a grin and his voice—as deep as if he’d found it at the bottom of a mineshaft—booms out. 26
‘Mim, bonny girl! Happy Birthday!’
I’m lifted right off my feet and swung round. The tang of soot and sweat and hot, sweet tea makes my nose twitch. Smith always smells of home.
‘What brings you here, Mim?’ Smith’s beetly brows push together in a frown. ‘You know you aren’t allowed out today.’
‘I-I had to see you, Smith.’ Suddenly I’m shivering.
‘You’re cold as a polar bear! Come in, get warm.’
The forge is a single room, its walls blackened with soot and hung with metal tools. There’s a workbench, a mattress with a rough blanket, and a tall cupboard where Smith keeps his food and washing things; but mostly the room’s full of the furnace—a huge brick fireplace where a heap of coals glows ruby red, and flames crackle and spit.
Smith sets me down beside a large pair of leather bellows. I drop the shoes and the crown onto the stone floor and stretch out my icy fingers to warm them.
‘What’s this?’ Smith stares at the crown.
‘Oh, Smith!’ Hot tears prick my eyes and I wipe at them with the back of my hand. ‘Foggy took away my real clothes and made me wear these—and Father says I’ve got to… to grow up and face my destiny—and I’ve got to wear that crown—for the rest of my whole life!’
Smith says nothing.
‘And… and he says I spend too much time with you!’
Smith’s eyes are glued to the crown. I stamp my foot.
‘If Father stops me seeing you, I swear I’ll—well, I’ll run away to the Outside!’ 27
Smith tears off his gloves and stretches out one of his huge hands. But instead of comforting me, he bends down and picks up the crown, as if it’s as light as a dandelion clock. Then, he lifts it to his lips.
‘What’re you doing?’
Smith shakes his great head. A tear streaks down his smoky cheek.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Smith never cries.
‘I last saw this crown eleven years ago.’ He cradles the crown as if it was a baby. ‘It were the last thing Dad made, before he—’ He swallows.
I reach out and pat his shoulder. Curse Day must be extra hard for Smith. I was a newborn baby and never knew my mother. But Smith was sixteen when his dad died, so it must have been sixteen times harder for Smith to lose him. He blinks hard, then places the crown carefully on the workbench. He pulls a large, sooty handkerchief from the pocket of his apron and blows his nose like a trumpet.
‘No point visiting the past. Nobody lives there.’ He clears his throat and forces a shadow of a smile. ‘And it’s your birthday. I’ve something for you, Mim.’
He bends to open a drawer in the workbench and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in faded blue cloth.
‘What is it? Is it a present?’ Smith’s never given me a present before. No one’s allowed to be happy or celebrate on Curse Day, which is why it’s the worst day ever to have your birthday.
‘Open it and find out.’ 28
I take the bundle. It’s warm from the furnace. I almost don’t want to open it, just in case it turns out to be as disappointing as Father’s present. But this is Smith, the one person in all the world who understands me.
Slowly, I unwrap the blue cloth.
SECRETS
A little brooch gleams in the light from the furnace. It lies in my palm, its three metal letters the colour of flames.
‘For me?’
My voice is all croaky. Smith is the only person who calls me Mim.
Smith nods gruffly. ‘Happy Birthday, Mim.’
I run my fingers over my name. ‘It’s beautiful. Like it’s been made out of fire.’
‘Near enough. Made from pure gold.’
‘Gold? What’s that?’
Smith bends over the brooch, and the glow from it seems to light up his face. ‘Gold’s the most precious of all metals. This were the only piece left, after…’
‘After what?’
Smith suddenly seems very interested in a daddy-long-legs which is heading over the workbench towards 30the furnace. He captures it, cupping it in his huge hands, carries it to the window and sets it free.
I pin the brooch to the front of my dress. It feels warm against my heart.
‘Wait till I show Foggy! This’ll remind her to call me Mim, not Jemima.’
‘Ah.’ Smith scratches his nose.
‘What?’
‘You can’t show folk. If your father or Miss Fogarty were to see it, there’d be a ton of trouble.’
‘But why?’
Smith looks away. ‘I told you, gold’s a precious metal. Your father would likely want to sell it.’
I unpin the brooch and put it carefully into my pocket. ‘There. Now it’s my secret brooch. No one will ever know.’
‘Good,’ says Smith. ‘And you’d best be off. You’ll catch it if Miss Fogarty finds you here. And I’ve work to do.’
He turns his back to me, pulls on his gloves and, using a pair of metal tongs, draws something out of the furnace and lays it on the workbench, white-hot. Then he picks up an enormous hammer and begins striking it. The clanging echoes round the forge.
I go over to see. A chain, each link at least two inches thick, coils over the bench like a metal snake. At one end of it—the end Smith’s hitting—is a ring, as big as a dog collar.
‘What are you making?’
Smith pauses and frowns. ‘Goodbye, Mim.’
‘Why won’t you answer my questions?’
‘You ask too many.’ 31
‘That’s because questions need answers—just like people need friends.’
Smith’s eyebrows beetle again. But I go on anyway.
‘See, Smith, questions without answers get lonely. And they sort of swirl around inside you and hurt your tummy.’
‘Enough of your blethering, Mim!’
‘It’s my birthday, Smith!’ I say. ‘Just one little answer?’
He sighs. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Tell me about the crown. How do you know it’s the one your father made?’
Smith puts down his hammer, picks up the crown from the workbench and turns it upside down.
‘Here, see?’
On the rim, flickering in the light of the furnace, is stamped a single S.
‘That’s Dad’s special mark. His Majesty ordered Dad to make it for his firstborn child—that was you, Mim—in the weeks before you were born. Dad worked on it day and night. It were made from the purest gold.’
‘Gold?’ I pull out my brooch and compare it with the dull grey-green crown. ‘But it isn’t made of gold.’
‘No.’ Smith’s face looks weary and sad. ‘Not any more.’
‘You mean, it changed?’
Smith doesn’t reply for a while. Then he says: ‘It changed into lead on the Day of the Catastrophic Curse.’
‘What’s lead?’
‘The heaviest of all metals. Hardest to change. Poisonous, too.’
‘But why—’ 32
‘Enough, Mim.’ Smith picks up the hammer again. ‘I’ve answered your question. Now, take yourself off.’
He raises the hammer to strike at the chain again, his broad back like a big closed door. I step forward and grab his arm. His eyes flash with anger.
‘That’s dangerous, Mim. Never, never step between a man and his work.’
But the questions are piling up inside me. They tumble out of my mouth.
‘Why are there so many secrets? Whenever I ask about Curse Day, people ignore me or tell me to shut up or to go away. If I’m growing up, like Father and Foggy keep telling me I am, then I’m old enough to know the truth. Why did the crown turn to lead? Why did my mother die, and your father too? Why are we so poor? It seems like everything went wrong on Curse Day. Is it because I was born on that day? Is it all my fault?’
Smith bends down and takes me by the shoulders.
‘It’s not your fault, Mim. None of it.’
‘Then whose fault is it?’
There’s a bang on the door of the forge. Smith strides to open it. A blast of icy air swirls in, along with Foggy. Wrapped in her long grey billowing cloak, she looks like a gloomy, damp cloud. She glares at me.
‘I might have known I’d find you in here. And on the Day of the Catastrophic Curse, too! When you know full well that your father has ordered that no one should leave their house.’
‘Why are you disobeying him, then?’ I can’t help being cheeky. Foggy is such a wet blanket. 33
‘Impertinence!’ Foggy’s cheeks flush with anger. ‘And Samuel Smith, you should be ashamed of yourself, allowing her to run around barefoot in a forge!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Smith gives me a wink, which Fogarty doesn’t miss.
‘Be very careful, Samuel Smith. His Majesty sees you as a bad influence on Miss Jem—Her Royal Highness.’ She turns back to me. ‘Put on your shoes immediately. And what have you done with your crown?’
Smith silently hands it to me.
‘And on other matters, Samuel,’ Foggy continues. ‘His Majesty wishes you to finish the—’ she glances at me and lowers her voice—‘the work as quickly as possible.’
‘That chain?’ I say. ‘With the ring on it?’
Foggy gives me a look. ‘One more question from you, and I will wash out your mouth with soap. Now, come!’
‘See you later, Smith.’ I slip my hand into my pocket and feel the hidden brooch there. Its glow seems to warm my fingers.
‘See you, Mim.’
‘That’s Her Royal Highness to you, Samuel Smith!’ And Foggy pushes me out of the forge.
