Amy Snow

Tracy Rees

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus

This edition first published in 2015 by
Quercus Publishing Ltd
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Copyright © 2015 by Tracy Rees

The moral right of Tracy Rees to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 146 4
Print ISBN 978 1 78429 145 7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To my parents, with love

Prologue

January 1831

Aurelia Vennaway held her breath as she tiptoed from the stuffy parlour and stole along the hallway. Her mother and aunts had paid her no attention for the past hour but that did not mean she would be allowed to leave. Her mother thought that the weather would keep her inside, that for once she would sit quietly and decorously in the corner as a little girl should.

She jammed her fur hat over fat, drawing-room ringlets and stuck her feet into sturdy boots. Shrugging on her blue cloak as swiftly as she would shrug off her destiny if she only could, she heaved open the door.

It was the kind of day that glittered and beckoned like a foretaste of heaven. The snow no longer fell, but lay thick and silver-white on the ground. The sun dazzled and the sky was a rich, celestial blue. On such a day as this, the whole world might change.

Aurelia sank up to her knees, then squared her shoulders and considered her nonsense of skirts. Gathering them up in great bunches, she lurched like a staggering deer through the snow until her lungs flamed with its cut-glass brilliance.

Last week she had not seen her mother for five days. The metallic smell of blood and the screams that came from the bedchamber were only a memory now and her mother was back amongst the family once more – but harder than ever to please. Aurelia was not sure that she cared to try. The house was brittle and tense.

Sunlight could find no way into the woods beyond the house. Snow-laden branches of yew and wasted, straggle-thin fingers of oak reached for Aurelia. She laid her hands on them, greeting them like old and comforting friends. Her ringlets had loosened into snakes. Screeching jays made the only sound. She swung herself onto a low branch to listen and dream of the time when she would leave Hatville Court and never come back.

She nearly tumbled into the drifts when she heard an unfamiliar cry. It came in bursts, feeble yet grating, insisting she jump down and follow. She felt as though some otherworldly force were playing catch-me-if-you-can with her. It came again – goblin song – drawing her through the trees and into the sunlight.

Finally, she stood on the breast of a hill. Before her, something blue and hairless wriggled in the snow. For a moment the enchantment of the old woods clung to her and she feared to touch the creature. But curiosity broke the spell and she stepped closer. It was a human child, a tiny baby. She tore off her cloak and snatched the baby from the snow. Its skin was as chill as strawberry mousse. She wrapped it up and hugged it close.

Something was distinctly wrong, Aurelia decided, when a naked infant lay alone at the edge of a deserted wood.

‘Hello?’ she called, staring all around. ‘Hello? I have your baby!’

Nothing but silence, and a crow lifting into the air on silky wings. The baby was very cold and weighed almost nothing. Aurelia turned and, as fast as her skirts allowed, she ran.

Part One

January 1848

Chapter One

I know they are watching me go. The road out of the village is long and straight. It will be miles before it bends, carrying me out of sight of the upper windows of the grand house. I know what they see: a nothing, a nobody. A small, staunch figure, lonely in mourning black, stiff skirts rustling about my boots, cloak fast against the cold. A crisp black bonnet settled grim upon my head and ribbons whipped by the wind. What a desolate January traveller I must represent.

Frost on the fields and upon the road, the village empty and forlorn, my boots leaving a trail of prints that peter into infinity. That is what they hope I will do – vanish like a melted footprint. If I can, I will oblige them. My reason for being here, the only person I have ever loved, now lies beneath six feet of earth and thick, shadow-green boughs of yew in a quiet corner of the churchyard. She was laid there yesterday.

The air is so cold that the tears are flayed from my eyes, eyes I had thought to be finished with crying for all time. After the biblical floods I have shed in the last three days I thought there could be no water left in my depleted form. Yet it seems that life, and grief, and winter go on. My toes are numb as I trudge the miles that lead me away from Aurelia’s grave and from Hatville Court, the only home, grudging as it was, that I have ever known.

*

Soon enough, it threatens dark. The sharpest sickle moon I have ever seen hangs razor-edged in a grey sky and ahead I see the silhouette of Ladywell, the next village. I have walked for hours.

I stop there because I know I must, although my needs are not the sort to be assuaged by food, or ale or fire. The chill in my bones is nothing to the freeze in my heart and no congenial company on earth could compensate me for the lack of Aurelia. But the next village is six miles yet further and the lanes are awash with shadow. It would be the height of folly to go on; a young woman alone has ever been an easy target for villains. And although I have little faith that my life will ever again feel worthwhile, I still do not wish to throw it away. Aurelia may be gone, but she is not done with me yet. I will carry out her wishes in death every scrap as faithfully as I did when she was with me.

I enter the Rose and Crown. With my second, secret legacy from Aurelia I could afford the White Harte Royal, a hotel of some repute. But news flows between Ladywell and Enderby. If it were heard at Hatville Court that Amy Snow was seen taking a room at the Harte, they would be after me tomorrow in their carriage like the hounds of hell. For then they would guess there is more to my legacy than meets the eye.

The Rose and Crown will suffice. The chat in the lounge may not be the most refined for a young lady with a mind to her reputation but then I am no lady; this has been made abundantly clear to me.

I hesitate in the hall. What am I? Respectable young woman or guttersnipe? Servant, sister or friend? My role in the tale of Aurelia Vennaway puzzles no one more than me, especially now that I am called upon to conclude it.

‘May I help you, miss?’ A soft-spoken landlord approaches, clasping his hands as though anxious that his very presence might cause offence. How well I know that feeling.

‘Thank you, sir. A room for the night, if you please, and perhaps a little supper – nothing rich – and a warming drink.’

‘Certainly, miss, certainly. BELLA!’ His welcoming tone leaps to a bellow and a young maid pops into the hall like a jackrabbit from a hole.

‘Bella, light the fire in the Barley Room and take the lady’s bag there,’ he instructs, resuming his normal pitch. ‘Might I recommend, miss, that you take supper in the lounge tonight? I would not suggest it except there is a blazing fire there and it will take a while for your room to reach a comfortable temperature. The lounge is quiet – the cold is keeping many at home – and, if you’ll forgive me, you look frozen to the bone, Miss . . .?’

‘Snow.’

He looks at me then, understanding dawning. Bella stands with my bag stretching her skinny arm almost to the floor, gazing with frank curiosity until he orders her on her way.

‘Begging your pardon, Miss Snow, if the lounge is acceptable I will attend to you myself, ensure you are undisturbed. By the time you are fed, your room will be fit to receive you.’

His kindness brings fresh tears to my eyes and only a supreme effort keeps them there.

I take my supper in the lounge and though I can eat only a little, the warmth and flavour are somewhat fortifying. I do not linger but retire to a small, simple room which is, as promised, tolerably warm. I perform a rudimentary toilette in a daze.

Whilst I walked I conceived the idea to write an account of my time and travels, so as to feel that my life has some substance, some witness. Alone in the silence, Aurelia’s absence presses down upon me but now is not the time to give in, not so very early on in my quest. I must be as strong as I need to be.

I begin to write. Really, there is nothing else I can do.

Chapter Two

I cannot help but begin with a reflection on beds. An unseemly object of consideration for a young lady, no doubt, yet why should it be so? A bed is a place where so much of life is played out – births and deaths and passions and dreaming – all the most fundamental moments of our fragile human existence.

In this story there are several important beds, not least the sick bed of my mistress, where she lay for the better part of three years. And my own, very first known bed, which was a bank of snow – a pristine white mattress that supported my tiny head, cradled my kicking limbs and chilled my poor infant flesh ’til I was blue to the bone. It also gave me my name. Indeed, it provides not just a convenient name but an apt symbol of my identity. My whole standing in this society we call the world is drawn from that unloving, white blank.

I would not have survived that soft, glittering, beautiful bed – was not intended to, let us not shy from the facts – had it not been for a headstrong child who rarely did as she was told. That child was Aurelia Vennaway, only child of Sir Charles and Lady Celestina Vennaway, the first family of the county.

At a precocious eight years of age, Aurelia was her parents’ treasure and their bane. Unimpressed by her own elevated standing in society, she seemed oblivious to the inherent differences in value that exist between human beings. I, in contrast, have never been ignorant of the fact that some children are infinitely more precious than others.

The day she found me, Aurelia wore a copper-coloured dress and sturdy brown boots with copper-coloured buttons. She was wrapped in a sky-blue cloak and wore a cream fur hat. I cannot remember this, of course, but she told me. Aurelia told me all the stories of my early life in painstaking detail as if to make up for my unknown identity with a richness of personal history.

That day, the tedium of the overheated, overpopulated parlour had quite engulfed her. Although the deepest snow in living memory lay upon the ground, the sun was shining and Aurelia breathed easiest out of doors. The four walls of any given room could not give her the horizons she longed for – horizons she could measure with her eyes and strive to conquer with her own two legs. She was like a wild animal, Cook always said.

She ran to the woods, where the jays knocked and shrieked with such heartfelt outrage it was a wonder she heard me at all. But she did, and though she lost her hat as she scrambled and slipped in the snow, she found me – skinny and frantic beneath an endless blue sky. I wonder, if I were even able to be conscious of such a thing, whether Aurelia in her sky-blue cloak appeared to me like a divine being condensed from the air.

Unlike the babies of cousins and acquaintances that had hitherto constituted her experience of the infant population, I was not red-faced and hearty but sliver-thin and blue. Nor was I smothered in yards of satin and lace; I was entirely naked. I screamed, she said, as though I would take on the whole world.

So she wrapped me in her cloak and ran for home. Neglecting all rules of decorum and boot removal, she erupted into the parlour, where her mother and aunts still sat talking and stitching and talking. Horrified gasps greeted the snowy tracks on the rug as Aurelia laid her bundle carefully before the fire and loosened the folds.

She could not quite understand why Lady Vennaway’s response to my arrival was to cry ‘Aurelia!’ as if she had done something truly dreadful. She could not understand why she was in disgrace (and it was clear that she was) for helping a living soul. Nor could she understand why her aunt Evangeline made such a fuss about the loss of the hat, as though a hat were more valuable than a baby.

In time they explained to her that not all babies are of equal value, that their worth depends upon many things, particularly the circumstances of their birth and the family into which they make their appearance. Indeed, that the world has room for an entire hierarchy of babies. I was a particularly worthless example, an unsavoury breath of disgrace – albeit not their own – that was simply neither welcome nor appropriate in the elevated Vennaway household.

Within moments of my arrival at Hatville Court I was banished to the kitchen. Not for me the roaring parlour fire and the rich softness of the Indian rug. No, the residual warmth of the stove and a bucket hastily emptied of potatoes had to serve. But Aurelia insisted on following me there and together she and Cook tended me, nursing me back to pinkness, and life.

Lady Vennaway was deeply shocked. Not at the atrocity that had been done to me, for she was well aware that mankind, outside the best families, was a seething pot of iniquity. But that the result of such immorality had presented itself on her property, encroached into her household – this was outrage. All she wanted that day (and her husband was in accord) was to get rid of me. There were orphanages, workhouses that existed to solve problems like me. But their cherished, adored Aurelia would not hear of it.

Hatville Court may be imagined as a sort of latter-day Agincourt, hosting a struggle that ebbed and swelled over two and a half decades. One army was composed of Lord and Lady Vennaway: powerful, respected, moneyed and always, incontrovertibly, right. They had history, authority and convention on their side. The opposing army consisted of Aurelia. As a child, a daughter no less, her chances of prevailing were non-existent, yet she refused to acknowledge the fact and this carried her a long way.

Most of Aurelia’s battles were minor: the choice of a gown, censorship of her reading matter, whether or not she must accompany her mother’s morning calls around the neighbourhood. These she sometimes won, more usually lost. But championing me was the first of several causes over which she would have her way no matter what. On this occasion she achieved her victory with sheer obstinacy, showing an iron will far from palatable in a young lady. I believe she also resorted to a tantrum. However, just as even the most brilliant general can benefit from reinforcements, so was Aurelia’s campaign fortified by unexpected allies.

The first of these was Lady Vennaway’s visiting troupe of sisters. Although all were horrified by me, some also expressed sympathy for my poor infant self – and relief that Fate had brought me to a family with such ample fortune that I surely would be no trouble to anyone. (It may be that mischief towards Lady Vennaway, the proudest and most beautiful of the sisters, lurked behind these philanthropic sentiments.)

The second was the appearance, just two hours later, of the Reverend Mr Chorley. If he was dismayed by the gaggle of ladies into which he stumbled, he was soon distracted by the news that awaited him. Aurelia, stubbornly absent since my arrival, suddenly reappeared and informed him of her discovery. Her florid description of the poor blue baby was further embroidered by Gwendoline, the youngest and least circumspect of the aunts. The good reverend was also of the opinion that God had brought me to the Vennaways in order to preserve my life, as well as to bless Lady Vennaway with a priceless opportunity to do her Christian duty and set an example to the whole village.

For the Vennaways, reputation was everything. Her ladyship was cornered. General Aurelia prevailed.

Chapter Three

In the waning light of my lantern I take an envelope from the pocket of my black dress. I weigh it in my hands and think back to the reading of Aurelia’s will. It feels like a full lifetime ago. In fact it was just yesterday.

The funeral – vile occasion – took place in the morning, then we all retreated to nurse our grief in private. At four o’clock, we gathered in the study: Lord and Lady Vennaway, Aurelia’s cousin Maude, myself, Cook and Mr Clay, the village school teacher. In short, her beneficiaries. And Wilberforce Ditherington, her lawyer, of course.

It was a room well befitting the sombre occasion. Indeed the whole house, though splendid, is grim and austere. A new visitor to Hatville might be deceived by the grounds, which are vibrant, lavish and vast. The lush fields and rippling woods, the grand lawns and orchards, the walled gardens massed with herbs and roses are all unchanged these hundred years. Yet the beauty, the abundance, is all on the outside.

The façade of the house is impressive, to be sure. Once inside, however, the new arrival would be hard pressed to contain a shiver. Two of the wings are veiled in dustsheets, for three Vennaways are too few to fill them all. The furniture in the grand rooms is splendid in its way, but also old-fashioned and bare. The tables bear food and the chairs provide places to perch, yet any further inspiration is lacking; it would occur to no one at Hatville to consider comfort or ornamentation.

From the moment of Aurelia’s death I felt my own light die inside me. So the Amy Snow who stood yesterday in the corner of the gloomy study, most despised of all present, could no longer feel the excoriating looks shot her way. Mr Ditherington read to us how Aurelia wished to dispose of her personal fortune and the words blew over me like sand. Sums of money, he intoned, had been distributed to the various philanthropic causes Aurelia supported: the Society for the Education of the Lower Classes; the Surrey Anti-Cholera Movement; the Alliance for the Promotion of Humane Housing for the Destitute and so on. Aurelia’s parents gazed out of the window, as ever unenthused and mildly disconcerted by Aurelia’s charities. Then Mr Ditherington came to the more personal bequests and the Vennaways paid attention once more.

Mr Clay trembled when he heard the sum she had bequeathed to his little school. It would mean repairs, supplies, extension, his long-held dream come true.

Cousin Maude was delighted to receive all of Aurelia’s sumptuous dresses, bonnets and cloaks. Even as an invalid Aurelia had remained incongruously passionate about the latest fashions and regularly commissioned bespoke gowns from London. She had always been considerably – justifiably – vain.

Cook wept when she heard that Aurelia had left her several items of jewellery, including her gold and ruby heart-shaped locket. Lord and Lady Vennaway looked pained but Cook was not the dangerous one here. She was a family servant of longstanding; it was inevitable that Aurelia should have some affection for the woman. And, being Aurelia, she was bound to be inappropriately generous.

It was I who was the danger, for I had been closer to her than anyone. Despite my shameful beginnings, and their insistence that I was a lowly, utterly dispensable servant, Aurelia had persisted in elevating me to lady’s maid, then companion and, in the last months, private nurse. They had tried to evict me with multiple cruelties both petty and great. But Aurelia would not be parted from me and I have a powerful capacity for endurance.

When my name was read, the whole party stiffened. Aurelia’s parents bristled, waited to hear what insufferable extravagance she would bestow upon me posthumously. In the event, it was surprisingly inoffensive:

To Amy Snow, true friend and devoted companion through these long years of my illness, I leave ten pounds, a sum that I know she will manage wisely to start a new life wherever she may please. Also, my gold and garnet ring, which I entreat her to wear in memory of me. Also, my recent sketchbook capturing my impressions of this past autumn, made brighter through her friendship, which burned like a good fire to dispel the chill of my impending departure.

I was aware of the sighs of relief all around. There was no need for a scene so soon after Aurelia’s death. The ring she had left me was less valuable than Cook’s locket – of sentimental value mostly. The money at least removed the necessity for them to decide what to do with me; I knew they would not supplement it with a single penny. The sketchbook, though vastly personal, was more meaningful to me than to them. They could bear to allow it. Ah, how well she knew us all.

Ten pounds. This was the sum of money that Mr Ditherington gravely counted out and pressed into my palm late yesterday afternoon. A ring and a sketchbook. These were the keepsakes I slid onto my finger, tucked into my carpet bag, knowing I would leave Hatville Court for ever the next day. I would have been packed off the moment Aurelia passed if her feelings for me had not been so well known in the neighbourhood. If I had not been at the funeral, people would have talked and the Vennaways could not abide talk. Then of course I was needed at the reading of the will and they could not be seen to turn me out so late. Such tenuous threads of timing and circumstance made possible what happened the next morning. This morning. Today!

I slept fitfully, riven with loneliness and afraid of a future that I could not imagine. But I trusted Aurelia: if she said I could start a new life with ten pounds, then that is what I would do. This uneasy mix of trust and fear bore me through to morning, when I struggled upright in the dusty winter shadows to stand at the window and stare at the horizon, in the hope that it would yield some inspiration.

And so it did, though not in a way I could have anticipated. Mr Clay was pacing in the kitchen garden.

I was astonished. He had of course gone home yesterday after the reading. Why was he back so soon, and amongst the vegetable plots? Surely he could not have business with the Vennaways, a lowly schoolteacher with no breeding?

Then he looked up and saw me and raised a hand, his mouth opening into an ‘Ah!’, though of course I could not hear it. He made a sequence of gestures expressing an invitation to join him, an imprecation to be secretive and a great, good-mannered deference all at once. I had not known that communication without words could be so fulsome. Hastily I dressed and bundled back my hair, then ran through the silent passages, out into the walled kitchen garden.

‘Is there somewhere to speak in private? Away from the house?’ he asked at once in a low, urgent voice. Whatever his business, it was clearly too important to waste time on niceties.

So I led him through a gate, along a lane and thence into a small copse. Shrouded by trees and January mist, we would not be observed. The wind whispered secrets in its own incomprehensible language. The trees stood in enigmatic silence, bare and black like the truth of Aurelia’s death.

He glanced around and, satisfied that the place would do, whipped off his hat. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Snow, for disturbing you at such a difficult time. Only, you see, I was charged to come.’

‘Charged by whom, Mr Clay?’

He looked bewildered by his own words. ‘By Miss Vennaway.’

My heart stilled. How could this be?

He reached within his overcoat and drew out a parcel. Clutching it, he hesitated. ‘After I returned home last night I felt . . . uplifted by the generous bequest she had made me. I sat in my study and wrote an extensive letter to Miss Page telling her of Miss Vennaway’s generosity and vision. Miss Page and I are betrothed, you know.’

‘I know, Mr Clay, I know.’

‘And then, well, I partook of some chops.’

‘Chops, Mr Clay?’

‘Yes, chops. Simmered with herbs and onions, delicious. I find that good fortune brings on a hearty appetite. And so it was some time before I returned to my study to open the package that Mr Ditherington had entrusted to me. It was quite large, as you may recall, and I expected it to contain a great many legal papers.’

I could not recall the package, distracted as I had been during the reading of the will. But if there were some final word from her, I would give everything I owned for it.

‘In fact, it contained very little for me. A banker’s draft for the amount stated and a letter containing very kind sentiments for the school’s future and my matrimonial happiness. The letter also contained a request. And . . . there was this.’ He handed the parcel to me at last.

‘Amy Snow’ was written on the outside in Aurelia’s familiar handwriting, in Aurelia’s favourite violet ink. I could hardly believe it. I looked up at Mr Clay’s earnest face.

‘The request was that I should deliver this to you in person before you left Hatville Court, and let no one else know that I had done so. I could not let her down.’

‘She has thought of everything,’ I said in a low voice.

‘You meant everything to her. I wish you luck, Miss Snow. I hope you will count me as one friend, at least, wherever you may go.’

He bowed and I curtseyed, then we took our leave. He wished me Godspeed and I blessed his endeavours for the school, strongly suspecting that I would never see good Mr Clay again.

I would not linger. I was dressed now and half packed. If I could leave before encountering the Vennaways, it would spare us all one last discomfort. But first I was impatient for some word of further explanation. Hastily I opened the parcel and withdrew an envelope. The envelope contained a sheaf of money that I did not count and a letter, which I read at once. I dared not risk lingering to read it in the house; even in my room I could not rely upon privacy. So I stayed in the copse, in the half-light, reading and shivering and quite unable to believe the words before me.

Then I hurried back inside. I finished packing, buckled my carpet bag and brushed my wayward cloud of dark hair, readying myself for the road.

My heart nearly jumped into my mouth when the bedroom door suddenly burst open. I spun round to see Lord Vennaway stalking towards me, face grey, moustache shivering on his lip.

‘You!’ he rasped, running a hand through his hair, plunging it into a pocket, withdrawing it in a fist, pocketing it again. ‘You are here and you should not be, you should never have been. Who are you, anyway? Taking advantage of my girl’s soft heart and innocence. Wheedling your way into her affections. Staying here where you were not welcome. Schemer! Vagabond! Baseborn! You should have died, not her. We treasured her, but she was blighted like a rose. And you were poison in her ear. You were unfit company for her. She might have lived if you had let her be but you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t!’

I had never heard him speak so. In fact I rarely heard him speak at all – we avoided each other as much as possible in the usual run of things. His wife was more often my tormentor; I had heard from her countless times that the wrong child thrived, that Aurelia had been destined for greatness, that I should have been left to die in the snow. Lord Vennaway, by contrast, was merely a disapproving presence – a raincloud over a picnic. The reality of the man, here in my room, angry, tragic and raving, was deeply alarming. I backed away from him.

‘What have you there?’ he demanded, pushing past me and seizing my carpet bag.

I gasped in horror. The precious package! I must not lose it before I had even inspected its contents. I must not let Aurelia down at the very outset!

At least the envelope was safe in my skirt. Instinctively my hand went to it and I felt its papery crackle. Lord Vennaway stared at me and for an awful moment I thought he would grab my hand, find the letter and the money. But instead he started hunting through my bag – oh, humiliating invasion though it was. Clothes, books, undergarments (I closed my eyes in mortification) and old letters were tossed through the air to land on bed and floor as he grunted in the passion of his search. The parcel was discovered in a trice.

‘What’s this?’ he demanded, seeing Aurelia’s handwriting on the wrapping.

I had to speak. ‘A birthday present. From Aurelia.’

‘A birthday present? You don’t have a birthday. You have no birth worth marking.’ His eyes locked onto mine.

I would not be undone. I had heard worse.

‘We used to pretend a birthday for me. In January. The day I was found. It was a few days before she . . . she . . .’ My eyes filled with tears. For the love of God I could not say died. ‘I kept it,’ I struggled on, ‘to have something from her after . . . after . . .’

Aghast I watched him turn it over as though to open it.

‘No!’ I could not help myself. I reached out to seize it and he pushed me hard away from him.

He tore the paper and I watched, wretched with helplessness. Some kind of gauzy green fabric spilled out, soft and feminine, perhaps with embroidery, I could not tell in the shock of it all. He cast it away too. The wrapping landed on the bed, the green gauze slithered to the floor.

‘Get out!’ he hissed. ‘Leave my house and never return. We have tolerated your unsavoury presence too long. Now Aurelia is gone and any affection for you is dead with her. Know that if you ever set foot on this property again we will call the constable and make sure you are removed for good.’

Shaking, I gathered my possessions. No careful packing this time; I just bundled them in anyhow. The green fabric and torn wrapping I stuffed in first, then everything else on top, while he watched me fumble and drop things. My only thought was to escape with Aurelia’s bequest undiscovered. I packed so badly the bag scarcely closed; my old grey dress spilled from the top.

There were no farewells. Not even Cook came to see me off, though I imagine she was forbidden to. The door was slammed behind me and I was on that long, straight road while my hair still crackled from the brushing. But the money and letter were undetected and the parcel was still in my possession. That was all that mattered.