Read Chime for Free Online Page B

into petals within petals within petals.
    “Rose will go mad for it,” I said.
    “Yes, go on,” said Father. “Do give it to Rose.”
    “Just follow the screams,” I said. Eldric smiled at me over his shoulder.
    Another awkward silence fell, but Mr. Clayborne did what people in novels always do: He broke the silence by clearing his throat.
    “What is this Chime Child of which you spoke earlier?”
    “Who,” said the Reeve. “The Chime Child, she be a
who
.”
    “But a special sort of
who
,” said Father.
    “She be special, right enough,” said the Reeve. “The Chime Child, she don’t be no Old One, no Old One proper, but she don’t be no proper person, neither.”
    Mr. Clayborne only looked from Father to the Reeve and back again.
    “She has a foot in both worlds,” said Father. “One foot in the world of the Old Ones, the other in the human world. It would be a miscarriage of justice to try a witch without someone present who understands the Old Ones.”
    “You doesn’t need to fret none, Mr. Clayborne.” The constable worked his sloppy lips. “There don’t be no miscarriage: Us does it right an’ us does it proper. Any witch us seizes, she get a trial with the Chime Child an’ all t’other trimmings.”
    “Then us hangs her,” said the Reeve.
    “Why do you need a trial?” said Mr. Clayborne. “Can’t you tell that you’ve caught a witch if she flinches from a Bible Ball?”
    But not every witch reacts to a Bible Ball. They don’t affect me, for instance, which is convenient. Just imagine: the clergyman’s daughter, unable to touch the Bible?
    Awkward.
    “Not every Old One is susceptible to a Bible Ball,” said Father, “and in any event, even an Old One is entitled to a trial.”
    We all fell silent, and as though choreographed, so did Rose. Eldric must have succeeded with his fidget.
    It was so quiet, you could hear every little clink and tap as Pearl passed the tea things. You could hear the chimney wheeze.
    Two dollops of lemon cream for the constable; two dollops of lemon cream for the Reeve.
    You could hear a chunk of coal crack and spit; you could hear footsteps coming down the stairs.
    Two dollops of lemon cream for Mr. Clayborne; two dollops of lemon cream for Mr. Dreary.
    You could hear the swish of the door pushing past the doorjamb. You could hear Eldric’s lion feet and Rose’s tiptoe feet. Rose held the paper rose just as Eldric had, in the bowl of her hands. There was an unfamiliar softness to her face, as though she might smile.
    Two dollops of lemon cream for Rose; two dollops of lemon cream for Eldric.
    “I want Briony to read to me,” said Rose.
    Three dollops of lemon cream for Briony!
    “I want Briony to read to me,” said Rose, spreading her skirts on the carpet, just as Stepmother had always done, except that Rose’s were white and Stepmother’s were always the colors of the sea. It was surprising how entirely at home Stepmother had looked, sitting beneath the table, following Rose’s instructions. But it was not at all surprising how not-at-home I had felt, watching Stepmother with Rose, watching Stepmother’s infinite patience as she cut the papers to slices, to slivers, to splinters.
    It was jealousy, of course. Jealousy makes you feel small as a splinter. Jealousy makes you feel empty, makes you want to reach for the Brownie. But the Brownie’s bit of carpet was empty, save for biscuit crumbs and a bit of coal-sputter.
    Eldric took his tea on the floor. He did look comfortable, leaning against the wall, and when he smiled, he reminded me of Stepmother. She often smiled when she worked with Rose. She had a great flash of a smile; it echoed her pearls and foaming lace.
    But Mr. Dreary chose the chair next to me. He was too starchy for the floor. He was unlike Eldric in every way, including the depressing whiff of tinned soup—of which, I neglected to mention, Eldric does not smell.
    “Here be the properest thing to do,” said the constable. “If