Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters seen here, or the plot of this story. I do own the ending and the fact that this is from Cecily Temple's point of view. Okay, so I own all the plot of this that is not featured in the book. Love, Nico'sGirl. (And PLEEEEEEEEZ R&R!! 3 3 3
I watch Gemma and her little gang, pretending not to be interested, but really searching desperately to find any flaw in their doings. If I can appear smart and witty to Lizzie and Martha, then I will stay on top. Everything's better up here. And I really have to say, it's got a marvelous view. "Look." I whisper to Liz with a sneer. I'm really quite good at sneering. "They are playing tiddledy-winks. That's really such a childish game."
"Oh, indeed!" Liz agrees. But then again, Elizabeth Poole would agree with me if I told her the moon was made of thick cream cheese. Somehow, even though her reply should mean nothing to me, it means the world. I need attention, crave it even. I don't care if I'm really wrong, I still need always for someone to tell me that I'm right.
Lizzie is looking at me, awaiting another scathing comment. "Who do you suppose gave darling old Fee that scarf?" I start out casually, but my tone turns malicious soon enough. "Her grandmother?"
"Ooh, Cec!" Lizzie giggles, thrilled by my audacity. This only urges me to be ruder. How else should I react, if I can make someone so very excited only by being so impudent?
"Really, the last time a scarf like that was in fashion was during the Renaissance!" I purr. I love the way my voice sounds, in all its different moods. Angry, romantic, cynical, joyful, I never tire of it. Sometimes, when I am alone, I speak of nonsense, just to hear the sound.
I watch with an unforgiving glare as Gemma suddenly becomes very interested in what Brigid is telling the girls, as well as the rest of her posse, old Nightwing, and Ms.McCleethy. "See that, Liz? You can tell someone's unsophisticated when they get chummy with the help." Liz nods solemnly, trying to mimic my look of disdain.
Suddenly, amid the little girls' protests, Brigid gets up ad goes to the kitchen. I am surprised when McCleethy and Gemma follow.
"Where do they think they're skulking off to?" I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for Lizzie to hear, but I'm sure she would love to and give some sign of agreement. Martha stops her needlework by the fire and walks over to Lizzie and me.
"Did you see that?" she gushes. Martha has always gushed and gooed, and she will gush and goo forevermore. This is because everything, to her, is exciting. Everything is scandalous. Every little thing deserves to be gushed about. Martha is not the brightest girl. She is taken aback by everything. She is excited to be my friend. She is excited by the strawberry jam at breakfast. Martha is excited just to be alive. "What do you think they're up to?" She giggles at God knows what. Whereas I would have looked disgusted and haughty, she looks as if she would commit murder to find out what's going on in that kitchen.
"I don't know. Probably getting some sort of food. Maybe they've decided it's time to cook up and serve her for tomorrow night's dinner. She's certainly spent a while getting fattened up." Martha and Liz both giggle, Martha a bit louder and more enthusiastically.
The doors to the hall open wide, and for once in my life, I am speechless at what I see. Gemma sweeps into the room and by her side are Mother Elena, frail and wrapped in brightly shimmering fabrics, and a young Indian man, whom I have seen before with the Gypsies. Even though I would never stoop so low as to even speak to him, I still find myself admiring how muscular he is. I am only human. No, only woman.
They carry bowls, the contents of which I cannot see. They distribute the pewter containers to Felicity, Ann, and Nightwing. Martha gets up immediately and almost runs to the strange scene, along with many others. I follow at a slower, more ladylike pace, tugging Liz along by the hand, for she is far to timid to come of her own will, no matter how hotly the curiosity inside her burns.
"Cec," she whimpers, "What's going on? Why are the Gypsies here?"
"I don't know." I say, trying to be patient with her, but sometimes, she vexes me so. "We will find out."
Those with bowls go to the windows and doors and begin to paint over and around them with a reddish mixture. It looks like blood and I feel a faint nausea clawing at my stomach. Brigid also tucks sprigs of some sort of plant onto the sills while clutching her cross. I desperately want to say something, but like all the other girls I cannot bring myself to speak.
Finally, a little girl with an absurd pink hair ribbon asks in a voice that hints she is near tears ask, "Brigid, what are you doing?"
"Never you mind, dearie," she says.
"But Brigid-" the girl frantically interrupts.
"It's a game!" Gemma says with a big, fake smile. She throws a glance at Brigid.
The young girls clap, and I really can't imagine why. "What sort of game?"
Gemma explains we have to mark the entrances to keep the dwarves out, or something of the like. I really don't care to hear. "Something's amiss, there's a thing she's not telling us, I can feel it." I say to Lizzie, under the cover of the girls' excited tittering.
"But… Cec..." Liz says faintly, unsure of what to do when her own genuine opinion is needed. "She said its only a game, really…" She peers into the pot. "What is this?" she whines to Gemma, "It looks like blood."
I wrinkle my nose. "Really, Mrs.Nightwing. It's unchristian." I sniff.
Of course, those vile children all want a look at the blood. "Don't be ridiculous! It's nothing more than sherry and molasses."
"Doesn't smell like molasses or sherry." Liz mutters.
Brigid pours the mixture into small cups for each of us and we all dutifully go and paint the windows, some of us more grudgingly than others. Soon every windo is marked. Outside, night has fallen, but Nightwing won't let us retire yet. She says e must wait until midnight.
"It's all just insane," I growl to Martha as we crochet doilies, "Staying until midnight in this hall, painting the windows, and having those Gypsies even in the building at all… It's just … vile."
"Oh, indeed. Look, Gemma is even holding that old witch's hand." Martha's tone matches my own, for once. "Maybe if we're lucky she'll catch some disease from her, and then she'll be gone once and for all."
We all titter and are silent for a while, concentrating on our work. The time passes and all the young girls are asleep by eleven o'clock. Even Lizzie is starting to nod off. Martha and I whisper when we speak, so as not to wake her. Suddenly, Gemma sits bolt upright. The room is so still and quiet that I can hear exactly what she will say from where I am, but I lean closer anyway.
"What is it?" Brigid asks. McCleethy shushes her.
Gemma says nothing in reply, but outside I hear the sound of horses, and the caw of a crow. At the sharp noise, some girls rouse from their sleep, moving, but staying quiet, thoughtful, listening. Mother Elena raises her withered head. "They have come."