Free Rose by Holly Webb Page A

be good if the Fountain house had rules, like the ones at the orphanage. Rules that got read out every week, so everyone knew what was expected of them.
    â€œMr. Fountain has a moment to see you, Rose,” Miss Bridges announced in a voice that made Rose feel this was a royal command.
    She looked helplessly at the brown apron she was wearing.
    â€œNo, no, the new white one, Rose, here.” Miss Bridges frowned. “Quickly!”
    Rose flurried into the new apron—the first time she’d worn it. It wasn’t as fancy as Susan’s—Rose coveted Susan’s frills in a way she knew was quite sinful—but it was crisply starched and it had a large bow at the back, which she couldn’t help craning her neck to admire.
    Miss Bridges surveyed her critically and twitched the bow straight. “You’ll do. Come along then. We mustn’t keep the master waiting.”
    â€œWould he be angry?” Rose asked anxiously, as she jogged after Miss Bridges. Even while she worried, a little bit of Rose couldn’t help speculating whether the housekeeper had wheels instead of legs under that black frock. She moved so fast, in a sort of polite glide.
    Miss Bridges smiled over her shoulder, gliding onward. “No, not at all, Rose. But he’s very busy. I happened to catch him at the right moment and mentioned your arrival. If we leave it too long, he—well, he might not be paying attention anymore…” Miss Bridges sighed. “He’s a very important man, Rose.”
    Mr. Fountain’s study was one of the grander rooms, the ones that Susan cleaned, so Rose hadn’t seen it before. She didn’t see much of it now, except to notice that it had a very beautiful carpet, a woven one, full of animals and birds and strange creatures that might have been both.
    â€œAnd this is…er…” A deep, purring voice wrapped itself around Rose’s ears, making her jump nervously.
    â€œRose, sir,” Miss Bridges reminded him, pushing Rose forward firmly. “The little girl from St. Bridget’s. She’s been with us two days, and I’m sure she’ll settle in very nicely.” She eyed Rose expectantly, and Rose bobbed a curtsy, and said quietly, “Very pleased I’m sure, sir.” She wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to say, and it seemed to cover all the eventualities.
    Mr. Fountain leaned toward her over an enormous expanse of black marble–topped desk, which had several strange brass instruments ticking and swinging on it. The desk looked like an expensive gravestone, Rose thought nervously, fixing her eyes on the silvery threads running through it.
    â€œYou’re quite right.” The voice had lost some of its purr now and was sharper. Interested, instead of polite. “I often think so myself. It belonged to my first teacher, and I’m afraid he was a terrible show-off.”
    Rose glanced up at him shyly, feeling quite sure that she had only thought about the gravestone. Mr. Fountain drooped one eyelid in the ghost of a wink. Miss Bridges didn’t appear to have noticed. She was looking at a dusty ornament with an expression that did not bode well for Susan.
    â€œIsn’t it cold to write on?” Rose asked, forgetting to be polite and putting a finger on the black marble. Then she jumped back in surprise. “Oh! It burned me!”
    â€œLike I said, a terrible show-off,” said Mr. Fountain. “He enchanted it, in case of espionage. Spying, my dear. A dreadful curse in the new magical society. Stealing of spells is rife. Only the owner of this desk can touch it, you see, and it has to be magically willed to its next owner on one’s deathbed. An awful bore, as I can’t get rid of the thing. I shall probably leave it to Freddie.”
    Rose eyed the marble cautiously and then looked up at her master for the first time. His mustache was un-netted now and swooped out to his ears in a