Free The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley

intention. It was a game she often played. She ought to be in bed; she heard two o’clock strike. The location and acoustics of the big clock that stood in the front hall were such that it could be heard throughout the large house it presided over—probably even in the servants’ quarters, although she had never had occasion to find out and didn’t quite dare ask. She had often wondered if it was perversity or accident—and for whatever reason, why wasn’t it changed?—that the clock should so be located as to force the knowledge of the passing of time upon everyone in the Residency, every hour of every day. Who would want to know the time when one couldn’t sleep?
    She had had insomnia badly when she was fresh from Home. It had never occurred to her that she would not be able to sleep without the sound of the wind through the oak trees outside her bedroom at Home; she had slept admirably aboard the ship, when apprehensions about her future should have been thickest. But the sound of the ceaseless desert air kept her awake night after night. There was something about it too like speech, and not at all like the comfortable murmur of oak leaves.
    But most of that had worn off in the first few weeks here. She had had only occasional bad nights since then. Bad? she thought. Why bad? I rarely feel much the worse the next day, except for a sort of moral irritability that seems to go with the feeling that I ought to have spent all those silent hours asleep.
    But this last week had been quite as bad—as sleepless—as any she had known. The last two nights she had spent curled up in the window-seat of her bedroom; she had come to the point where she couldn’t bear even to look at her bed. Yesterday Annie, when she had come to waken her, had found her still at the window, where she had dozed off near dawn; and, like the placid sensible maid that she was, had been scandalized. Apparently she had then had the ill grace to mention the matter to Lady Amelia, who, in spite of all the alarums and excursions of the week past, had still found time to stop at Harry’s room just at bedtime, and cluck over her, and abjure her to drink some nice warm milk (
Milk
! thought Harry with revulsion, who had given it up forever at the age of twelve, with her first grown-up cup of tea), and make her promise to try to sleep—as if that ever had anything to do with it—and ask her if she was sure she was feeling quite well.
    “Very well, ma’am,” Harry replied.
    Lady Amelia looked at her with concern. “You aren’t fidgeting yourself about, mmm, last week, are you?”
    Harry shook her head, and smiled a little. “No, truly, I am in excellent health.” She thought of the end of a conversation she had heard, two days past, as Dedham and Peterson left Sir Charles’ study without noticing her presence in the hall behind them. “ … don’t like it one bit,” Peterson was saying.
    Dedham ran his hand over the top of his close-cropped head and remarked, half-humorously, “You know, though, if in a month or a year from now, one of those Hillfolk comes galloping in on a lathered horse and yells, ‘The pass! We are overwhelmed!’ I’m going to close up the fort and go see about it with as many men as I can find, and worry about reporting it later.” The front door had closed behind the two of them, and Harry proceeded thoughtfully on her way.
    “I hope you are not sickening for anything, child,” said Lady Amelia; “your eyes seem overbright.” She paused, and then said in a tone of voice that suggested she was not sure this bit of reassurance was wise, as perhaps it would aggravate a nervous condition instead of soothing it: “You must understand, my dear, that if there is any real danger, you and I will be sent away in time.”
    Harry looked at her, startled. Lady Amelia misread her look, and patted her hand. “You mustn’t distress yourself. Sir Charles and Colonel Dedham will take care of us.”
    Yesterday Harry had managed