Free Chime by Franny Billingsley

was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew.
    This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew; which meant she was hanged by the neck until dead.
    That
was the girl called Briony.
    I’m not really the sacrificing type.
    “It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose.
    We descended Gallows Hill, each in our own way. I’m no longer a wolfgirl, but still, I’m fast and Rose is slow. She’s slow and clumsy and afraid of heights and speed and danger.
    An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.
    This is the girl called Briony; who wanted to hurry to the Alehouse; which would distract her from the memory of the ghost-children; which kept coming back to her until she wanted to scream; which she felt like doing anyway, because Rose doesn’t know how to hurry; which goes to show that Briony’s always waiting for Rose, and if Briony ends up on the gallows, it will be for murder.
    This is the girl called Briony.

8
When in Rome
    “I don’t like that man.” Rose spoke loud enough for Mad Tom to hear.
    “Where be my wits?” shouted Mad Tom, who, aside from being irritatingly mad, stood between us and the funeral-baked meats. “They be lost, O my stars an’ strumpets. Lost forever an’ aye.”
    “I don’t like that man.”
    He rattled his umbrella. “It be you lovelies what taked my wits. I seen you when you done it. I spied you with my little eye.”
    He’s harmless, poor thing.
That’s what everyone said. It was true, but who cares? Lots of people are harmless, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them.
    “Two hundred twenty-six steps until the Alehouse,” said Rose. “But we have to pass that man.”
    “And pass him we shall,” I said, for Tiddy Rex was sure to be in the Alehouse, and I needed to listen to his cough. Just let it be different from Rose’s. Please let it be different!
    “I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose.
    “Come along, then.”
    “Doesn’t I spy two black-eyed lovelies!” Mad Tom flapped his umbrella at us as we passed. “Has you such a thing as a pair o’ wits about you?”
    “I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose. But we’d already pushed through the Alehouse door, into the smells of tobacco and lantern oil and the ghosts of fried sausages. A hand snuck into the crook of my arm.
    “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
    I looked up, into Eldric’s switch-on eyes.
    “You came just in time,” he said. “I was about to auction off your seats. They’re going for a fortune.”
    There weren’t many fortunes to be made in the Swampsea, but neither were there many chairs. Mourners crammed windowsills, leaned against walls, talking, laughing, drinking, as all good mourners do. But there, at a table occupied by Mr. Clayborne and Father, were two seats, tipped onto their front legs to show they were taken.
    How would a regular girl feel if an Eldric boy-man saved her a seat? Eldric, from exotic, faraway London.
    Would a regular girl be happy? I don’t know much about certain feelings, like happiness. I have thoughts, of course, but thoughts stay in one’s head. Thoughts don’t feel.
    “Introduce me to the new fellow, won’t you?” said Cecil Trumpington.
    Cecil was Judge Trumpington’s son, but he didn’t mind sharing the next-but-one table with the ratcatcher and a fellow from the willow yard. Cecil was democratic when it came to drinking.
    Cecil and Eldric shook hands. Two