Free Cuckoo Song by Frances Hardinge Page B

with a long pale face and forward-jutting chin. As the intruder shielded her eyes to peer past the Sunbeam’s headlights Triss recognized her.
    It was Violet Parish. Violet Parish who had been Sebastian’s fiancée when he went off to war. Once she had been ‘Violet’. After Sebastian’s departure she had been
‘poor Violet’. And then somehow, in the years since his death, her name had blackened and speckled in Triss’s family home, like a fruit left to rot, until it was thrown out and no
longer allowed in the house.
    ‘Stay in the car,’ Triss’s father murmured, then opened his car door and climbed out. Triss peered out through the windscreen, her stomach tensing as if for impact.
    ‘Mr Crescent!’ called Violet as he approached. Her voice had a studied, London-ish drawl to it, but with an underlying bite of anger. ‘Do you know that your wife has left me on
your doorstep for over an hour?’
    ‘Miss Parish, what are you doing here?’ Triss’s father was clearly trying to moderate his tone so that Triss would not hear, but he was not doing it very well. ‘I told
you to visit my office next week to discuss your so-called grievance. How dare you come here and bother my family!’
    ‘Yes, you did tell me you couldn’t meet me until next week – something about the whole family being on holiday, wasn’t it?’ Violet’s London drawl was rubbing
off like old paint, showing the rough metal of an Ellchester accent underneath. ‘And then today I saw your car in town. I know when I’m being sold a line, Mr Crescent.’
    ‘If you must know, Theresa was taken ill, so we came home early.’
    Violet’s dark gaze flicked to the car, and Triss sitting muffled on the back seat. Out of instinctive loyalty to her father, Triss wrinkled her brow and thought sickly, woebegone thoughts.
A look of impatient contempt flashed across Violet’s face; Triss could not tell if it was contempt for her or for her father’s words.
    ‘Really? And what would the excuse be next week? For years you refused even to talk to me about my request, or admit that all of Sebastian’s belongings were brought home to you. And
now that you can’t deny it any more, you’re finding every way to avoid talking to me about it. I turned up here because then you
can’t
ignore me.’
    ‘Oh, I rather think I can,’ snapped Triss’s father. ‘What made you believe that you could turn up at this time in the evening, on
that
, and be allowed inside my
house? Perhaps this passes for a reasonable visiting hour among your crowd, but nobody with a ounce of consideration would dream of calling by this late, without warning or invitation, and expect
to be let in.’
    ‘Just give me what’s mine,’ Violet continued, through her teeth, ‘and you never have to see me again. Only the things Sebastian’s letter said he wanted me to have
if he died – the service watch, the cigarette case and his ring.’
    ‘So that you can sell them, the way you have sold your engagement ring, my son’s books and everything else of his you could lay your hands on?’ Triss’s father was now
bitterly, quiveringly angry. It terrified Triss and sent her thoughts scattering like rabbits. ‘To us, all these things are precious beyond all measure, because they were
his
. To
you, they are worth nothing more than their shop value. I gave you money at the end of the War, to help you find your feet, and since then all you have done is make demands. We owe you
nothing.’
    ‘Who are you to tell me whether I can sell what is mine? Sebastian
wanted
me to have those things!’
    ‘Because he mistakenly thought you would value them. He had no idea what a cold-blooded vulture you could be.’
    ‘Do you think I care what you call me?’ shouted Violet. ‘Do you think I care what you think of me?’ She did not look as if she did not care. For the moment she was like
the motorcycle, all her angry, grimy inner workings visible to the eye.
    ‘No, I think you are