Free Forbidden by Eve Bunting Page B

again. “I was unable to sleep the first night. Shall I . . . ?
    “Go outside. Get the bucket. Put it in place,” my aunt said, picking up bellows and blowing the turf embers so they flared. Yellow and orange smoke rose, then subsided.
    “If the bucket fills, empty it and put it back. Sleep or not, whatever suits you.”
    I wished I knew some curse words, but I did not. Behind her back, I childishly stuck out my tongue, then went outside as I was, without cloak or shawl.
    The wind almost knocked me over. I staggered to where I remembered the pump to be, but there was no bucket beside it. Then I heard it trundling somewhere close where it had blown over and found it, guided only by the sound. How cozy the house looked with smoke curling wind-crooked from the chimney, the sitting room window pale and shining with candlelight. The appearance lied.
    I turned from it and stood for a moment, staring down at the sea.
    Monstrous black rollers rumbled in to smash on the sand and shingle. I saw the whites of them as they broke. Sand blew, stinging my face. I rubbed the rain from my eyes. Someone was walking on the beach close to the surf in the dark of the storm. I could not distinguish if it was man or woman, but there was an uneasy prickling at the back of my neck.
    I hurried back to the house.
    My uncle was reaching up to the small cupboard as I entered. I saw him lock it and drop what I took to be the key into the Toby Jug that sat close by it. He heard me at the door and swung around. “Dinner and prayers will be early tonight,” he said. “Your aunt and I have business. There will be men coming, men who are our . . .”
    He seemed unable to find the word.
    “Our associates.” Aunt Minnie supplied the word. She had her back to us as she turned the bannock on the griddle.
    “Our associates will come,” he went on. “We will be busy with the fishing. You will remain in your room.”
    Perhaps he did not know of the curiosity that was built into my character. Perhaps he did not remember that I had told him how I disliked being ordered.
    “Is it not a bad night for the fishing?” I asked. “The sea is raging.”
    My uncle suddenly grabbed my arm. “If you are to live with us, you will have to learn not to ask questions,” he growled.
    “I apologize.” But I suddenly knew. They were not going fishing. They and their associates had other plans, and those plans were connected with the conversation between Esmeralda and Mrs. Kitteridge. Something was happening, something illicit, and I needed to know what it was. They would leave Lamb to guard me. Somehow I would deal with Lamb.

CHAPTER TEN
    T HE CANDLE FLAME flickered shadows on the walls, touched the white dress, lighted the sparkles on the blue dancing slippers that waited beneath it.
    I stood on the bed and peered through the window. Rain poured down it in a steady stream, and I could see nothing through the fog of it. I ran my fingers along its edges. It had been opened in the past. The cords to raise and lower the sash were still there, but time and weather had stuck it closed. I took the quill from my pocket and poked its point into its lowest edge. A crumb of rotten wood fell onto my bed.
    I caught my breath, then prodded some more.
    I could do it. If I could get this unstuck, and if I could get the window to push up, I had a way out. I jabbed harder. The spike of the quill snapped off and stuck in the rotted wood.
    No! No! No!
    “Josie!” That was my aunt calling from the bottom of the stairs.
    I looked despairingly at the embedded quill point but comforted myself that I could not, in any case, have moved the window in time for tonight.
    The sitting room and kitchen were warm and filled with the smells of fresh bannock. The table was set with plates and a jug of milk and the big pat of yellow butter.
    “Sit you down,” my uncle said, addressing me but not looking at me. My aunt immediately came from the stove to join us.
    My uncle stood to give the