Free Celandine by Steve Augarde Page B

happened?
    ‘Celandine –
here
you were. Always I am hunting you. To your lessons now – Miss Bell is waiting.’ Her mother stood beside her, hands clasped together, the way she always stood. Celandine didn’t answer at first. It took a real effort to turn away from the window.
    ‘Must I?’ she said.
    ‘Yes.’ Her mother spoke more gently than before. ‘You must. This is best, I think.’
    Celandine’s heart sank lower still as she walked into the schoolroom and saw that the embroidery basket was ready and waiting for her, along with her sampler. How she hated the thing.
Hated
it. She had been working on the same ridiculous sampler for well over a year – so long that the once-white material had turned noticeably grey where the letters had been unpicked and re-worked so many times.
The Lord Is My Shepherd, I Shall Not Want
. But she
did
want, that was the trouble. She wanted so badly. She wanted Tobyjug to be alive and well. She wanted to be free of the terrible burning pain inside her. She wanted everything to be different.
    Miss Bell’s greeting was sarcastic, and predictable. ‘Ah, Miss Howard. So good of you to come.’ Celandine swallowed, but said nothing. She took a deep breath and made her way to her desk as though she were walking through a mist. She sat down clumsily and opened her workbasket.
    ‘Yes,’ said Miss Bell. ‘You
may
open your workbasket. You
may
take out your scissors and thread. You
may
pick up your sampler and – and you
may
begin.’
    Why were her hands shaking so much? She could barely hold the dressmaking scissors, clumping great things that they were, and the skeins of coloured thread quivered in her grasp so that she could not find the ends. Her sampler began to slide from her lap as she fumbled with the threads. She grabbed at it, but missed – and as she bent down to retrieve the crumpled material, she banged her forehead on the corner of the desk. Then the scissors and most of the threads fell to the floor also.
    Miss Bell walked slowly and deliberately down the room, heels clicking on the age-blackened floorboards. She stood beside the desk. Dark grey shoes and stockings, dark grey dress – all of her was dark grey. Celandine eventually managed to gather up the sampler, the scissors, and the threads, all in one armful. She sat up, red-faced, and dumped the whole grubby tangled mess onto the desk. Then she slouched back in her chair, head down, arms outstretched in front of her. Her forehead felt as though it would burst open.
    There was a long, pounding silence. Finally Miss Bell sniffed, and said, ‘Celandine, I can well understand that you might be upset about your
horse
, but—’
    The scissors flashed sideways in a quick and savage motion. Through the grey dress, through the grey stockings and deep, deep into the dark hatefulness of everything . . .
    Miss Bell’s shriek was so loud that it could be clearly heard in the kitchen, and it caused Cook to drop the kettle. She stared at Lettie. ‘Oh my sausages – what in the world was that?’ The noise was coming from the direction of the schoolroom.
    They found Miss Bell propped against a table for support, pushing herself backwards in feeble panic, as though trying to retreat or escape from something, and still crying out with pain. There was nobody else in the room. Cook rushed forward, holding out her arms in readiness – and only then realized that she was still carrying the lid of the kettle. Her attention was distracted and it was Lettie who first saw the scissors. She put her hands to her mouth and gasped. ‘Look!’
    The scissors were deeply embedded into the dark-stained folds of Miss Bell’s dress, the crossed blades protruding from the soggy material, just above the knee. Miss Bell’s face was sickly grey with shock and her cries had subsided into fast panicky breathing.
    ‘Lie back on the table, miss!’ Cook took charge of the situation. ‘No – don’t try and stand. Lean back – that’s it,