Free The Choir Boats by Daniel Rabuzzi Page B

village
tongue could manage. Her niece the maid smiled, her eyes round
and bright.
    “No, missus, I know it to be true,” said Fletcher, with his hand
moving to his heart. “Because I have it on good account from my
cousin, who knows a man who works on the site.”
    “Hmmph,” said the cook. “I’m wondering if your cousin would
know a hink from a twibill, that’s all, coming with stories about
baby bones in the groundstone.”
    The reference to hinks and twibills swept right over Mr. Fletcher,
who would have ignored it anyway. But Mr. Harris approved.
    “That’s a good one, missus,” said the man from Devonshire. The
cook stopped scrubbing a pot for a moment to acknowledge the
compliment.
    Her niece used the moment to venture a query. “What else might
your cousin have to say, Mr. Fletcher?” The cook banged the pot
more than she needed to, but did not interrupt.
    “Well,” said Mr. Fletcher, his face red in the glow of the stove fire,
“There’s talk of a sighting in the Garlickhythe of a ghostly old nun
walking back and forth wringing her hands.” He walked the length
of the kitchen and back, wringing his hands as he did so.
    “Fallabarty and fol-dee-rol,” said the cook, but she was not the
least bit convincing. She had stopped scrubbing the pot, and was
hanging on Mr. Fletcher’s words.
    Sally laughed good-naturedly. “Mr. Fletcher, really, that’s such an
old story, like the one about the haunting of Velvet Lane. Surely you
don’t believe — ”
    Mr. Fletcher cut her off, while bowing to her at the same time.
“Oh, yes, Miss Sally, by Wee Willie Hawken, I do, as I have it well
affirmed, from another cousin, this one on my mother’s side, who
knows a woman who is married to the deacon in the church there.
Was him that saw the ghostly nun.” An artist wanting an image of
sincerity could not have found a better model than Mr. Fletcher at
that instant.
    Mr. Harris laughed again, his big brown boots crossed in front of
him as he leaned back in his chair. “Hmmm, Mr. Fletcher, how many
cousins do you have?”
    “No small number, Mr. Harris, a veritable tribe of us, all true
cock’s eggs, born within the sound of Bow bells.”
    “Hah! Soused gournards then!” said the cook. “That proves we
ought all to stop our ears then whenever ‘your cousin’ holds forth.”
    More laughter all around. Fraulein Reimer, who understood the
gist even when she missed some of the details in a language not her
own, put down her needlepoint. “Perhaps we shall sing together now
a song, yes?” she said. “I do not like this talk of ghosts and bones.”
    So the company sang “The Merry Christ Church Bells,” the cook
beating time on the pot and Mr. Harris stamping his boots. Sally,
holding Isaak in her lap, joined the refrain:
    Let none despise the merry, merry wives
    Of famous London town.
    Upstairs in the library Sanford put down a book to listen.
Barnabas was tapping time, and murmuring the refrain. Sanford did
not entirely approve of chat and singing in the kitchen, but allowed
that Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Harris had accommodated themselves
well to the household. Everyone’s morale was improved since their
arrival. Most of all, there had been no further attacks. No one had
seen any evidence of the Cretched Man or any other minatory being.
Sally said that her dreams were quiet. Sanford did not imagine the
enemy had retreated far but for now all seemed well.

Interlude: Frozen Algebra on Fire
    Maggie thought her mother might die from the cold. The winter had
been the coldest anyone could remember and this night — January
22, 1812 — was the coldest yet. Maggie was wearing all the clothes
she owned, swaddled within the worn-out sailor’s jacket that reached
to her knees, and still she shivered. Her ears were cold under her red
kerchief: she wished she had kept the crownless hat she had found
two weeks ago instead of selling it to the rag-and-bone man. She lay
on the pallet on the floor, holding her coughing