Free Brightwood by Tania Unsworth Page B

face. Then she took out her knife to practice her throwing. Frank was right. It was far better to use a chopping action. Her knife still mostly landed far from her target, but sometimes it hit and then the knife bit deep into the wood and stayed there, the handle quivering from the force of the impact.
    After a short time, Daisy felt better. She stood up and brushed herself off and started back towards the house. It was getting late. She would make something to eat. Some soup perhaps and the strawberries that the man had picked for her. She trotted down the path that led to the kitchen door.
    But well before she got there, her worry came back. She had just remembered something odd that the man had said over tea. He had been talking about her mum.
    She needed help,
he had said.
    Her mum was missing. The man had said he didn’t know where she was or what had happened to her.
    So why had he spoken about her in the past tense?

FOURTEEN

    â€œI thought I was hungry, but I’m not,” Daisy told Tar. “I’m too worried about Mum to be hungry.”
    â€œThere’s no such thing as not hungry,” Tar commented, eyeing the bowl of strawberries on the table. “There’s only
peckish, starving, ravenous,
and
ready-­to-­eat-­your-­own-­leg.
I’ve eaten three breakfasts and four lunches today, and I’m still at the starving level.”
    Daisy turned and opened the fridge. There was an unopened carton of cream at the back. It would go nicely with the straw­berries and might tempt her appetite. She heard the sound of claws skittering across wood.
    â€œTar?”
    She whirled around. The rat’s nose was buried in the strawberries.
    â€œI was just going to eat those!” Daisy cried. She picked up the bowl. “Did you lick them?”
    Tar didn’t say anything, although he had a guilty look.
    â€œI can’t take the chance,” Daisy said. “What a waste.” She took the strawberries and emptied them into the bin. “I don’t want to be mean, Tar, but humans can get sick from rats.”
    She rinsed the bowl in the sink and put it on the side to dry.
    â€œTar?”
    He was on the floor, moving slowly, his head held low.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    Tar shivered and stopped moving. His front paws jerked. Daisy fell to her knees beside him.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    He opened his mouth to say something, yet no sound came out. He gave her a piteous look. She scooped him up with both hands and spun around, looking for a place to put him. Then she took off her cardigan and made a nest with it in the corner of the kitchen. She placed him gently in its folds.
    â€œIs that better?”
    He didn’t move. His eyes were closed. Daisy stroked his fur.
    â€œYou had too many meals today. You’ve eaten yourself sick.”
    She lowered her head and listened to his breathing. It sounded raspy.
    â€œAre you thirsty?”
    Daisy left the kitchen and clambered through the house to the Portrait Gallery, heading for an area piled high with Day Boxes from a few months before. There was a tiny baby’s bottle in one of them. It had belonged to a doll. Daisy hadn’t played with the doll for a long while, but the bottle had turned up in the bottom of a drawer while she was tidying her room, and her mum had included it in the box for that day.
    She searched among the boxes, opening flaps and peering inside. After a moment or two, she found the one with the bottle. It was just the right size. She scrambled back to the kitchen and filled it with water.
    â€œTar?” She knelt down beside him. His eyes were still closed.
    Daisy put the tip of the baby bottle into his mouth, squeezing it gently. But he didn’t swallow. “Please,” she begged. “Please try.”
    She could feel him trembling as she stroked him.
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
    The shadows grew