Free Prospero's Children by Jan Siegel

chill and gloomy from long vacancy. Alison, however, professed herself delighted with the crooked ceiling, the balding velvet of cushion and curtain, the smoky mirror above the mantel. “I trust you won’t think me obsessive,” she said, “but if I might just have the key? I have this thing about privacy. My own space is vital to me—I can’t help it, it’s just how I am. I grew up sharing with three sisters: I expect that’s how it started.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Fern blandly. “We only have the house keys. Great-Cousin Ned seems to have put all the others in a safe place.”
    “We’ve looked everywhere,” Will added. “At least, Fern has.”
    Watching Alison, Fern was convinced there was another flicker in her expression, a momentary freezing-over. “I’d be obliged,” she said, “if you didn’t come into my room when I’m not here. I’m sure you understand.”
    Do I? thought Fern.
    She and Will went back downstairs, leaving Alison to unpack.
    “She’s very nice,” said Will, “if you like niceness. It’s hard to tell how sincere she is. She seems to be working at it—but if she’s keen on Dad she would, wouldn’t she?”
    “The niceness is all on the surface,” declared Fern. “All sparkle, no substance. It’s called charm.”
    “Like tinsel,” said Will, “on a shoddy Christmas tree. I don’t think I trust her. I haven’t quite made up my mind.”
    “I have,” said his sister. “You don’t.”
    In the hall, Mrs. Wicklow was putting on her coat. “I’ll be off now,” she said. “There’s a pie in t’ oven. I daresay Madam won’t eat it, she’s too skinny to eat pie: probably lives off brown rice and that muesli. Still, I know you two appreciate my cooking.”
    “We do,” Will concurred warmly.
    “Queer thing about her,” she added, glancing up in the direction of Alison’s room. “Odd fancies you do get sometimes.”
    “What fancy?” asked Fern.
    “Miss Redmond comes from London: that’s what you said?”
    Fern nodded. “She works in an art gallery in the West End.”
    “There was a young woman over from Guisborough, three . . . four months before t’ Captain died. Happen I mentioned it. Something to do with antiques. I didn’t get a good look at her, of course, and she didn’t have all that hair—I think she had a kind of bob, just about shoulder-length—but I could swear it was t’ same woman. Heard her, I did, chattering away to t’ Captain, sweet as sugar. She didn’t notice me, mind: she’s t’ sort who sees them as interest her and doesn’t bother to look at t’ rest of us. I’d have bet five pounds it was your Miss Redmond.” She gave a brisk shake, as if throwing off a cobweb. “Must be my fancy. Still, you take care. Third house from end of t’ village if you need me.”
    “Thanks,” said Fern, smiling, making light of the matter. But the smile vanished with Mrs. Wicklow and she went to check on the pie with a somber face.
    Dinner was a polite meal. Alison kept the conversation going by discussing her ideas for the house. “I think we could do something really exciting with that barn,” she said, having duly admired the
Seawitch
and her current residence. “Your father’s very keen to have my advice. He’ll be calling from the States in a day or two: I’m going to ask him if I can make a start. I have a friend in the building trade who specializes in these sort of commissions. I thought I’d get him up here to give us an estimate. Of course, we must take care of that wonderful boat. It should be all right outside for the time being, if we cover it in tarpaulins. After all, it
is
supposed to be summer, even if it hasn’t reached Yorkshire yet.”
    “We like the Yorkshire summer,” Will said. “It’s bracing.”
    Fern sucked in her cheeks to suppress a smile. Will had never been noted for appreciating a bracing climate. “We only need to tidy the place up before putting it on the market,” she pointed out. “Daddy