“They wouldn’t, if you would stand still,” Hope said inexorably. “But didn’t you grow out of your clothes, and have to have new ones?”

“Well, no,” I said. “Lydia and Bessie always tend to my wardrobe, and one way or another whatever they put on me fits.”

“Whew,” said Hope. “I wish the twins’ clothes would do that.”

“Mmm,” said Grace, biting off a thread.

“But that even you shouldn’t notice anything” said Hope, kneeling to fold up the hem.

“Well—the day after I came home I looked at Great-heart’s saddle,” I offered, trying to be helpful, “I remember that the stirrup leathers were replaced the first day I was there. I’m using them three holes longer now than I did then. Funny though, I don’t at all remember moving them.”

“What did I tell you?” said Grace, starting on another seam, “Only Beauty would think to measure herself by the length of her stirrups,” and everybody laughed. “Oh dear,” said Hope. “I’ve lost a pin. Richard’s foot will find it tomorrow. All right, foolish girl, you can take it off now,”

“How?” I said plaintively.

After J had been extricated I sat down on the edge of the stone hearth, where I had set my cup of cider, near Grace’s knee. I hated to break the comfortable silence. “I—there’s another reason I came home, just now,” I said; and everyone stopped whatever they were doing and looked at me. The silence was splintered, not just by my words. I looked down into my cup. “I’ve been putting off telling you. It’s—it’s about Grace.”

My oldest sister laid the little shin on her knees and crossed her hands over it before she looked at me; and then her eyes were anxious. “What is it?”

I didn’t know any good way to lead up to it. “Robbie’s come home,” I said, very low. “He put in at the city dock the morning of the day I came home, I came to tell you—so you wouldn’t marry Mr. Lawrey till you’d seen him again.”

Grace gasped when I first mentioned Robbie’s name, and put out her hands, which I seized. “Robbie?” she said. “Oh, is it true? I can’t believe it, I’ve thought of it for so long. Beauty, is it true?”

I nodded as she stared at me, and then her eyes went blank, and she fell forwards in my lap in a faint. I lifted her gently back into her chair as the rest of the family stood up and started forwards. Father slid a pillow under her head, and Hope disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an evil-smelling little bottle, Grace stirred and sat up, looking at us as we crouched around her. “It had better be true, now,” said Father grimly. “I know,” I answered in an undertone. “But it is.”

Grace looked around slowly until her eyes rested on me, and her gaze cleared. “How do you know? Tell me everything. Have you seen him? But you said he was in the city. Please—”

“I saw him the same way I saw you and Hope talking in the parlour, that morning,” I said, and her eyes widened, and I heard Hope catch her breath. “The White Raven is a wreck; I don’t know how he managed to bring her home at all. And he looks ill, and tired. But he’s alive. And I don’t know what he’ll do when he finds out what’s happened to you—to all of us.”

“Alive,” whispered Grace, and she looked at Father, with her eyes as big and bright as summer raindrops. “We must invite him to come here as soon as he may. He can rest here, and regain his strength.”

Father stood up and walked around the room, and paused as he returned to the fireplace. “You’re sure,” he said to me, wishing for reassurance and yet unsure that he could accept it. I nodded.

“Magic,” murmured Ger. “Ah, well.”

Father took another turn around the room—it was too small a room for a man of his size and hasty stride—and paused again. “I shall write to him at once. There will be business arrangements to be made also. Perhaps I should go myself.” He stood irresolute.

“No need,” said Ger, “Callaway is setting out for the city in a few days’ time. He asked me today if there was anything he could do for us—offered to escort Beauty, too, since her aunt doesn’t seem to be providing for her properly. You can trust him with any messages. If you tell him to bring Tucker back with him, you may be sure he will, tied on the back of his saddle if need be.”

Father smiled. “Yes, Nick Callaway is a good man. I’d rather not make that journey again if I can.” Everyone avoided looking in my direction. After a tiny pause, Father turned to Grace. “My dear, six years is a long time. Perhaps you should wait and see?”

“Wait?” she said. “I’ve been waiting six years. Robbie won’t have forgotten, any more than I have. And we’re on even terms now, too; neither of us has a penny of our own.” This was not strictly true; by Blue Hill’s standards, we were very well off. But Grace swept us all before her on the bright, happy look she wore, which we had not seen on her face for six years. “It wilt be all right,” she said. “I will not wait any longer.”

Ger and Hope exchanged glances and slow smiles.

“Send for him, Father,” said Grace; her tone was that of a queen commanding, with no thought of delay or denial. “Please. I will write to him also.”

“Very well,” said Father.

The next three days crept past me as quickly and secretly as the first three had; perhaps even faster, because after my news of Robbie, we were al! preoccupied with him and with Grace, who could scarcely remember to put one foot in front of the other when she walked; with the sudden, brutal urgency of a long and terrible wait ended. Her letter and Father’s were delivered to Nick Callaway, who after being assured that I needed no escort declared his intention of setting off on the very next day. “I’ve no reason to hang about, and I’m anxious to get back before the weather turns—it’s risky enough, as late in the year as it is,” he said. “I should be there in five weeks, if I’m lucky, and home again in twelve, with your friend, I hope.” He obviously thought there was something a little odd in my arrangements, but he inquired no further after I had reassured him that I was well taken care of. “But my party will be traveling much more slowly than you,” I said.

“All right, miss, and a good journey to you,” he said, and rode away, leaving us to be grateful that he hadn’t asked us where our mysterious information about Captain Tucker’s whereabouts had come from in the first place.

On the sixth night I said, “I will have to leave tomorrow, you know”; and everyone spoke at once, begging me to stay one more day. I sat on the fender, twisting my ring around my finger, listening unhappily. Hope and Grace both started crying. I said nothing for several minutes, and the tumult subsided at last, and everyone was silent, like mourners at graveside. Father stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. “One more day,” he said. “It’s not even been a full week yet.”

I chewed my lip, felt the whole weight of my family’: love concentrated in my father’s hand, pushing me down where I sat. “All right,” I said with difficulty.

I slept badly that night. My sleep had been dreamless these days at home; in the mornings I had felt vaguely cheated, but had each day quickly forgotten it in the pleasure of being able to go downstairs and see my father and sisters, brother, and niece and nephew over the breakfast table. But this night I dreamed in haunted snatches of the castle, of vast empty rooms, of the sinister silence I had feared during my first days there. But now it was worse, because my sixth sense caused it to echo through my mind till my own body felt like a shell, a cold stony cavern with nothing in it but the wind. The comforting if ambiguous presence I had learned to trust during the last few months had disappeared; the castle was as solitary and incalculable as it had been on my first night there. Where was my Beast? I could not find him, nor could I sense him anywhere.

I woke up at dawn, rumpled and unrefreshed, and stared at the low slanted ceiling for several minutes before I could get myself out of bed. f was moody and distracted all that day, and nothing pleased me; I did not belong here, and I should not stay. I tried to hide my impatience, but my family watched me unhappily, and uncomprehendingly, till I could not meet anyone’s eyes. That evening as I huddled by the fire, my hands idle but restless, Father said: “You will leave tomorrow morning?” His voice was a little unsteady.