pay you,” said Jorinda to the driver, jumping out of the hackney coach.

“Beg parding, miss, but I druther have the cash here and now, or your bags stays on the roof.”

“Oh, bother! You tiresome man! Wait a moment, then—”

She ran up the moss-grown steps to the big double doors of Fogrum Hall and rapped lustily on them with the handle of her umbrella—for rain was falling steadily—rattled the latch and called, “Open up, within there! It's Mr. Lot's sister—Miss Jorinda—open up, I say!”

After considerable delay the doors were slowly opened and an elderly head thrust out.

“Who's that making such a clamoration at this time o' the evening?”

“It's me, Miss Jorinda! I need money to pay the coachman's fee who brought me here. Can you settle him? Or send for Master Lot.”

“Nobody said to me as you was expected, miss.”

“Well, I'm here now, so will you please do as I say? My bags are on the coach roof.”

Grumbling and reluctant, the porter finally made his slow way down the slippery steps, paid the jarvey and struggled up again with Jorinda's luggage, making several trips and complaining more bitterly each time about the weight of the bags and the lack of consideration shown by people who arrived unexpectedly at an hour when all decent householders were about to lock up and retire for the night. “Lucky the bridge wasn't pulled up yet.”

“Where is my brother?”

“Master Lot? He's with His Lordship, o' course.”

“My father? Is my father out of prison and here already? Oh, that is capital! I did not think he would be here so soon. Take me to them at once.”

“Dunno as ow they'll be that happy to see ye—females ain't over and above 'welcome hereabouts.”

“Will you kindly stop boring on and take me to the baron! And you might bring some tea and bread and butter—or tell someone else to. I'm sharp set!”

Mumbling and growling even more, the porter dumped the bags and cat basket in the middle of the hallway and started limping along a dimly lit stone-paved passage without looking to see if Jorinda was following him. But she did so, treading close behind, exasperated at his slow shuffle.

Presently he knocked at a door.

“What is it?” shouted a voice impatiently.

“Beg pardon, me lord—there's a young lady here says she's yer lordship's daughter. Miss Jorinda, she says her name is.”

There was a flat, flabbergasted silence from behind the door for a moment or two, then a younger voice called, “Send her away!”

“I will not be sent away!” exclaimed Jorinda. “I never heard such rude, hateful rubbish! I am his lordship's daughter. Let me in directly!”

She gave a vigorous poke with her umbrella to the aged porter and another to the door, which swung open, and she marched into the room.

It was a dining room, dimly lit by a number of oil lamps. A low red fire burned in the hearth and the remains of a lavish meal were scattered on a fair-sized table. But Jorinda had eyes only for the two people who sat in armchairs on either side of the fireplace.

She approached the white-haired man.

“Sir! I am your daughter, Jorinda! My mother was Zoe Coldacre, who died at my birth. I have come here to love and cherish you!”

“Oh, for mercy's sake, my good girl! Let us not have any sentimental nonsense of that kind, I beg! I assure you that I could hardly be less interested if you were Queen Cleopatra's daughter.”

After uttering these words the white-haired man gave her a long, cold, smiling, distasteful appraisal. She observed that his left leg and foot were swathed in bandages and that—for some reason—he held a gold-framed hand mirror at which he glanced now and then.

“But, sir! Papa! Do I not remind you of my mother? Of Zoe Coldacre? I am the living image of her! Everybody says so!”

“I have only the very scantiest recollection of your mother, my good girl. Our connection was extremely brief. Now, will you please go away—far away—and never come back? Even supposing that you are my daughter—which I take leave to doubt—what possible use would I have for a daughter? I am already cumbered with a son, which is tiresome enough, but has to be borne.” And he threw a glance that was by no means indulgent at the other occupant of the room.

Even Jorinda's extremely self-confident nature was fairly quelled by this unwelcoming reception, though she felt, deep inside her, that given time and favorable circumstances, she could certainly win her father's favor and fondness. In the meantime she was not particularly sorry to find that her brother seemed held in no better esteem. When they were younger, living in royal grace apartments in Saint James's Palace, Lot had often teased and plagued her and made her life miserable. After he had been sent to school and she to Coldacre, they had met only on his brief visits there, and she looked at him now with some curiosity to see how he was turning out.

Not particularly well, she decided. True, he had grown very bulky and tall, but his complexion was pasty. His face was not at all handsome and it wore a smug, self-satisfied expression: Plainly he was delighted at his sister's unfavorable reception. His thick, dust-colored hair stood up all over his head in spikes, and his skin was marked by some red, angry pimples.

Eats too many greasy cakes, decided Jorinda. He always used to.

“Papa, what happened to your leg? Was it something they did to you in prison?”

“Oh, really, you wretched girl, will you please go away and stop pestering me?”

“I know a lot about looking after legs,” persisted Jorinda. “Granda was always breaking his, out hunting, and now he has terrible gout. Nurse Mara taught me—”

“That old witch. Is she still alive?”

“Yes, but what did happen to your leg, Papa?”

“A sack full of sixpences fell on it,” Lothar informed Jorinda. His voice was decidedly malicious, as if he relished his father's slightly ridiculous mishap. He refilled the wineglass that stood on a table near his elbow and took a gulp.

“Sixpences?”

“From the roof of the Tower. They had been left there for safekeeping, and the idle, good-for-nothing guard, to save carrying it down a few hundred stairs, dropped it over the battlements. It fell on Pa's toe, just as he was leaving. How we did laugh!”

“Were you there, then?” Jorinda was surprised. “When he was released?” It's not like Lot to act the dutiful son, she thought. What did he hope to gain from it? Money, probably.

“O' course I was. And what's more, I brought the sack of sixpences away with us. I love sixpence, pretty little sixpence!” he sang in a loud raucous voice.

“Stop that infernal row this instant!” hissed his father. Their eyes met. Lot abruptly quieted down and took another swig of wine.

“Did they give you leave from school, then?”

“This ain't a school anymore. After I burned old Pentecost's book that he was writing—”

“Hey, wait—who is old Pentecost?”

“The Beak, o' course! So he fired me from the school. Or would have. But just at that time, Pa was due to come out of jug, so Pa bought Fogrum Hall, lock, stock and barrel; old Costpenny got the sack and Foggers Hall belongs to Pa and me now.”

Jorinda glanced at Baron Magnus and saw that he was inhaling from a jeweled vinaigrette with an expression that made her shiver slightly; she did not quite know why. There was something cold, folded and withdrawn about his look. Not quite human.

“Why did you burn old Pentecost's book?” she asked her brother.

“Oh, I dunno. Just for a jape.”

“Stupid sort of jape.”

“Better than what's happened to some of the other folks that the Dad didn't care for.” Lot sniggered. “The archbishop, the doctor, the jailer—they've all had their quittance….”

“Will you two pray leave this room if you are going to whisper and mutter to each other.”

“Sorry, Pa.”

“But, Papa dear, is your toe really broke? Or is it sprained? May I not take a quick look at it? For inflammation of the members, an opodeldoc plaster is «sovereign. When I sprained my ankle hunting, Nurse Mara put one on …and the pain went in a twinkling! I promise you!”

“It is not the pain!” ground out the baron. “Do you think I would care about a mere pain?”

“What then?”

At that moment there was a tap on the door, and an exceedingly small, grimy boy entered, laboring under the weight of a heavy tray. This he bore with great difficulty as far as the table, then retreated, after a terrified glance at the baron, and scuttled out the door, leaving it open.

Lothar immediately went over to inspect the tray and picked up a slice of bread and butter from it, which he folded into four and crammed into his mouth.

“Hey!” protested his sister. “That was meant for me.” And she quickly poured herself a cup of tea before he could move on to that.

“It ain't so much the toe itself,” Lot told Jorinda in an undertone, nodding toward their father. “It's the aftereffects of being clobbered by a sack of silver shekels.”

“Why? What is it? What aftereffects?”

“Why, sixpences are silver, don't you see? Lordy, it was funny! The sack bust open and the sixpences was rolling all over the shop. It's like being hit by a silver bullet, don't you see?”

“What has their being silver got to do with it?”

“Don't you know, you dummy? Silver breaks the power of a you-know-what.” Lot let his voice sink even lower so that Jorinda could hardly hear him. “That's why he's in such a wax. Now he finds he can see himself in the glass. Puts him in a real bate.”

“Should he not?”

“O' course not! Didn't you know that? He's mad because I had the sack fetched here. Something special has to be done with it.”

Now Jorinda began to recall various dark hints dropped by Nurse Mara in conversation with her grandfather's housekeeper Mrs. Smidge. Looking about the room, she saw there were half a dozen hand mirrors lying about.

Lothar picked up one of these and handed it to her.

“Can you see yourself in the glass?”

“Why, naturally!” Her round pink face dimpled at her in the mirror; her dark eyes sparkled. How can Father not like me, not think I'm pretty? she wondered. She asked Lot, “Should I not be able to?”

“If you were one of them, you wouldn't be able to.”

“Can you?”

“Ay,” he said sourly. “I can. But sometimes the change comes on after age twenty-one—so they say”

“So Pa's lost his power…. How queer. Does that matter?”

“People won't be so scared of him. A leader has to be able to terrify his followers.”

“Who is he going to lead?”

“The Burgundians, o' course.”

“What about the duchess of Burgundy? Doesn't she lead them?”

“Oh, she don't count. She's only a female. Pa will soon drop her in the basket.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that. Not long ago she came and talked to us at school. Told us not to let our brothers push us around. She looked like a tree that's been growing for five hundred years. Shouldn't think anybody'd push her around. So, what does Pa plan to do?”

“Put me on the throne,” said Lot with immense self-satisfaction. He was contemplating himself approvingly in the hand mirror and did not notice the look his sister gave him.

“Why not himself?”

“Wasn't born in this country. That rules him out.”

Jorinda wrinkled her brow. “I'm sure there were plenty of kings who weren't. What about William the Conqueror? He was born in Normandy”

“They've changed the rules since then.”

“I'd think Pa would soon change them again.”

At this moment, with an anguished caterwauling, Jorinda's cat, which had been left in its basket in the hall and had taken all this time to scratch a hole through the basketwork, managed to push open the door and make its indignant way toward its owner.

“Oh, poor pusskin! Was it a starving pussums, then? Here, have a bit of ham.”

Jorinda took a fragment of fat from one of the used plates on the table. But, before she could give it to the cat, Baron Magnus, his eyes glittering with rage, hoisted himself from his armchair, took six limping, swooping steps toward the animal and wrung its neck.

“I hate cats. I will not have animals like that creeping and sneaking about this house,” he hissed. “Pray remember that! And you, girl, do me the kindness to get out of my sight. And out of this house!”

“Papa! How could you? You have killed my poor pus-sums! And under his cushion I was bringing you a letter from the duchess of Burgundy. I shan't give it to you now.” Jorinda's voice trembled with shock and outrage. “I was going to find opodeldoc to put your toe—”

“Be silent, girl! Leave me alone. And don't show yourself before me again.”

Sobbing with indignation rather than grief—for she had not been especially fond of the cat, which she kept simply because it was the fashion to keep a pet at school—Jorinda stumbled toward the door.

“You go too, boy. And be sure she leaves this house tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

“And take that dead animal out of my sight. You can throw it into the moat to feed the pike.”

“Are there really tiger pike in the moat?” Jorinda whispered as they walked slowly along the passage. “That's what my driver told me.” Her voice was very subdued.

“Lord, yes! Big as bolsters. Take off your arm in one snap. That's why none of the fellers ever dared run away from school no matter how much old Pennycost beat em. Itd have meant swimming the moat, cos the bridge is pulled up at night. I reckon you musta got here just afore it was hoisted.”

Lot had picked up a lamp as they left the dining chamber, and he now opened a door and led the way into a room that appeared to be a classroom. There were rows of wooden desks and a strong smell of ink and unwashed boys. Lot crossed to a window that was protected by bars, opened it, pushed the dead cat out between the bars and let go of it. Jorinda heard a splash.

Lot burst into song.

“I love little Pussy, her coat is so cold. She's gone to the fishes, she'll never grow old.” He broke off to say, “You must never sing or whistle in front of the Dad. He can't stand song or music of any kind.”

“It was horrible of him to kill my cat,” Jorinda said angrily, wiping her eyes.

“Well, what did you expect? He's extra ratty just now, because of his toe, I daresay.”

“Has he really bought this house?”

“Bet your boots he has. Because it was Ma's once, and he's glad she's gone.”

“Where are all the boys? If it was a school?”

“Most of em decamped—the ones who had parents in this country. There's just enough left to act as servants. And don't I just give it to em. Ha ha ha! Walker!”

“What's that moaning I can hear?”

“The wind, most likely.”

“No, it sounds like a man. Crying.”

“Oh, 'well,” said her brother easily, “maybe it's one of the brats I had to give a licking to, for not coming quick enough when Pa rang his bell.”

“Sounds more like a grown man to me.”

“Well, it's none of your blazing business! Forget it. Now we gotta think how to get you away from here or Pa will be real mad. There's a carrier's cart comes by at seven in the morning, brings groceries and stuff. You'd best go with him; he'll take you to Clarion Wells.”

Jorinda did not argue. Fogrum Hall was no place for her. She could see that. Even the cheap lodging house in Clarion Wells where she had left Nurse Mara would have been better.

“Where can I sleep tonight?”

“In here. The dormitories—the ones that don't have boys in em—are full of rats.”

“But there's no bed.”

“Put three chairs together,” Lot told her impatiently “I'll leave you the lamp.”

He had put it on a desk. By its dim light the spots on his podgy face looked larger and blacker. She certainly did not wish for his company overnight, but she hated the thought of passing the night by herself in this cheerless room.

To postpone the moment of being left alone, she said, “Will Papa really put you on the throne?”

“Certain sure. They just have to find old King Dick— wherever he's lurking—and get Alfred's crown off of him—never mind if his head's in it or not, ha ha ha! The Burgundians are due to land any day now; we'll march on London. Hope the Dad's toe is better by then. It better be, ha ha! It'll all go easy as a greased slide.”

What's in it for me? Jorinda wanted to ask, but did not. Instead she said, “Do you know the duke of Battersea?”

“Simon Bakerloo? That snotty bastard? O' course I know him. A conceited, stuck-up, la-di-da fellow if ever there was one. He'll soon have the rug pulled from under him. The Dad has no use at all for any of that lot.”

“Who pays for all this?” Jorinda asked shrewdly. “Burgundians don't come on tick, I bet?”

“Oh, the Dad has plenty of mint sauce from Mid-sylvania. Also he plans to sell off Alfred's crown to some foreign excellency—the seljuk of somewhere; I forget who. It's a curiosity, d'you see—nearly a thousand years old. Someone has offered him a shovelful of dibs for it. All we have to do is find the old gager and take it off him.”

“How d'you reckon to do that? Where is the king? Nobody seems to know.”

“There's one that might.”

“Who?”

“Used to be a crony of my ma.” Lot's voice was loaded with spite. “Used to come calling round, all sorrow and smarm. 'Poor dear Adelaide,' all ducky-wucky and itsy-witsy. Carsluith, he was called in those days, till his dad the earl hopped it. Now he's Lord Herodsfoot.”

“Oh, yes, I remember him. He knows about games. Collects rare games for the king.”

“Ay. Rare games,” said Lothar, giggling. He left the room, singing, “Goodbye, little Pussy, your claws are so sharp. You made a fine snack for the pike and the carp.”

Jorinda cried herself to sleep, curled in great discomfort on three chairs.