The Bride's Farewell by Meg Rosoff Page A

had been drifting through all day and the recess was cozy as a badger’s sett, though not noticeably cleaner. Outside, the temperature continued to drop. If only she could crawl into the wall a little way for shelter, she might be hidden for a time, and safe.
    With Dicken whining at the base of the tunnel, she hauled herself up and wriggled in as far as she could go, edging forward along the gentle slope. Inside was narrow and sooty but dry, smelling of smoke and earth and the thick musk of creatures. Even her dull human nose could discern the separate odors of fox, badger, and rat; she was obviously not the first creature to take refuge here on a cold night. She pulled herself in farther to where the conduit widened slightly, and found that it made a moderately comfortable bed. Here she curled up, her shoulders and hips resting on a crumbly layer of leaves and grass dragged in by previous inhabitants. She arranged her shawl to protect against the worst of the soot, despite a despairing sense that every inch of her was already blackened and smudged.
    She called Dicken, who stood whining, unwilling to follow. At last he gave in and scrambled up the passage, pouring himself into the knife blade’s space between his mistress and the wall, snuffling and whimpering with excitement at the musky smell of prey. Pell grabbed him by his scruff and held tight, frightened he might try to crawl up through the narrow passages and be unable to turn back. He protested in a voice clear as a child’s but eventually stopped struggling. Seduced by the delicious warmth and by Pell’s proximity, he lay calm in the velvety black.
    The heat soothed Pell’s ragged spirit and gradually she slipped into a doze, imagining herself hibernating, rolled up snug against the winter. She thought of home, of nights with a sister pressing on each side for warmth. And like that she slept well, despite the musky smell.
    Dicken woke early, growling a warning noise deep in his throat as he struggled to turn around in the tight space. Peering down toward her feet, Pell could make out a figure crouched in the doorway, blocking the feeble light. The feeling of being trapped, gone to ground and kept there, was a bad one; the smell of fox and badger now telegraphed fear. She wriggled back through the semidark of the passageway, dragging Dicken behind her, and dropped awkwardly into the fireplace, nearly knocking the figure off its feet.
    “ Lord almighty! ” he shouted, leaping sideways in terror.
    She saw that it was a boy, dressed in short woolen trousers and a linen smock. He had a broad face, blunt features, and bare feet, and in his arms carried a great bundle of sticks.
    “I’m sorry to have frightened you.” Pell straightened herself. Soot streaked her clothes and left long black smudges on her exposed skin. Bits of brush and burrs stuck to her clothing, sticks and crushed leaves dropped from her hair, and the boy goggled at her, astonished.
    “What are you?” He spoke slowly, his face white with shock, his accent thick as porridge.
    “My name is Pell,” she replied sweetly, amused. “And I beg your pardon, but I slept in the wall.” She smiled, aware of the picture she made, hoping he wouldn’t raise an alarm.
    “Are you . . . a person?”
    “Of course I’m a person,” she said. “What else would I be?”
    “I dunno, miss! Why would a person sleep in the wall?”
    Pell shrugged. “One has to sleep somewhere.”
    “But I’m about to light the fires. You might have been burned to death!”
    “I wasn’t, though.”
    He didn’t answer right away, but looked behind him. “It’s a dangerous place to sleep, miss. Because of the fire. And Mr. Pottle don’t much like people hanging about. Especially those that aren’t supposed to be here.”
    “I’ll go, then. Only . . . I’m looking for a child,” she said. “And a horse.”
    The boy stared at her, aghast. “In the wall?”
    “No,” she answered soberly. “They were kidnapped. By