Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand by Susan Green

peacock feathers in the house.”
    “Is that an old superstition?” asked Papa when she’d left the room.
    “Apparently so,” said Mr Petrov. “But my bad luck began long before I’d even seen a peacock. It started in St Petersburg.”
    “What did, Nicky?”
    Mr Petrov didn’t answer Papa’s question. He seemed to be talking to himself, the way older people often did. “My poor wife Natalya said it was a curse. Perhaps she was right. I’m glad she wasn’t there to see her grandchildren die.”
    There was a brief silence and again I was uncomfortably aware of the chess set on its carved table.
    “Did you ever hear of the Hand of Hope, Pierre?”
    “It was a political group, was it not?”
    “Yes. They were idealists who wanted to bring justice to the workers and peasants. I printed some pamphlets and posters for them, much to Natalya’s horror. And she was right, after all. Nothing was the same after …”
    “After what, Uncle?”
    Mr Petrov looked at Harold and me as if he’d forgotten we were there. Now he roused himself. “No, no, that is past history and not for your young ears. Now, off to bed. At your age, you need your sleep.”
    As I shut the door behind me, I looked back into the room. Papa was right. The feathers did look like eyes.

    Blood-red satin. Mama was wearing a red evening dress with an old-fashioned bell-shaped skirt that swayed as she walked. The earrings were rubies; so was the glittering necklace. A fan, made of cream-coloured lace and dotted with tiny red sequins, hung from one wrist, and her other hand rested on Papa’s arm. He was dark-haired and very handsome. They seemed to be in some kind of park. Was that a ruin? Among the trees I could see columns choked in ivy and what looked like a marble statue. Wherever they were, they were happy to be together. As she looked at Papa, Mama’s eyes shone. They laughed and chatted as if they were off to a party or a ball. Then they fell silent. A man stood in front of them. Tall, rather portly, red-headed.
    “Come back,” he said. “I will forgive you.”
    Mama shook her head.
    And then I realised where they were. It was a cemetery.
    I woke, trembling. Just a dream, I told myself.
    Just a dream? That was no comfort. Last year, I’d had the same nightmare over and over again and it had turned out to be a premonition. Sometimes, dreams were messages from the past. Or from the future …
    I heard a clock strike somewhere in the house. It was only three o’clock. I tried to snuggle down under the covers and go back to sleep but I kept seeing Mama and Papa and the red-headed man. Who was he? Why was he in my dream? You see, I recognised him. He’d been in my vision at the theatre, in Mama’s dressing-room, playing with her fan. He’d asked her to come back with him and he’d called her Penny. This man must have known Mama since she was a child, because later she used the stage name Isabella Savage. Perhaps they were sweethearts … No. Whether it was his small pale-lashed eyes, upturned nose or the fat belly that even his well-cut suit could not disguise, there was something horribly piggy about him.
    Sleep was now just wishful thinking. I looked over at the other bed. Poppy was curled up like a kitten, but Connie had sprawled sideways and pushed the bedclothes off. I got up and pulled them over her again. Looking down at her face, I saw that she was smiling and I’m ashamed to say that something like jealousy shot through me. Connie had a gift. Oh, I knew I had one too, but mine was a tricky kind of talent and I couldn’t help wondering what I was meant to do with it. Connie’s gift was her destiny. She was a musician. With Madame Fodor as her teacher, perhaps she would have her chance to shine with recitals and concerts, even overseas travel to Paris or Rome. I pulled myself up short. Connie’s home was Riverbend Station. Could she bear to be parted from her father? How I wished I had a crystal ball.
    My mind wandered. I thought