Which left only the child on the curtain rod.
Mel looked up. The child looked down. The toad, clutched firmly in one grubby hand, looked in no particular direction, being a toad and therefore exempt from the social obligations of eye contact.
“And you must be the one who is neither the eldest nor the hiding one,” Mel said.
“I’m Thistle.” The girl showed no inclination to descend from her perch. If anything, she seemed to be considering climbing higher, perhaps to the ceiling itself.
“Do you like toads?”
“I don’t dislike them.”
“His name is Brutus.”
Mel regarded the toad, which was indeed a handsome specimen, if one were inclined to find handsomeness in creatures that were predominantly composed of warts and existential indifference.
“A strong name for a toad.”
Thistle’s face split into a grin of pure, unfiltered delight. She had been prepared for screaming, Mel realised. She had been prepared for the horrified recoil that most adults offered when presented with amphibians at close range. She had not been prepared for acceptance.
“He’s my best friend,” Thistle said. “After Anna and Viola, and Mr. Whiskers. But Mr. Whiskers scratched me yesterday when I tried to ride him, so maybe he’s not my friend anymore. Do you want to hold Brutus?”
“Perhaps after you’ve come down from there. I find that curtain rod negotiations are best conducted on solid ground.”
Thistle considered this, then released her grip and dropped to the floor with the casual grace of someone for whom gravity was merely a suggestion. She landed on her feet like a cat, with her long braids swinging, and presented Brutus with both hands extended.
“He likes to sit on shoulders,” she said. “But he doesn’t like Miss Kemp because she screamed at him…twice.”
“I shall endeavour not to scream.” Mel accepted the toad with the same gravity she might have accepted a letter of introduction from a viscountess. Brutus regarded her with his bulbous, unblinking eyes, and she regarded him back with what she hoped was appropriate solemnity.
“How do you do, Brutus.”
Brutus, being a toad, did not reply.
From her chair, Anna was watching this exchange with an expression that had shifted from scepticism to something approaching cautious interest.
“You’re not afraid of toads.”
“I have little energy for fear of things that cannot actually harm me.” Mel returned Brutus to Thistle, who immediately stuffed him into the pocket of her pinafore, where he presumably settled into whatever comfort a pocket could offer a toad.
“Curtain rods, however, can cause significant injury when climbed. We shall discuss alternative climbing opportunities later.”
“There are no alternative climbing opportunities,” Anna said. “I’ve checked.”
“Then we shall create some. A proper climbing structure, perhaps, in the garden.”
Thistle’s eyes went wide. “You candothat?”
“One can do most things, if one plans properly and asks the right people.” Mel turned in a slow circle, observing every detail as though committing it to memory. The room was large and well-appointed, with tall windows that let in the grey Cornish light, walls lined with bookshelves that were stocked with more volumes than most lending libraries could boast, and furniture that had clearly been selected with both quality and durability in mind. Someone had expected these children to be hard on their surroundings.
The chaos, she could see now, was not malicious. It was simply the natural state of three intelligent children who had been left too long without structure, without consistency, without an adult who stayed.
“Now then,” she said, turning back to face them.
“I have some questions. Anna, you are clearly the authority on household procedures. What time is tea?”
Anna straightened on her chair, visibly pleased to have her expertise acknowledged.
“Four on the hour Mrs. Kemp brings it up, but she always forgets that Viola doesn’t like the crusts on her sandwiches and Thistle isn’t allowed jam anymore after the incident.”
