Thistle was not, as it transpired, napping.
Thistle had liberated Brutus from his terrarium, carried him downstairs via the servants’ stairs, and released him into the kitchen during the preparation of the evening’s soup. The toad, finding himself unexpectedly at large in a warm room full of interesting and deliciously prepared meals, had done what any sensible toad would do and hopped directly onto Mrs. Kemp’s foot.
The resulting chaos involved two dropped saucepans, a scattered bin of flour, the cook’s assistant fainting into the root vegetables, and language from Mrs. Kemp that Mel would not have believed the proper housekeeper capable of producing.
By the time Mel arrived in the kitchen, Thistle was standing in the doorway with an expression of pure, bewildered innocence.
“I only wanted to show him where the flies are,” she said. “There are lots of flies in the kitchen. He would have liked it.”
“He would have liked it,” Mel agreed, “But Mrs. Kemp would not. And the kitchen is Mrs. Kemp’s domain, just as the schoolroom is mine.”
“Brutus doesn’t understand domains.”
“Then you must understand them for him. That is the responsibility of a toad’s guardian.”
The cat incident happened two days later.
Mr. Whiskers was an elderly tabby of considerable girth and very little patience, who had survived the childhoods of the three girls through a combination of strategic hiding and impressive speed when cornered. He spent most of his days in the sunny spot by the library window, conserving his energy for the important work of ignoring everyone who attempted to pet him.
Thistle, for reasons that remained impervious to everyone including herself, had decided that Mr. Whiskers would make an excellent steed.
The attempt had lasted approximately three seconds before Mr. Whiskers, demonstrating a vigour that belied his advanced years, had twisted, scratched, and bolted for the safety of the kitchen stove, where he had wedged himself into the space between the warm metal and the wall and refused to emerge for the rest of the day.
Mel found Thistle sitting at the bottom of the stairs, examining the scratch on her forearm with more curiosity than distress.
“Thistle,” Mel said, settling onto the step beside her, “What did you expect to happen?”
“I expected it to work.”
“And what did happen?”
“Mr. Whiskers scratched my arm and hid under the stove.”
“What have we learned?”
Thistle’s brow furrowed. She was clearly running through possible responses, discarding the ones that might get her in trouble, searching for the answer that would satisfy her governess’s peculiar approach to discipline.
“That Mr. Whiskers is a coward,” she said finally.
Mel paused. It was not the answer she had expected, but it was, in its way, logical.
“What else have we learned?”
Thistle thought harder, her small face scrunched in concentration. Brutus shifted in her pocket, a small amphibian readjustment that seemed to provide moral support.
“That cats don’t like being ridden?”
“Progress,” Mel said, and meant it.
By the second week, the resistance began to thaw.
It was not a dramatic change, nothing that could be pointed to and named. It was more like the gradual warming of a room after the fire had been lit, a slow suffusion of heat that one didn’t notice until suddenly the chill had gone.
The girls began looking for Mel instead of avoiding her.
Anna appeared at her desk before breakfast on the tenth day, attendance register in hand, to report that Viola had woken early and Thistle had lost a sock.
“I found the sock,” Anna added. “Brutus was sitting on it.”
