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As the day was gray and cool, Amelia and Mathilda donned their cloaks. Mathilda set Alice down when they walked outside, and the little dog scurried down the terrace steps and onto the lawn.
“Shall we walk to the river?” Amelia asked.
“I wish we could go fishing,” Mathilda said. “Mr. Roberts said he will take us one day. He said that one should always have the skills necessary to procure one’s own food. Do you procure your own food?” Mathilda asked, looking up at her.
“Absolutely. I ask a maid for it every day.”
Mathilda giggled.
They walked across the lawn and entered the woods. Alice scampered ahead, his undercarriage turning a muddy brown. Mathilda chattered on about the terrible, horrible thing Ann Simpson had said, and how it had hurt Mary Carlisle’s feelings, andsomething-something-something. Amelia was only half listening, as the tale was meandering along.
They emerged on a wooded bridle path that ran between Iddesleigh and Hollyfield. Mathilda’s steady stream of chatter was interrupted only once or twice by something she saw that demanded to be pointed out, such as a red bird, and a clump of mushrooms, which, in fairness, they both wanted to examine.
They came to the intersection of their trail and a footpath to Hollyfield mansion. Amelia paused at the proverbial fork in the road and wished that the choices were a bit more exciting. “Shall we have a look at Hollyfield?”
“I’ve already seen it,” Mathilda said.
“Have you?”
“Yes! You can see it on the walk to school. And when you walk home, too.”
“Have you been as close as this?”
Mathilda shook her head. She squinted at the monolith on the hill. “It looks scary.”
“Think of it as an exploration. What did Mr. Roberts say about exploration?”
“That the greatest wonders of the world were only discovered because people ventured out their doors to explore.”
“Shall we look?” Amelia asked. Mathilda nodded. Amelia called for Alice, and the three of them set off for Hollyfield.
At the top of the hill, a stone wall separated the house from the path. The structure rose up like a mountain behind it. The dark windows made it look as if the house was glaring down at them.
“Do you think ghosts are in there?” Mathilda whispered.
“I’d be terribly disappointed if they weren’t,” Amelia whispered back. Just then, they saw someone pass by a window on an upper floor. They both gasped and grabbed each other’s arm.
“Was that aghost?” Mathilda whispered loudly.
Amelia was too practical to believe in ghosts. “I think it was the caretaker,” she said reasonably, and Mathilda visibly relaxed.
They walked on, reaching a wrought iron gate in the middle of the stone wall. Alice had spotted it and raced ahead to have a look inside, his head fitting neatly through the bars. Amelia and Mathilda stepped up behind Alice to have a look, but when they did, a dog suddenly lunged at them from the other side of the gate, barking ferociously. Alice turned and hightailed it down another path to the river, yapping the entire way. Amelia and Mathilda squealed with shock; she grabbed the girl’s hand and together they ran after Alice, into the woods, down a steep decline to the river path.
They were panting when they reached it. Amelia pressed a hand to her chest to keep her heart inside her body.
“Where is Alice?” Mathilda asked in a panic.
Amelia was certain the dog was lost, certain the caretaker was coming, certain they’d have to jump in the river to escape and probably drown, and no one would find their bodies for days, and when they did, her mother would say to Justine, “Itoldyou so.”
But... Alice came trotting back to them, his snout to the ground. The bigger dog had not chased after them and, in fact, Amelia could just see the top half of the gate from this vantage point, and in that top half was an upright, wagging tail.
“Thatscaredme,” Mathilda said.
“Me too,” Amelia agreed. She turned around, thinking they would carry along beside the river—but just up the path was a man.
Amelia gasped and grabbed Mathilda, putting a protective arm across her.
He was standing twenty feet from them, his legs braced so far apart that it would be impossible to pass him. He was in his shirtsleeves, which he’d rolled up to reveal thick forearms. The shirt was tucked tightly into tighter trousers. His hat was pulled low over his brow; his beard hid his expression. And he was holding a catch of fish on a pole balanced on his shoulder.
