But the first surprise had been Father inviting us back for the holidays. Last time we’d been home, our stepmother had told us in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want us setting foot in their cottage ever again. But that chilly December, Father had telephoned our new headmistress at Rookwood School and told her that he would be picking us up instead of his sister – our Aunt Phoebe.
My twin, Scarlet, and I clambered out of Father’s motor car, taking in the sight of our home as we breathed frosty plumes into the air like dragons. I was trying to remember it all in case we were forbidden from returning once more.
It was a large cottage that could have come straight from a fairy tale, all bright stone with a perfectly thatched roof. Whereas Aunt Phoebe’s house was a working cottage – mud on the floors and dusty coats hung up on hooks – this place seemed to exist only to look pretty. As I gazed at it, I felt nothing but cold, inside and out. There was an iron gate that opened on to the pristine lawn where we had once sat with our suitcases, Scarlet waiting to go to Rookwood and me to Aunt Phoebe’s – it seemed like a lifetime ago. The roses clambering up the stone walls could have been beautiful, tinged with white frost, but they were beginning to brown and wither, and the thorns looked sharp.
It was funny how quickly the seasons could change from one to the other. It seemed only moments ago that we’d suffered an ordeal on All Hallows’ Eve, and shuffled through autumn leaves to the bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night. Now there were only two days left before Christmas, and here we were, at a place I thought we’d never see again.
Father walked up to the front door with our luggage, humming to himself. Scarlet and I followed, sharing a nervous glance as we crunched our way up the path. What were we going to find inside? I was sure our stepmother wouldn’t be pleased that Father had ignored her wishes and invited us back to the house.
But as the door was unlocked and we were led inside, we found the place cold and quiet – as if no one else was there.
“Where’s Edith?” Scarlet asked.
Father dropped our luggage and leant back against the door. He seemed a little out of breath. “Oh. Hmm. Probably out shopping, I expect.”
That didn’t quite make sense. There were no shops for miles around, and we’d been in the motor car, so how would she have got there? Unless Father had dropped her off and forgotten about it, but that seemed unlikely.
I peered into the sitting room and the kitchen, but both were empty, nothing but ashes in the fireplaces. A Christmas tree stood in a corner, with a few sad-looking baubles drooping from it and some boxes wrapped up underneath. There were stockings hanging on the mantelpiece, but from a glance I could see that there were only three, with our stepbrothers’ names – Harry, Joseph and John – sewed on.
“What about the boys?” I added, half expecting them to ambush us and start throwing things. “Where are they?”
Father put his hand over his eyes. He looked a little unwell, I thought. There was a strange tinge to his skin. “Probably … Probably playing outside. Yes.” He nodded, and then wandered off, leaving us standing there in the hallway.
It was most odd. We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in our old bedroom, wearing as many of our clothes as possible to try to keep warm.
Scarlet was doing star jumps and blowing on her hands. “Do you think there’s any chance we’ll get some good presents this year?”
I shook my head. “Probably socks again.”
My twin looked down at her feet. “Right now,” she said, “I’d be happy with an extra pair of socks.”
As the evening began to draw in, we heard a crash and a stampede of footsteps downstairs that probably signalled the arrival of our stepmother and her boys. I looked up from the book I was reading and saw Scarlet’s expression – she was clearly dreading our first interaction with them as much as I was.
After a while, I heard Harry shout up the stairs: “Twins! Dinner!”
Scarlet stomped out of our room. “We have names, you know!” she shouted back. Reluctantly, I put my book down and followed her downstairs. I braced myself for the impending confrontation. Surely our stepmother would throw us out as soon as she saw us?
But to my surprise, she barely acknowledged us as we walked in. I saw her eyes narrow, but she said nothing – just handed us two plates with fairly reasonable helpings of pie and mash on them. “Go on, then,” she said, waving us towards the table and turning away.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps things wouldn’t be as bad as we’d thought. The fire was roaring in the kitchen, and things began to feel a little warmer.
We ate in silence, almost afraid to speak in case we broke whatever spell had caused our stepmother not to throw us out immediately. The boys nattered with their mouths open, which was enough to fill the air with noise (and, in some cases, food). Father eventually came in, and Edith jumped up to give him his plate.
“Here you go, dear,” she said in the voice she only used when talking to him. “This one is yours. Thank you for dropping us off earlier.”
“Oh,” he said again, looking at it in a strange sort of confusion. “Yes. Thank you.” He took it to the table and began to dig in.
I started to wonder if he was becoming even more absent-minded than usual, like Aunt Phoebe. It seemed to be getting worse. He hadn’t remembered that he’d dropped them off anywhere – unless our stepmother was lying about that for some reason. But I filed the thought away and tried to enjoy having a half-decent meal.
We finished dinner, and the boys quickly ran away. I could hear them pulling on the Christmas tree in the next room, and rattling the presents.
Father