fountain set in the wall. At the top of the wall, she paused only to kick off her shoes, where they fell, plop, plop, onto the thyme-planted walkway by the fountain.
“Come down, come down at once, Cecily,” she cried, and then reverted to French. “This is improper! Madame your mother does not approve.
I
do not approve!” Madame shouted up into the tree. Gray hair had escaped from beneath her plain widow's headdress. Her voice was frantic. Cecily was already halfway up the tree.
“I'll get it back for you,” Cecily shouted down from above inEnglish. “You'll see. I'm a good climber.” The thin branches could be heard cracking dangerously under her weight. The bird, having hidden its treasure, was flying at her as she came close to the nest, and she raised one arm to protect her head, clinging tight with her knees and bare toes.
“Come down, come down!” shouted Madame. “Leave it, oh, it's not worth it! Come down and we'll have the gardener climb up with a ladder. No higher! I hear the branches breaking!” In the alley outside the wall, apprentices were gathering to hear the source of the shrieking.
“Hey, I know her! It's Cecily Kendall, stuck up in a tree,” one of Master Wengrave's apprentices, who had been passed on to him when old Master Kendall had died, called out happily to the growing crowd.
“Come down, I say come down at once!” they could hear a woman's voice calling in French from inside the garden.
“I—I can't,” quavered the skinny, flame-headed figure up in the tree. Bobbing perilously among the frail branches beneath the nest, Cecily looked down at the wall and the ground, so very far beneath her. On one side, the crowd of apprentices was growing, and she could hear them shouting:
“Who's that? Hey, that's not a girl, it's a
very big
magpie. Ho, magpie indeed, it's a cat! Hey, meow, come down!” On the other side was Madame, frantically waving, and there, by the unattended basket, Alison quietly rummaging for the sugar. The ground seemed very hard, it seemed to move and sway. The more it swayed, the tighter she clung. It was so easy going up. Why hadn't she thought of getting down? She'd never thought at all. Now all was despair. She imagined it growing dark, with her still clinging to the branches. Maybe she'd be in the tree forever. Could they send dinner in a basket? Do people never come down, or do they fall out some time and break all their bones? Below her, she could see two apprentices coming from the door to the undercroft of Master Wengrave's great house with a long ladder. And there at the corner of Thames Streetand the alley, oh, dear, it was mother with a big basket on her arm and Peregrine by the hand, and Cook behind her, laden with provisions from the market.
“Eeeeeeeeemaaaamaaa,” came the hideously clear voice of the two-and-a-half-year-old, soaring up over the babble. “Lookit, Cecy's inna
tree. Per'grine
wants to go up inna tree. Lift me up.”
“Cecily, come down,” called her mother, her firm voice full of common sense. “If you got up, you can come down. Just put your foot where you had it last.”
“Can't,” shouted Cecily, clinging tighter than ever. More strangers surrounded her mother. Mistress Wengrave, still wiping her damp hands on her apron, had come out of her house.
Down below in the alley, Margaret had already packed off her howling son, and was directing the apprentices where to put the ladder. “Not there,” she said, “see how the stone is uneven? Brace it here. We'll need two grown men to hold it. But who will climb? He needs to be agile, but light enough so that the ladder can bear the weight of two.” She cast about her in the growing crowd for suitable recruits. There was something about the look in her eye, the look of a falcon, of a commander in the field, that made no man refuse her. Already a bulky fellow, a cordwainer by the look of his apron, had come forward to hold the ladder. Two men on horseback, dusty with travel,
“Come down, come down at once, Cecily,” she cried, and then reverted to French. “This is improper! Madame your mother does not approve.
I
do not approve!” Madame shouted up into the tree. Gray hair had escaped from beneath her plain widow's headdress. Her voice was frantic. Cecily was already halfway up the tree.
“I'll get it back for you,” Cecily shouted down from above inEnglish. “You'll see. I'm a good climber.” The thin branches could be heard cracking dangerously under her weight. The bird, having hidden its treasure, was flying at her as she came close to the nest, and she raised one arm to protect her head, clinging tight with her knees and bare toes.
“Come down, come down!” shouted Madame. “Leave it, oh, it's not worth it! Come down and we'll have the gardener climb up with a ladder. No higher! I hear the branches breaking!” In the alley outside the wall, apprentices were gathering to hear the source of the shrieking.
“Hey, I know her! It's Cecily Kendall, stuck up in a tree,” one of Master Wengrave's apprentices, who had been passed on to him when old Master Kendall had died, called out happily to the growing crowd.
“Come down, I say come down at once!” they could hear a woman's voice calling in French from inside the garden.
“I—I can't,” quavered the skinny, flame-headed figure up in the tree. Bobbing perilously among the frail branches beneath the nest, Cecily looked down at the wall and the ground, so very far beneath her. On one side, the crowd of apprentices was growing, and she could hear them shouting:
“Who's that? Hey, that's not a girl, it's a
very big
magpie. Ho, magpie indeed, it's a cat! Hey, meow, come down!” On the other side was Madame, frantically waving, and there, by the unattended basket, Alison quietly rummaging for the sugar. The ground seemed very hard, it seemed to move and sway. The more it swayed, the tighter she clung. It was so easy going up. Why hadn't she thought of getting down? She'd never thought at all. Now all was despair. She imagined it growing dark, with her still clinging to the branches. Maybe she'd be in the tree forever. Could they send dinner in a basket? Do people never come down, or do they fall out some time and break all their bones? Below her, she could see two apprentices coming from the door to the undercroft of Master Wengrave's great house with a long ladder. And there at the corner of Thames Streetand the alley, oh, dear, it was mother with a big basket on her arm and Peregrine by the hand, and Cook behind her, laden with provisions from the market.
“Eeeeeeeeemaaaamaaa,” came the hideously clear voice of the two-and-a-half-year-old, soaring up over the babble. “Lookit, Cecy's inna
tree. Per'grine
wants to go up inna tree. Lift me up.”
“Cecily, come down,” called her mother, her firm voice full of common sense. “If you got up, you can come down. Just put your foot where you had it last.”
“Can't,” shouted Cecily, clinging tighter than ever. More strangers surrounded her mother. Mistress Wengrave, still wiping her damp hands on her apron, had come out of her house.
Down below in the alley, Margaret had already packed off her howling son, and was directing the apprentices where to put the ladder. “Not there,” she said, “see how the stone is uneven? Brace it here. We'll need two grown men to hold it. But who will climb? He needs to be agile, but light enough so that the ladder can bear the weight of two.” She cast about her in the growing crowd for suitable recruits. There was something about the look in her eye, the look of a falcon, of a commander in the field, that made no man refuse her. Already a bulky fellow, a cordwainer by the look of his apron, had come forward to hold the ladder. Two men on horseback, dusty with travel,
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