Magic Below Stairs

Table of Contents

 

 

The sound of a deep soft voice counting had brought Frederick back to his senses. When Frederick woke—
if
he woke—there was still a bit of light from the fire. In the glow, he could just see a little old man, a
very
little man, hardly bigger than a cat, toiling away intently. The little man gathered peas and beans, counted them, sorted them, and darted back into the shadows after more.

As he worked, the little man sang very softly.
“Peas and beans, corn and rye, who can work like Billy Bly?”

Frederick tried to make himself believe his eyes and ears, but his eyelids were too heavy and soon sleep overwhelmed him completely.

When Frederick woke the next morning, the kitchen floor looked freshly scrubbed. All he had to do was take credit for work he had left unfinished.

To Julia, who knows Bess better than I do

FIREBIRD
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First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010
Published by Firebird, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2011

Copyright © Caroline Stevermer, 2010

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Stevermer, Caroline.
Magic below stairs / by Caroline Stevermer.
p. cm.
Summary: Ten-year-old Frederick, who is surreptitously watched over by a brownie,
is plucked from a London orphanage to be a servant to a wealthy wizard,
and eventually his uncanny abilities lead him to become the wizard's apprentice.

ISBN : 978-1-101-52907-2

[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Wizards—Fiction.
4. Household employees—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—1800–1837—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.S84856Mag 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009025100

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The first time he met Billy Bly, Frederick thought he must be dreaming. Billy Bly looked like a little old man dressed all in green, and came just to Frederick's knee. He was small enough to have no difficulty retrieving the dried beans and peas that had been scattered under the cupboard and into the farthest darkest corners of the kitchen. In fact, he seemed delighted to count and sort them, his voice as deep as the hum of bees, and he worked so steadily that the rattle of them in the buckets made a soothing sound like raindrops falling.

The peas and beans had been scattered everywhere as punishment. That winter night Mr. Makepeace—the director of the orphanage where Frederick had lived for as long as he could remember—had discovered Frederick in the kitchen breaking the rules. Frederick had been helping Vardle the cook peel potatoes, in return for all the peelings he could eat. If the peelings were clean enough, Frederick could eat a surprising number of them, and he had.

But no orphan was allowed in the kitchen. That was one of the many rules. Mr. Makepeace never liked to see the orphans getting anything extra to eat, for he believed it only made them more likely to be disobedient. Vardle the cook ignored lots of Mr. Makepeace's rules, especially when he wanted help in the kitchen. Vardle liked Frederick.

Mr. Makepeace disliked orphans in general. Ever since the day Frederick, shoved by one of the bigger orphans, had fallen downstairs and landed on Mr. Makepeace's hat, which was never the same again, Mr. Makepeace had disliked Frederick in particular. That was one reason Vardle the cook liked Frederick.

Mr. Makepeace had shouted at Frederick and sworn at Vardle. Then he emptied a five-pound bag of beans and a three-pound bag of peas right in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was like scattering gravel. Peas and beans went everywhere.

“Pick those up,” Mr. Makepeace ordered Frederick. “I want them cleaned and sorted and the floor freshscrubbed by morning, or it's a day locked inside the still room for you. Use those buckets there. No tricks, like sweeping them up and rinsing them off. Pick them up with your dirty hands, you dreadful boy.”

To the cook, Mr. Makepeace snarled, “He is to have no help from you, Vardle. Understand?” He went on and on. Frederick got to work while Mr. Makepeace made his threats.

If Vardle the cook did anything further that Mr. Makepeace could complain about, he would be sacked, out of a job. That was why Vardle hardly spoke a word to Frederick the rest of the evening, even though Frederick was on his hands and knees underfoot the whole time the cook prepared dinner and cleaned up afterward.

Frederick couldn't blame him. Vardle liked his job.

And besides, it wasn't Vardle who would spend the next day hungry in the still room if he failed to sort the peas and beans to Mr. Makepeace's satisfaction. Frederick had been shut in the still room before, and each time it happened, he hated it more.

The still room was a small damp storage area with a heavy lock on the door. It served as the orphanage prison cell, where offenders could be locked away alone for hours, nothing to do but sit still and repent their sins. Without a single window, even in daylight the room was dark as night. Beetles loved the still room. No one else did.

As Frederick worked with only raw potato peelings in his belly, dinner smelled better than usual, but he didn't dare ask Vardle for even a taste. Vardle may have liked Frederick more than most of the orphans, but not well enough to risk the sack.

Frederick did his best to keep his mind off the still room beetles by counting the peas and beans he picked up. Every time he reached one hundred, he let himself imagine he had the keys to the still room. He pictured Mr. Makepeace locked up in the dark, swearing with fury as he swatted beetles away. Then it was back to work until he'd picked up another hundred.

For hours, Frederick sorted peas and beans and beans and peas. At last, the cooking and serving and washing up was all done. Vardle put out the oil lamps and went to bed, leaving Frederick only the light of the kitchen fire to work by.

It was hopeless. Frederick rubbed at his stinging eyes with sore fingers. He would never be finished by morning. But if he gave up and tried to slip into the dormitory now, one of the bigger boys would be sure to catch him and turn him in to Mr. Makepeace. That would only get him locked in the still room sooner. Might as well keep at his task, Frederick judged.

One by one by one by one, Frederick picked up beans and peas until his knees hurt and the tips of his grimy fingers were raw. At last, weariness claimed Frederick. He was so tired, his ears were buzzing, a soft rustling sound. At first it made him think of beetles, but soon it became dry leaves in the wind. Exhausted, his task little more than half finished, he slept where he lay on the damp stone floor of the kitchen.

The sound of a deep soft voice counting had brought Frederick back to his senses. When Frederick woke—
if
he woke—there was still a bit of light from the fire. In the glow, he could just see a little old man, a
very
little man, hardly bigger than a cat, toiling away intently. The little man gathered peas and beans, counted them, sorted them, and darted back into the shadows after more.

As he worked, the little man sang very softly.
“Peas and beans, corn and rye, who can work like Billy Bly?”

Frederick tried to make himself believe his eyes and ears, but his eyelids were too heavy and soon sleep overwhelmed him completely.