cats!’
Her cat began to purr as Amelia picked him up and carried him down towards the light of the living room. Captain Soot was black all over except for the white tip on the end of his tail. But today even that was as black as, well, soot.
The cat wriggled out of Amelia’s arms, did a twisting jump through the air, and started to walk across the room. Across the cream-coloured rug. The expensive cream-coloured rug. Amelia stared at the sooty paw prints in horror.
‘Oh no. Captain Soot! Come back! What are you doing?!’
Amelia went to get her cat but then of course she was getting the rug dirty too.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .’
She quickly got a wet cloth from the kitchen, where a kitchen maid was peeling carrots.
‘I’m sorry,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ve just made a bit of a mess.’
The maid tutted and scowled, like a cross cat herself. ‘Mr Creeper won’t be happy when he gets back from the workhouse!’ Amelia went back to the living room and tried to clear up the soot, but all she did was make the black marks look even bigger.
‘We have to do this before Mr Creeper comes back,’ she told the cat. ‘Of all the houses to choose to do this in, Captain!’
The cat said sorry with its eyes.
‘It’s all right, you weren’t to know, but I bet Mr Creeper has got a temper.’
And as she kept scrubbing she realised there was something strange about this living room. It was Christmas Eve, and yet there wasn’t one single decoration. Not one Christmas card. No holly and ivy. No smell of mince pies. Now, in a rich house like this one, this was quite unusual.
Then Amelia heard a noise from the hallway. She turned as the living-room door opened, and there stood Mr Creeper.
Amelia stared up at the man. He was a long man. He had a long body. And a long, narrow face. And a long, crooked nose. And a long black cane that, with his dark coat and dark top hat, made him look like a crow who had decided – one dreary Tuesday while eating a worm – to become a human.
Mr Creeper was staring at Amelia, the cat and the sooty footprints all over the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s just my cat had followed me and he sneaked up the chimney.’
‘Do you know how much that rug cost?’
‘No, sir. But I’m cleaning it. Look, it’s coming off.’
Captain Soot hissed up at Mr Creeper. His hair stood on end. Captain Soot liked most people but he really didn’t like this long man.
‘Vile creature.’
‘He’s just trying to wish you Happy Christmas,’ Amelia said, trying to smile.
‘Christmas,’ said Mr Creeper, and his mouth twisted as if the word had a horrid taste. ‘Christmas is only happy if you are a fool. Or a child. And you are obviously both.’
Amelia knew who Mr Creeper was. He was the man who ran Creeper’s Workhouse, one of the largest workhouses in all of London. She also knew what a workhouse was. A workhouse was a horrible place. A workhouse was a place no one wanted to be but sometimes ended up if they became too poor or too ill or lost their home or their parents. It was a place where you had to work all day and eat disgusting food and hardly sleep and get punished all the time.
‘What a pair of grubby little animals you are!’
Captain Soot’s hair stood on end, making him look like a fluffy ball of anger.
‘He doesn’t like being called names, sir.’
Mr Creeper clearly did not like being talked to in this way by a child. Especially a poor one, dressed in sooty rags, whose cat had made a mess of his floor. ‘Stand up, girl.’
Amelia stood up.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m ten, sir.’
Mr Creeper grabbed Amelia by the ear. ‘You are a liar.’
He bent down and squinted at her as if inspecting some dirt on his shoe. Amelia saw his crooked nose and wondered how it had broken. She silently wished she could have been there to see it happen. ‘I spoke to your mother. You are nine. A liar and a thief.’
Her ear felt like it was going to be pulled off. ‘Please, sir, that hurts, sir.’
‘I could have gone for another sweep when your mother fell ill,’ said Mr Creeper, letting go of Amelia and rubbing away the dirt from his hands. ‘But no, I said I’ll give this girl a go. What an absolute mistake. My workhouse is where you should be. Now, the money . . .’
‘It’s three pennies, sir. But as I made a bit of a mess you can have it half price.’
‘No.’
‘No what, sir?’
‘You’ve got it the wrong way round. You are the one who has to pay me.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘For ruining my rug.’
Amelia looked at the rug. It probably cost more than a chimney sweep could earn in ten years. She felt sad and angry. She had needed the three pennies from Mr Creeper to buy a figgy pudding for her and her mother tomorrow. They couldn’t afford a goose or a turkey but they could afford a Christmas pudding. Well, they would have done.
‘What money have you got in your pocket?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Liar. I can see the shape of a coin. Give it to me.’
Amelia dug in her pocket to produce the only coin she had. She stared at the face of Queen Victoria on the brown halfpenny.
Mr Creeper shook his head. And looked at her, as if he really was a crow and she was a worm. He grasped her ear again and twisted it. ‘Your mother really has been soft with you, hasn’t she? I always thought she was a weak kind of woman. I mean, your father obviously thought so. He didn’t stick around for either of you, did he?’
Amelia’s face reddened. She had never known her father except as a charcoal sketch her mother had drawn. He was dressed in a soldier’s uniform and was smiling. William Wishart looked like a hero and that was enough for her. He had been a soldier in the British Army and had gone to war in a very hot country called Burma. He had died there the year Amelia was born. She had imagined him being strong and noble and heroic and the exact opposite of Mr Creeper.
‘Your mother has not been a good one. Look at you. In your ragged trousers. You would hardly know you weren’t a boy. Your mother hasn’t taught you to be a girl, has she? At least she probably won’t be around for long . . .’
Even Captain Soot seemed cross about this and he pounced across the room and swiped at Mr Creeper, digging his claws into his black trousers and ripping the material. Mr Creeper pushed the cat away with his cane, and Amelia felt a red flash of rage. She jabbed the sooty bristles of her brush into Mr Creeper’s horrid face and kicked him in the shins. Then she kicked him again. And once more.
Mr Creeper coughed on soot. ‘YOU!’
Amelia wasn’t scared any more. She thought of her mother lying ill in bed. ‘Don’t. Talk. About. My. Ma!’
She