Twelfth Night. Deanna Raybourn

place. It was never discussed in front of the children, but I was not surprised to find they knew of it, and Tarquin gave me a pitying look.

      “Of course we know. We know masses of things.”

      “I’ll wager you do,” I assured him.

      Quentin spoke up then. “But they ought not to be wasting Mr. Brisbane’s time with babies,” he said, curling his lip. “Not when there’s a proper ghost in the village.”

      “It isn’t a ghost,” Tarquin contradicted. “It’s a witch.”

      “’Tisn’t,” Quentin argued, shooting me an abashed look. It was bad manners to argue with his host, but I could see that his passion for accuracy warred with his upbringing.

      “What’s this about a witch?” I asked them.

      They both perked up, and Perdita withdrew a little, as if accustomed to giving way to her brother. But of course, she would have to, I realised with a pang. Tarquin was her elder and a boy. Everything in civilised society had taught her that her opinions were not as important as his, her skills not as valued. I felt a rush of affection for her, but just then I saw her small, clever hand reach out and deftly slip the last jam tartlet off his plate and into her mouth. Perdita would be just fine.

      I turned my attention to the boys, who were vying politely for the right to tell the story.

      “There’s a cottage by the river, beyond the vicarage. It’s called Stone Cottage. Do you know it?” Tarquin asked.