Agnes stared at the coffin beside her. There was some dirt in the bottom, but it was otherwise quite clean and had a pillow at the head end. There were also some side pockets in the lining.
'It's the easiest way in,' she said. 'You get into this one, I'll get into that one. And, look... those people you just told me about... Were they real historical characters?'
'Certainly. They-'
'Well, don't try to imitate them yet, all right? Otherwise you'll be a historical character too.'
She shut the lid, and still felt there was a vampire around.
Her hand touched the side pocket. There was something soft yet spiky there. Her fingers explored it in fascinated horror and discovered it to be a ball of wool with a couple of long knitting needles stuck through it, suggesting either a very domesticated form of voodoo or that someone was knitting a sock.
Who knitted socks in a coffin? On the other hand, perhaps even vampires couldn't sleep sometimes, and tossed and turned all day.
She braced herself as the coffin was picked up and tried to occupy her mind by working out where it was being taken. She heard the sound of footsteps on the cobbles, and then the ring of the flagstones on the main steps, echoing in the great hall, a sudden dip
That meant the cellars. Logical, really, but not good.
You're doing this to impress me, said Perdita. You're doing it to try to be extrovert and dynamic.
Shut up, Agnes thought.
A voice outside said, 'Put them down there and puth off.'
That was the one who called himself Igor.
Agnes wished she'd thought of- a weapon.
'Get rid of me, would they?' the voice went on, against a background of disappearing footsteps. 'Thith ith all going to end in tearth. It'th all very well for them, but who hath to go and thweep up the dutht, eh? That'th what I'd like to know. Who'th it hath to pull their headth out of the pickle jarth? Who'th it hath to find them under the ithe? I mutht've pulled out more thtaketh than I've had wriggly dinnerth...'
Light flooded in as the coffin lid was removed.
Igor stared at Agnes. Agnes stared at Igor. Igor unfroze first. He smiled - he had a geometrically interesting smile, because of the row of stitches right across it - and said, 'Dear me, thomeone'th been lithening to too many thtorieth. Got any garlic?'
'Masses,' Agnes lied.
'Won't work. Any holy water?'
'Gallons.'
'It-'
A coffin lid smacked down on Igor's head, making an oddly metallic sound. He reached up slowly to rub the spot, and then turned around. This time the lid smacked into his face.
'Oh... thit,' he said, and folded up. Oats appeared, face aglow with adrenaline and righteousness.
'I smote him mightily!'
'Good, good, let's get out of here! Help me up!'
'My wrath descended upon him like-'
'It was a heavy lid and he's not that young,' said Agnes. 'Look, I used to play down here, I know how to get to the back stairs-'
'He's not a vampire? He looks like one. First time I've ever seen a patchwork man...'
'He's a servant. Now, please come-' Agnes paused. 'Can you make holy water?'
'What, here?'