2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye Read Free Page B

muddle of laughter and chat.
    Paddy and Mum look up at us, startled, their faces smudged with dust. A huddle of cardboard boxes sit in the corner of the kitchen, piled up with junk and stuff I’ve never seen before. A birdcage made of powder-blue wire arranged in ornate twists perches on top of one box, and up on the kitchen table is an old pine trunk, the curving lid pulled back to reveal layers of tissue paper and fabric and what might be a battered leather violin case.
    ‘What is all this?’ I ask. My heart is racing again, my mouth dry.
    Paddy flicks a cobweb from his hair. ‘We thought we’d make a start on clearing that attic space for Cherry’s bedroom,’ he explains. ‘We’ve filled the van with stuff for the tip and dragged a load of boxes out to the workshop to be sorted, but right in the far corner we found this trunk …’
    The kitchen is suddenly silent as two ghost girls, a witch and a green-faced monster crowd round to look. I reachout to touch the crumpled tissue paper, and my fingertips brush soft velvet, crisp cotton lace.
    ‘This stuff looks really old!’ I whisper.
    Mum picks up a slim bundle of letters, all tied up together with ribbon, from the top of the trunk.
    ‘It is old,’ she says. ‘Girls, I don’t suppose you remember that old story your gran used to tell? A sad story, about a girl called Clara Travers? As far as we can see from the letters, these were Clara’s things …’
    A shiver runs down my spine.
    Ten minutes ago we were huddled in the caravan telling long-ago ghost stories of a girl called Clara. Now all her things are right here, spread out before us in the warm glow of the kitchen. Letters, violins, velvet – these are echoes of a past that we can only guess at, of a future that ended abruptly in the cold, dark ocean.
    Forget Alfie Anderson’s graveyard prank – this is easily the spookiest thing that has happened all night.

4
    The next day, Summer has a ballet class after school and Coco, Cherry and I are in the kitchen, ploughing through homework while Mum makes marshmallow cupcakes. Marshmallow has always been my favourite taste in the world, although Summer has never been keen.
    ‘It’s so boring,’ she used to say, wrinkling up her nose. ‘So plain. Sweet but nothingy.’
    I’ve always had this horrible feeling that she thinks I’m boring and plain and nothingy too, for liking it.
    But to me marshmallow isn’t boring at all. It is soft and sweet and fluffy, a little piece of heaven.
    I spot the old pine trunk, still sitting in a corner, and like last night, the tiniest shiver runs down my spine. I’m not sure whether it comes from fear or excitement.
    ‘Mum?’ I ask, as she sets the cupcakes on a rack to cool, ‘I was wondering … what are you actually going to do with the trunk from the attic?’
    Mum frowns. ‘Well, I don’t know … all that stuff is probably worth quite a bit to an antiques dealer. And we could really use the money right now. It’ll be Christmas in a couple of months.’
    ‘No!’ I protest. ‘Don’t sell them!’
    I don’t know why, but the thought of Clara’s things being sold feels wrong.
    Mum frowns. ‘But we haven’t got anywhere to put them – Paddy’s about to clear out the attic, so we’d just end up having to store them in the workshop … Although Summer did take the blue birdcage at breakfast time – said she was going to put a plant in it. Would any of the rest of you like something from the trunk?’
    ‘Me!’ Coco pipes up. ‘The violin! I have always wanted one, and Paddy said he’d teach me if I had something to practise on.’
    ‘Is that a good idea?’ Mum asks. ‘Coco, you are totally gorgeous and wonderful and talented, but I am not certain that music is your strong point! Remember the time youtried to learn the recorder for that Christmas carol concert back in Year Three?’
    Coco may not, but I do. She drove us all crazy, until one day the recorder went mysteriously missing and