Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 9

Chapter 9.

 

Repairs.

 

“Of course,” Lady Honoria Pimm-Ducket said, dabbing her lips with a napkin the size of a small sail. “Now then, Lady Gottsnobbler. You may tell us what you discovered.”

Amanderella folded her napkin with neat precision. “I shall,” she said, “but not yet.”

A collective groan rose from the table.

“I must return to the mill,” she continued, “alone. There are matters that require attention before I present my findings.”

Mr Paltry looked stricken. “Alone, madam?”

“Alone,” Amanderella repeated. “I work more efficiently without an audience.”

Lady Honoria sniffed. “We are not an audience. We are a committee.”

“Precisely,” Amanderella said. “And committees are best kept at a safe distance from practical work.”

Majesty thumped his tail in agreement. Before anyone could protest further, Amanderella rose, collected her hat, and stepped out into the bright afternoon. The Preservation Society watched in collective horror. They followed her to the inn door, clustering like anxious sheep, but stopped short of the green as though the grass itself might be haunted.

Amanderella crossed the square with her usual brisk stride. Curtains twitched. A chicken fled. A wheelbarrow, unattended, rolled itself discreetly behind a shed. She headed straight for the blacksmith’s forge.

She found Mr Braddlethorpe hammering a horseshoe with the solemnity of a man conducting a funeral. He was still wearing his garland of garlic, slightly wilted now.

“Afternoon, Lady Gottsnobbler,” he said, wiping his brow. “Heard you’re tangling with the mill.”

“I am repairing it,” Amanderella corrected gently. “May I borrow a few tools?”

The blacksmith brightened. “Now that’s the first sensible thing anyone’s said about that place in weeks. What d’you need?”

“A hammer, some nails, strong wire, and a sharp knife.”

Mr Braddlethorpe fetched them at once, laying each item on the bench with the reverence of a man presenting royal regalia. “Mind the knife,” he said. “It’s sharp enough to slice a whisper.”

“Excellent,” Amanderella said, slipping it into her bag. “I shall return everything shortly.”

 

The blacksmith nodded. “If you find anything unnatural in that mill, give it a good whack.”

“I intend to,” Amanderella smiled.

She set off without hesitation. The valley path was silent, save for the rhythmic clinking of the blacksmith’s wire against the heavy iron head of the hammer in her bag. The air grew cooler as the incline dipped, the scent of damp earth and ancient masonry rising to meet her. As she rounded the final bend, the mill appeared, hunched against the riverbank like a giant grey beast having a mid-afternoon nap. The sails were gently flapping in the breeze. The building itself seemed to be breathing, a slow, wooden respiration of expanding timber and settling dust.

Amanderella did not pause at the threshold this time. She stepped inside, the door groaning a familiar greeting.

 

“Right,” she said to the empty air. “Let us have some order.”

She set her bag on a relatively soot and flour-free workbench and began to lay out her tools with surgical precision. The knife was tested for sharpness against a thumb; the wire was uncoiled and straightened; the nails were sorted by length. High above, in the shadows of the flour chute, there was a faint, scurrying sound. A single white puff of flour drifted down, landing squarely on the toe of her boot.

Amanderella looked up, her expression unyielding. “I am aware you are there,” she remarked to the rafters. “But as long as you remain ‘non-structural’, we shall have no quarrel. However,” she added, picking up the heavy hammer, “the whistling must stop. It is over-exciting the gentry”.

 

The bent chimney was the first priority; a thin whistle was merely wind, but a rhythmic thrum meant something was vibrating against the masonry. Amanderella climbed the narrow stair to the upper platform, her lantern hooked neatly on a beam. The chimney pipe leaned at a sulky angle, its metal collar rattling with every gust.

“Well,” she said, selecting a nail of suitable stubbornness, “that will not do.”

She wedged the hammer under her arm, straightened the pipe with one firm hand, and tapped the collar back into place. The metal rang once, like a bell deciding to behave. A second nail secured the bracket. The whistle dropped at once to a faint, embarrassed sigh.

“Better,” Amanderella murmured.

Next came the loose shutter. It flapped like a startled bird every time the wind changed direction. She tightened the hinges, added a length of wire to keep it from swinging, and tested it with a brisk tug. It held. The rope that had been thumping against the rafters was dealt with in similar fashion: trimmed with the sharp knife, knotted sensibly, and hung where it could no longer impersonate a ghost.

A small shower of flour drifted down from the chute again. Amanderella looked up. “I said non-structural,” she reminded the rafters. A faint, guilty scuffle answered her.

She moved on. The flour chute itself needed clearing. Years of dust and old grain had collected in the bend, creating pockets of air that burst out whenever the mill shifted. She unhooked the lower panel, coughed once as a cloud of flour attempted to escape, and scraped the inside clean with the knife.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “No more apparitions.”

 

A soft, indignant squeak came from above, as though the polecat disapproved of the housekeeping.

“You may keep your gymnasium,” Amanderella replied, “but kindly refrain from alarming the villagers. They are not built for excitement.”

She replaced the panel, wiped her hands on a clean patch of skirt, and surveyed the room. The mill felt different now, less anxious, more settled, like a creature whose fur had finally been brushed the right way. A final creak ran through the beams, low and contented.

“Exactly,” Amanderella nodded.

She gathered her tools, slipped the knife back into her bag, and headed for the door. The mill was quieter now. Quieter, but not entirely. A sharp, irregular flap… flap… flap snapped across the yard like an irritated flag.

 

Amanderella looked up. One of the old, disused sails, long since replaced by the waterwheel, and that by the steam engine, and all of them now equally retired, had a strip of canvas hanging loose from its frame. The wind caught it with every gust, making it slap against the wooden spar like a reprimand.

“Untidy,” Amanderella said, with the same tone Mrs Gaffletter reserved for muddy boots.

She set down her bag, selected the sharp knife, and tested its edge with a brisk nod. Then she approached the nearest sail, its great wooden arm fixed at a convenient angle, and began to climb. The wood was weathered but solid. She placed each foot carefully, gripping the frame with the calm assurance of someone who had once scaled a cliff to retrieve a botanist who had fainted at the sight of his own shadow.

 

Halfway up, a gust of wind sent the loose canvas snapping like a disgruntled bedsheet. “Yes, yes,” she said, continuing her ascent. “I hear you.”

At the top, she braced herself against the central hub. The offending strip of canvas whipped across her sleeve, as though attempting to slap her off the structure entirely. Amanderella caught it neatly. “You,” she informed the canvas, “are causing unnecessary drama.”

With a swift, precise motion, she sliced through the frayed edge. The strip fluttered away like a defeated banner, spiralling down to the grass below. The remaining canvas settled at once, no longer able to catch the wind and thrash. Amanderella checked the stitching, tugged the seam, and gave a satisfied nod. “Much improved.”

She climbed down with the same steady care, stepped onto the ground, and brushed a smear of dust from her glove. Behind her, the mill gave a long, contented creak, almost a sigh of relief. Amanderella adjusted her hat and surveyed the mill one last time. The chimney was quiet. The shutter was obedient. The rope was no longer impersonating a ghost. The sails, long retired from usefulness, sat neatly, no longer flapping their grievances to the valley.

Only one sound remained. A low, wooden clack… clack… clack from the river side of the building. Amanderella followed it round the corner.

The old waterwheel, half sunk in moss and river silt, loomed beside her like a great, sleeping creature. It hadn’t turned in decades, but one of its boards had worked loose and now rattled each time a ripple of the stream hit it.

“You would be the last,” Amanderella said.

She knelt to examine the wheel. The loose board wobbled with a sulky tremor, as though offended at being noticed. Amanderella tapped it with one gloved finger. The board clacked back.

 

“That,” she said, “is unnecessary.”

She opened her bag, selected the hammer and two nails, and tested the board with a firm tug. It shifted, but the frame beneath was still solid. She wedged her boot against a mossy spoke, leaned in, and held the board steady with one hand. The first nail went in with a satisfying thunk. The second followed, biting deep into the old timber. The board stopped clacking at once.

Amanderella gave it a final, authoritative tap. “Behave.”

The wheel creaked in reply, less a protest, more a weary acceptance. She stepped back, brushing river mud from her skirt. The valley was quiet now. Properly quiet. No whistles, no thumps, no ghostly flour-bursts, no flapping canvas, and no argumentative waterwheel. The mill stood still and dignified, as though remembering how to be a building rather than a rumour.

Amanderella gathered her tools, slung the bag over her shoulder, and looked up at the weathered timbers. “There,” she said. “You are quite yourself again.”

The mill gave a long, contented sigh of settling wood.

Then she looked down at her boots. They were dusty, certainly, but still firm beneath her feet; the leather had gripped the mossy spokes without a single slip. Amanderella gave a silent nod of thanks to Mr Cobblethwaite, the master bootmaker on the High Street in the city, whose craftsmanship had once allowed her to cross a swamp, climb a banyan tree, and now scale a disused mill sail without so much as a wobble. Her skirt, too, had behaved impeccably. Miss Hemstitcher’s clever pleats had allowed her to climb, crouch, and lean without catching on a single nail.

“Reliable,” Amanderella murmured, smoothing the fabric. “Very reliable.”

Amanderella turned toward the path back to the village. Time to face the Preservation Society, and their opinions. With the mill settled and silent at last, she turned toward the path home, her boots steady beneath her and the valley wind at her back.