A Song for Summer

by Eva Ibbotson

She followed Sophie into the castle. The rooms, with their high ceilings, gilded cornices and white tiled stoves, were as beautiful and neglected as the grounds. But when she reached the top floor and Sophie said: 'This is your room,' Ellen could only draw in her breath and say: 'Oh Sophie, how absolutely wonderful!'

The child looked round, her brow furrowed. The room contained a broken spinning wheel, a rolled up scroll painting of the Buddha (partly eaten by mice) and a pile of mouldering Left Book Club paperbacks -- all left behind by various housemothers who had not felt equal to the job.

But Ellen had gone straight to the window.

She was part of the sky, inhabiting it. One could ride these not very serious clouds, touch angels or birds, meet witches. White ones, of course, with functional broomsticks, who felt as she did about the world.

Lost in the light, the infinity of space that would be hers each day, she lowered her eyes only gradually to the famous view: the serrated snow peaks on the other shore, the climbing fir trees above the village, the blue oblong of water with its solitary island across which the steamer was chugging, returning to its base.

Sophie waited. Her own view was the same -- the room she shared with two other girls was only just down the corridor -- but when she looked out of the window something always got in the way: images of her warring parents, the terror of abandonment, the letters that did not come. Now for a moment she saw what Ellen saw.

When Ellen spoke again it was to ask a question. 'Are there storks here, Sophie? Do you have them at Hallendorf?'

'I don't think so.'

'We must get some,' said Ellen decidedly. 'We must make them come. Storks are lovely; they bless a house, did you know?'

Sophie considered this. 'It could be difficult about the blessing,' she said, 'because we don't have anybody to do it here. We don't have God.'

'Ah well,' said Ellen, turning back into the room. 'One thing at a time.'