“Maleficent Oddity Ralingworth. Oh, how perfect.”
“Yes,” I say. "Evil and odd.”
“Dog Mealy Em,” Fee snaps back.
I shall have to work on my name. On one corner of the paper, Ann has scribbled Mrs. Thomas Doyle several times, trying out a signature she will never own, and I am ashamed that I’ve crossed her off Tom’s list before she’s ever had a chance. I will remedy that. Ann’s staring at a name.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m trying Miss McCleethy’s name,” she says.
Felicity and I crowd her. "What have you got?”
Ann shows us her work.
Claire McCleethy Let Her Claim Ccy I’m Clear Celt Hey C Ye Thrice Calm Cel The Mal Cire Leccy
Felicity laughs. “These certainly make no sense. Let Her Claim Ccy? Mal Cire?”
“Cire is a type of fabric. Mal means bad,” Ann answers proudly.
I’m still looking at the page. There’s something oddly familiar about it, something that makes the hair stand up at the back of my neck.
Ann pulls another C down. It makes Circe.
“Try the whole name,” I say.
Once again, Ann writes out the name and cuts the letters into small squares that can be moved about. She tries several combinations—Circe Lamcleethy, Circe the Lamcley, Circe the Mal Cley, Circe the Ye Call M.
“Place the Y after The,” I instruct.
Circe They E Call M.
Ann shifts the letters around till they read: They Call Me Circe.
We stare in astonishment.
“Claire McCleethy is an anagram,” Ann whispers.
Felicity shudders. "Circe’s come back to Spence.”
“We’ve got to find the Temple,” I say. "And quickly.”
Pippa’s sitting with the gorgon when we arrive in the realms. “Look, I’ve made you all crowns! They’re my Christmas gifts to you!” Her arms are ringed with small circles of flowers, which she places on our heads. "Lovely!”
“Oh, they are perfect, Pip,” Felicity coos.
“And I’ve kept your enchanted arrows safe and sound,” Pip says, slipping the quiver onto Felicity’s back. “Shall we take a trip on the river again?”
“No, I think not,” I answer. The gorgon swivels her green face in my direction for a moment.
“No travels today, Most High?” she hisses.
“No, thank you,” I say. I am reminded of our last voyage, of that moment of hesitation. I do not know if I can trust the great beast who once led a rebellion against the Order. There was a reason for them to imprison her.
I motion for the others to follow me to the garden. The toadstools have gotten fatter. Some of them seem near to bursting.
“We’ve found our teacher’s name is an anagram for They Call Me Circe,” Felicity tells Pippa, after giving her all the news of our day.
“How exciting!” Pip says. “I wish I had been there to follow her. That was quite brave of you.”
“Do you suppose Mrs. Nightwing is suspect too?” Felicity asks. "They are friends.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I say, troubled.
“She didn’t want us to know anything about the Order! That’s why she dismissed Miss Moore,” Pippa says. “Perhaps Mrs. Nightwing has something to hide.”
“Or perhaps she doesn’t know anything about it,” Ann says. Mrs. Nightwing has been the only mother she’s ever known. I know what it is to have that certainty about someone you love taken from you.
“Mrs. Nightwing was a teacher at Spence when Sarah and Mary were there. What if she’s been helping Sarah all the while, waiting for a time when she could return?” Felicity says.
“I d-don’t like this talk,” Ann stammers.
“What if—”
“Fee,” I interrupt, giving a quick sideways glance to Ann. “I think for now we’d best be about finding the Temple. Nell Hawkins said we should look for a path. Have you seen any path round here, Pip?” I ask.
Pip gives me a quizzical look. "Who is Nell Hawkins?”
“A lunatic at Bedlam,” Ann answers. “Gemma thinks she knows where to find the Temple.”
Pippa laughs. "You’re joking!”
“No,” I say, going red. "Have you seen a path?”
“Hundreds. What sort of path are we looking for?”
“I don’t know. The true path. That was all she said.”
“That’s not much help,” Pippa says, sighing. “There is one that leads out from the garden that I’ve not taken yet.”
“Show me,” I say.
The one she speaks of is but a narrow lane that seems to disappear in a wall of leafy green. It is slow and arduous. With each step, we’ve got to push aside the broad leaves and fat beige stalks that leave thin ribbons of sap on our hands till we’re sticky as treacle.
“What a chore,” Pippa moans. “I hope this is the right way. I’d hate to think we’ve done all this work for nothing.”
A stalk hits me square in the face.
“What did you say?” Felicity asks.
“Me? I’ve said nothing,” I answer.
“I heard voices.”
We stop. I hear it too. Something’s moving in the heavy thicket. Suddenly, it seems a bad idea to have come this way without knowing a thing about it. I put out a hand to stop my friends. Felicity reaches for an arrow. We’re tight as piano strings.
A pair of eyes appears between the fronds of the palm tree.
“Hello? Who’s there?” I ask.
“Have you come to help us?” a soft voice asks.
A young woman steps out from behind the tree, making us gasp. The right side of her body is horribly burned. Her hand is gone to the bone. She sees the shock on our faces and tries to cover herself with what’s left of her shawl. “It was a fire at the factory, miss. Went up like a tinderbox, and we couldn’t get out in time,” she answers.
“We?” I ask, when I find my voice again.
Behind her in the jungle growth are perhaps a dozen or so young girls, many of them burned, all of them dead.
“Those of us who couldn’t get out. Fire got some; some jumped and the fall got ’em,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Can’t rightly say,” she answers. "Feels like forever.”
“When was the fire?” Pippa asks.
“Third of December 1895, miss. Lot of wind that day, I recall.” They’ve been here about two weeks, less time than Pippa. “I’ve seen you before, miss,” she says, nodding to Pippa. “You and yer gen’leman.”
Pippa’s mouth hangs open. “I’ve never seen you in my life. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am sorry for the offense, miss. I meant no harm, I’m sure.” I don’t know why Pip’s in such a foul temper. She’s not helping matters.
The girl tugs at my sleeve, and I have to hold back the scream when I see that hand on me. "Is this heaven or hell, miss?”
“It is neither,” I say, taking a step back. "What is your name?”
“Mae. Mae Sutter.”
“Mae,” I whisper. "Has anyone among you been acting strangely?”
She thinks for a moment. “Bessie Timmons,” she says, pointing to another burned girl with a badly broken arm. “But in truth, miss, she’s always been a bit strange. She’s been talking to somebody off by herself, telling us we need to follow her to a place called the Winterlands, that they can help us there.”
“Listen closely to me, Mae. You must not go to the Winterlands. Soon everything will be as it should be, and you and your friends will cross over the river to what lies beyond.”
Mae looks at me, scared. "And what might that be?”
“I—I don’t know exactly,” I say, offering no comfort. “But in the meantime, you must trust no one you meet here. Do you understand?”
She gives me a hard look. “Then why should I trust you, miss?” She walks back to her friends, and as she does I hear her say, “They can’t
help us. We’re on our own.”
“All those spirits waiting to cross . . . ,” Felicity says.
“Waiting to be corrupted,” Ann says.
“You don’t know that,” Pippa says.
We fall silent.
“Let’s press on,” I say. "Perhaps the Temple is near.”
“I don’t want to go on,” Pippa says. “I don’t want to see any more horror. I’m going back to the garden. Who’s joining me?”
I look to the green ahead of us. The path dwindles under a heavy cover of leaves. But through them, I think I see a flash of ghostly, glowing white rustling through the brush.
Bessie Timmons steps onto the path. There’s a hard look in her eye. "Why don’t you clear off, then, if you can’t help us? Go on—clear off. Or else.”
She doesn’t explain what the “or else” might be. Some of the other girls come to stand behind her, closing ranks. They don’t want us here. It’s not worth fighting them, not right now.
“Come on,” I say. "Let’s go back.”
We turn back on the little path. Bessie Timmons calls out behind us.
“Don’t be so proud. Soon you’ll all be like we are. My friends are coming for us. They’ll make us whole! They’ll make us queens! And you’ll be nothing but dust.”
The walk back to the garden is a quiet one. We are tired and sticky and sullen, Pippa particularly.
“Now may we please have a bit of fun?” she huffs when we’ve reached the place where the runes used to stand. “This hunting about for the Temple is so dreary.”
“I know a place for games, m’lady.”
From behind a tree the knight emerges, startling us all. He has a cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand. We gasp and he falls to one knee. "Did I frighten you?” he asks, cocking his head to one side so that his curtain of straw-gold hair falls bewitchingly across his face.
Pippa flashes him a dark look. "You haven’t been summoned.”
“I am sorry,” he says. He does not sound sorry. He sounds as if he is enjoying himself at our expense. “How shall I pay for my fault, m’lady? What would you bid me do?” He places his dagger at his throat. "Do you demand blood, m’lady?”
Pippa is oddly cool. "If you wish.”
“What is your wish, m’lady?”
Pippa turns away, her long black curls bouncing against her shoulder blades. "I wish for you to leave me alone.”
“Very well, m’lady,” the knight says. “But I shall leave you with a gift.”
He tosses the bundle to the ground and walks back into the thicket.
“I thought you said you’d gotten rid of him,” Felicity says.
“Yes. I thought I had,” Pippa answers.
“What did he bring you?” Ann asks. She unwraps the bundle and falls back in the grass with a small scream.
“What is it?” Felicity and I ask, rushing forward.
It is a goat’s head, covered in flies and dried blood.
“How horrid!” Ann says, putting her hand to her mouth.
“If that man were to return I’d have something to say to him,” Felicity says, her cheeks pink.
It was a ghastly thing to do, and I wonder that the knight, who was once dreamed of and called by Pippa’s longing— a creature bound to her by the magic—could have become so cruel. Pippa’s staring at the goat’s head intently. She clutches her stomach, and at first, I think she is going to be ill or cry. But then she licks her lips just slightly, a look of longing in her eyes.
She sees me watching her. “I’ll give it a proper burial later,” she says, linking her arm through mine.
“Yes, that would be good,” I say, moving away.
“Come back tomorrow!” she shouts. "We’ll try another path. I’m sure we’ll find it tomorrow!”
The ornate cuckoo clock on Felicity’s mantel cries the hour. It feels as though we’ve been gone for hours but it’s been less than a second of London time. I’m still unsettled by the day’s events—Miss McCleethy standing outside Bedlam, the anagram, Mae Sutter and her friends. And Pippa. Yes, especially Pippa.
“Shall we have some fun?” Felicity asks, rushing for the front door with us running behind her.
Shames, the butler, comes after us. “Miss Worthington? What is the matter?”
Felicity closes her eyes and holds out her hand. “You don’t see me here, Shames. We are in the sitting room having our tea.”
Without a word, Shames shakes his head as if he cannot understand why the door is standing open. He closes it behind us, and we are free.
The London fog hides the stars. They glint here and there but cannot break through the soupy sky.
“What should we do now?” Ann asks.
Felicity breaks into a broad grin. "Everything.”
Flying over London on a cold night by magic is an extraordinary thing. Here are the gentlemen leaving their clubs, the queue of carriages coming up to meet them. There are the mudlarks, those poor, grubby children, searching through the filthy banks of the Thames for a few coins and a bit of luck. We’ve only to dip low and we could touch the tops of the theaters in the West End or put our fingertips to the great Gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, which we do. Ann sits upon the rooftop beside the towering clock of Big Ben.
“Look,” she says, laughing. "I’ve a seat in Parliament.”
“We could do anything! Steal into Buckingham Palace and wear the crown jewels,” Felicity says, stepping across the spindly towers on her tiptoes.
“You w-wouldn’t d-do that, w-would you?” Ann asks, horrified.
“No, she wouldn’t,” I answer firmly.
It is exhilarating to have such freedom. We fly lazily over the river, coming to rest beneath Waterloo Bridge. A rowboat passes under us, its lantern fighting the fog and losing. It’s a curious thing, but I can hear the thoughts of the old gentleman in the boat, just as I have those of the fallen women in the Haymarket and the toppers driving through Hyde Park in their fancy private carriages as we were flying past. It is faint, like overhearing a conversation in another room, but nonetheless, I know what they are feeling.
The old man puts stones in his pocket, and I know his purpose.
“We’ve got to stop that man in the boat,” I say.
“Stop him from what?” Ann asks, twirling in the air.
“Can’t you hear him?”
“No,” Ann says. Felicity shakes her head as she floats on her back like a swimmer.
“He means to kill himself.”
“How do you know that?” Felicity asks.
“I can hear his thoughts,” I say.
They’re dubious, but they follow me down into the thick fog. The man sings a mournful song about a bonnie lass lost forever as he puts the last of the stones in his pocket and moves to the edge of the rocking boat.
“You were right!” Ann gasps.
“Who goes there?” the man shouts.
“I’ve an idea,” I whisper to my friends. "Follow me.”
We push through the fog, and the man nearly topples backward at the sight of three girls floating toward him.
“You mustn’t do such a desperate act,” I say in a quavering voice that I hope sounds otherworldly.
The man falls to his knees, his eyes wide. “Wh-what are you?”
“We are the ghosts of Christmas, and woe to any man who does not heed our warnings,” I wail.
Felicity moans and turns a flip for good measure. Ann stares at her openmouthed, but I, for one, am impressed by her quick thinking and her acrobatics.
“What is your warning?” the old man squeaks.
“If you should persist in this dreadful course, a terrible curse shall befall you,” I say.
“And your family,” Felicity intones.
“And their families,” Ann adds, which I think is a bit much, but there’s no taking it back.
It works. The man removes stones from his pocket so quickly I fear he’ll turn over the boat. “Thank you!” he says. “Yes, thank you, I’m sure.?
??
Satisfied, we fly away home, laughing at our resourcefulness and feeling quite smug indeed about saving a man’s life. When we reach the elegant houses of Mayfair once again, I’m drawn to Simon’s house. It would be an easy thing to fly close and perhaps hear his thoughts. For a moment, I hover, moving closer to him, but at the last moment, I change course, following Felicity and Ann into the sitting room again, where the tea is now cold.
“That was thrilling!” Felicity says, taking a seat.
“Yes,” Ann says. "I wonder why Fee and I weren’t able to hear his thoughts as well.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
A little girl in immaculate dress and pinafore steals in. She can’t be more than eight years old. Her fair hair has been pulled back at the crown with a fat white ribbon. Her eyes are the same blue-gray as Felicity’s. In fact, she looks a good deal like Felicity.
“What do you want?” Felicity snaps.
A governess steps in. “I’m sorry, Miss Worthington. Miss Polly seems to have lost her doll. I’ve told her she must take greater care with her things.”
So this is little Polly. I pity her for living with Felicity.
“Here it is,” Felicity says, finding the doll under the Persian carpet. "Wait. Let me be certain she’s all right.”
Felicity makes a show of playing nursemaid to the doll, which makes Polly giggle, but when she closes her eyes and puts her hands over the doll, I feel the tug on the magic that we’ve brought back.
“Felicity!” I say, breaking her concentration.
She hands the doll to Polly. “There now, Polly. All better. Now you’ve got someone to look after you.”
“What did you do?” I ask, when Polly’s gone to the nursery with her governess.
“Oh, don’t look at me that way! The doll’s arm was broken. I only fixed it,” Felicity huffs.
“You wouldn’t do anything to harm her, would you?”
“No,” Felicity says coolly. "I wouldn’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE MOMENT I WAKE, I DASH OFF A LETTER TO THE headmistress of St. Victoria’s School for Girls asking when Miss McCleethy was in their employ. I have Emily post it before the ink is completely dry.
As it is Thursday, Miss Moore takes us to the gallery as promised. We travel by omnibus through the London streets. It is glorious to sit at the top, the bracing wind in our faces, peering down at the people milling about on the streets and at the horses pulling carts filled with wares. It is less than a week until Christmas, and the weather has turned much colder. Overhead, the clouds are heavy with the coming snow. Their white underbellies sit on the chimney tops, swallowing them whole before moving on to the next and the next, resting each time as if they have such a long way to go.