“And I suppose you’d like me to secure you a berth in the company?”
“Oh, I c-c-couldn’t ask s-such a thing,” Ann stammers, red-faced.
“In my experience, my dear, if you don’t ask, you do not get.”
Ann can barely force the words from her lips. “I should like…to try.”
The actress appraises our friend through a stream of cigarette smoke. “You’re certainly pretty enough to be on the stage. I was that pretty once.”
She pulls her hair forward and grasps it tightly in one hand, brushing the long ends with the other.
“No one is as beautiful as you are, Miss Trimble.”
Another smoky laugh escapes from Lily Trimble. “There, there, you’re not auditioning for me, darling. You can keep a lid on the charm. And speaking of charm school, what would your mother have to say about all of this?”
Ann clears her throat softly. “I don’t have a mum. I’ve no one.”
Lily puffs thoughtfully on her cigarette. She blows a ring of smoke.
“The hand you hold the longest is your own.” She glances at herself in the mirror, then holds Ann’s gaze there. “Miss Washbrad, this life is not for the faint of heart. It is a vagabond’s life. I have no husband, no children. But my life is my own. And there is the applause and the adoration. It helps to keep a girl warm at night.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Ann manages to say.
Lily regards her for a moment. She puffs on her cigarette. Her words push out in a stream of hazy smoke. “Are you quite certain this is what you want?”
“Oh, yes!” Ann chirps.
“A quick answer.” She drums her fingers on her dressing table. “Quick answers often lead to quick regrets. No doubt you’ll return to your charm school, meet a perfectly respectable man at a tea dance, and forget all about this.”
“No, I shan’t,” Ann says, and there is something that cannot be ignored in her answer.
Lily nods. “Very well. I’ll secure you an appointment with Mr. Katz.”
“Mr. Katz?” Ann repeats.
Lily Trimble places her cigarette in a brass ashtray, where it smolders as she tends to her hair. “Yes. Mr. Katz. The proprietor of our company.”
“Is he a Jew, then?” Ann asks.
In the mirror, Miss Trimble’s eyes narrow. “Do you have an objection to Jews, Miss Washbrad?”
“N-n-no, miss. At least I don’t think so, for I’ve never met one.”
The actress’s laughter comes fast and hard. Her face eases into a pleasant mask. “You’ll have ample opportunity to get acquainted. You’re speaking to one now.”
“You’re a Jewess?” Felicity blurts out. “But you don’t look at all Jewish!”
Lily Trimble lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and holds Felicity’s gaze till my friend has to look away. I’ve rarely seen Fee so cowed. It is a moment of pure happiness, and I’m enjoying it immensely.
“Lilith Trotsky, of Orchard Street, New York, New York. It was suggested that Trimble would make a more suitable name for the stage—and for the well-bred patrons who come to see famous actresses,” she remarks dryly.
“You’re lying to them,” Felicity says, challenging her.
Lily glares at her. “Everyone’s trying to be someone else, Miss Worthless. Here I have the good fortune of being paid for it.”
“It’s Worthington,” Felicity says, her teeth as tight as soldiers.
“Worthless, Worthington. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference. You sort all look alike. Be an angel, Nannie, and hand me those stockings, will you?”
Ann, the girl who can scarcely say the word stockings, rushes to give Lily Trimble hers. She places them in the woman’s hands with a reverence reserved for royalty and gods.
“Here you are, Miss Trimble,” she says.
“Thank you, honey. You’d better be off now. I’ve got a suitor waiting for me. I’ll send word to you regarding the appointment. Spence Academy, you say?”
“Yes, Miss Trimble.”
“Very good. Until then, don’t take any wooden nickels.” Ann’s brow furrows in confusion until Lily explains. “Look after yourself.” She casts a withering glance at Felicity and me. “Somehow, I think you’ll need to.”
Two gentlemen move a length of painted canvas past us as we scurry back to Felicity’s mother. This close, it doesn’t look at all like Birnam Wood, only blotches of color and brushstrokes. Ann hasn’t stopped talking since we left Lily Trimble’s dressing room.
“Wasn’t she frightfully clever? ‘Everyone’s trying to be someone else.’” She parrots the words in Miss Trimble’s broad American accent. I cannot decide if this habit will prove annoying or endearing.
“I found her common,” Felicity sniffs. “And overly dramatic.”
“She is an actress! It is her nature to be dramatic,” Ann protests.
“I do hope it won’t become yours. It would be unbearable,” Felicity mocks. “Ann, you aren’t in earnest about the stage, are you?”
“Why not?” Ann answers, a glumness creeping into her voice, her high spirits dampened.
“Because it isn’t for decent girls. She’s an actress.” Felicity gives the word a sneer.
“What other choice have I? To be a governess for the rest of my days?”
“Of course not,” I say, glaring at Felicity. For all her intentions, Felicity does not understand Ann’s dilemma. She cannot see that Ann’s life is a trap from which she cannot easily be sprung.
We’ve come to the foyer, which still boasts a small crowd. Up ahead, I see Mrs. Worthington looking about for us.
“And anyway, you’ve a bigger problem, Nannie,” Fee says, deliberately using Miss Trimble’s pet name for her. “You went wearing another girl’s face—Nan Washbrad. She’s the girl they expect to see, not Ann Bradshaw. How will you get past that?”
Ann’s lips tremble. “I suppose they wouldn’t want a girl like me—the true me—on their stage.” Every bit of confidence she’s mustered disappears, and the illusion of Nan Washbrad flickers.
“Ann,” I warn.
It’s no use. The full knowledge of what she’s done, the complications of it, overwhelm her. The illusion is fading fast. She can’t become Ann—not here, not now. It would prove disastrous.
“Ann, you’re fading,” I whisper urgently, pushing her behind a long velvet curtain.
Her eyes widen in horror. “Oh! Oh, no.” Her hair shifts from a lustrous black to a dull, light brown. The gown she has fashioned fades to drab gray wool. We watch in horror as it begins with the sleeves and travels quickly up her arm to the bodice.
“If my mother sees you like this, we’re as good as finished,” Felicity snarls.
“Ann, you must change it back,” I say, my heart beating fast.
“I can’t! I can’t see it in my mind!” She’s too frightened. The magic will not respond. The dress reverts to its former self. Her hat vanishes. I must do something to stop it, and quickly. Without asking, I grab hold of her hands and force the magic on her, imagining Nan Washbrad standing before me once again.
“It’s working,” Ann whispers. What I’ve begun she completes, and within seconds, Nan is with us, her jaunty butterscotch hat securely on her head. “Thank you, Gemma,” she says, trembling, as we step out from behind the curtain.
“There you are,” Mrs. Worthington purrs. “I was afraid I’d lost you. It’s very odd, for I was certain I saw Madame LaCroix, but when I reached the woman, she looked nothing at all like her. Shall we?”
On the street, a man wearing a sandwich board passes out adverts for an exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. “Amazing and astounding! See the spectacle of all spectacles! Late of Paris, France—for a one-week engagement only at the Egyptian Hall—the astonishing Wolfson brothers’ famous magi-clantern show—moving pictures! Prepare to be amazed! Sights beyond your wildest dreams! Here you go, miss—wouldn’t want to miss it.”
He puts the leaflet into my hand. The Wolfson Brothers present: The Rites of Spr
ing. A Phantasmagoria. “Yes, thank you,” I say, folding it in my hand.
“Oh, no.” Felicity stops suddenly.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Lady Denby and Lady Markham,” she whispers, glancing up the street. I spy them in the afternoon crowd. Lady Denby, Simon Middleton’s mother, is an imposing woman, both in form and in reputation. Today she wears one of her famous hats with a brim so broad it could blot out the sun, and she walks with the commanding stride of a naval hero. Lady Markham is as thin as a twig and struggles to keep pace with her friend. She nods as Lady Denby holds forth.
Ann gives a little gasp. It was Lady Denby who revealed Ann’s charade at Christmas, largely to humiliate Mrs. Worthington. I hold my friend’s arm to steady her. I won’t risk another mishap with the magic.
“Lady Markham, Lady Denby,” Mrs. Worthington says, all smiles. “How grand it is to see you. What a lovely surprise!”
“Yes. How nice.” Lady Markham does not take Mrs. Worthington’s hand. Instead, she looks to Simon’s mother.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Worthington,” Lady Denby says without smiling.
“We’ve just come from the theater and were about to take tea. Would you care to join us?” Mrs. Worthington asks, blushing at the slight.
“Well…,” Lady Markham says, sparing a glance at Felicity.
“I’m afraid we cannot,” Lady Denby answers for her. “My dear cousin, Miss Lucy Fairchild, has arrived from America, and I’m most anxious to introduce her to Lady Markham.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Worthington’s smile falters. Desperation creeps into her voice. “Lady Markham, I thought perhaps Felicity and I might pay a call at Easter, if you would be so good as to receive us.”
Lady Markham fidgets, casts a glance toward her imperious friend again. “Yes, well, I am rather full of engagements, it would seem.”
Lady Denby’s thoughts intrude on my own: This is what comes of not playing by the rules. Your daughter shall pay the price. No one will present her, and her inheritance shall be forfeit.
I should like to slap Lady Denby. How could I have ever thought she was a good woman? She is petty and controlling, and I shan’t let her ruin my friend’s life.
I summon my courage and close my eyes, sending my intent to Lady Markham: Felicity Worthington is the most wonderful girl in the world. You want to present—no, you’ll insist upon presenting—her at court. And a lovely party in her honor is in order, I should think.
“But I should like very much to receive you,” Lady Markham says suddenly, brightening. “And how is our darling Felicity? Oh, what a beauty you are, my dear!”
Felicity looks as if a pile of books has fallen on her head. She smiles uncertainly. “I am well, thank you, Lady Markham.”
“Of course you are. I shall expect you at Easter, and we shall speak of your debut—and a party!”
“Lady Markham, we must be on our way,” Lady Denby says, her jaw tight.
“Good day,” Lady Markham calls gaily. Lady Denby marches away, forcing her friend to catch up.
Everyone’s in high spirits as we wait for our train back to Spence. A greatly relieved Mrs. Worthington chats pleasantly with Mademoiselle LeFarge, who clutches her few precious purchases, Cecily’s purloined pearls shining at her neck.
“I should like to see that expression on Lady Denby’s face forever in my mind,” Felicity says.
“It was rather satisfying, wasn’t it?” I agree.
“‘Lady Markham, we must be on our way,’” Ann says, in perfect imitation of Lady Denby’s pompous voice.
“Gemma, are you still holding on to that rubbish?” Fee points to the leaflet for the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall.
“Why, it isn’t rubbish at all,” I say with mock sincerity. “We have the Wolfson Brothers and their Phantasmagoria!”
Ann arches a brow. “Nothing compared to the realms, I daresay.”
“But there is more!” I protest. In smaller script is a list of others who will exhibit at the hall, their names growing tinier in proportion to their importance. I read them one by one, making Ann and Felicity giggle.
And at the very bottom is Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, master illusionist.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY
* * *
FELICITY EXAMINES THE LEAFLET BY THE FIRELIGHT. “WE must get to the Egyptian Hall.”
“How shall we do it?” Ann asks. She’s no longer Nan, but some hint of magic remains, enough to keep a twinkle in her eyes. She’s like a princess in a fairy tale who has been cursed to sleep and is finally awakening. “Gemma, will you make everyone at Spence fall asleep or leave an illusion of us behind so that no one notices our absence—or will you put the thought so firmly in Nightwing’s head that she insists on attending and bringing us along?”
“I thought I would simply ask Mademoiselle LeFarge to take us. She loves this sort of exhibition.”
“Oh,” Ann says, clearly disappointed.
Felicity unwraps a toffee and plops it onto her tongue. “And you think this Dr. Van Ripple can tell us about the lady in your visions?”
“I hope so. I see her with him. Perhaps he knows something about this Tree of All Souls as well.”
“Do you hear that?” Ann asks.
Horses, coming closer. It is nine o’clock. I can’t imagine who would be calling at this hour.
“Mrs. Nightwing, it’s a carriage!” one of the younger girls calls.
We push aside the draperies and peek out. The carriage approaches in the distance. The maids rush outside with their lanterns and form a line at the door. We girls beg to be let out as well, and Mrs. Nightwing relents.
The night’s chilly breath tickles up my neck and finds my ear, whispering secrets only the wind knows. The dust rises on the path. The carriage draws to a stop, and the driver puts the steps to the door. The passenger emerges—a slender woman in a well-appointed blue-gray suit. She raises her head to take in the sight of the school, and I know her at once: dark, searching eyes under full brows; a small mouth set in a sharp face; and the stealthy grace of a panther. Miss Claire McCleethy has returned.
She greets our headmistress with a tight smile. “Good evening, Lillian. I am sorry for the late hour but the roads were muddy.”
“It’s no matter; now you’re here,” Mrs. Nightwing answers. The servants scurry about, Brigid barking orders and inviting the driver to come round the back to the kitchen for a repast. The younger girls rush toward Miss McCleethy to welcome her. I try to conceal myself, but as I’m tall, it’s impossible for me to hide for long. Miss McCleethy’s eyes find mine, and it’s enough to make my heart beat more quickly.
“Ladies, I shall allow an additional hour that we might welcome our Miss McCleethy properly,” Mrs. Nightwing announces to delighted cheers.
The fires in the great hall are stoked to blazing again. Biscuits and tea are brought round. We toast Miss McCleethy’s return, and the girls regale her with tales of Spence and the coming London season and the costumes they shall wear for the masked ball. Miss McCleethy listens to it all without divulging anything about herself or her whereabouts these past three months.
At half past ten o’clock, Mrs. Nightwing announces that it is time for bed. Reluctantly, the girls soldier toward the staircase. I am nearly there when Miss McCleethy stops me.
“Miss Doyle, could you remain a moment?”
Felicity and Ann and I exchange furtive glances.
“Yes, Miss McCleethy.” I swallow the lump rising in my throat and watch my friends climb the stairs to safety while I wait behind with the enemy.
Miss McCleethy and I perch on the velvet settee in the small parlor used to receive guests, listening to the ormolu clock on the mantel tick off the excruciating silence in seconds. Miss McCleethy turns her dark eyes to me, and I begin to perspire.
“How nice it is to be at Spence once again,” she says.
“Yes. The gardens are lovely,” I answer. It is like a game of lawn tennis in w
hich neither of us returns the same ball.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
“And you are excited to be having your season, I trust?”
“Yes, quite.”
Tick. Tock. Tick.
“There is that other matter we must discuss. The matter of the realms.”
Tock.
“Miss Doyle, I’ve begun the task of trying to find the last members of the Order. I do not know how many have survived or what powers remain, but it is my hope that soon we shall return the realms and our sisterhood to their former glory.”
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock.
Miss McCleethy presses her lips into a semblance of a smile. “So you see, I’ve been trying to help you.”
“You’ve been helping yourself,” I correct.
“Is that so?” She turns that penetrating gaze on me. “You’ve had no trouble from the Rakshana, I trust?”
“No,” I say, surprised.
“And did you not wonder why?”
“I…”
“It is because of me, Miss Doyle. I have kept them at bay through my own means, but I cannot keep them from you forever.”
“How could you stop the Rakshana?”
“Do you think I would leave that to chance? We have our spies within their ranks, just as they have had theirs within ours,” she says pointedly, and my stomach tightens at the memory of Kartik’s last terrible mission for the Rakshana. The brotherhood ordered him to kill me. “I might remind you that your judgment has been hasty before.”
“What do you want from me?” I snap.
“Miss Doyle. Gemma. You don’t understand yet that I am your friend. I should like to help you—if you would allow it.”
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I wish that small motherly gesture held no power over me, but it does. It is funny how you do not miss affection until it is given, but once it is, it can never be enough; you would drown in it if possible.