Miss McCleethy shakes her head thoughtfully. “True progress can only happen when there is safety first.”
“What if safety…is only an illusion?” I say, thinking aloud. “What if there is no such thing?”
“Then we fall.” Miss McCleethy squeezes what’s left of her cake, and it falls to bits. “Chaos.”
I take a small bite of my cake. “What if that is only the beginning of something new? What if, once we let go, we are freed?”
“Would you take that chance, Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy holds my gaze till I’m forced to look away.
“What are we talking about?” Elizabeth clucks.
“Miss McCleethy, the ground is so hard. Couldn’t we return to Spence now?” Martha complains.
“Yes, very well. Miss Worthington, I leave you in charge. Girls, follow her lead.” Miss McCleethy places the crumbles of cake into a napkin and ties it up neatly. “Order. That is the key. Miss Doyle, I’ll need your help to gather our things.”
Felicity and I exchange glances. She draws her finger across her throat like a blade, and I make a note to tell her later how very witty I find her. Miss McCleethy takes a bouquet of wildflowers and bids me follow her farther into the graveyard. It is a steep climb to the very top of the hill. The wind blows hard here. It pulls tendrils of her hair free so that they whip wildly about her face, lessening its severity. From here I can see the girls tripping through the trees in a merry line, Ann bringing up the rear. In the distance, Spence rises from the land as if it were a part of it, as if it has always existed, like the trees or the hedgerows or the distant Thames.
Miss McCleethy lays the flowers at the base of a simple headstone. Eugenia Spence, Beloved Sister. May 6, 1812–June 21, 1871.
“I did not know there was a gravestone for Mrs. Spence.”
“It is how she would have wanted to be remembered—simply, without ceremony.”
“What was she like?” I ask.
“Eugenia? She had a quick mind and a skilled grasp of the magic. In her time, she was the most powerful of the Order. Kind but firm. She believed that the rules must be followed without exception, for to deviate in any way was to court disaster. This school was her life’s work. I learned a great deal from her. She was my mentor. I loved her dearly.”
She wipes her hands free of dirt and pulls on her gloves.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I say. “I’m sorry that my mother…”
Miss McCleethy buttons her cape with quick fingers. “Chaos killed her, Miss Doyle. Two girls stepping outside the rules took our beloved teacher away. Remember that.”
I swallow my shame, but my red cheeks do not go unnoticed.
“I am sorry,” she says. “That was too hard of me. I confess that when I discovered it was Mary’s daughter who was the key to the realms, I was disappointed. That the one whose misadventure led to Eugenia’s death could have birthed our salvation…” She shakes her head. “It seemed fate had played a cruel joke.”
“I am not so bad as all that,” I protest.
“It is one thing to prepare for greatness. It is another entirely to have it thrust upon you. I feared your mother’s blood would lead you to make perilous choices…” She looks toward Spence, where the men hammer away, fleshing out the ruined East Wing. “And you’ve still not been able to enter the realms or recover the Temple’s magic?”
“I’m afraid not.” I study Eugenia Spence’s headstone, hoping Miss McCleethy doesn’t notice the lie bringing a blush to my cheek.
“I wonder why I have such trouble believing that,” she says.
“And is there no other way of entering the realms?” I ask, changing the subject.
“None that I know of,” Miss McCleethy says. She passes a hand over my hair, securing one of my wayward curls behind my ear. “We shall have to be patient. I’m sure your powers will return.”
“Unless the realms haven’t chosen me to continue,” I remind her.
She smirks. “I rather doubt that, Miss Doyle. Come, let’s gather our things.”
She leads the way back to our picnic spot, and I follow.
I free the curl she’s tucked so neatly; it hangs wild and loose. “Miss McCleethy, if the magic were to spark inside me…and if I were able to enter the realms again…would the Order join with the tribes of the realms in an alliance?”
Her eyes flash. “Do you mean join with those who have been committed to our destruction for centuries?”
“But if things have changed—”
“No, Miss Doyle. Some things will never change. We have been persecuted for our beliefs and our power both in the realms and out. We will not cede it so easily. Our mission is to bind the magic to the Temple, to rebuild the runes, and return the realms to the way they were before this terrible tragedy destroyed our security.”
“Were they ever truly secure? Doesn’t seem it.”
“Of course they were. And they might be again if we go back to the way it was.”
“But we can’t go back. We can only go forward,” I say, surprised to hear Miss Moore’s words coming out of my mouth.
Miss McCleethy lets out a rueful laugh. “How could it have come to this? Your mother nearly destroyed us, and now you’ve come along to nail the coffin shut. Help me with this basket, please.”
When I hand her the lemonade glass, we collide, and the glass fractures into pieces too small to put back together.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gathering them into a pile.
“You make a mess of the simplest things, Miss Doyle. Leave me. I’ll see to it myself.”
I stomp away, weaving dangerously through the aged tombstones bearing inscriptions to those who are beloved only once they are gone.
A mutiny is in progress at the East Wing when I return. Felicity runs to me and pulls me into the cluster of girls watching it unfold from the safety of the trees. The men have abandoned the building. They stand together, hats on, arms folded across their chests, while Mr. Miller barks orders, his face red.
“I’m the foreman here, and I say we’ve a job to finish or there’s no pay for the lot of you! Now, back to work!”
The men shuffle their feet. They fidget with their hats. One spits in the grass. A tall man with the build of a boxer steps forward. He glances anxiously at his mates.
“Don’t feel right, sir.”
Mr. Miller cups his hand to his ear and frowns. “What’s that?”
“Me and the men been talkin’. Sumfin’ don’t feel right ’bout this place.”
“What don’t feel right is not having pay in your pocket!” Mr. Miller shouts.
“Where’s Tambley gone to, then? And Johnny goin’ off last night, not comin’ back this mornin’?” another man shouts. He seems more frightened than angry. “They joos up and gone wifout a word and you don’ fink what there’s a bit o’the strange about it?”
“It’s talk like this what probably scared ’em off. And good riddance to them. Cowards. If you ask me, we need to clear the woods of them filthy Gyps. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a hand in this. Comin’ into our country and takin’ a proper Englishman’s job? Will you let them put their curses on us without a fight?”
“Your men drink. That is their curse.” Ithal swaggers down the hill trailing a dozen Gypsies in his wake, as well as Kartik. My heart beats a little faster. The Gypsies are far outnumbered by Miller’s men.
Miller staggers up the hill at a run. He takes a swing at Ithal, who dodges and weaves like an expert boxer. The two men fall into fighting with both sides egging them on. Ithal catches Mr. Miller hard on the jaw. He reels from it. Kartik keeps his hand near the dagger in his boot.
“Here now! Stop this fuss!” Brigid yells.
The whole of the school empties to see the men fighting. New blows are thrown. Everyone has a hand in it now.
“How is it none of yer lot is missing?” one of Mr. Miller’s men shouts.
“That is not proof,” Ithal says, dodging a fist.
“P
roof enuf for me!” another man growls. He jumps onto Ithal’s back, tearing at his shirt like an animal. Kartik pulls him off. The man grabs for him, and quick as a flash, Kartik’s leg swings under the man, robbing him of his balance. The lawn erupts into chaos.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Felicity says, eyes flashing.
Mrs. Nightwing has come. She strides across the lawn like Queen Victoria reprimanding her guard. “This will not do, Mr. Miller! This will not do at all!”
Mother Elena stumbles into the clearing. She calls to the men to stop. She’s weak and leans against a tree for support. “It is this place! It took my Carolina! Call for Eugenia—ask her to stop this.”
“Mad as a hatter,” someone mutters.
There’s a break in the melee. Kartik steps forward. He has a fresh cut on his lower lip. “If we join forces we’d have a better chance at catching whoever it is causing trouble. We could stand guard while you sleep—”
“Let the likes of you stand watch? We’d wake to have our pockets emptied and our throats cut!” a worker shouts.
There is more yelling; accusations are thrown, and another fight threatens to break out.
Mrs. Nightwing marches into the fray. “Gentlemen! The proposal is a sound one. The Gypsies will stand watch in the evenings so that your men might rest easy.”
“I won’t let them watch us,” Mr. Miller says.
“But we will watch,” Ithal says. “For our own protection.”
“Such a fuss.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. “Girls! Why are you standing there with your mouths open like geese? To the schoolroom with you at once.”
I pass Kartik, keeping my eyes squarely on the other girls. Don’t look at him, Gemma. He did not answer your call. Keep walking.
I manage to reach the doors of Spence before I allow myself a fleeting glance behind me, and there is Kartik watching me go.
“Letters! Letters!” Brigid comes through with the week’s post, which she has brought from the village. Our studying forgotten, we girls clamor around her, hands reaching for some word from home. The younger ones cry and sniffle over their mothers’ letters, so homesick are they. But we older girls are eager for gossip.
“Aha!” Felicity holds out an invitation in triumph. “Feast your eyes.”
“‘You are cordially invited to a Turkish ball in honor of Miss Felicity Worthington at the home of Lord and Lady Markham, eight o’clock in the evening,’” I read aloud. “Oh, Felicity, how marvelous.”
She clutches it to her chest. “I can nearly taste my freedom. What have you got, Gemma?”
I peer at the return address. “A letter from my grandmother,” I say, sticking it inside my book.
Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you open it?”
“I shall. Later,” I say, glancing at Ann. Every one of us has a letter except for her. Every time the post is delivered, it is a misery for her to come away with nothing, no caring soul to write and say she is missed.
Brigid holds a letter up to the light, scowling. “Oh, that man ’as lost ’is wits. This one isn’t ours. Miss Nan Washbrad. No Nan Washbrad ’ere.”
Ann nearly leaps for the envelope. “May I see it?”
Brigid holds it away from her. “Now, now. It’s for Missus Nightwing to decide what to do wi’ it.”
We watch, helpless, as Brigid shuffles Miss Trimble’s long-awaited letter into Nightwing’s correspondence and places them neatly into the pocket of her apron.
“It must be from Mr. Katz. We have to get that back,” Ann says desperately.
“Ann, where does Brigid put Nightwing’s letters?” I ask.
“On her desk,” Ann says, swallowing hard. “Upstairs.”
We are forced by circumstances to wait until evening prayers before we are able to try for Ann’s letter. Whilst the other girls gather their shawls and prayer books, we steal away and let ourselves into Nightwing’s office. It’s old and starched-looking and, much like the bustle at the back of Nightwing’s dress, terribly out of fashion.
“Let’s be quick about it,” I say.
We open drawers, poking about for any sign of Ann’s letter. I open a small wardrobe and peer inside. The shelves are lined with books: When Love Is True, by Miss Mabel Collins. I Have Lived and Loved, by a Mrs. Forrester. The Stronger Passion. Trixie’s Honor. Blind Elsie’s Crime. A Glorious Gallop. Won By Waiting.
“You’ll not believe what I just found,” I say, giggling. “Romance novels! Can you imagine?”
“Gemma, really,” Felicity chides from her lookout post at the door. “We’ve more important matters at hand.”
Shamed, I go to close the wardrobe when I notice a letter, but its postmark is from 1893. It is far too old to be Ann’s letter. Still, the script is oddly familiar. I turn it over, and there’s a broken wax seal with the impression of the crescent eye, so I slide the letter free of the envelope. There is no salutation of any kind.
You’ve ignored my warnings. If you persist in your plan, I shall expose you…
“I found it!” Ann exults.
Felicity’s voice is panicked. “Someone’s coming up the stairs!” she calls.
Hurriedly, I put everything back as it was and close the cabinet doors. Ann grabs her letter and we walk quickly down the hallway.
At the baize door, Brigid greets us with a scowl. “You know you’re not allowed ’ere!”
“We thought we heard a noise,” Felicity lies smoothly.
“Yes, we were terribly frightened,” Ann adds.
Brigid glances down the hall with both suspicion and trepidation. “I’ll call for Mrs. Nightwing, then, and—”
“No!” we all say as one.
“No need for that,” I say. “It was nothing but a hedgehog that had gotten in.”
Brigid blanches. “Hedgehog? I’ll get my broom! He’ll not run amok in my ’ouse!”
“That’s the spirit, Brigid!” I call after her. “I think it was a French hedgehog!”
“A French hedgehog?” Felicity repeats with a bemused expression.
“Oui,” I say.
Ann clutches the letter to her chest. “We’ve got what we came for. Come on. I want to know my fate.”
A sliver of day remains as we hurry to the chapel, but the sun is falling below the horizon fast.
“What does it say?” Felicity tries to steal a peek at Ann’s letter but she won’t relinquish it just yet.
“Ann!” Fee and I protest.
“All right, all right.” Ann passes it to us, and we grab it greedily from her hands. “Read it aloud. I should like to know that I’m not dreaming!”
“‘My Dear Miss Washbrad,’” Fee and I begin in unison. Eyes shut, lips in a grin, Ann mouths every word. “‘I hope this letter finds you well. I have spoken to Mr. Katz and he is disposed to offer you an appointment with him on Monday next, at two o’clock in the afternoon. I advise you not to be late, my dear, as nothing puts Mr. Katz in a darker mood than a lack of punctuality. I have recommended your talent. Your beauty speaks for itself.
“‘Yours Affectionately, Lily Trimble.’”
“Oh, Ann, that’s wonderful,” I say, handing back the letter, which she tucks into her dress next to her heart.
“Yes, yes, it is, isn’t it?” Ann’s joy transforms her. She walks taller for this token of hope.
Holding hands, we race for the chapel as the day slips free from its moorings and sinks below the land, leaving behind a fiery wake of pink.
One of the younger girls reads from the large Bible at the pulpit. She is a small thing, no more than ten, and she has a pronounced lisp, which threatens to turn our prayers into giggles at any moment.
“‘And the therpent thaid unto the woman, Ye thall not thurely die…’”
“Gemma,” Ann whispers. “I cannot possibly keep my appointment with Mr. Katz.”
“What do you mean?” I murmur from behind my Bible.
A sudden cloud passes over her face, extinguishing her earlier joy. “He thinks that I am Nan Was
hbrad.”
“It’s only a name. Lily Trimble changed hers.”
Cecily shushes me and I do my very best to show I’m ignoring her.
“But what she said—‘Your beauty speaks for itself.’ Don’t you see? I am not that girl. It’s one thing to create an illusion, but how—how do you live it forever?”
“‘For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyeth thall be opened, and ye thall be ath godth, knowing good and evil.’”
“We thall be ath godth,” Felicity mimics, and there is a sudden round of coughing in our pew to cover our snickers.
Miss McCleethy cranes her head and narrows her eyes at us. We raise our Bibles as if we were a school of missionaries. My gaze travels to Mrs. Nightwing. She sits straight, eyes ahead, her expression as inscrutable as the Sphinx’s.
My thoughts turn to the letter hidden in her wardrobe. What warnings could Mrs. Nightwing have ignored? What plan?
Suddenly, the words in my Bible blur, and the world once again slows to stillness. At the lectern, the girl’s tortured recitation has stopped. The room is stifling; my skin crawls with sweat.
“Ann? Felicity?” I call, but they belong to that other time.
A syrupy hiss echoes in the chapel.
“F-Fee,” I whisper, but she can’t hear me. The hiss comes again, stronger. To the right. I turn slowly, my heartbeat gaining speed. My eyes travel the impossible distance from the floor to the stained-glass window with the angel and the gorgon’s head.
“Oh, God…”
Panic has me scrambling backward, but the motionless girls block my path, so I can only gaze in horror as the window comes alive. Like a moment from the Wolfson brothers’ magic-lantern show, the angel walks toward me with the severed gorgon’s head held aloft. And then the thing opens its eyes and speaks.
“Beware the birth of May,” it hisses.
With a loud yelp, I fall back, and the world comes to its full speed again. I’ve collided with Ann, who has bumped into Felicity, and so on, like a row of dominoes.