She sips her tea. We’re losing ground fast. I look at Felicity, who looks at Ann, who looks back at me. Finally, Felicity sighs heavily, working up real tears.
“Miss Worthington, what on earth is the matter?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Nightwing, but I can’t help thinking about those girls and the fire and how simply awful it must have been for you.”
I am so astonished that I have to bury my fingernails in my palm to keep from laughing out loud. But Mrs. Nightwing takes the bait completely.
“Yes, it was quite terrible,” she says, sounding miles away. “I was a teacher here then. Mrs. Spence was headmistress, God rest her soul. She died in that fire, trying to rescue the girls. All for naught, all for naught.”
She seems tortured by it, and I’m feeling guilty for dragging her into it again. Brigid is standing next to me, clearing plates and listening.
Felicity rests her chin in her hands. “What were they like, Sarah and Mary?”
Mrs. Nightwing considers for a moment. “Like all girls, I suppose. Mary was a reader. A quiet girl. She wanted to travel, to see Spain and Morocco, India. She was a particular favorite of Mrs. Spence.”
“And Sarah?” I ask.
Brigid’s hand hovers over the plates as if she’s forgotten her purpose for a moment. Quietly, she gathers the silver.
“Sarah was a bit of a free spirit. In hindsight, Mrs. Spence might have done more to rein her in. They were fanciful girls, taken with stories of fairies and magic and whatnot.”
I stare into my custard dish.
“How did the fire happen?” Cecily asks.
“It was a foolish accident. The girls took a candle to the East Wing. It was after they should have been in bed. We shall never know why they went. Probably one of their fanciful adventures.” Mrs. Nightwing sips from her cup for a moment, lost. “The candle caught on a drapery, I suppose, and spread quickly. Mrs. Spence must have rushed in to help them, the door slammed shut behind her . . .” She trails off, staring into her tea as if it might help her. “I couldn’t get it open, you see. It was as if something heavy was holding it fast. I suppose we should count ourselves very lucky. The entire school might have gone up in flames.”
It’s quiet except for the clatter of dishes in Brigid’s hands.
Ann barges in. “Is it true that Sarah and Mary were involved with something supernatural?”
A dish crashes to the floor. Brigid is on hands and knees, sweeping the pieces into her apron. “Sorry, Missus Nightwing. I’ll just get a broom.”
Mrs. Nightwing fixes Ann with a glare. “Wherever did you hear such a scurrilous rumor?”
I stir my tea with a concentration particular to nuns at prayer. Blast Ann and her stupidity.
“We read—” Ann is interrupted by my swift kick to her leg. “I-I c-c-can’t rem-m-member.”
“Nonsense! If someone has been telling you such tales, I should know at once . . .”
Felicity is on top of the game. “I am relieved to hear it isn’t true and that Spence’s reputation is above reproach. What a terrible accident.” She glares at Ann when she says accident.
“I do not believe in the supernatural in the slightest,” Mrs. Nightwing sniffs, straightening her spine and pushing away from the table. “But I do believe in the power of young girls’ minds to conjure all sorts of hobgoblins that have nothing to do with the occult and everything to do with very real mischief. So, I’ll ask you again—has someone been filling your head with nonsense about magic and whatnot? Because I won’t stand for it.”
I’m sure she can hear the hammering of my heart across the table as we all swear our innocence on the topic. Mrs. Nightwing stands.
“If I find out otherwise, I shall punish those responsible severely. Now, it’s been a long day. Let’s all say good night.”
We promise to turn in when we’ve finished, and Mrs. Nightwing retreats to make her nightly pronouncement in the great hall that it is time for bed.
“Were you dropped on your head as a child?” Felicity snaps at Ann the moment Mrs. Nightwing has left us.
“S-s-sorry,” she stammers. “Why didn’t you want her to know about the book?”
“And have her confiscate it? I think not.” Felicity sneers.
Brigid bustles back in, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“You seem on edge tonight, Brigid,” Felicity says.
“Aye,” she says, sweeping crumbs from the table. “Talking about those two is enough to give anyone the chills. I remember ’em, all right, and they wasn’t the saints the missus makes ’em out to be.”
If you want to know something about a household, ask the servants. That’s what my father used to say. I offer Brigid a seat next to me. “You should rest for a moment, Brigid. It’ll do you good.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Oooh, my feet.”
“Tell us about them. The truth,” Ann says.
A low whistling sound escapes from Brigid’s mouth. “They was wicked girls. Especially that Sarah. Very cheeky she was. I was young then—not bad-lookin’ m’self. Had plen’y of suitors who come for me on Sundays for the walk to church. Always went to church, rain or snow or shine, I did.”
Brigid is unraveling. We could be here all night listening to tales of her piety.
“And the girls?” I prompt.
Brigid fixes me with a stare. “Getting to it, ain’t I? As I was saying, I’d go to church on Sundays. But one Sunday, Missus Spence, who was the Good Lord’s angel on m’ right hand, Missus Spence asks me would I stay and look after young Sarah, who’s feeling poorly. This would be about a week before the fire.” She stops, coughs for effect. “It’s hard to talk, m’ throat bein’ so dry.”
Dutifully Ann brings her a cup of tea.
“Oh, that’s a good girl. Now, I’m only tellin’ you wot I know as a lesson. And it don’t go no further than these four walls. Swear it.”
We fall all over ourselves swearing, and Brigid picks up where she left off, happy to be holding court.
“Mind you, I wasn’t happy about staying. M’ regular suitor, Paulie, was to call for me and I had a new bonnet besides, but I knew m’ duty. You’ll learn that soon enough, Miss Ann, once you’ve secured a position.”
Embarrassed, Ann looks away and I can’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Oooh, this wants sugar . . . ,” Brigid says, holding out her teacup like a queen. She’s taking us for all we’re worth but she has information we need so I’m back with the sugar bowl and we wait till she has stirred two lumps in. “I admit I wasn’t feeling charitably toward Miss Sarah that day. But I go to bring her breakfast on a tray and find her not in bed where she should be but down on the floor, crouched low like an animal, talking to Mary. They was having harsh words. I hear Mary sayin’, ‘Oh, no, Sarah, we can’t do that, we can’t!’ And Sarah says something about ‘That’s easy enough for you to say. You want to go off and leave me.’ And Mary started in cryin’ soft and Sarah wrapped her in her arms and kissed her bold as you please. Well I ’bout fell out right there, I can tell you. ‘We’ll be together, Mary. Always.’ And then she said something else, I couldn’t tell wot exactly, but something about ‘sacrifice.’ Sarah says, ‘This is wot it wants, Mary, wot it demands. It’s the only way.’ And that’s when Mary grabbed her and said, ‘It’s murder, Sarah.’ That’s wot she said: murder. Makes m’ blood run cold all over again just thinkin’ about it.”
Ann is chewing on her fingernails. Felicity takes hold of my hand, and I can feel how her skin has gone cold. Brigid glances over her shoulder in the direction of the door to make sure we’re alone.
“Well, I must’ve made a sound or something. Sarah was up quick as you please with murder in her eyes. Pushed me up against the wall, she did. Looked me in the face—cold eyes she had, eyes without a soul—she said, ‘Snooping, Brigid?’ I says, ‘No, miss. Only brung you your tray like Missus said to do.’ Because I was scared to m’ bones, I don’t mind saying. There was something not right going o
n.”
We’re all holding our breath, waiting. Brigid leans in toward us.
“She had one of them hex dollies—a ragged poppet like the kind them li’l Gypsy rats carry round—and she brings it to my face. She says, ‘Brigid, do you know wot happens to snoops and traitors? They’re punished.’ And then she yanked a lock of hair clean out of my head and wrapped it round the poppet tight. ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ she warns me. ‘Or next time . . . .’ Well, I never run so fast in all m’ life. Stayed in the kitchen all day long, I did. And a few days later, them girls was dead, and I can’t say as I was sorry ’bout it. Though it were a shame about poor Missus Spence.”
Brigid makes the sign of the cross over herself quickly. “I knew they’d come to no good—the two o’ them with their secrets and running off to visit that Mother Elena when the Gypsies came through.” Brigid doesn’t miss the nudge Ann gives my arm with her elbow. “Aye, I know all about trips to Mother Elena. Old Brigid weren’t born last Sunday. Best stay away from her. She’s not right in the head, always nattering on about somethin’ or other. I hope you girls ain’t getting mixed up in anything o’ that sort.”
She gives us a flinty stare. I practically drop the sugar bowl that’s still in my hands.
“Of course not,” Felicity says, putting the haughtiness back in her voice. She’s gotten what she wants from Brigid so there’s not much point indulging her, as far as she’s concerned.
“I should hope not. Don’t want you to start putting on airs, taking fancy names like they did. Thought they was duchesses or some such, Sarah making me call her . . . wot was it now?” She stops, thinks, shakes it off. “Well, there’s the steel trap o’ the mind sprung open again. Was right on the tip o’ m’ tongue, too. But if I ever find the likes of you three doin’ that Gypsy hocus-pocus, I’ll haul you down to church by your ears and leave you there for a week. You see if I don’t.” She gulps the last of her tea down quickly. “Ah, now, who’s enough of a luv to get her poor Brigid another cuppa?”
After bringing Brigid more tea and promising to go straight to bed, we detour into the great hall. The other girls have all trundled off to bed. Two maids tend quietly to their duties in the large room, turning down the lamps till the white of their aprons is all we can see of them, and then they, too, are gone. The fires are fading to a glow. They flicker and smoke, casting shadows that seem to make the marble columns come alive.
“We’ve been reading the diary of a dead girl.” Felicity shudders. “There’s something terribly creepy about that.”
“Do you suppose,” Ann says, “that any of what Mary wrote could be true? The supernatural part?”
With a loud crack, the fireplace gives off a sudden spark, making us jump.
“We need to see Mother Elena,” Felicity announces.
No. Absolutely not. Let’s draw the curtains and stay in, warm and safe, away from the uncertain woods.
“Do you mean go to the Gypsy camp? Tonight? By ourselves?” Ann says. I can’t tell whether she’s panicked or thrilled by this prospect.
“Yes, tonight. You know how the Gypsies are—they never stay for long. By tomorrow, they could be gone for the winter. It has to be tonight.”
“What about . . .” I almost say Ithal’s name, but stop myself. Felicity’s eyes are a warning.
“What about what?” Ann asks, puzzled.
“The men,” I say, speaking deliberately to Felicity. “There are men in the camp. How will we make certain we’re safe?”
“The men,” Ann repeats solemnly. Men. How one small word could have so much current running through it . . .
Felicity matches my tone, sending me her coded message. “I’m sure we can handle the men. You know how those Gypsies make up all sorts of lies. We’ll just laugh along with them.”
“I don’t think we should go,” Ann says. “Not without an escort.”
“Oh, I agree,” Felicity mocks. “Why don’t you go in right now and ask Brigid to accompany us on a midnight run to the Gypsies? I’m sure she’d be most obliging.”
“I’m quite serious.”
“Stay here, then!” Ann immediately bites at a ragged fingernail and Felicity puts an arm around her. “Look, there are three of us. We shall be each other’s chaperones. And protectors if need be. Though I suspect any fears of being ravished are just wishful thinking on both your parts.”
“Ann, I believe we’ve been insulted,” I say, putting my arm around her too. There’s an excitement in the air I can almost taste, a sense of purpose I’ve never felt before. And I want more of it. “Are you saying we’re not ravish-worthy?”
Felicity grins so widely, her whole face comes to life. “Let’s find out.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WE MUST WALK HALF A LEAGUE OVER BRAMBLES THAT scratch and cut our legs to get to the Gypsy camp. The nights are turning colder now. The damp air is raw. It hurts my lungs on the way in and it comes out of my mouth in short white puffs of mist. By the time we reach the edge of the camp, take in the tents and the campfire, the large, wooden wagons and the men playing boxy violins, my side aches from the effort. There are three large dogs sitting on the ground. How we’ll get past them, I don’t know.
“Now what?” Ann whispers between gulps for air.
The women are off in their own tents. A few children mill about. Five young men sit drinking around the fire, trading stories in a tongue we can’t understand. One of the men tells a joke. His friends clap and laugh. The sound, low and guttural, creeps into my insides in a way that makes me feel like running for safety—or running till I’m caught. To face what, I’m uncertain. My mind doesn’t reach that far. It’s all enough to set my heart to hammering.
One of the men is Ithal. In the firelight, his strange gold eyes dance. I catch Felicity’s eye, nod in his direction to show he’s there.
Ann catches on, looks around, scared. “What is it?”
“A change of plans. We’ll have to come back tomorrow, during the day.”
Ann objects. “But you said . . .”
I turn to leave but my foot breaks a twig with a loud crack. The dogs bark wildly. Ithal is up with his dagger, alert as any feral thing is. Using their native tongue, he shushes his friends. Now they, too, are coiled, ready to strike.
“Bravo,” Felicity snaps.
“Don’t blame me. Take it up with the forest,” I say through gritted teeth.
Ithal holds up a finger to his comrades. He calls out in English. “Who’s there?”
“We’re done for,” Ann whispers, petrified.
“Not quite,” Felicity says. She stands up straight and steps out from behind the tree while we try to pull her back down.
“What are you doing?” Ann says in a loud, panicked whisper.
Felicity ignores us. She walks out toward them, an apparition in white and blue velvet, her head held high as they stare in awe at her, the goddess. I don’t yet know what power feels like. But this is surely what it looks like, and I think I’m beginning to understand why those ancient women had to hide in caves. Why our parents and teachers and suitors want us to behave properly and predictably. It’s not that they want to protect us; it’s that they fear us.
Ithal breaks into a lascivious grin. He bows to her. When he spies us hiding behind the tree as if it’s our mother’s apron, he whistles sweetly to us, but the wolfish grin is still there.
I want to run all the way back to Spence. But I can’t leave Felicity here. And the men might come after me, into the deep cover of the woods. Taking Ann’s clammy hand in mine, I walk tall into that towering circle of men as it closes around the three of us.
“I knew you could not stay away,” Ithal says teasingly to Felicity.
“You knew nothing of the sort. As I recall, I left you standing on the other side of the wall the other day. That’s where you’ll always belong—on the other side of things.” She’s mocking him. It doesn’t seem a wise course, but I’ve never found myself surrounded by virile Gypsy men in the mi
ddle of the night woods before. I’m in no position to advise or argue. I can only hold my breath and wait.
Ithal steps closer, toys with the cape’s ribbon at the hollow of Felicity’s throat. His voice is boisterous, laughing, but the smile doesn’t travel to his eyes. They are wounded and angry. “I’m not on that side of the wall tonight.”
“Please,” Ann croaks. “We’ve only come to see Mother Elena.”
“Mother is not here right now,” one of the men says. He’s not much older than a boy, really. Maybe fifteen, with a nose he hasn’t grown into quite yet. If we have to make a run for it, he’s the one I’m kicking first.
“I demand to see Mother Elena,” Felicity says, cool and sure. I’m the only one who can see how truly scared she is, and her fear frightens me more than the situation at hand.
How did we get into this mess? And how do we get out?
“What’s going on?” Kartik strolls into the thick of things in his borrowed Gypsy disguise, his makeshift cricket bat in one hand. His eyes go wide when he sees me.
“Please, we need to see Mother Elena,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as terrified as I feel.
Ithal holds his hands up, exposing the thick calluses that crisscross his palms, a memento of a harsh life lived out-of-doors. “Ah . . . this gadje is yours. I apologize, friend.”
Kartik scoffs. “She’s not . . .” He stops himself. “Yes, she is mine.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the circle. A chorus of whistles and cheers follow us. Another hand snakes around my free wrist. It’s attached to the boy with the big nose I spied earlier.
“How do we know she’s yours? She does not seem so willing,” he teases. “Perhaps she will come with me instead.”
Kartik hesitates, long enough for a small laugh of suspicion to ripple through the men. The other man’s grip on my arm is strong and I can taste fear, cold and metallic, in my mouth. There’s no time to be modest. Reason will not work here. Without warning, I kiss Kartik. His lips, pressed firmly against mine, are a surprise. They’re warm, light as breath, firm as the give of a peach against my mouth. A scent like scorched cinnamon hangs in the air, but I’m not falling into any vision. It’s his smell in me. A smell that makes my stomach drop through my feet. A smell that pushes all thought out of my head and replaces it with an overpowering hunger for more.