by Libba Bray
“That is quite enough!” Mrs. Nightwing bellows at full headmistress volume, and the field goes silent. “Mr. Miller, Mother Elena is not well, and it would be best to allow her people to care for her. When she is well enough to travel, I will expect to see no more of her.” She faces Ithal. “The Gypsies will no longer be welcome on our land. As for you, Mr. Miller, you’ve work to tend to, haven’t you?”
“I’ll ’ave my men ’fore you leave,” Mr. Miller grumbles to Ithal. “Or I’ll ’ave one of yours for it.”
Later in the day, Mrs. Nightwing relents and has us help Brigid prepare a basket of food and medicine for Mother Elena as an act of charity.
“Mother Elena has been here as long as I have,” our headmistress says, packing a jar of plum preserves neatly into the basket. “I remember when Ithal was a boy. I hate to think of them gone.”
Brigid pats Nightwing’s shoulder and she stiffens under the sympathy. “Still, it won’t do to forgive the vandalism.”
“Poor old madwoman,” Brigid says. “She looks worn as my handkerchief.”
Regret shows itself briefly on our headmistress’s face. She tucks in an extra tin of lozenges. “There now. Will someone volunteer to take this to—”
“I will!” I blurt out, and loop my arm through the basket before anyone else can take it.
The sky threatens rain. Clouds gather in angry clumps, ready to unleash their fury. I hurry through the woods to the Gypsy camp, holding tightly to the basket. The Gypsy women are not happy to see me. They fold their arms and eye me suspiciously.
“I’ve come with food and medicine for Mother Elena,” I explain.
“We do not want your food,” an older woman with gold coins woven into her long braid says. “It is marime—unclean.”
“I only want to help,” I say.
Kartik speaks to the women in Romani. The conversation is heated—I hear the word gadje used bitterly—and occasionally, they glance back at me, scowls on their faces. But at last, the woman with the long braid agrees to let me see Mother Elena, and I scurry off to Mother Elena’s wagon and pull the bell attached to a nail.
“Come,” she calls in a weak voice.
The wagon smells of garlic. Several heads of it sit on a table by a mortar and pestle. The wagon’s sides are lined with shelves housing various tinctures and herbs in glass jars. Small metal charms live there as well, and I’m surprised to see a small statue of Kali tucked between two bottles, though I have heard that the Gypsies came from India long, long ago. I run my fingers over the figure—the four arms, the long tongue, the demon’s head in one hand, and the bloody sword in another.
“What do you look at?” Mother Elena calls. I see her face through a large bottle, her features distorted by the glass.
“You have a talisman of Kali,” I answer.
“The Terrible Mother.”
“The goddess of destruction.”
“The destruction of ignorance,” Mother Elena says, correcting me. “She is the one to help us walk through the fire of knowledge, to know our darkness that we should not fear it but should be freed, for there is both chaos and order within us. Come where I can see you.”
She sits in her bed, shuffling a deck of worn tarot cards absently. Her breathing is heavy. “Why have you come?”
“I’ve brought food and medicine from Mrs. Nightwing. But they tell me you will not eat it.”
“I am an old woman. I will do as I please.” She nods for me to open the basket. I present the cheese. She sniffs and makes a terrible face. I put it away at once and take out the bread, which she nods to. She tears off small bits with her craggy hands.
“I try to warn them,” she says suddenly.
“What is it you tried to warn them about?”
Her hand wanders to her hair, which wants a good brushing. “Carolina died in the fire.”
“I know,” I say, swallowing against the raw tickle at the back of my throat. “It was a long time ago.”
“No. What’s past is never past. It is not finished,” she mumbles. She chokes on the bread and I pour her a glass of water and help her take small sips until the spasm subsides. “What opens one way can be opened the other,” she whispers as she rubs the talisman that hangs from her neck.
“What do you mean?”
The dogs bark. I hear Kartik soothing them, and one of the Gypsy women chiding him for petting them.
“One of them brings the dead to us.”
A chill works its way up my spine. “One of them brings the dead?” I repeat. “Who?”
Mother Elena doesn’t answer. She turns over a tarot card. It has a picture of a tall tower struck by lightning. Flames leap from the windows, and two hapless people fall to the rocks below.
I put my fingers to the terrible card as if I could stop it.
“Destruction and death,” Mother Elena explains. “Change and truth.”
The tent flaps open suddenly, making me jump. The Gypsy woman with the long dark braid eyes me with suspicion. She asks Mother Elena a question sharply in her native tongue. Mother Elena answers. The woman holds open the curtain to the tent.
“Enough. She is not well. You must go now. Take the basket with you.”
Shamefaced, I reach for the basket and Mother Elena grips my arm. “The door must remain closed. Tell them.”
“Yes, I’ll tell them,” I say, and walk quickly out of the wagon.
I nod to Kartik on my way past him. He falls into step behind me with the dogs until we are far enough from the camp and Spence not to be seen by anyone.
“What did Mother Elena have to say?” he asks. The dogs sniff at the ground. They’re restless. Low thunder rumbles far off. The air has the coppery smell of rain, and the wind has picked up. It blows my hair wild.
“She believes the East Wing is cursed, that it will bring the dead. That someone wants them to come.”
“Who?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t understand what she’s saying.”
“She’s very ill,” Kartik explains. “She’s heard an owl calling in the night; that’s a harbinger of death. She may not live till summer.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” I say.
One of the dogs puts its paws to my skirts and stretches up for a pat. I scratch it gently behind the ears and it licks my hand. Kartik strokes the dog’s fur, and our fingers touch for a moment. A current passes through me.
“I had a new dream last night,” he says, looking about for others. When he’s sure we can’t be seen, he moves closer and kisses my forehead, my eyelids, and, at last, my mouth. “I was in a garden. White blossoms fell from the trees. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.”
“You’ve described the realms,” I say, trying to talk though his lips are on mine. “And was I in this dream?”
“Yes,” he says, offering no further explanation, only a trail of kisses down my neck, which makes me a bit dizzy.
“Was it awful?” I manage to ask, for suddenly I’m afraid of what it could have been.
He shakes his head slowly, and a wicked smile steals over him. “I may have to see these realms for myself.”
The thunder grows closer; small streaks of light crackle in the sky. Fat drops of rain spatter through the trees and hit my face. Kartik laughs and wipes the wet from my cheeks with the back of his hand.
“Best go indoors.”
By the time I reach the top of the clearing, the rain’s coming down with a fury, but I don’t care. I’m grinning like an idiot. I throw my arms out and raise my face to greet its wet kisses. Hello, rain! Happy spring to you! I step hard in a fresh puddle and laugh as the muck spatters the front of my dress.
Mr. Miller’s men aren’t so happy. They hurry on their coats and hats, their shoulders bunched up against their ears to keep the bruising wind away from their work-damp necks. They gather tools and shout to one another over the din.
“It’s not so bad, really,” I say, as if they can hear me. “You should come have a splas
h in it. Do you good to—”
It comes over me so suddenly I can scarcely draw a breath. One moment, I see the turret and the men, and the next, it’s sliding sideways. I’m in a tunnel, being pulled fast. And then I am inside the vision.
I’m in a small room. Strong smell. Makes me gag. Birds shriek. Wilhelmina Wyatt writes on the walls, a woman possessed. The light’s too dim. And what I see jerks about like a windup toy. Words: Sacrifice. Lies. Monster. The birth of May.
The scene shifts and I see little Mina with Sarah Rees-Toome. “What do you see in the dark, Mina? Show me.”
I see Mina on the back lawn of Spence smiling up at the gargoyles. And then I see her drawing a perfect likeness of the East Wing, drawing the lines I have seen stretching across the earth. The scene is washed away, and now Wilhelmina writes a letter, the words etched with angry strokes: You’ve ignored my warnings…. I shall expose you….
“Miss? Miss?” My eyes flutter open for the briefest of moments to see Mr. Miller’s men crowded around me on the lawn, and then I’m in the dim room again. Wilhelmina sits on the floor, the dagger in her hands. The dagger! She takes out a small leather roll, which she unties to reveal a syringe and vials. Carefully, she wraps the dagger in the leather pouch. So that’s where it is! All I need do is—
Wilhelmina rolls up her sleeve, exposing her arm. She taps fingers against the veins at the bend of her elbow. She plunges the syringe into it and lets go, and I feel a whoosh inside me.
“Miss!” someone calls.
I come to on the back lawn in the soaking rain. My heart beats wildly out of time. My teeth grind. A strange exhilaration takes hold.
“She’s smilin’, so she must be awl righ’,” one of the men says.
I feel very odd. The cocaine. I’ve been joined to Wilhelmina Wyatt. I feel what she does. But how? The magic. It’s changing. Changing what I see and feel.
The men wrap my arms across their shoulders and half drag, half carry me to Brigid’s kitchen.
“Mary, Mother of God, wot’s happened?” Brigid asks. She sits me in a chair by the fire and shoos the men off.
“Found ’er in the woods, ’avin’ a fit, like,” a man says.
A fit. Like Pippa. Yes, that’s it. I had a fit. I laugh, even though I sense that it’s not right for me to be laughing.
“She awl righ’?” another asks, backing away.
“G’won, then. Back to your men’s work. Leave this to us women.” Brigid clucks, and I can see on their faces they’re relieved to be out of it. The kitchen. The laughing. The fit. The mysteries only women know.
A quilt is draped across my shoulders. The kettle’s put on. I hear the match struck, the oven lit.
“You’re fidgety as a cat,” Brigid chides.
Mrs. Nightwing has been summoned. She comes close and I instinctively back away. The letter in the vision: I saw it in her wardrobe. Was Wilhelmina trying to warn me about Nightwing?
“Here now, what’s this fuss about?” my headmistress asks.
“Nothing,” I snarl.
She tries to put a hand to my forehead. I move out of her reach.
“Hold still, Miss Doyle, if you please,” she commands, and it sounds wicked.
“I only want Brigid’s help,” I say.
“Do you?” Nightwing’s eyes narrow. “Brigid is not headmistress at Spence Academy. I am.”
She pours a foul liquid into a spoon. “Open, please.”
When I won’t, Brigid forces my lips apart and the thick oil oozes down my throat till I nearly retch. “You’ve poisoned me!” I say, wiping a hand across my lips.
“’S only cod-liver oil,” Brigid coos, but I don’t take my eyes off Mrs. Nightwing.
“I will expose you,” I say aloud.
Mrs. Nightwing whirls around. “What did you say?”
“I will expose you,” I repeat.
The momentary surprise in Nightwing’s expression settles into calm. “I think Miss Doyle should spend the day in bed until she is feeling more herself, Brigid.”
Though I am ordered to bed, I cannot sleep. It’s as if someone has let ants loose in my skin. By the afternoon, my muscles ache and my head pounds, but I no longer feel seized by Wilhelmina’s habit. I’ve not enjoyed this vision, and I’m afraid of having another.
Mrs. Nightwing herself brings me tea on a tray. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” The smell of buttered toast meets my nose, and I realize how hungry I am.
“Sugar?” she asks, the spoon hovering near the bowl.
“Please. Three—two spoonfuls, if you please.”
“You may have the three if you wish it,” she says.
“Yes. Three, then. Thank you,” I say, swallowing bites of toast faster than is mannerly. Mrs. Nightwing looks about my room and at last takes a seat, perching on the edge of it as if it holds tacks.
“What did you mean by that remark earlier?” she asks. Her gaze is penetrating. My toast is suddenly a thick lump going down.
“What remark?” I ask.
“You don’t recall what you said?”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall anything,” I lie.
She holds my gaze a moment longer, then offers milk for the tea, and I accept.
“Did Mother Elena say why she painted the hex marks?” she asks, changing the subject.
“She believes it will protect us,” I say carefully. “She believes someone is trying to bring back the dead.”
My headmistress betrays no emotion. “Mother Elena isn’t well,” she says, dismissing it.
I spoon preserves onto my toast. “Mrs. Nightwing, why are you rebuilding the East Wing?”
Mrs. Nightwing pours herself a cup of tea, no milk or sugar to sweeten it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s been twenty-five years since the fire,” I say. “Why now?”
Mrs. Nightwing picks a fluff of lint from her skirt and smooths the fabric flat. “It has taken us years to secure the funds, else we’d have done it sooner. It is my hope that the restoration of the East Wing will rub the cobwebs from our reputation and give us a new measure of esteem.” She sips her tea and makes a face, but though it’s clearly too bitter, she does not reach for the sugar bowl. “Every year, I lose girls to newer schools such as Miss Pennington’s. Spence is seen as a debutante grown old; her fortunes dwindle. This school has been my life’s work. I must do everything within my power to see that it continues.
“Miss Doyle?” Mrs. Nightwing’s penetrating gaze is back. I force a pleasant expression. “I did not mean to speak so freely, but I feel you can be trusted, Miss Doyle. You have endured your share of hardship. It seasons one, builds character.” She offers me a miserly smile.
“And do you also trust Miss McCleethy?” I hold fast to my teacup, avoiding her eyes.
“What a question. Of course I do,” she answers.
“As a sister, would you say?” I press.
“As a friend and a colleague,” Mrs. Nightwing replies.
Despite the tea, my throat feels dry. “And what of Wilhelmina Wyatt? Did you trust her?”
This time, I do chance a look at my headmistress. Her lips press into a line. “Where did you hear that name?”
“She was a Spence girl, was she not? Mrs. Spence’s niece?”
“She was,” Mrs. Nightwing says, tight-lipped. I’ll not pry information from her so easily.
“Why does she not come round?” I say, feigning innocence. “As one of Spence’s proud daughters.”
“She was not one of its proud daughters but one of its disappointments, I’m afraid,” my headmistress sniffs. “She tried to stop us from restoring the East Wing.”
“But why would she do that?”
Mrs. Nightwing folds her napkin neatly and lays it on the tray. “I cannot say. After all, it was at her suggestion that we undertook the restoration in the first place.”
“Miss Wyatt’s suggestion?” I say, confused.
“Yes.” Mrs. Nightwing
sips her tea. “And she took something that belonged to me.”
“Belonged to you?” I say. “What was it?”
“A relic entrusted to my care. A valuable piece. More tea?” Mrs. Nightwing raises the teapot.
“Was it a dagger?” I push.
My headmistress blanches. “Miss Doyle, I have come to offer tea, not be interrogated. Do you care for more tea or not?”
“No, thank you,” I say, placing my cup on the tray.
“Very well, then,” she says, gathering everything. “Rest. I’m sure you’ll be right as rain come morning, Miss Doyle.”
And with that, Mrs. Nightwing takes the tray away, leaving me with more questions than answers as always.
I’m too restless to sleep. I’m fearful of my dreams and deathly afraid that I shall have another vision. And as I’ve had nothing but toast, I’m famished. I shall eat the bed linens.
Cupping the flame of my candle, I tiptoe through Spence’s cold, hush-dark corridors and down to the kitchen. Brigid’s odd collection of talismans is still there. The rowan leaves on the windows, the cross on the wall. I hope she hasn’t left all the food for the pixies. I rummage about in the larder and discover an apple that is only slightly bruised. I gobble it down in giant bites. I’ve just begun to work on a wedge of cheese when I hear voices. I snuff my candle and creep down the hall. Weak light leaks out through the slight crack in the great room’s doors.
Someone’s coming down the stairs. I duck into the shadows underneath and tremble in the darkness, wondering who could be about at this hour. Miss McCleethy descends in her dressing gown, carrying a candle. Her hair falls loose about her shoulders. I flatten myself against the wall till I fear my spine will break.
She slips into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
“Let myself in.” A man’s voice.
“So I see,” McCleethy answers.
“She abed, wif dreams of sugar plums?”
“Yes.”
“Sure ’bout that?” the man scoffs. “She paid me a lil visit down by the Thames the other nigh’. She and Brother Kartik.”
Fowlson!
“She’s been lyin’ to you, Sahirah. She’s got the magic, awl righ’. I felt the jab o’ its boot in my face.” Fowlson stands; I can see his shadow on the wall.
