by Nunn, Kayte
‘Nice.’ Thea shuddered.
‘What was it doing in the school library?’
‘I have no idea. I didn’t mean to take it, really I didn’t.’ Thea felt herself squirm like a schoolgirl caught in a lie. ‘I found it between the pages of a book. A book on the history of this house, actually. I must have gathered it up with my diary and notebooks when I left. Do you think it might have been sold by the silk merchant who lived here? Could it really be that old?’
‘That is of course possible, perhaps even likely,’ the Dame said. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed it?’ she asked.
Did she imagine it, or did Thea see a look of avarice flit across the woman’s face?
‘But shouldn’t we return it? Won’t it have some value, if that’s the case?’
‘Oh, I don’t think they’re likely to miss a tiny scrap of fabric, do you? I’ll see that no harm comes to it. I only want it for a little while.’
‘I suppose,’ said Thea. She was reluctant to hand it over but couldn’t think of a good reason not to. Indeed, it might help get the Dame on side. ‘But what do you want it for?’ She held off from mentioning finding more of the same fabric in the records office earlier that day, that it was a match to this piece.
‘My mother was a herbologist. She left me some of her recipes, as I believe I mentioned. She’s in a nursing home now, pushing ninety. There’s not much excitement in her life any more, but I think she would enjoy seeing this.’
In the face of that explanation, Thea could hardly refuse.
TWENTY-SIX
Now
Thea had been having trouble sleeping, waking in the early hours ever since she’d moved into Silk House. Sometimes, in the moments before she dropped off the edge of consciousness, she imagined that the house was trying to talk to her, that the groans and rumbles were more than simply those of an old building settling into itself.
Once again, her eyes snapped open and in the pitch dark all she could see were the lights of the wretched alarm. But it hadn’t gone off. Something else had woken her, she was sure of it.
She definitely heard a noise. That was what had roused her. A scrape of furniture, then a muffled laugh. She checked her watch. After midnight. The girls should be fast asleep. Then she heard the noise for a third time. She lay there for a moment, pretending she hadn’t heard anything. She really didn’t want to leave her warm bed to go and investigate, but knew she probably had to. Besides, if she didn’t she’d never get back to sleep, that she was sure of.
Shoving her feet into her slippers and shivering as she pulled on her dressing gown, she grabbed her glasses, found her phone and switched on the torch. She opened her door, peering along the corridor. More noise, and a faint light coming from under Fenella’s door. She was surprised, wouldn’t have imagined it of the quiet, bookish girl. She tiptoed along the corridor and listened outside the door. Another giggle; two different voices. A hastily stifled scream.
The scene when she opened the door was not one she had wanted to see – a group of girls gathered around a circle of letters. She knew straightaway what they were up to. As she breathed in the fug of scented hand sanitiser (all of the girls, without exception, seemed addicted to the stuff: she remembered the sticky cherry lip gloss of her teenage years as a similar passionate adherence), she shone her torch at them. ‘Really?’ she snapped as they scrambled to cover up the letters on the Ouija board in the middle of their circle. ‘Summoning spirits? Do you have any idea of the trouble you’ll get yourselves into?’ Sudden fury gripped her and her tone was harsher than it probably should have been.
She remembered another time, years before. A trip to Sydney and a visit to the Quarantine Station in Manly. Standing in the small bathroom of one of the guard houses. Fear creeping up the back of her neck, a sudden urge to flee. She had stumbled through the crowd and out of the front door; gulped in air. Something terrible, something evil, had happened in that room, she had known it. The house was starting to give her a similar feeling and it was seriously beginning to play on her nerves.
‘Oh Christ,’ murmured Morgan.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ Fenella apologised.
‘I have to say I thought more highly of all of you.’
‘It was just a bit of fun,’ said Sabrina. ‘This is hardly the time or the place, now, is it?’ She glared at them.
Aradia, who had hastily scooped up the letters, began to speak but Thea silenced her with a hand. ‘No explanations. I want you to return to your rooms and go straight to sleep. If I so much as hear a peep out of you before morning you will have the headmaster to answer to. We will discuss this further tomorrow.’ She held the door open and the four girls who didn’t belong there scurried out of the room and down the stairs, nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to leave.
The next evening, the girls who had been involved in the shenanigans were waiting for her in the dining room. Before they had left for school in the morning, Thea had asked them to meet her there after supper, opting to let them sweat on their fate for the entire day. She knew that was likely to be punishment enough and, she hoped, a deterrent to prevent them getting up to mischief again in a hurry.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Who’s going to tell me what you were doing last night?’
The girls reddened, fidgeted, looked at their hands, their shoes, the floor, anywhere but at her. The silence stretched. Only Fenella met her eye.
Eventually she spoke. ‘We were only mucking about. I know it was wrong, but it was honestly nothing more than a bit of a lark.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ Sabrina added. ‘We’re ever so sorry.’ She sounded contrite. Either that or she was putting on a good show. Thea was not yet convinced.
‘We really are,’ added Morgan. ‘Obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ echoed Fenella, and all the girls nodded, murmuring their agreement. ‘It’s just that after what the boys said … we thought there might be a …’
‘A what?’
‘A spirit, Miss.’
Thea immediately thought of Claire’s story of the young woman rumoured to haunt Silk House, the visions she herself had experienced, the unease that had been building within her – but she wasn’t about to relay any of that to the girls. ‘Come on, now; you’re all sensible enough to know that’s absurd, right? You probably frightened yourselves silly,’ Thea said, relenting a fraction. ‘If Joy’s scream was anything to go by.’
‘That was because of Isis, Miss,’ Joy said. ‘I thought she was a ghost.’ Her face reddened.
‘Well, I’m not going to lecture you on the importance of sleep for your schoolwork and general wellbeing. But I will say this: you are all doubtless well aware that you’ve been specially selected for your abilities and intelligence, but that does not mean you don’t have to work hard for your results. You won’t get there on natural talent alone. Ignore silly distractions and don’t let yourselves down, girls,’ she said, a gentler note entering her voice.
They shuffled uneasily and Thea could see that they had taken in what she was saying. They were conscientious girls, wouldn’t have been enrolled at the school if they weren’t, even Sabrina, who had shown herself to be more likely to push the boundaries than the others. ‘I’m surprised to have to remind you of that; as the first intake of girls to the school, you are going to be subject to more scrutiny than the rest of the pupils. The slightest step out of line will have consequences, no matter how unfair that might seem.’ Her words hit home, judging by the remorseful expressions on the girls’ faces. ‘I’m not going to ask whose idea it was,’ she added, ‘for as far as I’m concerned you are all responsible. But …’ She paused, letting them feel the weight of her words. ‘As it is a first misdemeanour I will let it go this time.’ The girls exchanged looks of relief. ‘Any further misbehaviour, however, and I will have no choice but to refer the matter to the headmaster.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ they chorused, relief evident on all of their faces. ‘We promise.’
‘I also do not want y
ou to speak of this to any of the other girls. I certainly don’t want anyone else getting any foolish ideas.’
They all nodded, meeting her eyes now.
She was about to dismiss them when Fenella spoke up. ‘There’s something that we haven’t told you about last night.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s pretty intense, Miss.’
‘Well, go on, then,’ Thea said.
‘It did spell out something. To begin with, I thought it was a word: trust. But then I realised it was your name, literally – T Rust.’
‘Literally,’ echoed the other girls.
Thea ignored a sudden chill that ran down her spine. ‘Well, I think we should take that with a pinch of salt, don’t you?’ Her tone was brisk. ‘Any one of you could have been manipulating things.’ She refused to countenance the thought that there was anything more to it than the girls’ hijinks.
TWENTY-SEVEN
April 1769, London
When the patterns emerged from the loom, Mary caught her breath at their beauty, for they were even more alluring than she had dared to imagine. She had returned to the weaver’s house after a fortnight, unable to wait a moment longer to see the progress that Bridget had made.
The lustre of the silk and the delicate colours made the flowers seem almost as real as the blooms she had picked from the hedgerows to inspire her. The fabric on the loom had a pale green background, as if it had taken its tone from the first fuzz of spring on a willow tree. Woven into this were columbine, cornflower and campion, stitchwort and traveller’s joy, with the occasional fat caterpillar caught in the act of nibbling on a leaf, the scarlet carapace of a ladybird resting on the curl of a flower petal, the yellow-and-black body and translucent wings of a bee gathering pollen.
‘’Tis unlike anything I’ve seen before,’ said Bridget. ‘Though I admit you have achieved a lifelike design. But insects?’ she shuddered. ‘Who might desire to wear a gown or waistcoat with those common creatures upon them?’
Mary kept her counsel. ‘Thank you, Bridget. It is indeed remarkable to see the design emerge so. I am much obliged for your skill and dedication.’
The woman grunted and bent over the loom once more, ‘Come back in a week; I should have the work completed by then.’
Dismissed, Mary gathered her things and reluctantly returned home. The days would pass slowly, for though she had new designs to work on, she could scarcely contain herself until the fabric was ready.
When she saw the second design, which featured the witches’ weeds she had become so enamoured by, she was left speechless. The purple belladonna and freckled foxglove woven on a rich cream background seemed to glow in the dim light of the cottage. ‘A fabric designed to be seen by the light of a thousand candles,’ Frances said as Mary showed it to her later, for Mary had bargained with Bridget for a small amount of silver thread to be woven through the cloth and it glittered as it caught the sunlight filtering through the window.
‘And see this?’ Mary said proudly. Tucked away in a corner of the pattern was a tiny lace-weaving spider – her own private joke – spinning its silvery web.
Pretty but deadly. ‘Did you know that in ancient Egypt spiders were associated with the goddess Neith? That they were seen as spinners and weavers of destiny?’
Frances narrowed her eyes. ‘I trust you are right in this, sister.’
Mary refused to countenance any doubt. She imagined a lady with perhaps a profane sense of humour and a sharp intelligence who might be delighted by such an unconventional pattern and desire it for a gown. There would not be another like it in all of England, she was certain.
‘I shall send one to Mr Hollander by the next stage. With an account for the weaving.’ She stroked both fabrics, unable to tear her gaze away from them. ‘Which of you beauties should I let go first?’
‘The belladonna,’ said Frances firmly. ‘For it unsettles me to have it here.’
Mary gave her a puzzled look. ‘Bridget O’Neill said something similar when I collected it from her. Said she had troubled dreams almost every night after working on it, barely slept, so she claimed. ’Twas why it was ready so soon – said she could not wait to get it out of the house. Though I never would have credited you with such superstitions, Frances?’
‘In truth, I cannot explain the reason for it, but I would rather you send that one first,’ her sister replied.
‘Of course, then, it is decided.’ Mary wrapped it carefully in a layer of rough cotton, and then in several layers of brown paper, securing the parcel with string after she had written the account and tucked it inside.
‘Let us hope that payment is soon forthcoming,’ Frances said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Now
The next afternoon, once lessons had finished for the day but the girls were still in the prep room at the main school doing their homework, Thea sat at the desk in her study. The house was quiet, the staff who prepared the girls’ supper had yet to arrive and Thea had seen no evidence of the Dame, though she knew she was likely to be somewhere in the house. She worked away steadily, making notes and flipping through the textbooks that lay scattered across her desk.
Her students had whipped through the first topic much faster than she had anticipated, and she had some catching up to do if she was to stay ahead of them. She planned to speak to her head of department about it; she didn’t want them working so quickly that they missed the detail and nuance of the subject. It was exhilarating to teach such bright kids, if rather exacting.
Then came the distant sound of a piano. She listened for a moment, soothed by the sound, then it occurred to her to wonder who was playing, for the girls were all at school. Something soft brushed up against her ankles. Isis. The cat curled around her and Thea bent down to ruffle its fur, was rewarded with a plaintive meow. She straightened, then listened again, hearing a door slam at the back of the house. The music had stopped. It was time for a break, so she made her way down the stairs to investigate.
‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Is that you, Dame Hicks?’
A muffled sob or perhaps a cough. Slow footsteps. A dry rustle, like reeds in the wind.
‘Hello,’ Thea called again, louder this time.
The Dame emerged from the gloom, her skirt caught up with leaves and twigs trailing behind her.
‘Is everything okay?’ Thea asked.
The Dame turned to Thea. ‘Dead,’ she said flatly. ‘All dead.’
Arctic air from outside blasted down the passageway. ‘What? Who’s dead?’ she asked.
‘The fish. The goldfish. Every last one. Poisoned.’
‘Are you sure? Perhaps the cold weather got them?’
‘Don’t be silly. They’d survive even if the pond was frozen over. No. They were poisoned. Go and see for yourself.’
When Thea reached the pond she shone the beam from the torch on her phone towards the water. The Dame had been right. The bloated corpses of the fish floated there, white bellies glowing in the light. She knelt down. It was hard to see, but she thought their gills had a green tinge. It did indeed look very much like poison.
Then something else caught her eye. Glowing iridescently in the light from her torch. She didn’t have to get any closer to work out what it was. Ghost mushrooms. Exactly the same as the ones she and the girls had seen in the woods. Could someone have used them to deliberately poison the fish? As she returned to the house, she shone a light on the garden bed. The plants were shrivelled and brown, even the rosemary. Not two days ago, they had been glossy and upright, the winter herbs thriving.
‘The plants too,’ Thea said as she saw the Dame waiting in the doorway. ‘Even the rosemary. And that’s almost impossible to kill.’
The Dame was agitated now, rubbing her hands together over and over. ‘Tell the girls not to go out there, that it’s out of bounds for the time being. We don’t know if it’s harmful to humans as well.’
Who would do this? And why? Was it a stupid prank by one of the girls, or were some of the college staff so fearful
of their presence that they were doing their best to scare them away? Was it linked to the beetles in the tea canister, the piles of dirt in her study? Was there some kind of poison in the house itself? The thought was ridiculous, but try as she might, Thea couldn’t shake it.
She knew she would have to speak to the girls at supper about the garden and what the Dame had discovered there. She didn’t want to alarm them – heaven knew how suggestible a group of teenage girls were, especially after the Ouija nonsense – but they were clever enough not to be fobbed off with excuses as to why the back garden was now out of bounds. The truth – or a sanitised version of it at least – was the best way to proceed.
After the supper plates had been laid out – piles of toasted sandwiches and jugs of milk – Thea clapped for quiet. Without going into detail, she asked the girls not to use the garden until the pond had been drained. ‘It appears that something has happened to cause the fish to die,’ she said. ‘There’s probably a simple explanation, but until we know what it is, I would ask you not to go out there.’
There was a hubbub of voices, some worried, some indignant, most asking to know more.
‘Miss?’ Joy had put up her hand. ‘I didn’t think much of it at the time, but after hockey practice last week I overheard Mr Pope and Mr Battle discussing whether or not us girls would last the year. Mr Battle said he’d be surprised if we did. Do you think that’s got anything to do with this? Is someone trying to scare us off?’
Thea felt sudden rage course through her. Whatever their private thoughts, how dare those men talk about such things in front of the students? ‘Not at all, Joy.’ She did her best to keep her temper in check while reassuring the girls. ‘That’s idle talk, and we’d be best to ignore it, don’t you agree?’ She’d be damned if she let anyone scare these girls away. They had as much right to be there as the boys.
