“Before I forget,” came Mr. Cleat’s voice from behind her. Tess jumped and let out a yelp as she turned to see him standing in the doorway. “Oh! I’m so sorry,” he said, stepping into the lab again. He held out a hand; clutched between two fingers was a small key. “I just wanted to give you this—the key to the room. So you have the security of leaving your experiments running, knowing they won’t be disturbed.” He paused, shrugging. “Or of storing things here if you wanted to.” His voice was light, the words an afterthought.
Tess took it from him with a nod and slipped it into her cardigan pocket. It touched the object hidden there with a tiny clink of metal against metal, but Tess glanced up at Mr. Cleat; he gave no sign of having heard it. “Thanks,” she said finally. Her heart was still thudding fast.
“And now I’ll say a proper good night,” he said. “One where I’ll actually go away rather than frighten you silly just before bed.” He gave her an apologetic look and ducked out of the door before she had a chance to reply.
Tess waited a few minutes, then gathered up her experiments notebook and her lab coat. She slid the notebook into one of the coat’s pockets before putting it on, burying her nose in its frayed collar and feeling for its loose button, third from the top, which had always hung by a thread. Violet began her slow, careful trek from the top of her head to the space just above her collarbone. Tess kissed her finger and tapped Violet gently with it and the spider curled up, content.
Then Tess turned off the lights and closed the door. As she turned away, ready to make her way to her too-big, too-empty room upstairs, she saw Millie approaching from the far end of the corridor, her arms full of folded laundry. Tess stood back to let her pass.
“Good night, miss,” Millie whispered as she went by. Then she paused to look at Tess’s collar with bright, interested eyes. “And good night to you too, Miss Violet,” she added, glancing up at Tess and giving her a warm grin.
Then Millie was gone, but Tess clung fast to her smile—the only bright thing to have happened on an otherwise terrible day—for long into the night.
Dear Tess,
It’s sixteen days now since you left here and there’s still no letter from you so I suppose you forgot to write? I know you said you’d write every day, but maybe once a week would be easier. Let me know when you reply, then, what day you’re going to write from now on so that I can stop watching the letter box. I think Miss Whipstead thinks there’s something wrong with me, because I’ve been sitting in the porch every morning waiting for the post to fall on the mat, and those tiles are cold. Especially when I’m still in my nightie!
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
Anyway. So. Things without you are awful. Eunice has gone right off her food. Even Prissy and Prossy aren’t themselves (which isn’t completely bad as they’ve been a bit less annoying than normal) and I think it’s safe to say that everyone misses you.
Miss Ackerbee looks like she’s covered in dust. She’s gray and sad and slow and she’s started to forget things. And Miss Whipstead is even whippier than usual, but Angela Goody reckons she saw her wiping tears off her face last Wednesday, and Miss Whipstead got really snitty with Angela when she asked her what was wrong—
The paper Wilf was writing on suddenly vanished from underneath her pen, leaving a streak of ink across the page.
“Wilhelmina Siddons,” came Rebecca’s voice. “Have you been paying attention?”
Wilf looked up. Rebecca—or Miss Whipstead, as she was from the hours of 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., Monday to Friday—stood over her, the letter Wilf had been writing held between two fingers.
“Miss,” Wilf said. “I was just—just making some notes.”
Rebecca gave a slow blink. “The current capital of the Briternian Isles, please, Wilhelmina,” she said.
“Er,” Wilf replied, trying to think. She cast her gaze around in desperation and caught the eye of Eunice, who mouthed the answer. “Er, Cardiff, miss?” she said, looking back at Rebecca and wondering if Eunice had just dropped her in it.
“Good guess,” Rebecca replied coolly.
A wave of yawns whispered round the room and Rebecca struggled not to join in. The day was warm and the sun was out and nobody wanted to learn about which corner of the Briternian Isles was most famous for its dairy farming.
“All right,” said Rebecca, folding up Wilf’s letter and tucking it into her pocket. She turned away from Wilf’s desk and strode toward the top of the room. “We’ll finish early for the day.” An excited clamor immediately began. “Miss Siddons! You’ll stay behind, please.”
The children began to file out, Rebecca issuing gentle reprimands here and there as she spotted untied shoelaces or dirty faces, and finally the only two people left were her and Wilf.
“So,” Rebecca began, taking a seat at the desk beside Wilf’s. “You miss her.”
“Miss who?” Wilf chewed on the inside of her lip, pulling at a long splinter peeling away from her desk.
“Leave that alone, please,” said Rebecca, nodding at the desk with her eyebrows raised. Wilf pulled her hand away and folded her arms. “And you know who,” Rebecca continued.
“Not even a letter,” Wilf said, still not looking at Rebecca. “So she doesn’t miss me, that’s for sure. Off scoffing ice cream every hour of the day, no doubt. Or too busy taking piano lessons, or horse riding, or something.”
“Wilf,” chided Rebecca gently. “You know that’s rubbish.”
“Is it?” Wilf finally turned to face her teacher. Her eyes were heavy.
“Of course! There could be a hundred reasons why Tess hasn’t written.” None of them good, Rebecca continued, but she kept that part to herself. “She’s adjusting to an entirely new life. It’s hard.”
“It’s hard, all right,” said Wilf, looking away again.
“We miss her too, you know,” said Rebecca. “Miss Ackerbee and me. Being without Tess…” Her voice trailed off because she didn’t trust it to continue.
“I just wanted to let her know I hadn’t forgotten her,” Wilf began, her voice so low Rebecca had to strain to hear it. “I don’t forget my friends.”
Rebecca reached into her pocket and fished out Wilf’s letter. “Sorry for making your pen slip,” she told her. “But here you are. You can finish it while we’re waiting to see Dr. Biggs.”
Wilf looked up at Rebecca, her face horror-struck. “That’s not today, is it?”
“Had you forgotten? Again?”
“Well, obviously,” Wilf muttered, rolling her eyes.
“Come on,” said Rebecca, getting to her feet. “We have to be there by two.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca and Wilf convened in the front porch of Ackerbee’s Home for Lost and Foundlings and Rebecca couldn’t resist straightening Wilf’s hat and smoothing out the collar of her coat before she put her hand on the front-door bolt. “Ready?” she asked her charge, and as Wilf nodded, she pulled open the door.
Just as she was about to step through, Wilf spoke. “Miss Whipstead, you are trying to get Tess back. Aren’t you?”
Rebecca stopped in her tracks, squinting at Wilf—the day outside was bright—and considered her answer carefully.
“Yes. Of course we are. We’re doing everything we can. Why do you ask?” She kept her voice low.
“Because something’s wrong,” Wilf said, looking up at her teacher with anxious eyes. “You know it too.”
Rebecca met Wilf’s gaze, and the girl swallowed hard. “Do you even know where she is?”
“We have a post office box number,” Rebecca replied after a moment. “No address but she’s got to be somewhere in the city.” She cleared her throat and straightened a little, giving Wilf a sympathetic look. “Miss Ackerbee and I are constrained by the law, Wilf, but we’re doing our best, despite appearances. Can you trust us?” She paused. “Pleas
e?”
Wilf considered this for a moment and nodded.
“Let’s be off then,” Rebecca said. “And try not to worry.”
But as the steam car clanked its way out into the suburbs of Hurdleford, Wilf leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and thought—about Tess, about Violet and about ways to bring them home.
* * *
“I bet Wilf’s forgotten her doctor’s appointment again,” Tess said with a fond grin. “She always does.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Millie replied. She was dusting in the library—or pretending to. Tess stood at a nearby bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines.
“She’s got something to do with sugar in the blood,” Tess answered as Violet crawled onto her fingers. “She has to have tests every week or two, just to see how things are.”
Millie pursed her lips sympathetically. “That sounds like an inconvenience. But I’m sure she bears up as well as can be expected.”
Tess chuckled, thinking of Wilf’s irritated face. “She does her best.”
“Do you like reading, miss?” Millie said, turning to Tess. “It’s just you spend a lot of time in here, despite having that fancy experiment room all to yourself.”
“I like it in here because there are fewer interruptions,” Tess said. “Mr. Cleat is forever coming into the lab with something or other to tell me. I like having space to think and he doesn’t let me do very much of it.” As she spoke, her eyes fell on a book with a gold-plated title on the spine. The Secret Garden, she read. She blinked and frowned at it, then reached up to pull it out.
Millie began to wipe the nonexistent dust off the next shelf down. “I suppose he must be interested in you, miss. Trying his best, I mean.”
Tess sighed, running her hands over the front cover of her book as she spoke. “Perhaps. It feels more like he’s trying to catch me out, though doing what I can’t imagine. And I’ve asked you a hundred times, Millie. Call me Tess. Please?”
“I’ll try, miss,” Millie replied with a wink.
Tess took a seat at a nearby table, settled Violet on her head and pulled her experiments notebook out of her pocket. She laid The Secret Garden flat on the table and flipped to the back of her notebook, where she’d done some drawings of the object she’d brought with her from Ackerbee’s. She’d been studying the pattern on its body through her magnifier in the lab, but with Mr. Cleat’s tendency to burst in at unexpected moments, she’d never had time to properly sit and look at her sketches. There had to be a pattern but so far it had evaded her.
She tried to focus but her eyes kept drifting toward the book she’d chosen from the shelf. Beneath its title there was a picture of a girl kneeling on the ground, holding what looked like a flower. Tess picked up the book and angled it, letting the light flash off the gilding.
“What’s that, miss?” Millie asked.
“The Secret Garden,” Tess replied. “Have you read it, Millie? I’ve never heard of it.”
Millie gave a quiet snort. “I don’t read, miss. I never get time. I hardly have time to—”
Her words were cut off by sudden, quick footsteps outside the library door. Tess sat up, her spine stiffening as she shoved her notes away. Millie stood to attention and then Mrs. Thistleton entered the room with the speed of a pouncing cat.
“Millicent, I thought I told you to mop the lobby floor this morning.” Mrs. Thistleton’s voice was like ice.
“Yes, ma’am, I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Just get to work, please.” Millie stood frozen for a moment, glancing at her half-polished shelves. “Now, if you don’t mind!”
“Yes, Mrs. Thistleton,” Millie said, gathering up her polishing things. She nodded at Tess, who waved sadly as she disappeared through the door.
“Good day to you,” Mrs. Thistleton muttered, fixing Tess with a glare as she left the room. Tess didn’t have time to reply.
She let out a breath as Mrs. Thistleton’s footsteps vanished into silence. “Somehow,” she whispered to Violet, “I get the feeling that woman really doesn’t like me.”
With a sigh, Tess picked up The Secret Garden and stroked its cover again. Then, not quite knowing why, she stood up and walked to the nearest window seat, where she tucked herself up and started to read.
Tess sat in her lab at Roedeer Lodge, her magnifier propped at the perfect angle. She focused on losing herself in the swirls of the metal object on her desk, thinking of Ackerbee’s all the while. She’d been gone for almost three weeks now, and the object felt like her last link to home. She’d been neglecting her study of it since she’d taken The Secret Garden from Mr. Cleat’s library. Somehow, despite not liking the story very much, Tess could hardly leave the book out of her hand.
She pulled off her glasses, rubbed hard at her eyes and then opened them wide. The metal object sat on the desk and Tess couldn’t help but feel it was displeased with her. I’m not here to read books about spoiled rich girls, she told herself. I’m here to find out what this is. Don’t forget. Mr. Cleat was supposed to have an early meeting at his office this morning and Tess knew this was her chance to get some work done without any unwelcome interruptions.
“All right. Come on then,” she whispered to the object, placing it in the hollow of her palm. It sat there, dark brown against her light brown skin, as though it had been made for it, warming to her touch like something alive. Whatever this is, it came with me, Tess told herself. Which means—if Miss Ackerbee’s not completely off her rocker—that it must have come from another world too. She shuddered, sudden fear gripping her—and not just fear of Mr. Cleat and what he might want by bringing her here, but fear of herself, of the thing she held in her hand. I’ve been really stupid, she thought, trembling a little. I should have run with Rebecca while I had the chance.
“Too late for that now,” she whispered to herself—and to Violet, who crawled onto the back of her free hand, gazing up at her with quiet concern. Tess closed her eyes, remembering her last day at home and what she’d learned about herself. If I could pop in and out of this world when I was little, I wonder if I can still do it. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, as if that would help her to think. Perhaps all I have to do is remember how.
Several minutes passed. The only result of Tess’s efforts was a painful cramp in her face. Then a knock sounded on the door, sudden enough to make her jump; instinctively, she shoved the object into her pocket.
“Are you in?” said Mr. Cleat, opening the door and sticking his head into the room without being asked to. “I wondered if you’d had breakfast,” he continued.
Tess swallowed, closing her experiments notebook; her throat was suddenly dry. Not again! Can’t you leave me in peace, just once?
“I—yes, thanks,” she replied a little croakily. “I had some porridge earlier.”
“Piffle,” said Mr. Cleat, waving a hand. “Come on. I’ve got Cook to make us some syrup cakes. For a treat. You need to try one.”
“I should really—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Mr. Cleat continued before Tess could finish. “These cakes are just too tasty.” He gave her a pleading look. “Don’t make me eat them all myself.”
Tess did her best to smile. “All right,” she said, slipping down from her stool. On the pretext of taking off her lab coat, she shoved her notebook into her cardigan pocket, where it sat beside the metal object, as concealed as it could be. She tried to look as casual as possible, then worried that made her look guilty instead.
She draped the lab coat over the back of her chair and Mr. Cleat turned his nose up at it while holding the door open for her. “That reminds me, I really must get you a new lab coat. A proper white one. One that’s clean and not threadbare.” He paused. “This reminds me of that scruffy place you came from,” he finished in a careless tone.
&nb
sp; Tess felt her throat tighten and her teeth clench for a moment. “Thanks, but I like this one,” she replied, ducking out under his arm. “And Ackerbee’s is not scruffy,” she added in an undertone, though part of her knew that wasn’t true.
“If you say so,” Mr. Cleat replied.
They left the room and Tess locked it behind them, keeping one eye on Mr. Cleat. He gave her a bright smile when she turned to him and Tess returned it before it had occurred to her not to. She pocketed her key and stood there feeling awkward.
“Now, ready for the off?” he asked, extending his arm politely. Tess took it gingerly. “I hope you’ve brought your appetite.”
“Can I ask you something?” said Tess as they walked.
“You may. But only if it’s not something spelling-related,” he told her. “I’m terrible with that sort of nonsense.”
“No, nothing like that,” Tess said, looking away. “I’m just wondering—well, I’m wondering whether you’ve heard from Miss Ackerbee yet?”
Mr. Cleat frowned, looking concerned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just she hasn’t written.” She looked back at him. “She said she would.”
“Oh yes. Of course. No, my dear. Not yet,” Mr. Cleat said. “I expect she will, though. Never fear. Parents—or the next-best thing—never forget their children. Isn’t that right?”
“I suppose so,” Tess said, a ball of surprised disappointment rolling down into her tummy. “I wouldn’t really know.”
Mr. Cleat gave her an odd look, a mix of apologetic and something else, something not so nice. “I forgot, Tess. Forgive me. I’ve long been without my parents too, but somehow I don’t always remember that younger people carry the same burden.”
Tess glanced at him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know. About your family.”
“Ancient history now,” Mr. Cleat said with a jaunty-seeming shrug, though there was a brittleness in his tone that Tess couldn’t miss. “Think no more of it.”
The Starspun Web Page 5
