“I—I w-was just out for a w-walk,” Tess began, her teeth chattering so hard the words came out in pieces. “D-d-didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me, you silly thing,” Millie said, reaching out to grab a handful of Tess’s cardigan, ushering her into the warm kitchen. “I’m awake for ages. I heard you clattering about outside and presumed it was Johnny.” She glanced at Tess, who looked blank. “The milkman, miss. He usually comes with the day’s delivery around this time. Anyway, you get on upstairs and back into your bed. Go on! I’ll bring you up something hot as soon as I can.”
Tess gave her a grateful look and left the kitchen, cursing her numb-footed clumsiness on the stairs. Soon she was back in her bedroom. The window she’d left open the night before had made the whole room smell damp and earthy. She hurried to close it and the pane clattered home with a thump. She made grateful use of her chamber pot before undoing the buttons on her boots and kicking them off. Finally she pulled off her cardigan and then her wet-hemmed nightgown, leaving them all in a pile, and got into bed in just her underthings, shivering in the cold sheets.
When someone entered the room a few moments later, she turned, expecting to see Millie arriving with a mug of warm milk—but instead she met the eye of Mrs. Thistleton.
“I heard a noise,” she said in a voice chillier than Tess’s frozen toes. “I wanted to check whether you were all right?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Thistleton. Thank you. I’m fine. I just had to—um. Well. I had to use the convenience.” Tess felt her cheeks begin to burn.
Mrs. Thistleton raised a frosty eyebrow. “I’m sure it didn’t necessitate you throwing the contents out of the window,” she said. “Perhaps that was how things were done where you came from, but I can assure you it’s not how we do things here.”
Tess didn’t know how to answer. As she struggled to find the words, she heard Millie’s quiet voice in the corridor. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Thistleton, but I have something for the young lady.”
Mrs. Thistleton turned. “What on earth has you away from your duties at this hour, Millicent?”
“Miss Tess needed a cup of warm milk, ma’am. It was only a minute’s work to prepare it and bring it up.” Millie cringed outside the door, holding a tray with a single cup on it. She’d even thought to put a cube of chocolate beside the mug, as an extra treat. “I’ll get back to laying the fires now.”
Mrs. Thistleton reached out and snatched the tray from Millie’s hands. “Yes, you most certainly will,” she snapped at the young maid, and Millie threw Tess an apologetic glance as she hurried away.
Mrs. Thistleton turned back to Tess and crossed the room in three angry steps. She slapped the tray onto Tess’s dressing table, hard enough to make the milk slosh over the lip of the cup. She glanced at the pile of soggy clothes on the floor, noting the presence of Tess’s walking boots, which stood wet and muddied on the bedside rug, and walked slowly toward them.
For a horrible moment Tess thought she might be about to touch her things, and an image of the viewer falling out of her cardigan pocket flashed across her mind’s eye. Careless idiot! She began to sit up, the protest already on her lips—but Mrs. Thistleton just turned to stare at Tess, her dark beetle eyes glittering.
“Mr. Cleat might have taken you in as his particular pet,” she said, her voice a vicious murmur as she took two slow menacing strides in Tess’s direction. “But I can guarantee not even his special favor will excuse you from distracting the staff of this house, instructing them to do your will on a whim, or playing them for fools.”
Tess sat up fully, not caring that she was half-dressed. “What? I never asked Millie—”
“I beg your pardon!” Mrs. Thistleton continued in a strangled hissing whisper. “You’ll lower your voice and speak to me with respect. And how dare you present yourself to me in that condition.” She glanced down at Tess, who quickly drew the bedclothes up to her shoulders.
“It’s only a vest,” she muttered, her cheeks reddening.
Mrs. Thistleton straightened up and refolded her arms. “Enjoy your warm milk,” she said. “Don’t let it spoil your appetite. You’re expected for breakfast at seven sharp.” Then, without another word, she turned and left the room.
Tess sighed and flopped back onto her pillow. Her head ached with tiredness, but she knew she’d never sleep now. Violet crawled onto her open palm, her eyes shiny and sad-looking. She gazed at her mistress with endless sympathy.
“What a mess, girl,” Tess whispered to the spider. “Mrs. Thistleton hates me, Mr. Cleat has me here as some sort of experiment and my only friend—besides you and Millie, I suppose—is in another reality. Great, eh? Just peachy.”
Violet, as was her usual way, made no reply, but exuded an air of gentle understanding nonetheless. Tess settled the spider on her head and dressed herself, carefully transferring Miss Ackerbee’s note, the viewer and her experiments notebook into her new pockets.
Then, because she had nothing better to do, she sat back on the bed and picked up Mr. Cleat’s book. She’d lost track of where she’d reached; there wasn’t really anything memorable about the story so far, and once again she wondered why on earth she’d bothered taking it from his library. On the flyleaf, she spotted an inscription she’d missed before. It read, in slightly faded blue ink and the most beautiful handwriting Tess had ever seen:
To my dear son, Norton Francis Cleat, on the occasion of his twelfth birthday, September 27, 1918. From his loving papa.
Tess ran a finger gently over the words, and she wondered why Mr. Cleat had allowed her to keep a book like this, a book with such precious memories attached to it. Perhaps other people were so used to having gifts from their fathers that they thought nothing of it…but then her anger faded and she slid off the bed, placing the book on her bedside table, knowing there was no point in trying to read it now.
A quiet knock sounded at her door. Before Tess had a chance to turn round, the door had opened and Millie slipped into the room.
“Just here to collect your tray, miss,” she said.
Tess nodded, flashing a quick smile. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” she said in a low voice.
Millie snorted. “Trouble? Breathing’s enough to get you into trouble with that one. Don’t give it another thought.” She walked to the dressing table and picked up the tray, blinking at the undrunk milk and the ruined chocolate. Then she looked up at Tess. Her eyes were wide but not with fear. They shone with something like anger, a fury barely contained—but Tess knew it wasn’t directed at her.
“They’re not sending your letters,” she said in a quiet, private voice. It wasn’t a question.
Tess nodded. “And maybe keeping letters from me too. I don’t know.”
The maid gave a determined nod. “I’ll see what I can do about that, miss. You leave it with me,” she whispered, and before Tess could answer her, she was gone.
* * *
Wilf sat on a too-hard chair in Dr. Biggs’s consulting room, kicking her heels a little harder than strictly necessary against its legs. She folded her arms and glared at the world in general as she listed off her woes, which were many. The worst of the lot, however, was that it had now been three whole weeks since Tess had left Ackerbee’s and there was still no word from her.
Her gaze traveled idly around Dr. Biggs’s office as she waited. On the desk in front of her sat a large red folder full of records dating back to when Wilf’s condition had first been diagnosed. She had no interest in leafing through that, as she’d seen it all before. Beside the jotter was a selection of pens and a mostly empty inkwell and a pile of post for Dr. Biggs’s attention. Along the wall behind the desk were bookshelves packed with medical dictionaries and folders full of other patients’ records. Dr. Biggs’s stethoscope hung on the arm of his chair and Wilf was considering trying it on for size when something she
’d only half noticed drew her attention back to the top of the tower of correspondence.
A card edged in gold foil caught Wilf’s eye, and she saw the word that had snagged her. That word was Cleat, written in an elegant hand, and Wilf licked her lips, trying to resist the temptation to have a peek. It’s not like you’re opening a sealed letter, for goodness’ sake, she snapped at herself. It’s a card! It’s right there!
She threw a glance at the door; there was no sign of anyone returning, and Wilf knew this was her chance. Slowly and as carefully as she could, she nudged the envelope on top of the card slightly to one side, revealing more of the message underneath.
As an esteemed member of
the Interdimensional Harmonics Society
I have pleasure in inviting you and a guest of your choice
to an exhibition of Unparalleled Importance
on May 30, 1941, at 8 p.m. sharp
at Roedeer Lodge, Fairwater Park, Hurdleford
None of that meant anything to Wilf—but a handwritten message beneath this invitation was what made her eyes widen. Charles, it read. Looking forward to greeting you and Adeline at my little soiree. All best! N. F. Cleat.
“Cleat,” Wilf breathed. She snapped out of her surprise long enough to pull the envelope back over the card and sit back in her chair. Her mind thudded with thoughts of Tess and she tried to be certain that the name of the man who’d come for her had been Cleat.
If it was, Wilf knew, then what had started off as a terrible day could have turned into the best one she’d had since her dearest friend had been taken from Ackerbee’s. A tight grin broke over her face and her eyes widened, shining with purpose and energy. If that’s the same Cleat, now we know where to find him, she thought, her heart rising. And if we can find him, Tess won’t be far behind.
“Another helping, Tess?” Mr. Cleat waved a serving spoon filled with mashed potato in the vague direction of her plate and Tess nodded. “Good,” he declared, plopping it down into the remnants of her gravy. She’d already eaten enough for her ribs to start creaking, but she felt sure she’d find space for the extra food. Making up for this morning, she told herself, digging her fork in.
“Hm-hmm,” said Mrs. Thistleton from behind her napkin, throwing Tess a disapproving glance. Tess swallowed her potato unconcerned.
“What a relief it is, at least, to see something in your hair that doesn’t have eight legs,” Mrs. Thistleton continued, noticing the pencil stuck in Tess’s topknot. The words were barely out of her mouth before Violet stuck a hairy forelimb out from underneath Tess’s cardigan. Mrs. Thistleton jumped, almost sucking her thin lips completely into her mouth as she stifled her surprise. Tess risked a grin.
“Ruddy imbecile,” Mr. Cleat muttered suddenly, making Tess’s grin vanish. She turned to look; his eyes were on the evening newspaper spread out beside his dinner plate.
“Something upsetting in the news, Mr. Cleat?” asked Mrs. Thistleton mildly.
“Nothing more than usual,” he answered. “Henderson’s up to the same antics. The man never stops.”
“Has he declared your Society a menace to society again?” Mrs. Thistleton asked with a smirk.
“He’ll see. I’ll show them all,” Mr. Cleat muttered. “There’ll be none of his scaremongering when I—”
Mrs. Thistleton cleared her throat and Mr. Cleat stopped short.
Tess frowned at him. “When you what?”
“Beg pardon?” He raised his eyebrows at her.
“There’ll be none of his scaremongering when you what?” Tess prompted.
He gave her a slow blink. “Never mind,” he said, looking back at the paper.
“And who’s Henderson?” Tess continued through a mouthful of food.
“I’m sure it has no relevance whatsoever to you,” Mrs. Thistleton replied, her nose wrinkling in distaste at Tess’s table manners.
Tess shrugged. “I was just asking.”
“And I,” Mrs. Thistleton responded with great dignity, “merely answered you.” She picked up her napkin and forcefully shook it out before settling it back on her lap.
Mr. Cleat observed this exchange with a patient, long-suffering look. “Mr. Cornelius Henderson, Tess, is a newspaper journalist. He pretends to be a correspondent on matters of science and industry, but in truth he is a creature with a vendetta against my every venture.” He gave a tired sigh. “If he’d only give me a chance, he might see I’m not the greedy businessman he seems to think I am. Or, at least”—he paused to chuckle—“I’m not just a greedy businessman.”
Tess couldn’t think of a way to reply beyond giving Mr. Cleat a polite smile, which he didn’t seem to notice and which faded as soon as she caught sight of the viperous look on Mrs. Thistleton’s face. She took another forkful of potato before realizing her appetite had vanished, and the laden fork was put back on her plate uneaten. She sat in silence for a moment or two, watching Mr. Cleat reading and Mrs. Thistleton watching him, before clearing her throat and getting to her feet.
“Not so fast, young lady,” came Mrs. Thistleton’s voice as Tess stood. “Mr. Cleat and I need a word with you.”
Tess looked up at her. “A word? What about?”
“We should probably discuss your schooling,” Mr. Cleat said. “As in whether you’re going to have any,” he continued, folding the paper over and pushing it away.
“My schooling?” Tess stared at him in turn, her feet rooted to the floor. She hadn’t expected that.
“Mm.” Mrs. Thistleton looked up at her, not quite smugly, Tess thought, but not far off. “Mr. Cleat and I have been discussing the matter ever since he mentioned the problem to me a number of days ago. He hasn’t yet decided whether to send you away as a boarder or to deal with the matter in-house, so to speak.”
“In-house?” Tess frowned at Mrs. Thistleton.
“I used to be a governess of sorts in my youth,” Mrs. Thistleton said lightly. “I am more than capable of instructing you, should the need arise. Latin, Greek and grammar are my particular points of expertise.”
Tess hoped she wasn’t pulling a face. “Right.”
“In any case, it will have to be decided upon soon,” Mrs. Thistleton said with a small sigh. “You’re roaming around the place like a wraith, in and out of the garden doing goodness knows what.” She gave Tess a cool look, which made the girl swallow hard. “The sooner you’re occupied from morning till evening, the better. It’ll keep you out of mischief.”
“The things I do in my lab aren’t ‘mischief,’ ” Tess muttered.
“You’ll have plenty of time to do your experiments after lessons, Tess,” Mr. Cleat said. “Don’t let that concern you.”
“In any case I’m quite certain the world of science will wait,” Mrs. Thistleton said. “It’s not like you’re inventing a perpetual motion machine, or anything of its ilk.” She gave a derisive chuckle. “Or are you?” She shared a look with Mr. Cleat, who frowned at her and turned back to Tess. Mrs. Thistleton deflated a little.
“Your scientific work is important, Tess, of course. But you do need a wider education. History, geography, mathematics, things like that. It’ll be good for you.” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “So Mrs. Thistleton’s offer to tutor you is an option I’m considering, along with that of sending you to boarding school.”
“I know a good one,” Tess muttered. “It’s run by a very nice lady named Miss Ackerbee.”
Mr. Cleat gave Tess an indulgent smile. “Very good, Tess. Most amusing. But get all thoughts of Ackerbee’s out of your head.” Tess bit her tongue at this. “Now,” he continued, “if we are to send you away to school, there are a few things to be weighed up. Firstly, the cost. Secondly, the location. And thirdly, the question of what to do with your pet.”
“What?” Tess felt like her stomach had turned over. She
stepped closer to the table. “What does this have to do with Violet?”
“You can hardly expect a school to accept a tarantula on its premises,” said Mr. Cleat, extending his hands as though appealing to Tess to be reasonable. “Don’t be absurd. So if it is to be boarding school, I’m afraid Violet will have to be destroyed.”
The floor seemed to drop away from beneath Tess’s feet. “De-destroyed? You can’t do that!”
“As your guardian,” Mr. Cleat said, “you’ll find I can do whatever I choose, if I feel it’s in your best interest.”
“But—no!” Tess took another step toward the table, her fists clenched. “I won’t let you! She’s mine!”
“I’m sorry, Tess,” Mr. Cleat replied. “But you must appreciate my hands are tied here. I can’t be expected to care for her, and neither can Mrs. Thistleton. Most of the staff can barely stand to be in the same room as the creature, so it’s hardly fair to ask them.”
“Then don’t send me away. I’ll stay here,” Tess said, setting her jaw. “You can’t have Violet. Nobody is taking her from me.”
Mr. Cleat settled back in his chair with a smile and a strange self-satisfied look in his eye—almost like he’d heard exactly what he wanted to hear, or that Tess had given him the right answer to a question she didn’t know he’d asked her. She felt a pang of unease. “That settles it then,” he said. “You’ll begin lessons tomorrow morning with Mrs. Thistleton in her office.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Thistleton said. “I’ll look forward to stretching my old teaching muscles. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Cleat.” She nodded at him, but he ignored her.
“Right. I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. “If only everything were so easy,” he murmured, grabbing up his newspaper again and getting to his feet. “I’ll retire for the evening then. I bid you both good night.” He nodded at them.
“Good night, Mr. Cleat,” Mrs. Thistleton replied, but he left the room without appearing to hear her. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Tess. “We’ll begin straight after breakfast. I think we’ll take Latin as our first lesson, so you’ll address me in the following manner in the classroom: Salve, magistra. Do you have that?”
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