The Sweet Far Thing
Page 152

“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.
“Don’t you think I know she has it?” Miss McCleethy answers, steel in her voice. “We’ll get it from her. Patience.”
“She’s dangerous, Sahirah. Reckless. She’ll bring us to ruin,” Folwson insists.
Miss McCleethy’s shadow presses close to Fowlson’s. “She’s only a girl.”
“You underestimate ’er,” he answers, but his voice has softened.
Their shadows move closer. “Once we build the tower of the East Wing, the secret door will be illuminated for us. And then we’ll have possession of the realms and the magic once more.”