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“I hope it’s nothing to do with the masked ball in our honor.” Elizabeth frets, and Cecily shushes her.
At five minutes past the hour, Mrs. Nightwing bustles into the room wearing a grim expression that puts the starch in our spines. She takes a position before us, her hands behind her back, her chin up, and her eyes as sharp as a fox’s.
“A very serious offense has occurred, one that shall not be tolerated,” our headmistress says. “Do you know of what I speak?”
We shake our heads, offer apprehensive nos. I am nearly ill with panic.
Mrs. Nightwing lets her imperious gaze fall upon us. “The stones of the East Wing have been violated,” she says, enunciating each word. “They’ve been painted with strange markings—in blood.”
The gasps catch from girl to girl like a brush fire. There is a sense of both horror and ecstasy: the East Wing! Blood! A secret crime! It will give us something to gossip about for a week at least.
“Quiet, please!” Mrs. Nightwing barks. “Has anyone any knowledge of this crime? If you shield another through your silence, you do her no service.”
I think of last night, the figure in the dark. But I can’t very well tell Mrs. Nightwing about it, else I’d have to explain what I was doing out of my bed.
“Will no one step forward?” Mrs. Nightwing presses. We are silent. “Very well. If there is no admission, all will be punished. You will spend the morning with pail and brush, scrubbing till the stones gleam again.”
“Oh, but, Mrs. Nightwing,” Martha cries above the hum of anguished murmurs, “must we really wash…blood?”
“I fear I shall faint,” Elizabeth says, teary.
“You will do no such thing, Elizabeth Poole!” Mrs. Nightwing’s frosty glare stops Elizabeth’s tears straightaway. “The restoration of the East Wing is very important. We have waited years for it, and no one shall halt our progress. Don’t we want Spence looking her best for our masked ball?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer.
“Think what a proud moment it will be when you return years from now, perhaps with your own daughters, and you can say ‘I was there when these very stones were put in place.’ Every day, Mr. Miller and his men toil to restore the East Wing. You might reflect upon that as you scrub.”
“‘When you return with your own daughters,’” Felicity scoffs. “You can be sure I won’t be coming back.”
“Oh, I can’t bear to touch it—blood!” Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. She looks ill.
Cecily scrubs in small circles. “I don’t see why we should all be punished.”
“My arms ache already,” Martha grouses.
“Shhh,” Felicity says. “Listen.”
On the lawn, Mrs. Nightwing questions Brigid fiercely while Mr. Miller stands by, arms folded across his chest. “Did you do it, Brigid? I am only asking for an honest answer.”
“No, missus, on my heart, I swear it weren’t me.”
“I won’t have the girls frightened by hex marks and talk of fairies and the like.”
“Yes, missus.”
Mr. Miller scowls. “It’s them Gyps. You can’t trust ’em. The sooner you turn ’em out, the better we’ll all sleep for it. I know you ladies have a delicate sensibility…”
“I can assure you, Mr. Miller, that there is nothing delicate about my sensibilities,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps.
“All the same, m’um, say the word and me and my men will take care of the Gypsies for you.”
Revulsion shows on our headmistress’s face. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Miller. I am sure this little prank will not happen again.” Mrs. Nightwing glares at us and we snap our heads down and scrub as hard as we can.
“Who do you suppose did this?” Felicity asks.
“I’ll wager Mr. Miller has it right: It’s the Gypsies. They’re angry they haven’t been given work,” Cecily says.
“What can you expect from their sort?” Elizabeth echoes.
