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“Can you feel it?” Mae asks. “Slips under your skin, don’t it?”
Pippa steals in beside me and takes my hand. Felicity wraps an arm around Pip’s waist, and Ann comes to take my other hand.
“Do you suppose there really is such a place of power inside the Winterlands?” Pippa asks.
The Tree of All Souls lives. That was what the mysterious lady wrote upon the slate. But no one has ever mentioned it to me before. I realize, once again, that there is very little I know about this strange world I am to help govern.
“It is so quiet. We’ve seen no Winterlands creatures at all since we’ve returned. What do you suppose is there now?” Ann asks.
Pippa leans her head against mine sweetly. “We should find out for ourselves.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE MORNING BRINGS A FOYER FILLED WITH CASES AND trunks, girls going home for Easter week. They stand hugging goodbye as if they shall see each other never again rather than Friday next.
I have come down in my most sensible traveling dress—a brown tweed that will not show the train’s smudges and soot. Ann has donned her drab traveling suit. Felicity, of course, will not be outdone. She wears a beautiful moiré silk dress in the perfect color of blue to complement her eyes. I shall look like a field mouse beside her.
The carriages that will take us to the train station are brought round. Groups of girls are paired with their chaperones. Spirits are high, but the true excitement is happening between Mrs. Nightwing and Mr. Miller.
“One of our men went missing last night,” Mr. Miller says. “Young Tambley.”
“Mr. Miller, how is it that I may keep watch over scores of schoolgirls yet you cannot keep watch over grown men?”
Brigid looks up from the back of a carriage, where she’s instructing the footman on exactly how to secure our cases, much to his annoyance. “Whiskey! Devil whiskey!” she offers with a firm nod.
Mrs. Nightwing gives a sigh. “Brigid, if you please.”
Mr. Miller shakes his head fervently. “It weren’t whiskey, m’um. Tambley was on watch in the woods and up by the old graveyard, where we’d ’eard noises. Now ’e’s gone.” He hisses through gritted teeth. “It’s them Gypsies, I tell ya.”
“And the reason you were behind on the East Wing was the rain, as I recall. There is always some blame, some excuse.” Mrs. Nightwing sniffs. “I’m sure your Mr. Tambley will show up. He is young, as you said, and the young tend to be rebellious.”
“You might be right, m’um, but it ain’t like Tambley not to show.”
“Have faith, Mr. Miller. I’m sure he’ll return.”
Felicity and I embrace Ann. We’re both to go to London, whilst Ann will spend the holiday with her horrid cousins in the country.
“Don’t let those ghastly brats get the better of you,” I tell Ann.
“It will be the longest week of my life,” she says with a sigh.
“Mother will insist on paying calls so that we might ingratiate ourselves,” Felicity says. “I’ll be on display like some hideous china doll.”
I look about, but Miss McCleethy is nowhere to be seen. “Here,” I say, taking their hands. “A bit of courage to see you through.”
Soon we all have magic running under our skin; it brings a glow to our eyes, a flush to our cheeks. A crow flies past and with a loud cry settles on the turret, where one of Miller’s men shoos it away. I’m reminded of the bird I saw the other night that vanished. Or did it? It was late, I tell myself, and dark, and the two make for unreliable impressions. And anyway, with the magic running high, I feel lovely just now, too lovely to worry.
Our carriage clippity-clops down the drive behind the others. I look back at Spence—at the men on the scaffolding mortaring stones into place, Mrs. Nightwing standing like a sentry at the front doors, Brigid helping girls on their way, the thick carpet of grass and the bright yellow of daffodils. The only threat is a band of rain clouds moving in. They puff out their cheeks and blow, sending shrieking girls after their hats. I laugh. The magic has me in its warm embrace, and I feel that no harm shall come to me. Even the dark clouds pressing against the silent gargoyles can’t catch us.
Without warning, my blood gallops hard inside my veins till it is all I can hear—thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum. Outside, the world’s merry-go-round gathers speed too. Storm clouds slither and stretch, dancing in the sky. I blink, the sound a cannon in my ears. The crow is in flight. Blink. It settles on the gargoyle’s head. Blink. Sharp as a whip, the gargoyle’s head twists round. My breath catches, and in that instant, the gargoyle’s sharp teeth come down. My head feels light. My eyelids flutter, as frantic as the crow’s wings.
“Gemma…” Felicity’s voice carries as if underwater, and then it’s clear as day. “Gemma! What is the matter?”
My blood settles into its normal cadence.
Felicity’s wide-eyed. “Gemma, you fainted!”
“The gargoyle,” I say, trembling. “It came alive.”
