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Mina, Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt, author of A History of Secret Societies and the lady in my visions, was a Spence girl, and one of her sisters betrayed her.
The moment Mademoiselle LeFarge falls asleep in the carriage, we break into low chatter.
“Wilhelmina Wyatt! To think that we have her book—and its dangerous secrets—in our possession!” Ann blurts out.
“But we’ve read the book,” I say. “What could we have possibly missed? There is nothing dangerous there.”
“Unless it is the danger of putting one to sleep.” Felicity yawns.
“We did discover some truth about the Order,” Ann says, defending herself. “Without the book, Gemma, you’d never have discovered the true identity of Circe,” she reminds us, and she’s right. For that was how we discovered that the Order often hid their identities by use of anagrams, and that Hester Asa Moore, the name of our trusted mentor, was an anagram for Sarah Rees-Toome.
Felicity drums her fingers on the seat. “There is something that has always troubled me about that book. What purpose could Miss McCleethy have had in purchasing it? If she’s a member of the Order, why should she need a book about the Order?”
At Christmastime, we followed Miss McCleethy to the Golden Dawn bookseller’s in the Strand. She purchased the book, so we did the same, but until now, I’ve thought it one of her peculiarities. I’ve not thought there could be a deeper, and perhaps much darker, reason for her wanting it.
“I saw McCleethy’s face briefly in one of my visions,” I remind them. “She could be the sister Dr. Van Ripple mentioned.”
“Yes, though you said you only saw her face,” Felicity adds. “You didn’t see them together.”
Outside our windows, the still-bare branches scrape against the carriage. The night has claws, but we escape, bumping along until Spence comes into view once more. With its lamps still ablaze, the sprawling estate glows brightly in the sooty night. Only the East Wing is dark. The clouds shift; the moon shows her face. Atop the roof, the leering gargoyles perch, the high arches of their wings formidable shadows against the moon’s light. The stone beasts seem taut and ready. And for a moment, I remember that chilling hallucination in the carriage that day with Felicity—the creature’s open mouth, the glint of sharp teeth coming down, the thin stream of blood—and I have to look away.
“Well, I still say if there were some grand secret within the book we’d have discovered it by now,” I insist.
Ann peers out at the vast expanse of stars. “Perhaps we didn’t know where to look.”
An hour later, we’re in Felicity’s room, crowded around our copy of A History of Secret Societies, trying to read it by faint candlelight.
“Look for anything that makes mention of this Tree of All Souls,” I instruct. “Perhaps we missed it the first time round because it held no meaning for us before.”
We read page after frustratingly oblique page until the words begin to blind us. We take turns reading aloud. There are entries on the Druids, the Gnostics, witchcraft, and paganism, a few illustrations that add nothing. We read again about the Order and the Rakshana and find no new facts of interest. There is not a single word about a Tree of All Souls.
We turn the page and there’s an illustration of a tower. I keep reading.
“‘Glastonbury Tor. Stonehenge. Iona in the Hebrides. The Great Pyramids and the Great Sphinx of Giza. These are all thought to be imbued with magic derived from the alignment of the earth and the stars,’” I read with a yawn. “‘Sacred points within the earth are indicated by various markers, which include churches, cemeteries, stone circles, the wood, and castles, to name but a few. For the great priestesses, the venerable Druids, the noble pagans believed that here the spirits walked—”
“Gemma, there’s nothing more there,” Felicity grouses. She hangs her head and arms over the end of her bed like a bored child. “Can we please go on to the realms? Pip’s waiting.”
“The book is five hundred pages long,” Ann agrees. “We’ll be here all night, and I want to play with magic.”
“You’re right,” I say, closing the book. “To the realms.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
NOW THAT MISS MCCLEETHY HAS RETURNED TO US, SHE wastes no time in making her presence felt. She cracks her whip at every opportunity. There is a right way and a wrong way to do things, and the right way, it would seem, is always the McCleethy way. Despite her will of iron, she is a great one for taking walks, and as the days grow greener, we are grateful for these sojourns from the stuffy halls of Spence.
“I believe we shall sketch outdoors today,” she announces. As it’s a rather lovely day, this news is greeted with enthusiasm. We don bonnets to protect our fair complexions from the threat of freckles, though it is, of course, a moot point for me. I remember beautiful, hot days in India, running barefoot over cracked ground, the sun tattooing a reminder of those days in small brown patches, as if the gods threw a handful of sand across my cheeks and nose while my skin was wet.
“The sun has blessed you,” Sarita used to say. “Look how he has left his kisses on your face for all to see and be jealous.”
“The sun loves you more,” I said, rubbing my hands over her dry arms, the color of an aged wine gourd, and she laughed.
But this is not India, and we are not prized for our freckles here. The sun is not allowed to show his love.
Miss McCleethy marches us through muddy grass that makes a ruin of our boots.
“Where are we going?” Elizabeth grumbles behind us.
“Miss McCleethy, will it be much farther?” Cecily asks.
