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“I am sorry,” she says. “That was too hard of me. I confess that when I discovered it was Mary’s daughter who was the key to the realms, I was disappointed. That the one whose misadventure led to Eugenia’s death could have birthed our salvation…” She shakes her head. “It seemed fate had played a cruel joke.”
“I am not so bad as all that,” I protest.
“It is one thing to prepare for greatness. It is another entirely to have it thrust upon you. I feared your mother’s blood would lead you to make perilous choices…” She looks toward Spence, where the men hammer away, fleshing out the ruined East Wing. “And you’ve still not been able to enter the realms or recover the Temple’s magic?”
“I’m afraid not.” I study Eugenia Spence’s headstone, hoping Miss McCleethy doesn’t notice the lie bringing a blush to my cheek.
“I wonder why I have such trouble believing that,” she says.
“And is there no other way of entering the realms?” I ask, changing the subject.
“None that I know of,” Miss McCleethy says. She passes a hand over my hair, securing one of my wayward curls behind my ear. “We shall have to be patient. I’m sure your powers will return.”
“Unless the realms haven’t chosen me to continue,” I remind her.
She smirks. “I rather doubt that, Miss Doyle. Come, let’s gather our things.”
She leads the way back to our picnic spot, and I follow.
I free the curl she’s tucked so neatly; it hangs wild and loose. “Miss McCleethy, if the magic were to spark inside me…and if I were able to enter the realms again…would the Order join with the tribes of the realms in an alliance?”
Her eyes flash. “Do you mean join with those who have been committed to our destruction for centuries?”
“But if things have changed—”
“No, Miss Doyle. Some things will never change. We have been persecuted for our beliefs and our power both in the realms and out. We will not cede it so easily. Our mission is to bind the magic to the Temple, to rebuild the runes, and return the realms to the way they were before this terrible tragedy destroyed our security.”
“Were they ever truly secure? Doesn’t seem it.”
“Of course they were. And they might be again if we go back to the way it was.”
“But we can’t go back. We can only go forward,” I say, surprised to hear Miss Moore’s words coming out of my mouth.
Miss McCleethy lets out a rueful laugh. “How could it have come to this? Your mother nearly destroyed us, and now you’ve come along to nail the coffin shut. Help me with this basket, please.”
When I hand her the lemonade glass, we collide, and the glass fractures into pieces too small to put back together.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gathering them into a pile.
“You make a mess of the simplest things, Miss Doyle. Leave me. I’ll see to it myself.”
I stomp away, weaving dangerously through the aged tombstones bearing inscriptions to those who are beloved only once they are gone.
A mutiny is in progress at the East Wing when I return. Felicity runs to me and pulls me into the cluster of girls watching it unfold from the safety of the trees. The men have abandoned the building. They stand together, hats on, arms folded across their chests, while Mr. Miller barks orders, his face red.
“I’m the foreman here, and I say we’ve a job to finish or there’s no pay for the lot of you! Now, back to work!”
The men shuffle their feet. They fidget with their hats. One spits in the grass. A tall man with the build of a boxer steps forward. He glances anxiously at his mates.
“Don’t feel right, sir.”
Mr. Miller cups his hand to his ear and frowns. “What’s that?”
“Me and the men been talkin’. Sumfin’ don’t feel right ’bout this place.”
“What don’t feel right is not having pay in your pocket!” Mr. Miller shouts.
“Where’s Tambley gone to, then? And Johnny goin’ off last night, not comin’ back this mornin’?” another man shouts. He seems more frightened than angry. “They joos up and gone wifout a word and you don’ fink what there’s a bit o’the strange about it?”
