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“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?”

“It’s talk like this what probably scared ’em off. And good riddance to them. Cowards. If you ask me, we need to clear the woods of them filthy Gyps. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a hand in this. Comin’ into our country and takin’ a proper Englishman’s job? Will you let them put their curses on us without a fight?”

“Your men drink. That is their curse.” Ithal swaggers down the hill trailing a dozen Gypsies in his wake, as well as Kartik. My heart beats a little faster. The Gypsies are far outnumbered by Miller’s men.

Miller staggers up the hill at a run. He takes a swing at Ithal, who dodges and weaves like an expert boxer. The two men fall into fighting with both sides egging them on. Ithal catches Mr. Miller hard on the jaw. He reels from it. Kartik keeps his hand near the dagger in his boot.

“Here now! Stop this fuss!” Brigid yells.

The whole of the school empties to see the men fighting. New blows are thrown. Everyone has a hand in it now.

“How is it none of yer lot is missing?” one of Mr. Miller’s men shouts.

“That is not proof,” Ithal says, dodging a fist.

“Proof enuf for me!” another man growls. He jumps onto Ithal’s back, tearing at his shirt like an animal. Kartik pulls him off. The man grabs for him, and quick as a flash, Kartik’s leg swings under the man, robbing him of his balance. The lawn erupts into chaos.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Felicity says, eyes flashing.

Mrs. Nightwing has come. She strides across the lawn like Queen Victoria reprimanding her guard. “This will not do, Mr. Miller! This will not do at all!”

Mother Elena stumbles into the clearing. She calls to the men to stop. She’s weak and leans against a tree for support. “It is this place! It took my Carolina! Call for Eugenia—ask her to stop this.”

“Mad as a hatter,” someone mutters.

There’s a break in the melee. Kartik steps forward. He has a fresh cut on his lower lip. “If we join forces we’d have a better chance at catching whoever it is causing trouble. We could stand guard while you sleep—”

“Let the likes of you stand watch? We’d wake to have our pockets emptied and our throats cut!” a worker shouts.

There is more yelling; accusations are thrown, and another fight threatens to break out.

Mrs. Nightwing marches into the fray. “Gentlemen! The proposal is a sound one. The Gypsies will stand watch in the evenings so that your men might rest easy.”

“I won’t let them watch us,” Mr. Miller says.

“But we will watch,” Ithal says. “For our own protection.”

“Such a fuss.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. “Girls! Why are you standing there with your mouths open like geese? To the schoolroom with you at once.”

I pass Kartik, keeping my eyes squarely on the other girls. Don’t look at him, Gemma. He did not answer your call. Keep walking.

I manage to reach the doors of Spence before I allow myself a fleeting glance behind me, and there is Kartik watching me go.

“Letters! Letters!” Brigid comes through with the week’s post, which she has brought from the village. Our studying forgotten, we girls clamor around her, hands reaching for some word from home. The younger ones cry and sniffle over their mothers’ letters, so homesick are they. But we older girls are eager for gossip.

“Aha!” Felicity holds out an invitation in triumph. “Feast your eyes.”

“‘You are cordially invited to a Turkish ball in honor of Miss Felicity Worthington at the home of Lord and Lady Markham, eight o’clock in the evening,’” I read aloud. “Oh, Felicity, how marvelous.”

She clutches it to her chest. “I can nearly taste my freedom. What have you got, Gemma?”

I peer at the return address. “A letter from my grandmother,” I say, sticking it inside my book.

Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you open it?”

“I shall. Later,” I say, glancing at Ann. Every one of us has a letter except for her. Every time the post is delivered, it is a misery for her to come away with nothing, no caring soul to write and say she is missed.

Brigid holds a letter up to the light, scowling. “Oh, that man ’as lost ’is wits. This one isn’t ours. Miss Nan Washbrad. No Nan Washbrad ’ere.”

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