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“They are helping me to select a poem,” I answer with as much disdain as is possible.

The doors swing open, and I fear that Mrs. Nightwing has come to reproach us for not working harder. Instead, she calls for Ann.

“Miss Bradshaw. Will you come with me, please?”

Head down, Ann follows her out, and I can’t imagine what sort of trouble she could be in.

“At last,” Cecily says, gloating.

“Cecily, what do you know?” Felicity asks.

Cecily twirls in a pirouette. “Her cousins have arrived from the country to take her away. Brigid is upstairs now packing her case.”

“But they can’t!” I cry as Felicity and I exchange horrified looks.

“They decided it was time. High time, if you ask me.”

“Well, we didn’t!” I snap.

Cecily’s mouth opens in an outraged O just as Miss McCleethy makes her appearance, and I curse my timing. “Miss McCleethy, will you allow Miss Doyle to speak to me so appallingly?”

Miss McCleethy levels her gaze at me. “Miss Doyle? Is an apology called for?”

“Do forgive me, dear Cecily.” My smile is as false as a street vendor’s remedies.

Cecily’s hands fly to her hips again. “Miss McCleethy!”

I rush to Miss McCleethy’s side. “Is it true? Have Ann’s cousins come for her?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“But they can’t do that!” I protest. “She doesn’t want to go with them! She’s not meant to be a governess. She—”

Something resembling true concern shows in Miss McCleethy’s hard face. “It was Miss Bradshaw herself who arranged for it.”

It’s as if Miss McCleethy’s words are spoken underwater. I can scarcely make sense of them, and a cold dread tightens in my stomach.

I run for the stairs and take them two at a time, Felicity calling my name and Miss McCleethy demanding order. When I reach our room, completely out of breath, Ann is sitting on her bed wearing her drab brown traveling suit and modest wool hat. She makes a neat pile of her halfpenny papers and the fashion magazine Felicity handed down. The program for Macbeth sits on top. Brigid tucks the last of Ann’s clothes into her suitcase.

“Brigid,” I pant. “Could I have a moment with Ann?”

“All righ’ then,” Brigid says, sniffling. “Close the case proper. And don’t forget your gloves, dearie.” Our housekeeper bustles past me, dabbing at her moist eyes with a handkerchief. It’s just Ann and me.

“Tell me it’s a lie,” I say.

Ann closes her case and sets it on the floor at her feet. “I left you the halfpenny papers. Something to remember me by.”

“You can’t go with them. You’ve a position in Mr. Katz’s company waiting for you. The world’s stages!”

Anguish shows on Ann’s face. “No. That was for Nan Washbrad, whose beauty speaks for itself, not Ann Bradshaw. The girl they want doesn’t exist. Not really.”

I throw her case onto the bed, open it up, and start unpacking it. “Then we’ll find a way. We’ll make it work with the magic.”

Ann puts her hand on mine, stopping me. “Don’t you see, Gemma? It would never work. Not forever. I can’t be who they want me to be.”

“Then be someone else. Be yourself!”

“Not good enough.” She twists her gloves in her hands, crumpling them into a ball and straightening them out again. “That’s why I sent the letter asking them to come for me.”

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