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“I know if it were possible, I should bring my mother back tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

“Because,” I say, searching for the right words. “I know she’s gone. Just as I know that time when we were all together in India is gone, and I shan’t get it back.”

“But if the magic is changing—if everything is changing, then perhaps…” She trails off, and I don’t try to correct her. Sometimes the power in a perhaps is enough to sustain us, and I shan’t be the one to take it from her.

I can hear Brigid’s off-key warbling in the hall, and it gives me an idea. “Fee, if one wanted to know about a certain inhabitant of a house, a former schoolgirl perhaps, where would one turn for the most trustworthy account?”

Smiling, Fee bends the foil in her hands. “Why, I should think the servants would have that sort of knowledge.”

I throw open the door and peek my head out. “Brigid, might we have a word?”

She scowls. “Wot you doin’ in there? Emily’s cleaned it just yesterday. I won’t ’ave it set to ruin.”

“Of course not,” I say, biting my lip in a fashion I hope passes for wistful. “It’s only that Felicity and I are heartbroken now that Ann’s gone. We know you loved her, too. Will you sit with us for a moment?”

I’m a bit ashamed of twisting Brigid’s sympathies this way—even more so when it works. “Oh, luv. I miss ’er, too. She’ll be fine, though. Just like ’er old Brigid.” She barrels past, giving me a warm pat on the shoulder, and I couldn’t possibly feel more deplorable.

“’Ere now. Sit proper, miss,” Brigid scolds, seeing Felicity. Felicity slides both of her feet to the floor with a loud stomp, and with a glance I beseech her to behave.

Brigid runs a finger over the mantel and scowls. “That won’t do.”

“Brigid,” I begin, “do you remember a girl who attended Spence—”

“Lots of girls ’ave attended Spence,” she interrupts. “Can’t remember them all.”

“Yes, well, this one was here back when Mrs. Spence was still alive, before the fire.”

“Oh, so long ago.” She tuts, wiping the mantel with the edge of her apron.

Felicity clears her throat and glares at me. I suppose she thinks she’s helping.

“This girl was a mute. Wilhelmina Wyatt.”

Brigid whirls around, a funny expression on her face. “Blimey, now wot you want to know about that one fer?”

“It was Ann who knew of her. Had a book written by her. And I—we—just wondered what sort of person she was.” I finish with a smile that can only be described as feeble.

“Well, it were a long time ago,” Brigid repeats. She dusts a small Oriental vase with her apron. “But I remember ’er. Miss Wil’mina Wyatt. Mrs. Spence said she was special, in ’er way, that she saw wot most of us don’t. ‘She can see into the dark,’ she said. Well, I didn’t pretend to know wot that meant. The girl couldn’t even speak, bless her soul. But she were always with ’er little book, writing and drawing. That’s ’ow she spoke.”

Just as Dr. Van Ripple told us.

“How did she come to be here? She had no family, I know,” I say.

Brigid’s brow furrows. “Bless me, she did, too.”

“I thought—”

“Wilhelmina Wyatt was Missus Spence’s own blood. Mina was ’er niece.”

“Her niece?” I repeat, for I wonder why Eugenia didn’t tell me this.

“Came to us after ’er mother died, bless ’er soul. I remember the day Missus Spence went to town to fetch ’er. Lil Mina ’ad been put on a boat by ’erself and was found near the Customs ’Ouse. Poor thing. Must’ve been terrifyin’. And things weren’t much better ’ere.” Brigid returns the vase and gets to work on the first of a pair of candlesticks.

“What do you mean?” Felicity asks.

“Some o’ the girls picked on ’er. They pulled on ’er braids to see if she would talk.”

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