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I feel very odd. The cocaine. I’ve been joined to Wilhelmina Wyatt. I feel what she does. But how? The magic. It’s changing. Changing what I see and feel.
The men wrap my arms across their shoulders and half drag, half carry me to Brigid’s kitchen.
“Mary, Mother of God, wot’s happened?” Brigid asks. She sits me in a chair by the fire and shoos the men off.
“Found ’er in the woods, ’avin’ a fit, like,” a man says.
A fit. Like Pippa. Yes, that’s it. I had a fit. I laugh, even though I sense that it’s not right for me to be laughing.
“She awl righ’?” another asks, backing away.
“G’won, then. Back to your men’s work. Leave this to us women.” Brigid clucks, and I can see on their faces they’re relieved to be out of it. The kitchen. The laughing. The fit. The mysteries only women know.
A quilt is draped across my shoulders. The kettle’s put on. I hear the match struck, the oven lit.
“You’re fidgety as a cat,” Brigid chides.
Mrs. Nightwing has been summoned. She comes close and I instinctively back away. The letter in the vision: I saw it in her wardrobe. Was Wilhelmina trying to warn me about Nightwing?
“Here now, what’s this fuss about?” my headmistress asks.
“Nothing,” I snarl.
She tries to put a hand to my forehead. I move out of her reach.
“Hold still, Miss Doyle, if you please,” she commands, and it sounds wicked.
“I only want Brigid’s help,” I say.
“Do you?” Nightwing’s eyes narrow. “Brigid is not headmistress at Spence Academy. I am.”
She pours a foul liquid into a spoon. “Open, please.”
When I won’t, Brigid forces my lips apart and the thick oil oozes down my throat till I nearly retch. “You’ve poisoned me!” I say, wiping a hand across my lips.
“’S only cod-liver oil,” Brigid coos, but I don’t take my eyes off Mrs. Nightwing.
“I will expose you,” I say aloud.
Mrs. Nightwing whirls around. “What did you say?”
“I will expose you,” I repeat.
The momentary surprise in Nightwing’s expression settles into calm. “I think Miss Doyle should spend the day in bed until she is feeling more herself, Brigid.”
Though I am ordered to bed, I cannot sleep. It’s as if someone has let ants loose in my skin. By the afternoon, my muscles ache and my head pounds, but I no longer feel seized by Wilhelmina’s habit. I’ve not enjoyed this vision, and I’m afraid of having another.
Mrs. Nightwing herself brings me tea on a tray. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” The smell of buttered toast meets my nose, and I realize how hungry I am.
“Sugar?” she asks, the spoon hovering near the bowl.
“Please. Three—two spoonfuls, if you please.”
“You may have the three if you wish it,” she says.
“Yes. Three, then. Thank you,” I say, swallowing bites of toast faster than is mannerly. Mrs. Nightwing looks about my room and at last takes a seat, perching on the edge of it as if it holds tacks.
