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Under the narrow glow of a streetlamp, we examine the slate, turning it this way and that, but there’s nothing unusual about it that we can see.

“Perhaps words will etch themselves as we watch,” Felicity says.

It’s ridiculous, but we watch it anyway. Absolutely nothing happens.

I sigh. “We’ve bought ourselves a useless slate.”

“But it’s a clean slate,” Felicity quips, and I can’t even be troubled to give her a roll of my eyes.

On our way to the London underground, we pass the striking ladies from Beardon’s Bonnets Factory. Their faces are long; they lean into one another, resting their protest signs against their skirts whilst passersby pay no attention to their plight or, at the worst, heckle them, calling them the most appalling names.

“Spare a copper for our cause?” the girl with the coin cup asks, her voice weary.

“I can spare more than that,” I say. I reach into my purse and give her what real coins I have, and then I press my hand to hers and whisper, “Don’t give up,” watching the magic spark in her eyes.

“The tragedy of the Beardon’s Bonnet Factory!” she shouts, a fire catching. “Six souls murdered for profit! Will you let it stand, sir? Will you look away, m’um?”

Her sisters-in-arms raise their placards again. “Fair wages, fair treatment!” they call. “Justice!”

Their voices swell into a chorus that thunders through the dark London streets until it can no longer be ignored.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

WE’VE ONLY JUST ARRIVED BACK AT SPENCE AND PUT OUR suitcases in our rooms when Mrs. Nightwing comes brandishing an invitation. “There is to be a birthday party in honor of Miss Bradshaw’s cousin Mr. Wharton at Balmoral Spring,” Mrs. Nightwing says, rolling the estate’s name on her tongue as if it were wine gone to vinegar.

“No doubt they think we can do them some favor in society,” Felicity mutters for my ears only.

“The party is tomorrow noon, though the invitation only arrived two days ago,” Mrs. Nightwing says, and I hear her add under her breath, “Ghastly manners.

“I know you have missed Miss Bradshaw’s company,” she continues. “Would you care to attend?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Felicity exclaims.

“Very well. You must be dressed and ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she says, and we promise to do so.

In the evening, Felicity sits with the other girls, basking in the praise they heap upon her ball. “And did you adore the Dervishes?” she asks, eyes bright.

“Very nice. And for such a long program it wasn’t too tiring,” Cecily says, managing to put a slap in the compliment as is her skill.

“Mother will only allow me a tea,” Elizabeth says, pouting. “I’ll not be remembered at all.”

I leave them and sequester myself in my room to examine Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate. I turn it over in my hands, scrutinize the tiny nicks as if I might read its history of words there. I put my ear to it in hopes it might whisper its secrets. I even summon a bit of magic, instructing it to reveal all, as if I, myself, were Dr. Van Ripple. But whatever secrets Miss Wyatt’s slate may hold remain locked tightly inside.

“The key holds the truth,” I say to myself. “The key to what?”

Nothing, as far as I can see. I abandon the slate beside my bed and cross to the window, gazing at the woods beyond, toward the Gypsy camp. I wonder what Kartik is doing now, if he is still tortured by dreams of Amar, of me.

There’s a light below. I spy Kartik with his lantern, looking up at my window. My heart gives a little leap, and I have to remind it not to beat faster for a man who can’t be trusted. I close the drapes, turn down my own lamp, and crawl into bed. Then I shut my eyes tight and tell myself I am not to get back up and go to the window, no matter how much I’d like to.

I can’t say what it is that wakes me. A sound? A bad dream? I know only that I am awake with my heart beating a bit faster. I blink, adjusting to the dark. I hear a noise. It’s not inside the room; it’s above me. The roof groans over my head as if something very heavy were moving about. A long shadow crosses my wall, and I’m up.

Now I hear something else in the hall: a faint scuffling like the rustle of dead leaves. I open the door a crack, but there’s nothing there. I hear it again; it’s coming from below. I tiptoe down the corridor and around the stairs, following the sound. When I reach the great hall, I stop. From deep inside the vast room, the noise is stronger. Scratching. Whispers. Moans.

Don’t look, Gemma. Pass it by.

I peek through the keyhole. Moonlight falls across the room in windowpane blocks. I search each small box of light for movement. A slight shift catches my eye. Something is moving in the dark. I snuff the candle and wait, my knees weak with fear. I count silently—one, two, three—ticking off the seconds. But there is nothing. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…

Whispers come again. Soft and chilling as rats’ claws on stone. I press my eye to the keyhole again and my heart bangs against my ribs.

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