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And then it begins to rain, though Ann, Felicity, and I can take no credit for that event. The brass band stops playing. The carriages are brought round. The guests scatter, and the children are ushered to the nursery by Mr. Wharton. We are left blissfully alone.
“Oh, I should like to relive that moment again and again,” Ann says as we take cover under a pergola draped in grapevine.
“Witches!” Felicity says in imitation of Charlotte, and we snicker behind our hands.
“Still,” Ann says, a note of concern creeping into her voice, “she is only a child.”
“No,” I say. “She is a demon cleverly disguised in a pinafore. And her mother deserves her utterly.”
Ann considers that. “True. But what if her mother believes her?”
Felicity tears a blade of grass in two. “No one listens to children, even when they speak the truth,” she says bitterly.
The doctor arrives and makes his diagnosis: chicken pox. As Ann has never had it, he orders her away from the children and the house for three weeks. Mrs. Nightwing agrees to host Ann until she can safely return, and we have our friend packed and in our carriage within minutes.
Mrs. Wharton objects strenuously to Ann’s leaving.
“Couldn’t she stay on?” she says as Ann’s case is secured to our carriage.
“Indeed she cannot,” the doctor insists. “It would be very serious if she were to contract the pox.”
“But how will I manage?” Mrs. Wharton pleads.
“Come now, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Wharton says. “We’ve a nurse, and our Annie will be with us again in three weeks’ time. Won’t you, Miss Bradshaw?”
“You’ll hardly notice I’m gone,” Ann answers, and I do believe she rather enjoys saying it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ANN’S RETURN TO SPENCE IS GREETED WITH CHEERS FROM the younger girls, who clamor for her attention. Now that she’s been “away,” they find her exciting and exotic. No matter that it has only been a few weeks and only to a country house, there is an air of the lady about her to them. Brigid promises a toffee pudding for all in celebration, and by the time we settle in the tent next to the fire in the evening, it’s as if we’ve never been apart and Ann’s journey has been but a bad dream.
Only Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha keep their distance, but Ann doesn’t seem to mind. We tell Ann about everything—our visit to Dr. Van Ripple, the slate, my discovery of McCleethy and Fowlson’s plan to take back the power. Kartik. That part plunges me into melancholy. The only thing I don’t confess is my association with Circe, for I know they’d not understand it. I scarcely do myself.
“So,” Ann says, reviewing, “we know that Wilhelmina was betrayed by someone she trusted, someone she knew from her days at Spence.”
Felicity bites into a chocolate. “Correct.”
“Both Eugenia Spence and Mother Elena feel that someone is in league with the Winterlands creatures, and Mother Elena fears that this association will bring the dead to us.”
“Doing very well, carry on,” I say, stealing a chocolate for myself.
“The tribes of the realms might also be joining with the Winterlands creatures in rebellion.”
We nod.
“In order to free Eugenia and bring peace to the Winterlands, we must find the dagger, which Wilhelmina Wyatt stole from Spence. And Wilhelmina, who was an addict and a thief and a generally disreputable person, might be trying to guide us to its location through Gemma’s visions. Or it’s quite possible she could be leading us to a very bad end.”
“Indeed.” Felicity licks her fingers.
“Miss McCleethy and, it stands to reason, Mrs. Nightwing know about the secret door into the realms but believe that they can only unlock it by rebuilding the tower. Eugenia confirms that this is so. Yet, Wilhelmina didn’t want them to rebuild the East Wing.” Ann stops. “Why?”
Felicity and I shrug.
“She’s on Gemma’s side?” Felicity offers as if that makes perfect sense.
“Then there is the matter of the phrase ‘The key holds the truth,’” Ann continues. “The key to what? What truth?”
“Dr. Van Ripple said there was no key—or dagger—that he knew of,” I say again. “And the slate tells no tales; it’s only an ordinary slate.”
