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Another ripple of girlish exhilaration disturbs the calm of the chapel.
“I shall make a splendid Queen Mab,” Felicity says. “Don’t you think?”
Cecily’s outraged. “Why, Felicity Worthington, that was to be my costume.”
“Not anymore it isn’t. I thought of it first.”
“How could you have thought of it first when I did!”
“Ladies! Grace, strength, beauty!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts over the din, reminding us of the Spence motto as well as our manners. We settle like a flower garden after a sudden tempest of wind. “I’ve another surprise. As you know, our Miss McCleethy has been away these months attending to urgent personal matters. I am pleased to say that her obligations elsewhere are at an end, and she will be returning to us soon. I’ve a letter, which I shall read aloud.” She clears her throat. “‘Dear Ladies of Spence, I do hope this letter finds you well. Spring should be shining on our dear school. It must be a lovely sight, and I hope to enjoy it soon. Mrs. Nightwing has asked if I might permanently accept the position vacated by Miss Moore, and I am happy to say that I have accepted. It was not my intention to stay on at Spence, but it seems I am needed there, and I go wherever duty calls. It is my fervent hope to see you all by month’s end. Until then, I wish you well with your studies and the best of luck with the porridge.’”
This is followed by laughter, as Spence’s porridge is notoriously awful.
“‘And for those leaving us soon to take their places in the world, I would ask them to remember their obligations as well as their dreams. Fondly, Your Miss McCleethy.’”
The gust has blown through: The girls fall into merry chatter again. Though I am excited too, I am not entirely at ease. I can’t help feeling that this last bit is directed at me, an arrow flying straight from the hard bow of Miss McCleethy’s desire to have the Order resume their place within the realms.
The last I saw of Claire Sahirah McCleethy was at Christmastime in London. She pretended to forge an alliance with the Rakshana and tried to force me to take her into the realms. Once I bound the magic to myself, she expected me to return the power to the Order, to join with them on their terms. When I refused, she warned me not to make enemies of them. And then she was gone. Mrs. Nightwing told the girls of Spence little about her absence. Now she’s coming back, and I wonder what it bodes for me.
We pour out the chapel’s ancient oak doors in twos and threes, talking breathlessly of what is to come.
“I am glad to hear Miss McCleethy’s returning. That is welcome news, indeed,” Cecily says.
“We should prepare a song or poem to welcome our Miss McCleethy home,” Elizabeth trills. Her voice offends my ears at this hour.
Martha’s joined the fray. “Oh, yes! I rather like Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
“I c-c-could sing for her,” Ann offers. She’s trailing just behind.
For a moment, no one speaks. “Oh, Elizabeth, you’ve a lovely voice. Why don’t you sing for our Miss McCleethy?” Cecily coos, as if Ann never said a word. She reminds me of a bee, seemingly in the business of honey but with a rather nasty sting.
“Yes, do,” Martha quickly agrees.
“Then it is settled. Martha and I shall read a sonnet. Elizabeth, you shall sing. Fee, perhaps you’d prepare with us?”
I wish Ann would defend herself, tell Cecily what a toad she is. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slows her steps, falling farther behind.
“Ann,” I say, holding out a hand. But she won’t look at me, won’t answer. She makes it clear that I’m one of them now. It’s weeks yet until we part but she’s already pushing me away.
Fine. Let her. I walk down the path to join the others. The trees wear their new greenery awkwardly still. Through the sparse leaves I spy the East Wing’s progress. The turret is striking. I find I cannot help looking at it, as if it were a magnet pulling me in.
Loud shouts and threats erupt from the site and we rush to see what they are about. A group of men stand on the lawn, fists at the ready. When I draw closer, I see they’re not the workers; they’re Gypsy men. The Gypsies have returned! I search their faces, hoping to catch sight of Kartik. He’s traveled with them before. But he’s not among their number today, and my heart sinks.
The workers form a line behind their foreman, Mr. Miller. They outnumber the Gypsies two to one, but they keep their hammers close.
“Here now, what is all this fuss? Mr. Miller, why have your men stopped work?” Mrs. Nightwing demands.
“It’s these Gypsies, missus,” Mr. Miller sneers. “Causin’ trouble.”
A tall Gypsy with fair hair and a knowing smile steps forward. Ithal is his name. He is the Gypsy Felicity kissed behind the boathouse. Felicity sees him too. Her face goes pale. Hat in hand, he approaches Mrs. Nightwing. “We look for work. We are carpenters. We are building for many people.”
“Shove off, mate,” Mr. Miller says in a low, tight voice. “This is our job.”
“We could work together.” Ithal offers his hand. Mr. Miller doesn’t take it.
“Oi. These are decent ladies. They don’t need no dirty, thieving Gypsies here.”
Mrs. Nightwing steps in. “We have had the Gypsies on our land for years. We’ve had no trouble from them.”
