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“Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Father says, taking in the sight of my tunic and boots—and the jeweled dagger at my waist. “But soft, she is not our Gemma at all but a leader of men! A saint for the ages!”
“It’s Gemma of Arc,” Tom sneers.
“And the fool,” I counter.
“I am a jester. It is not the same at all,” he sniffs. “I do hope there is supper.”
Father has one of his coughing fits.
“Are you well enough, Papa?”
“Fit as a fiddle.” He wheezes. His face is red and sweaty. “Just haven’t quite got used to this country air.”
“Dr. Hamilton said it would do you good.” Grandmama tuts.
“The doctor was called for?”
Father pats my hand. “Now, now, pet. Nothing to worry about. All well and good. Let’s see what fine entertainment is in store tonight.”
A parlor maid holds a serving bowl offering ornate masks—birds, animals, imps, and Harlequins. They turn the smiles worn beneath them into threatening leers.
Felicity is a Valkyrie, her shining blond hair flowing over a dress of silver complete with wings. Her mother has come as Little Bo Peep; her father wears his naval uniform and a fox mask. The Markhams have come as well, much to Mrs. Nightwing’s delight and Felicity’s misery. Each time Horace, in his Lord Fauntleroy blues, draws near, she looks as if she could strangle him, which only makes him want her the more.
I wish I could go to her, to dance and turn the magic loose as we’ve done before. But a refrain beats inside me: Beware the birth of May. And I can’t say what this night will bring.
Mrs. Nightwing is eager to show the assembly why Spence has its reputation for grace, strength, and beauty, as our motto promises. She has come as Florence Nightingale, her hero. It would prove amusing if I didn’t distrust her so.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you deeply for your attendance this evening. Since its inception, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as an institution where girls become the finest of young ladies. But for many years, our great school has borne the painful reminder of a terrible tragedy. I speak of the East Wing and the fire that claimed it along with the lives of two of our girls and of our beloved founder, Eugenia Spence. But in her honor, we have resurrected the East Wing, and your generous donations shall make it possible to see to its refurbishment. I humbly thank you.
“And now, without further ado, I should like to present a program by our shining jewels. These jewels of which I speak are not diamonds or rubies but the kind and noble girls of Spence.”
Mrs. Nightwing dabs quickly at her eyes and takes her seat. Several of the younger girls—princesses and fairies all—perform a dance, enchanting the guests with their easy innocence.
A man sidles up next to me. His mask hides his face, but I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Nice evenin’ for a party, innit?”
llustration in the book—it told me where to look all along. The Hidden Object. Wilhelmina Wyatt was a magician’s assistant, with a knowledge of sleight of hand. If she’d wanted to hide something…
I feel around the edges of the slate until my fingernail finds a small latch in the wood. I press it down, and the board loosens. When I slide it out of the way, there’s the leather roll I’ve seen in my visions. My fingers shake as I slip the ties loose and peel back the ends.
And there inside is a slim dagger with a jeweled hilt.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
May 1
THE SUN HAS TAKEN ITS BOW, AND DUSK DESCENDS. THE air is warm; birds give a last concert before sleep. All in all, it is the perfect night for Spence’s masked ball, but I shall not rest easy until the night passes.
Lanterns have been set out on the lawn and far down the road to light the way. A long black line of carriages snakes toward us and around the drive. Our families arrive. Servants help Marie Antoinette and Sir Walter Raleigh, Napoleon and Queen Elizabeth from their coaches. All sorts of colorful characters drift over the lawn. With their masked faces, they lend the festivities a fantastical air. Music fills the ballroom. It floats from the open windows and into the woods. Girls streak by in layers of lace and tulle. I’m enjoying none of it.
I’d hoped Kartik would surprise me tonight. But there has been no signal, so I take my lantern to the front lawn to wait for my own family to arrive. I see Father first. He is a raja with a jeweled turban. Grandmama, who lives in terror of enjoying herself, has worn one of her gowns, but she has added a Harlequin mask on a stick. Tom wears a jester’s hat, which is far more appropriate than he knows.
“Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Father says, taking in the sight of my tunic and boots—and the jeweled dagger at my waist. “But soft, she is not our Gemma at all but a leader of men! A saint for the ages!”
“It’s Gemma of Arc,” Tom sneers.
“And the fool,” I counter.
