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“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?”
“What are you doing here?” I demand, my heartbeat quickening.
“I was invited, luv.” He grins like a devil.
I snarl low in his ear. “If you do anything to me or my family or my friends, if you make any move at all, I shall employ the magic against you in such a way that you’ll never threaten anyone ever again.”
Fowlson’s grin is quick and wide. “That’s the spirit, luv.” He puts his mouth dangerously close to my neck. “But don’t fret, Miss Doyle. I’m not ’ere tonight for you. Is your friend Kartik ’ere? If not, it’s no worries—I’ll find ’im, I’m sure.”
Kartik.
I turn and run from the room as the little girls curtsy politely, like the adorable dolls they are, and the guests applaud them. I’m out of breath by the time I reach Kartik in the boathouse. “Fowlson is here. I believe he’s come for you,” I gasp. “To hurt you.”
He doesn’t seem alarmed, doesn’t make a move.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes,” he says, closing his book. “The Odyssey. I’ve finished it, if you’d care to read it.”
I grab hold of his arm. “We have to hide you. I could turn you into someone else or—”
“I’ll not go into hiding again,” he says. “And I’m not concerned about Mr. Fowlson.”
“You’re not?”
He places the book on a high ledge by the window. “I’ve changed my mind. I need to know if Amar…I need to know. Do you understand?”
“You’re ready to see the realms,” I say.
