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“Have the Gypsies left yet?” I ask.
“They were packing to leave this morning,” my headmistress answers. “I don’t know if they’ve gone.”
“Send Kartik to their camp for Mother Elena,” I say. “She may know how to help.”
Moments later, Kartik helps a frail and frayed Mother Elena into the kitchen. “The mark must be made in blood,” she says. “We will work fast.”
“I’m not listening to this,” Fowlson growls.
“She’s trying to help us, Brother,” Kartik says.
Fowlson swaggers forward, sneering, and his old self is on display. “I’m not your brother. I’m a proper representative of the Rakshana—not a traitor.”
“A proper thug, you mean,” Kartik rejoins.
Fowlson steps forward till he and Kartik are nose to nose. “I should finish wot I started wif you.”
“Be my guest,” Kartik spits.
I step between them. “Gentlemen, if we survive this evening, there will be plenty of time for you to have your little boxing match. But as we’ve more important matters to attend to than your glaring at one another, we shall have to put aside our differences.”
They back down, but not before Fowlson gets off a parting shot. “I’m the man in charge ’ere.”
“Really, Hugo,” Miss McCleethy chides.
k out the windows at the angry wind. My tea sits untouched. I’m far too troubled to drink it. Brigid is in the large wing-back chair by the fire, regaling the younger girls with stories, which they devour, begging for more and more.
“Have you ever seen pixies, Brigid?” one of the little girls asks.
“Aye,” Brigid says gravely.
“I’ve seen pixies,” a girl with dark ringlets says, wide-eyed.
Brigid laughs like an indulgent aunt. “Have you now, luv? Were they stealing yer shoes or leaving the biscuits flat?”
“No. I saw them last night on the back lawn.”
The hair on my arms rises as quickly as a flash fire.
Brigid frowns. “Talking nonsense, you are.”
“It isn’t nonsense!” the child insists. “I saw them last night from my window. They bade me come play.”
I swallow hard. “What did they look like?”
Brigid tickles the girl. “Oh, go on! You’re telling stories to your old Brigid!”
Mrs. Nightwing’s face shows true fear. Even Miss McCleethy is listening with interest.
“I promise,” the girl says in earnest. “On my life, I saw them—riders in black cloaks. Their poor horses were so cold and pale. They bade me come down and ride with them, but I was too frightened.”
Ann takes hold of my hand. I can feel her fear pulsing under her skin.
Alarm creeps into Mrs. Nightwing’s voice. “You say this was last night, Sally?”
“Lillian,” Miss McCleethy warns, but Mrs. Nightwing ignores her.
The little girl nods vehemently. “They had one of the mummers with them. The tall, funny one. They said they would come back tonight.”
