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The barge drifts, ready to carry Mother Elena across the river. She sings some sort of lullaby. The light grows, bathing her in its glow till I can no longer tell where the light ends and she begins. And then she is gone.
To those who will see, the world waits. It feels like much more than a saying. And perhaps it is.
Perhaps it is a hope.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
I WAIT FOR SOME TIME TO SPEAK PRIVATELY WITH MRS. Nightwing. At five minutes after three o’clock, the door to her room opens, admitting me entrance to the inner sanctum. I’m reminded of the first day I arrived at Spence, in my black mourning dress, lost and grief-stricken, without a friend in the world. How much has happened since then.
Mrs. Nightwing folds her hands on her desk and gazes at me over the tops of her spectacles. “You wished to speak to me, Miss Doyle?” Good old Nightwing, as constant as England.
“Yes,” I start.
“Well, I do hope you shall be quick about it. I’ve two teachers to replace, now that Mademoiselle LeFarge is to be married and Miss McCleethy…now that Sahirah…” She trails off, blinking. Her eyes redden.
“I am sorry,” I say.
She closes her eyes for the briefest moment, her lips trembling ever so slightly. And then, like a dark cloud that only threatens rain, it passes. “What was it you wanted, Miss Doyle?”
“I shall be most grateful for your help in the matter of the realms,” I say, straightening.
Nightwing’s cheeks redden with a true blush. “I don’t see what assistance I could possibly offer.”
“I shall need help maintaining the door and keeping watch, especially while I am away.”
She nods. “Yes. Certainly.”
I clear my throat. “And there is one more thing you may do. It is about Spence. And the girls.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I feel it like a gunshot. “You could truly educate them. You could teach them to think for themselves.”
Mrs. Nightwing does not move save for her eyes, which she narrows to suspicious slits. “You are in jest, I trust?”
“On the contrary, I have never been more in earnest.”
“Their mothers shall be overjoyed to hear it,” she mutters. “No doubt they’ll race to our doors in droves.”
I bang my fist on the desk, rattling Mrs. Nightwing’s teacup and Mrs. Nightwing in that order. “Why should we girls not have the same privileges as men? Why do we police ourselves so stringently—whittling each other down with cutting remarks or holding ourselves back from greatness with a harness woven of fear and shame and longing? If we do not deem ourselves worthy first, how shall we ever ask for more?
“I have seen what a handful of girls can do, Mrs. Nightwing. They can hold back an army if necessary, so please don’t tell me it isn’t possible. A new century dawns. Surely we could dispense with a few samplers in favor of more books and grander ideas.”
Mrs. Nightwing is so very still I fear I may have stopped her heart with my outburst. Her normally commanding voice is but a squeak. “I shall lose all my girls to Miss Pennington’s.”
I sigh. “No, you shan’t. Only ninnies go to Penny’s.”
“Most ungracious, Miss Doyle.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. She places the teacup exactly so on its saucer. “And you? You will forgo your season for a university in America. Are you truly prepared to turn your back on all of that privilege and power?”
I think of those ladies in their stiff gowns and forced smiles, drowning their hunger with weak tea, trying hard to make themselves fit into such a narrow world, desperately afraid the blinders will slip and show them what they’ve chosen to close out.
“Privilege is not always power, is it?” I say.
Mrs. Nightwing nods slowly. “I will offer you every assistance in the realms. You may rely on it. As for the other matter, that shall require more thought than I care to give it at the moment. The sun still reigns in the sky, and I’ve a school full of girls awaiting my instruction and care. I have my duties, too. Is there another matter to discuss, or is that all for today?”
“That is all. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Nightwing.”
“Lillian,” she says so softly I nearly miss it.
“Thank you…Lillian,” I say, tasting her name on my tongue like an exotic new curry.
“You’re welcome. Gemma.” She shuffles some papers on her desk and pins them beneath a silver box, only to remove it and shuffle them again. “Are you still here?”
