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One of the girls, Sarah Rees-Toome, chose a path of darkness under the name Circe. Years later, she hunted down the other girl, her former friend, Mary Dowd, who had become someone new, Virginia Doyle—my mother. With an evil spirit at her disposal, Circe murdered my mother and set my life on a different course. The story whispered in these walls is my story as well.
All around me, the girls jump about in merry treasure hunting. But I can’t feel happy here. This is a place of ghosts, and I don’t believe that new beams and a warm fire in a marble hearth will change that. I want no souvenirs of the past.
A fresh round of hammering sets a family of birds squawking toward the safety of the sky. I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.
“Oi, there’s a beauty.” It’s the man with the red patch on his shirt. He points to a jagged wooden pillar eaten through at one end with rot. But much of it has managed to survive the wrath of the fire and the years of neglect. Carved into it is an assortment of girls’ names. I run my fingers over the grooves and the fanciful scrapings. So many names. Alice. Louise. Theodora. Isabel. Mina. My fingers move across the bumpy wood, feeling it like a blind person’s. I know that her name must be here, and I am not disappointed. Mary. I flatten my palm against the years-worn carving, hoping to feel my mother’s presence beneath my skin. But it is only dead wood. I blink against the tears that sting my eyes.
“Miss?” The man is looking at me curiously.
Quickly, I wipe my cheeks. “It’s the wind. It’s blown cinders into my eyes.”
“Aye, wind’s strong. More rain comin’. Maybe a storm.”
“Oh, here comes Mrs. Nightwing!” Cecily hisses. “Please, let’s go! I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Quickly, we gather our sketches and sit a safe distance away on a stone bench by the still-hibernating rose garden, our heads bent in desperate concentration. But Mrs. Nightwing takes no note. She appraises the progress on the building. The wind carries her voice to us.
“I had hoped to be farther along by now, Mr. Miller.”
“We’re putting in a ten-hour day, missus. And then there’s the rain. Can’t blame a man for nature.” Mr. Miller makes the grave error of smiling at Mrs. Nightwing in a charming way. She does not succumb to charm. But it is too late for me to warn him. Mrs. Nightwing’s withering glare sends the men’s heads down over their lumber. The sound of hammers and saws hard at work is deafening. Mr. Miller’s smile vanishes.
“If you cannot finish the job in a timely manner, Mr. Miller, I shall be forced to seek other workers.”
“There’s building all over London, mum. You won’t find the likes of us growing on trees.”
By my count, there are at least twenty men working day in and day out, and still Mrs. Nightwing isn’t satisfied. She clucks and fusses and badgers Mr. Miller daily. It is very queer. For if the old building has lain hollowed out for this long, what do a few months more matter?
I try to capture the likeness of the new turret on my paper. When completed, it will be the tallest part of Spence, perhaps five stories high. It is wide as well. A man stands near the top, pressed against the gathering rain clouds like a weather vane.
“Do you not find it odd that Nightwing’s in such haste to complete the East Wing?” I ask Felicity.
Cecily overhears and is compelled to give her opinion. “It’s not a moment too soon, if you ask me. It’s a disgrace they’ve let it go so long.”
“I hear it’s only now they’ve secured the funds,” Elizabeth reports.
“No, no, no!” Mrs. Nightwing strides toward the masons with purpose, as if they were her charges. “I’ve told you—these stones must be placed in order, here and here.”
She points to an outline made in chalk.
“Begging your pardon, missus, but what does it matter? She’s goin’ up sturdy and strong.”
“It is a restoration,” she sniffs as if speaking to a simpleton. “The plans are to be followed exactly, without deviation.”
A worker calls down from atop the turret’s third floor. “’Ere comes the rain, sir!”
A splat hits my cheek in warning. A rhythm of drops follows. They splatter across my page, turning my sketch of the East Wing into rivulets of charcoal. The men look to the sky with upturned palms as if asking it for mercy, and the sky answers: No quarter.
Quickly, the men scamper down the turret’s side and race to cover their tools and save them from rust. With sketch pads held over our heads, we girls dash through the trees like frightened geese, squawking and squealing at the indignity of such a soaking. Brigid waves us in, her arms a promise of safety and a warm fire. Felicity pulls me behind a tree.
“Fee! The rain!” I protest.
“Ann returns this evening. We could try to enter the realms.”
“And what if I can’t make the door appear?”
“You only need to put your mind to it,” she insists.
“Do you think I didn’t put my mind to it last week or last month or the time before that?” The rain is coming down harder now. “Perhaps I am to be punished. For what I did to Nell and Miss Moore.”
