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Not being punished, yet staying indoors during a free period. “Are you ill?”
“No, sir.”
Turning, he faced her. “You’re here by choice, then?”
“Yes, sir. Students are permitted to come here and read during free time, if we want. I prefer it here. The outside air causes me to sneeze. Dr. Whitehall said it’s because of the spores.”
“I see. And what about you?” he asked the younger one.
“I don’t like being outside,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
Suddenly, he remembered her name. “Why don’t you like being outside, Miss Fairfield?”
Janet’s brown eyes darted to her companion. Had he not been watching, he might have missed the infinitesimal warning shake of the older girl’s head. “I dislike the cold,” she said at last, her gaze sliding away. “It’s warmer inside.”
“The sun is shining out there, you know.” He pointed to the window, through which could be heard the muffled high laughter he’d marked absent all day. If I walked outside right now, would they all fall silent? “I think it must be quite warm. None of the others are wearing shawls.”
The little girl squirmed. “It’s cozier here by the fire. And I’m keeping Suzette company.”
Scooting closer to Janet, the older girl—presumably Suzette—closed her book and stared at him with hard, blue eyes, challenging him to question it further.
How very curious. “I’ve no intention of forcing either of you to go outside,” he said lightly. “If you prefer to remain here rather than playing outdoors, by all means do so and with my blessing. I’ve a great appreciation for reading, myself.”
Replacing the book he held, he clasped his hands and stared out the window. Behind him, he heard the rustling of skirts as the children rose. Would they flee as all the others that day had done?
A featherlight touch on his sleeve made him look down.
“This one is my favorite,” said Janet, proffering a copy of Aesop’s Fables. “I like The Lion and the Mouse best.”
Taking it, he offered her a smile. “Thank you. It’s been many years since I last read these. I shall have to take another look.”
“Be certain you return it to its proper place,” the little girl instructed, earning a nudge from her companion. “I—I mean no disrespect, sir. Headmistress just likes the library to stay tidy and expects us to keep it in order.”
“Of course,” he reassured her. “Thank you for your kind recommendation, Miss Fairfield.” Reaching out, he patted her head only to draw back his hand in dismay as she recoiled with a gasp.
At once, Suzette wrapped an arm about the child’s shoulders. “Come, Janet. We’ve lingered overlong. We don’t wish to be late.”
Will glanced at the tall clock in the corner. Classes resumed at two, and it was only now half past one. “I, too, must go and prepare for my next lesson,” he said, acting as though nothing was amiss. “Again, I thank you. Until we meet again, ladies.” Nodding to the white-faced pair, he departed.
Remarkable. In the space of ten minutes, all his suspicions had been renewed.
Miss Fairfield’s frightened reaction to his gentle touch had been telling. As was Suzette’s demeanor. At her young friend’s flinch, the girl’s hands had fisted. Had he actually threatened violence, he didn’t doubt she would’ve attacked him.
The children’s strange behavior all morning, and now this incident, told him something was definitely going on at this school. It was plain the girls expected ill treatment, yet the headmistress had denied the use of physical punishment.
He marked the encounter as a triumph of investigation. Not only had he uncovered evidence, but he’d begun to build trust between the students and himself. Those girls would no doubt tell all their friends about their chance meeting with the dreaded new teacher. Once they realized he wasn’t a monster, perhaps they’d be willing to confide in him when provided an opportunity.
Maybe this didn’t involve the Archangel, but it was worth examination.
Entering his classroom, Will sat at his desk, took out his pocket journal, and wrote down the two girls’ names in it below Miss Emma Stone’s. Suzette’s surname would be on the list Trouvère had provided. Scanning through, he found it: Suzette Bagley, age thirteen. She would be in one of the day’s final two classes, he was sure.
The gentle swishing of skirts just outside the door told him he was about to have company. Closing the journal, he tucked it back into his pocket.
“How are you liking our school so far, Monsieur Woodson?”
Turning, he addressed his visitor. “Quite well, Headmistress. I chanced upon your library during the respite just now. An impressive collection for so small a school.”
A raven’s wing brow arched. “For a girls’ school, you mean?”
