by Libba Bray
“Miss McCleethy and, it stands to reason, Mrs. Nightwing know about the secret door into the realms but believe that they can only unlock it by rebuilding the tower. Eugenia confirms that this is so. Yet, Wilhelmina didn’t want them to rebuild the East Wing.” Ann stops. “Why?”
Felicity and I shrug.
“She’s on Gemma’s side?” Felicity offers as if that makes perfect sense.
“Then there is the matter of the phrase ‘The key holds the truth,’” Ann continues. “The key to what? What truth?”
“Dr. Van Ripple said there was no key—or dagger—that he knew of,” I say again. “And the slate tells no tales; it’s only an ordinary slate.”
Ann takes a chocolate. She pushes it around in her mouth, thinking. “Why did Wilhelmina take the dagger in the first place?”
For a moment, the tent holds nothing but the sound of the three of us drumming our fingers to separate rhythms.
“She knew that the dagger in the wrong hands would bring chaos,” I offer. “She didn’t trust McCleethy or Nightwing with it.”
“But they worship the memory of Mrs. Spence. She’s like a saint to them,” Ann argues. “What reason would they have for harming her?”
“Unless they never really did care for her. Sometimes people pretend to have affection for you when they don’t,” I add bitterly, thinking of Kartik.
We peer through the tent’s crack at the two of them deep in conversation. Brigid brings Mrs. Nightwing her sherry on a silver tray.
“I don’t see how we can possibly solve this mystery tonight,” Felicity complains.
We are disturbed by a loud knocking at the door. Brigid comes to Mrs. Nightwing. “Pardon, m’um, but there’s a troupe o’ mummers outside. They say they’ve a jolly pageant to present, if you’d be so kind as to admit them.”
Mrs. Nightwing whips off her spectacles. “Mummers? Certainly not. You may turn them away, Brigid.”
“Yes, m’um.”
Mrs. Nightwing has scarcely put on her spectacles again when the girls besiege her, begging her to reconsider.
“Oh, please!” they cry. “Please!”
Our headmistress is resolute. “They’re not to be trusted. When I was a girl, they were likely to be run out of town. Beggars at best, thieves and more at worst.”
“What’s worse than beggars and thieves?” Elizabeth asks.
Mrs. Nightwing’s lips tighten. “Never you mind.”
This sends every girl to the windows to peer out into the dark, hopeful of a glimpse of these forbidden men. Danger calls and we answer too eagerly, our noses pressed to the glass. The mummers are not turned away so easily, it would seem. They’ve set their lanterns upon the grass and have commenced with their performance. We open the windows and stick our heads out.
“We bid you good evening, gentle ladies!” one of the mummers calls. He juggles several apples at once, taking a bite out of one each time it comes round, till his mouth is filled. We laugh at such sport.
“Please, Mrs. Nightwing,” we beg.
At last she relents. “Very well,” she says with a deep sigh. “Brigid! Keep close watch over the silver and let no one inside!”
We push out onto the lawn. Fireflies wink to us with their shining tails. The air is calm and pleasant and we’re thrilled to have a show. For all Mrs. Nightwing’s hand-wringing, the mummers are more clowns than criminals. Their faces have been blackened with burned cork, and their costumes are well-worn, as if they have been walking England’s roads for weeks. The tall man in the middle wears a tunic with the emblem of Saint George upon it. Another man wears Oriental dress, like a Turk. Yet another looks like a physician of sorts. I see the feet of two others beneath the costume of a dragon.
The leader of the troupe steps forward. He’s a tall, gangly fellow with hair that wants cutting. His face has the sharp planes of the thin and hungry. He wears a top hat that has seen better days, and his tunic is graying. In his hand is a wooden sword. He speaks with the rolled rs and airs of a music hall actor. “What story shall we tell to enthrall you, my fair damsels? Do you wish a tale of sweet love? Or a tale of adventure and possible death?”
Excited gasps trickle through our motley crew of girls. Someone calls for love, but she is shouted down.
“Adventure and death!” we cry. The romantic girl pouts but there it is. Death is infinitely more thrilling.
“Perhaps the tale of Saint George conquering the dragon, then? A princess fair on the brink of sacrifice? Will she live? Will she die? Tonight, we shall introduce to you a hero, a doctor, Doubt, the Turkish knight, and of course, a dragon. But first, we require a princess. Is there one among you who would be our doomed maiden fair?”
Immediately the girls beg to be chosen. They wave their hands and clamor for attention while the mummer appraises us while slowly striding up and down.
“You there, my Titian-haired lady.” It takes me a moment to realize that the mummer points to me. By virtue of being the tallest and having the reddest hair, I’ve stood out. “Would you honor us by being our maiden fair?”
“I…”
“Oh, go on with you,” Felicity says, giving me a push forward.
“Ah, thank you, fair maiden.” He places a crown upon my head. “Our princess!”
The girls are disappointed. They clap halfheartedly.
“Let us begin our tale in a most bucolic city-state where a golden river runs. But what is this? Alas! A dragon has built its nest there!”
The men in the dragon costume move forward, growling and snarling. They hold a pennant to suggest fire.
“The citizens, living in mortal terror, can no longer draw water from the river, so frightened are they of the hideous beast. And so, they devise a desperate plan—they sacrifice a princess to the dragon to satisfy his hunger—a daily sacrifice!”
The younger girls gasp. There are a few girlish screeches. Felicity calls out, “Bad luck, Gemma!” and the older girls fall into laughter. Even Miss McCleethy and Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckle at this. I am well loved. How fortunate. The dragon’s incinerating breath grows more appealing by the second.
The mummer doesn’t care for having his show corrupted in such a fashion. He uses his most commanding voice. It thunders in the dusky air in a way that brings goosebumps to my arms. “The fair princess screams for salvation!” He points to me, waiting. I answer his patience with a perplexed expression.
“Scream,” he whispers.
“Aaaah.” It is the most anemic scream in the history of screaming.
The mummer’s irritation shows beneath his bearded smile. “You are a maiden fair on the precipice of death! The fearsome dragon’s flaming breath mere inches from your red-gold curls! You shall burn like tinder! Scream! Scream for your life!”
It seems a simple request, and yet, I’m far too mortified by it all to utter a sound. The crowd waits restlessly. I might remind them that I did not volunteer for this role. A soul-splitting screech rings out, loud and true. It sends shivers running through me. It’s Ann. Hand to forehead, she screams, playing the part like Lily Trimble herself.
The mummers cheer. “Ah, there is our princess!”
They bring forth Ann and place the crown upon her head. I am ushered back to the other girls with nary a thank-you for my efforts.
“I wasn’t as bad as all that,” I grumble when I am by Felicity’s side.
Fee pats my arm. The pat says, Indeed you were.
I cannot remain churlish for long, for Ann is magnificent. Watching her, I forget that she is Ann. She truly is a princess in danger of being devoured. With the mummers securing her wrists, she thrashes and begs for mercy. She screams as the paper dragon draws near.
“Will no one save this lady? Will she face death?” the mummer pleads with glee.
An injured bugle is blown. It sounds less a call to arms than a dying cow. Saint George arrives in his plumed helmet.
“Ah! But who is this? Be he friend or be he foe? Can anyone tell me true?”
The mummer pretends not to have heard. “I pray you, who is it?”
“Saint George!” we yell merrily.
“And be he hero…or villain?”
“Hero!” For who would dare name the patron saint of England as anything but a hero?
“Oh, who will save me?” Ann cries mournfully. She really is quite good, but the mummer does not care to be upstaged. He places a firm hand round her arm.
“The princess, so overcome by terror, faints dead away,” he says pointedly.
Annoyance shows itself in Ann’s sideways glance, but as requested, and with a dramatic sigh, she closes her eyes and allows her body to go limp in the paper chains. Saint George faces the dragon.
“But what is this? Our hero hesitates. Doubt hath found a path to his heart.”
A mummer whose face is painted with two different expressions—a smile and a frown—sidles up to the actor playing Saint George. “The maid cannot be saved. Why sacrifice yourself for her?”
We greet this with a chorus of boos.
The actor with the painted face turns the smile side toward us. “This is how it has always been, the sacrifice of a maiden to soothe the beast. Would you dare to challenge it?”
“Doubt troubles our fair hero,” the tall mummer booms. “He will need assistance from such fair and good ladies as are assembled here to find his heart and win the day. Will you cheer him on?”
“Yes!” we shout.
Saint George pretends to deliberate as the paper dragon weaves nearer to Ann with a feeble growl. We give another loud cheer, and he draws his sword with purpose. A fierce battle ensues. The dragon is defeated, but Saint George is injured. Clutching his side, he falls to the ground and we go silent.
“What is this?” the mummer says, wide-eyed. “Our hero has been dealt a blow! Is there a doctor?” Nothing happens, and the mummer, clearly irritated, repeats, “I say, is there a doctor?”
“That’s me.” The three-toothed mummer beside us remembers his part. He rushes forward, holding his hat on his head, a glass vial raised high in his other hand. “I am the good doctah. And I’ve a magic potion that shall restore him to his former health. But for its magic to spark, every one of us must believe—believe and take hold.”
With great solemnity, the good doctor passes the glass vial from girl to girl and asks her to add her wish to it. The vial is rushed to the fallen Saint George and put to his lips. He springs to his feet to our roaring approval.
“Our hero has recovered! Your magic hath restored his former vigor! And now, to the princess fair.”
Saint George rushes to Ann’s side. He seems ready to kiss her cheek, but a loud throat-clearing from Mrs. Nightwing changes his mind. He gives a peck to her hand instead.
“The princess is saved!”
Ann comes alive with a smile. Again we cheer. The mummers in charge of the paper dragon pop up and join with Ann and Saint George, moving so that it appears as if the brave knight and the fair maiden ride the beast. They wave happily. The dragon meows, making us laugh. It is a very happy ending, which, I suppose, is what we expected. The mummers bow and we clap for them. The lead mummer places his cap upon the ground, inviting us to make a donation, “no matter how small.” We toss our coins, much to Mrs. Nightwing’s dismay.
“Yes, yes,” she says, shepherding us toward Spence. “Let’s not catch a chill.”
“Ann, you were wonderful,” I say as she joins us. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes clear. Her moment of glory becomes her.
“When the dragon was beside me, I felt real fear! It was thrilling. I could perform every night of my life and never tire of it.” She shakes her head. “If I could sing for Mr. Katz now, I’d do it, and I’d not throw it away. But it’s too late. They’ve gone.”
A few of the younger girls trot by to congratulate Ann and tell her she made a perfect princess. Ann basks in their praise, smiling shyly at each compliment.
Suddenly, my ears are filled with a growing hiss that sounds like a gas lamp being turned to its brightest flame. The breath is torn from me. It feels as if someone is pulling on every part of my body. Everything goes topsy-turvy. Time slows. I see the girls moving so very slowly, their hair ribbons defying gravity as they turn their heads by infinitesimal degrees. The sounds of their laughter are low and hollow. Ann’s mouth twists with words too slow for me to decipher. I alone seem to move at ordinary speed. It’s as if I’m the only one truly alive.
I turn toward the trees and feel a chill in my soul. The mummers haven’t slowed at all. As they walk into the woods, they appear to grow fainter till they are nothing more than outlines. Before my astonished eyes, they transform into crows and fly away, their dark wings stirring trouble into the calm sky. The tremendous pull is gone but I feel drained, as if I’ve run for miles.
Ann’s mouth spits out its words now. “…I dare say, don’t you agree? Gemma? You’ve a queer expression.”
I grip Ann’s arm too tightly and she winces. “Gemma!”
“Did you see that?” I gasp.
“See what?”
“The mummers…they…they were there and then…they turned into birds and flew away.”
Hurt burns in Ann’s eyes. “I didn’t ask them to choose me over you.”
“What? No, that isn’t it at all!” I speak more softly. “I’m telling you, one moment, the mummers were there, and the next, they’d changed into birds—just like—” I go cold all over. “Just like the Poppy Warriors.”
Ann peers into the dark. The mummers’ lamp weaves through the trees, growing smaller with the distance. “Do birds carry lanterns?”
“But I—” I cannot finish. I’m no longer certain of what I saw.
“Ann Bradshaw! How could you not have told us how brilliant you are?” Elizabeth exclaims. She and Martha draw Ann into an eddy of girlish fawning, and Ann goes happily with the current.
I stand alone on the lawn, searching for some sign that I did not imagine what I saw. But the woods are quiet. Eugenia’s voice echoes in my head: They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. I turn to see Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy chattering. Cool prickles of sweat break out on my brow and I wipe them away.
No. I won’t listen to what they say. I am not their pawn, and I am not insane.
“The dark plays tricks, Gemma,” I say to comfort myself. “It was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
I repeat the word with every step until I convince myself it is true.
“Isn’t this wonderful? Just like old times,” Ann says as we ready for bed.
“Yes,” I say, running a brush through my hair. My hands still shake, and I’m glad Ann is back in her bed this evening.
“Gemma,” she says, taking note of my trembling, “I don’t know what you thought you saw in the woods, but there was nothing there. You must have imagined it.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I say.
And that is what frightens me most.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
* * *
WHEN IT IS TIME TO WAKE, I DO NOT WELCOME IT. MORE than a lack of sleep has me uncomfortable. I do not feel well. My body aches, and my thoughts are sluggish. It’s as if I have run hard and fast for so long that every step now is an effort. My edges blur into everything else—other people’s humors and emotions, the painful sunlight, the myriad sensations—until I cannot tell where the world begins and I leave off.
But the others at Spence are alive with the excitement the masked ball brings. The girls cannot resist flitting about in their costumes for a trial. They prance before the mirrors that are already too crowded, jockeying for their moment to see themselves as princesses and fairies with ornate masks festooned with feathers and beads. All that can be seen are their eyes and mouths. Some of the younger girls growl at each other, their hands bent into claws. They swipe and jab like wild tigers.
Mrs. Nightwing enters, clapping
her hands. “Ladies, let our rehearsal commence.”
The other teachers corral the younger girls, separating the tigers from the fairies. They have them sit on the floor whilst Mrs. Nightwing oversees our performances with the charm and largesse of a prison warden: “Miss Eaton, are you playing the piano or murdering it?” “Ladies, your curtsies must be as snowflakes falling to earth. Softly, softly! Miss Fensmore, that is not a snowflake but an avalanche.” “Miss Whitford, sing out, if you please. The floor may hear your song quite well, but it is only the floor and cannot applaud it.”
When Mrs. Nightwing calls me to recite my poem, my stomach churns. I do not relish standing before them all, being the center of attention. I shall never remember the words. The girls look at me with expectation, with boredom, with pity. Mrs. Nightwing clears her throat, and it is like a gun firing the start of a race. I am off and running.
“‘Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World—’”
Mrs. Nightwing interrupts me. “Gracious, Miss Doyle! Is this the derby or the recitation of a poem?” Tittering trickles through the girls. Some of the little tigers giggle behind their hands.
I start again, trying my best to temper my voice and rhythm, though my heart thumps with such force I can draw only the shallowest of breaths. “‘Turn if you may from battles never done, / I call, as they go by me one by one. / Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace, / For him who hears love sing and never cease.’”
The word love has the younger girls giggling again, and I have to wait while Miss McCleethy upbraids them for their rudeness and threatens not to allow them cake if they do not behave. Mrs. Nightwing nods for me to continue.
“‘Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! / You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled / Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring / The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing….” I swallow once, twice. They look at me with such expectation, and I feel that no matter what I do, I shall disappoint. “Um…‘Beauty grown, beauty grown sad…’” My eyes are itchy with tears I want to shed for no reason that I can name.