by Libba Bray
Mrs. Nightwing gasps. “That’s not possible.”
“Wilhelmina tried to tell me. I had visions of her. Both she and Amar told me to beware the birth of May, and I thought it was the first of May, but she wanted me to beware someone born in May. She meant Eugenia Spence. Eugenia betrayed her. She’s betrayed us all. I know I sound a lunatic, but I’m telling the truth.”
Mrs. Nightwing looks as if she’s been slapped. Fear flits across her face.
“Do you mean to suggest that Eugenia Spence, one of the greatest priestesses the Order has ever known, betrayed her own sisters?” There is murder in Miss McCleethy’s eyes. I’ve taken away her god, and she could kill me for it.
“How could she have done so?” Mrs. Nightwing asks.
I take a steadying breath. “There is a place in the Winterlands—the Tree of All Souls. Have you heard of it?”
“I have heard of it, yes. It is a legend, a myth,” Miss McCleethy fumes. “The creatures have no source of power of their own. That is why they have tried to take the Temple’s magic—”
“Listen to me, please!” I beg. “You’re wrong. They—”
“Eugenia herself told us it wasn’t real!” Miss McCleethy insists.
“Because she feared it!” I shout. “That’s why she burned Wilhelmina’s drawings. Why she denied its existence. But I assure you it is very real indeed! I have seen it.”
“You’ve been to the Winterlands,” Mrs. Nightwing whispers. She’s as pale as cheese.
Miss McCleethy’s expression is one of pure fury. “You stupid, stupid girl!”
“Perhaps if the Order hadn’t been afraid of the Winterlands, if they hadn’t made it forbidden all those years, you’d know more about it!”
“We know what we need to know about the Winterlands and those filthy creatures: that they must be controlled or destroyed.”
“You’ll never destroy them. It isn’t possible. The creatures are feeding souls to the tree—the souls of the dead and the living. They’ve been coming into our world through the secret door and taking them back. That’s what happened to Miller’s men, to the mummers, to Ithal. They were taken! Those horrible things I saw—I thought I was going mad. Eugenia told me you would make me see things, illusions, that I would feel mad, and I believed her.”
“You are mad!” McCleethy growls, her voice rising.
Fowlson holds out a hand. “Sahirah, what if—”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t.” And Fowlson, the bully, quiets like that frightened boy in his mother’s kitchen. “Eugenia Spence was the most loyal member of the Order who ever lived! And you are the daughter of the one who nearly killed her. Why should I believe you?”
Her words sting, but I have no time to be wounded. “Because I’m telling you the truth. When Eugenia sacrificed herself for Sarah and Mary, they fed her soul to their god, to the tree. She became a part of it—her power joined to its. And over time, they’ve become something new, something enormously powerful. She isn’t what she was. She isn’t the Eugenia you knew.”
“Sahirah, you said it would be safe,” Mrs. Nightwing whispers.
“Lillian, she’s invented this tale. It’s ridiculous! Eugenia Spence!”
“Are you so desperate to be right—to admit no cracks—that you would ignore my warning?” I say.
“Miss Doyle, why don’t you admit the truth—that you are loath to share the power, and that you would do anything to hold on to it?” McCleethy turns on Fowlson. “And how could you believe her?”
Fowlson lowers his eyes. He turns his hat in his hands.
Miss McCleethy’s gaze is cool. “We gave you a chance to join with us, Miss Doyle. You refused. Did you think one girl could hold us back?”
It is not a question to be answered, so I say nothing.
“Our plans will continue with or without you.”
“Please,” I say, my voice raw. “Please believe me. They need my magic to complete their plan. They mean to sacrifice me today, May sixth—Eugenia’s birthday. We must find a way to stop them.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Miss McCleethy rises.
A flicker of worry passes over Nightwing’s face. “Perhaps we—”
“Lillian, remember your place as well.” The door closes behind McCleethy with barely a sound.
I’ve never heard anyone speak to Mrs. Nightwing in such a manner. I wait for her to dismiss me, to resume being Mrs. Nightwing—imperious, commanding, never wrong.
“Sahirah…,” Fowlson says as he follows his lover out. I hear them arguing in heated whispers beyond the door, Miss McCleethy’s mumbles sounding hard and quick, Fowlson’s slower and defensive.
“I am not of the Order,” Mrs. Nightwing explains to Kartik and me. “My power did not take, you see. Within months, it faded. I was not destined to continue. I left Spence for a life outside the Order, for marriage. And when the power of that faded, too, I came back to help. I chose a life of service. There is no shame in that.” She rises. “Women have fought and died to preserve the sanctity of the realms. Perhaps you could bend just a little.”
Mrs. Nightwing’s skirts whisk stiffly across the floor, and then Kartik and I are the only ones left. Soon morning will creep into afternoon. Dusk will fall. And then night.
Felicity and Ann rush in, out of breath. “We were listening at the door earlier,” Ann explains. “Before McCleethy shooed us away.”
“Then you know they don’t believe me. They think I’m mad, a liar like Wilhelmina Wyatt,” I say. “We’re on our own.”
Felicity puts a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you are wrong about this, Gemma.”
And for once, I sincerely hope that I am. For if they come, I don’t know how to stop them.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
* * *
THE RAIN SPITS ITS RAGE AT OUR WINDOWS. THE WIND’S A persistent howl, an animal begging to be let in for the night. Felicity and Ann have begun a halfhearted game of tiddledy-winks to keep their nerves at bay. They flick the colorful circles at each other, but neither keeps score. Just outside, front and back, Kartik and Fowlson keep watch. Miss McCleethy’s furious about it, but Mrs. Nightwing insisted, and I’m glad. I wish Inspector Kent were here, but he has taken Mademoiselle LeFarge to London to visit his family.
I peek 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.”
Th
e wind howls, rattling my teacup on its saucer.
“Sahirah?” Mrs. Nightwing’s face has gone ashen.
Miss McCleethy will not let this fire catch among the girls; she’ll put it out, just as Eugenia tried to long ago. “Listen to me, Sally. You had a dream. That’s all. A very bad dream.”
The little girl shakes her head. “It was real! I saw them.”
“No, you didn’t,” Brigid says. “Dreams is funny that way.”
“I suppose it could be a dream,” the girl says. They’ve made her uncertain, and that’s how it’s done; that’s how we come to doubt what we know to be true.
“Tonight, you’ll have a nice glass of warm milk and there’ll be no dreams to trouble you,” Miss McCleethy assures her. “Now, Brigid’s got to see to her duties in the kitchen.”
Amidst the girls’ protests for just one more tale, Brigid hurries out of the great room.
“Gemma?” Ann asks, her voice tight with fear.
“I don’t think I’m wrong after all,” I whisper. “I believe the Winterlands creatures were here. I think they’re coming back.”
Mrs. Nightwing takes me aside. “I have always been loyal and followed my orders. But I fear you are right about the door, Miss Doyle. These are my girls, and I must take every precaution.” She dabs at her neck with her handkerchief. “We cannot let them in.”
“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.
“Hugo?” I say, wide-eyed. I see a grin pulling at Kartik’s lips.
Fowlson’s face darkens. “Promised you wouldn’t call me that.”
“The dead come. They come, they come…,” Mother Elena mutters, bringing us back to the terrible task at hand.
“How do we keep them out?” I ask.
“Mark the windows and doors,” she says. “And still it may not be enough.”
“We can’t possibly mark every door and window,” I say.
“We’ll do what we can,” Kartik says.
Mother Elena has us mix chicken blood and ashes, which she pours into bowls and gives to us all. When the doors to the great room swing open, we sweep in, our faces grim with purpose. The girls gasp upon seeing Mother Elena and Kartik with us, fascinated by the old Gypsy woman muttering to herself, as well as the handsome, forbidden young man at her side.
“What is happening?” Felicity asks.
Ann peers into the bowl of blood and ashes in my hands. “What is that?”
“Protection,” I say, shoving it at her. “Follow Mother Elena’s lead.”
We spread out along the sides of the great room, moving quickly from window to window, checking each of the latches. Mother Elena dips her finger into a small metal char pot. She hurries as best she can, painting each window with bloody ashes, moving to the next and the next. Mrs. Nightwing, Ann, Felicity, Kartik, and I do the same. Brigid tucks tiny sprigs of rowan leaves onto the sills with one hand and holds fast to her cross with the other.
The girls watch them with morbid fascination.
“Brigid, what are you doing?” a girl in a large pink hair ribbon asks.
“Never you mind, dearie,” she answers.
“But, Brigid—”
“It’s a game,” I say brightly. Brigid and I exchange glances.
The girls clap in excitement. “What sort of game?”
“Tonight, we’ll pretend the pixies are coming. And to keep them out, we must mark all the doors and windows,” I answer.
Brigid says nothing but her eyes are as big as saucers. The girls squeal with delight. They want to play the game too.
“What is this?” Elizabeth stares into the pot and wrinkles her nose. “It looks like blood.”
Martha and Cecily turn up their noses.
“Really, Mrs. Nightwing. It’s unchristian,” Cecily sniffs.
The younger girls are enthralled. They scream, “Let me see! Let me see!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Nightwing scolds. “This is nothing more than sherry and molasses.”
“Doesn’t smell like molasses or sherry,” Elizabeth grumbles.
Brigid pours the foul mixture into small cups. “’Ere, we’ll all help.” The girls take the cups doubtfully. They sniff the mixture and come away with wrinkled noses and curled lips. But each girl dutifully paints the mark on a window and soon it becomes a merry competition to see who can complete the most. They laugh and jostle for position. But beads of sweat appear on Brigid’s forehead. She wipes at them with the back of her hand.
With everyone’s help, we seal and mark every door, every window. Now all we can do is wait. Dusk slips too quickly into night. The pinks and blues of day shade first into gray, then indigo. I cannot will the light to stay. I cannot hold back the dark. We peer out at the violent night. The lights of Spence blind us to the shadows of the woods.
The air has gone still as death. It’s warm, and my skin’s moist. I pull at my collar. By nine o’clock, the younger girls have grown tired of waiting for the pixies to show themselves. They yawn, but Brigid tells them we’re to stay together in the great room past midnight—it’s part of the game—and they accept it. The older girls share disapproving glances about Gypsies in our midst. They gossip over their needlework, small stitches to match their small talk. I am alert and afraid. Every sound, every movement terrifies. Is that them? Have they come for us? But no, it is only the creak of a floorboard, the hiss of the gas lamp.
Mrs. Nightwing has a book in her hands, but she’s not reading a word of it. Her eyes dart from the doors to the windows as she watches, waits. Felicity and Ann play whist in Felicity’s tent, but I am far too agitated to join them. Instead, I hold Mother Elena’s hand and keep watch over the mantel clock as if I can divine the future there. Ten o’clock. Fifteen after. Half past. Will this day pass uneventfully? Have I been mistaken again?
The second hand moves. To my ears it sounds like the firing of a cannon. Three, boom, two, boom, one. By eleven o’clock, most of the girls have fallen asleep. Kartik and Fowlson keep steady watch by the closed doors, stopping occasionally to glare at one another. Beside me, Mother Elena has drifted into fitful sleep.
Those of us still awake sit straighter, alert to danger. Mrs. Nightwing places her book on the end table. Brigid clutches her rosary beads. Her lips move in silent prayer. The minutes tick past. Five, ten, fifteen. Nothing. Outside, the dark is quiet, undisturbed. Half past eleven o’clock. Only a half hour left in the day. My eyelids have begun to feel heavy. I am slipping under sleep’s spell. The clock’s rhythm eases me into rest. Click. Click. Cli…
Silence.
My eyes snap open. The clock on the mantel has stopped. The great room is as quiet as a tomb. Kartik draws his dagger.
“What is it?” Bri
gid whispers.
Miss McCleethy shushes her.
I hear them too—the faint sounds of horses outside on the lawn. The sharp caw of a crow. The color drains from Mrs. Nightwing’s face. Mother Elena has stirred from her slumber. She clutches my hand tightly.
“They have come,” she says.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
* * *
THE ROOM IS UNNATURALLY STILL. SWEAT BEADS ON MY upper lip. I wipe it away with a trembling hand.
“They can’t get in,” Brigid whispers. “We’ve marked every door, every window with a seal of protection.”
“Their power is strong. They will not stop until they have what they want.” Mother Elena looks at me as she says this.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Miss McCleethy says. “A horse. A crow. It could be nothing.”
“You promised there would be no danger,” Mrs. Nightwing says again, almost to herself.
“I am not convinced that there was danger at all save for what has happened to Miss Doyle’s mind.”
From outside I hear again the sounds of restless horses, birds.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Elizabeth says sleepily.
“Mrs. Nightwing, can’t we please go to bed now?” one of the girls asks.
“Shhh!” Mrs. Nightwing says. “Our game will end only after midnight.”
“Mr. Fowlson, would you check?” Miss McCleethy asks.
With a nod, Mr. Fowlson peeks behind the drapes. He turns around, shaking his head. “Nuffin’.”
Brigid breathes a sigh of relief. It is so warm in the room.
“We shall not move from this room until after midnight,” Mrs. Nightwing whispers. “Just to be certain. After that…” She stops, frowning.