It had taken me a long time that night before I’d ducked back into the passage and slammed it shut behind me, and even longer to trudge back up to the dormitorium. Daneska’s betrayal angered me more than it could ever vex Miss Stranje.
It still gnawed at my stomach, a churning ball of spiked fury. I wanted to cough it out and forget Daneska had ever been my friend, forget she had ever existed.
Some wounds take longer to heal.
With a quick intake of breath, Miss Stranje spun back to me, herself once again. “You’re right. You’re not like her, Tess. Not in the least.”
She meant it. I saw it in the softening of her features.
The dogs paced between us, looking first to her, then to me, gauging our words, whimpering at our harsh exchanges, unsure how to protect against this kind of trouble in their pack. I felt bad for them. And for her. I lowered my pretense of pride. “I’m sorry I worried you and Madame Cho.”
She nodded and put an arm around my shoulders. “It might surprise you to know I did not wait out here at this hour to scold you. To warn you, perhaps, but not to scold. I do understand why you went.” She swallowed, and hesitated, as if the worst was yet to come. “I waited for you so that we might have a private word.”
Private.
Twelve kinds of trouble dripped like poison from that word.
Phobos tilted his head suspiciously, and I expect I may have done the same thing. “Private?”
She dropped her arm and resumed her normal headmistress-like self. All business. Except her tone was too stiff. Too formal. “I’m concerned, you see.” She took a deep breath before going on. “Matters are going rather badly on the continent. With Napoleon back on the throne, making sweeping advances to the north, Wellington’s troops have been forced to retreat. Bonaparte has driven them all the way up to Hanover. The House of Lords and several of our military advisers are recommending our troops return home to protect British soil against his inevitable attack. But it is extremely difficult to transport more than a few troops at a time, especially when the nearest port is even farther north, in Hamburg.”
All this I already knew. Last week Georgie had been desperate for news of Lord Wyatt. She was frantic to find anything that might tell her where Sebastian was or even if he was alive. The two of us decided to put our training to use. We crept into our headmistress’s office and searched for correspondence about the war.
“Although I suspect you already knew this much.”
I caught my breath and turned to scratch Phobos behind the ears, afraid to meet Miss Stranje’s gaze for fear of giving away our duplicity. “I may have read something of the sort in the newspapers, and I’d heard—”
“Come now. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that my papers had been disturbed?” Her tone lightened. She wasn’t angry. But I was.
Caught again.
It rankled. I exhaled loudly. “How did you know? We were so careful to put everything back exactly as it was. We replaced the stack of books atop the papers at precisely the same angle.”
The corner of her mouth turned up in amusement. “You may not have noticed the small broken nib I left sitting on the lower left corner of the papers.”
“A spent nib?”
“Yes.” She tsked, as if I’d suggested something silly. “You don’t think I would be so sloppy as to leave a cut-off nib on my papers for no reason. I also left a small corner of felt midway through the stack.”
“You were testing us.” I growled and kicked at the grass, dislodging a sleeping grasshopper. Tromos bounded after it.
She merely inclined her head in answer.
“And we failed.”
“Not entirely. You entered and left my study without being seen.”
“Unlike tonight,” I said, suddenly feeling weary and not nearly so light of foot as I had earlier. “What is it you wanted of me?”
She caught her lip and for an instant looked worried. Miss Emma Stranje is nothing if not intrepid. Where she might bite her lip in consternation, the rest of the world would quake in their boots. If she was worried, matters must indeed be grave.
She rallied her air of authority. “It is about your gift, your dreams. You haven’t mentioned them of late.”
I glanced sideways at her. What was she getting at? “I hadn’t thought them important.”
She blinked as if she thought I was being obtuse. “Whyever not? They were instrumental in helping Georgie with the ink, and without them, who knows what lives might’ve been lost.”
“That one time, perhaps. But most of the time my dreams are inscrutable—a roiling mess of sadness and pain. Of what use it that?” Apart from causing my mind to break.
Miss Stranje spoke to me as if I was still a young girl in her classroom. “The fact that they are sometimes predictive—surely you see the benefit of that?”
I retreated a step or two, trying to hide the low growl climbing up my throat. “I’m no prophet.”
“Of course not…” She waved my dispute away. “But if it weren’t for you and your dreams, Sebastian might be dead, and who knows what would’ve happened to the diplomats in Vienna. You must admit that much.”
I exhaled loudly, trying to breathe out the confusion she was stirring up. “Except things have gotten worse, not better. Worse! Napoleon is back in power.” I shook my head, trying to escape this debate. Nothing she could say would convince me anyway. “None of this matters. We’ve no way to know what would have happened had I not interfered.”
She sighed. “I suppose there’s not much use in mere mortals pondering such things.”
“Then let us leave it, shall we. What is it you wanted?”
She sniffed, haughty, defensive, very unlike Miss Emma Stranje. “Well, as a matter of fact, I would like to know if you’ve had any other dreams. In particular, any dreams about the situation on the continent. Or the war—”
“You want to know if I’ve seen anything pertaining to Captain Grey?” I asked, not intending to be cruel, simply wishing to get to the point a bit quicker.
She caught my arm. “He is not the only reason for my asking.” She let go and turned back into the sharp-eyed hawk. “Naturally, it’s frustrating not knowing. If we’d had some small word, anything. You know how I dislike being kept in the dark. The diplomatic office has had no word either. So, yes, among other things I would like to know if he and Lord Wyatt are…” She pursed her lips.
“Alive?”
“If they are well.” She seemed annoyed that I spoke her fear out loud. “Have you seen either of them? A glimpse, perhaps? Anything at all?”
“No. Nothing of them.”
Her shoulders sagged a fraction of an inch lower than her normal soldierly posture. “I thought as much.”
I felt sadness fall upon her like a cold fog. Phobos whimpered and rubbed his head against her leg. Miss Stranje stared down at the dark pool of grass surrounding us. Wind rippled across the ebony blades. The moon had abandoned us, leaving the world still shrouded in the funeral clothes of night. Morning larks had not yet begun to sing and nightingales had long since fallen silent. In the stillness that lay between night and morning, one last star glittered just above the treetops, a small beacon of hope in the darkness engulfing us.
“Shall we go in through the garden door?” she asked.
With the wolf-dogs at our heels, we walked silently through the predawn fog. As we neared the back steps, she said, “If you should happen to dream about Captain Grey or Lord Wyatt—”
“It doesn’t work like that.” I spoke too harshly, but I knew what she wanted. “I cannot try to have a dream. I don’t control them. They fly at me without warning. It’s like being shoved off a cliff into the pit of hell. Into madness. Each dream, each vision, carries me closer to that abyss that devoured my mother—”
“Tess! Stop.” She grasped my shoulders. “I would never ask that of you. You mustn’t even think such a thing.” She forced a calming breath and leaned close, so that we were almost nose to nos
e. “I know you can’t control these visions of yours. And I’m fully aware of how much they upset you. I would never ask you to dream. Only that, if you do, you would come to me and tell me what you’ve seen so that we might try to decipher it.”
“Oh.” I swallowed and my heart slowed its thundering gallop.
She let go of me, still standing near enough that I saw the sad soft curve of her lips.
We climbed the steps and she opened the garden door, but neither of us went in. I bowed my head, embarrassed about my outburst. “Then you’re not going to lecture me about how we must all make sacrifices?”
“Heavens no, child.” She held the door open wider. “I’m not willing to sacrifice your sanity, Tess. That is too great a price to ask of anyone.”
Eight
STAYING AWAKE
Miss Stranje and I parted at the garden door. She claimed she needed a brisk walk to clear her head, and she wanted to keep watch for anyone who might be roaming about uninvited. I went in and made my way upstairs, where I tiptoed into the dormitorium.
“Good, you’re back.” Jane was already awake and dressed. “I was just about to come rescue you.”
“Why? The sun is not yet up.” I stood beside my bed and saw there was a teacup filled with Cho’s sleeping potion on the side table.
“Morning will be here soon enough. Anyway, we agreed you should return before sunrise. I was worried.”
“What would you have done? Stormed Ravencross Manor with a torch and pitchfork?”
“Don’t underestimate what I can do with a pitchfork.”
I managed a half smile and sat down on the bed. I was tired, and the promise of sleep beckoned to me. But the threat of dreaming stayed my hand. “Go back to bed, Jane.”
“No, I’m up. I may as well go down to the workroom and finish my notes for Captain Grey’s steward. With Mr. Sinclair underfoot, requiring assistance, I’ve no idea when I’ll find time to write up instructions for the harvest if I don’t do it now.”
I raised my fingers in a halfhearted farewell, still staring at the teacup. It was true that I couldn’t conjure my dreams. Even so, I had a strong suspicion that because Miss Stranje had asked about Captain Grey it might summon just such a dream. I shivered at the thought. I liked Captain Grey. He and Sebastian, despite working secretly for the government behind the lines to discover what the enemy was up to, were forthright and honorable men.
What if she was right?
Suppose a dream might prevent Captain Grey’s death. Was my desire to stay sane more important than his life? Or Lord Wyatt’s? Could a dream change the course of the war? If I might spare the lives of dozens, or hundreds, or maybe countless others, how could I, in good conscience, resist the visions?
Madness or not.
I knew the answer.
More than anything else in the world, I wanted to stop dreaming. To stop living with the nightmares. To outrun the approaching madness. I wanted to clutch with both fists the few slender threads that tethered me to the normal world. But weighed in the balance, against the lives of men who were trying to do some good in the world I realized my small, insignificant life didn’t matter.
The truth nearly suffocated me. And I knew that resist though I might, I would have to sleep sooner or later. My temples throbbed and my stomach roiled even though it was empty. I knew what must be done. I also knew the price of dreaming.
I lifted the teacup that would help me sleep to my lips, but stopped. I need not pay the price today.
Not just yet.
Tomorrow was soon enough. I was in no hurry to experience a hundred strangers’ gruesome deaths. With a dismal clink, I set it back on the saucer.
Coward.
I sprang up and paced, searching for an escape from this fate, terrified of what I might see or not see. Finally, I settled on the idea that since it was already morning, I would not sleep at all today. That way, I was neither dreaming nor refusing to dream. I decided to go down to the workroom with Jane, and so I quietly padded out of the dormitorium, leaving Sera and Georgie and Maya sound asleep. Blissfully unaware of my cowardice.
Tomorrow.
I would dream tomorrow.
* * *
Downstairs on the first floor, I’d not gone far when I heard someone creeping toward the main foyer. I knew Jane’s gait and Miss Stranje’s. These were heavier footsteps. They didn’t belong to Greaves, who has a very distinctive shuffle, or Philip, or any of the housemaids. No, these were unfamiliar feet coming straight toward me. I ducked behind a pillar and silently unsheathed the knife still strapped to my calf.
Mr. Sinclair.
What was he doing up at this hour without a candle?
He appeared to be poking about, sticking his head in open doorways. Hunting for something. I followed him, my knife at the ready. This was peculiar behavior for a guest. I wondered if Jane might be right, that perhaps our guest might not be who Lord Wyatt had supposed him to be.
Sinclair turned down the east hall to the workroom and nearly collided with Jane. He was the first to recover from the surprise. “Good morrow, Lady Jane. You are up early.”
She harrumphed. “I might say the same of you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Alexander. You may call me Alexander.”
“I daresay, that is no less cumbersome than calling you Mr. Sinclair. Hardly more efficient. Not only that, but it would be highly improper, as we are not yet friends.” She said all this in an markedly instructive tone—her governess tone, the one Jane was overly fond of employing. I often speculated that she must’ve admired her own governess to excess.
“Alexander is my name,” he replied, in an equally instructive manner. “I did not grant it to you for efficiency sake, my lady. If we are to be all about efficiency, I ought to go back to calling you miss. It would save me two entire syllables.”
Jane sniffed. “You’ve not answered my question, Mr. Sinclair. What are you doing down here at this hour?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I might have a gander at those maps in your drawing room.”
“Drawing room? That was not … surely you can’t think that is a drawing room when it is quite obviously a workroom, or a study.” Jane avoided calling it a classroom, which was its primary function. Obviously, she didn’t want to give him the impression of still being in the schoolroom.
“Oh, begging your pardon, my lady. Allow me to rephrase my answer. I thought I might find something of interest in those maps in your workroom.”
He would, indeed, find those maps interesting. Although, after he read them, I might have to use this blade on him to secure his silence. I did give the fellow credit for being straightforward enough to give an honest answer.
“You can’t go prowling around the house, prying into our private papers. It simply isn’t done. Miss Stranje wouldn’t like it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, appearing at least a little chagrined. “I suppose that other one wouldn’t like it much either—the Chinese lady.”
“No. She would not. I daresay Madame Cho would come after you with a bamboo cane and give you a well-deserved thrashing.”
“A well-deserved thrashing, is that what you think? What do you have against me, my lady?” He said “my lady” in that hard American twang of his as if her title was something repugnant he wanted to scrape off of his shoe.
Jane’s voice lifted a bit too high, a bit too strident. “I … Against you? What, indeed. Where should I start…”
“Spit it out.” Even from where I hid, I could hear the smirk in his tone.
“See. There it is. Spit. That is just the sort of uncivilized thing you are wont to say, isn’t it?”
I peeked around the corner. His arms were crossed and he towered over her like an imperious king, albeit a rather gangly and ill-dressed imperious king. “Afraid to tell the truth, my lady? Or is it that you don’t have a reason worth spouting?”
“Hah!” Jane huffed. “Oh, I have reasons. Several perfectly rational reasons. I meant to spare
you, but since you ask—”
“Spare me? Ha!” He rocked back on his heels. “Tsk, tsk, my lady, you mustn’t soil yourself with lies. The truth is you haven’t meant to spare me since I walked through the door. Are you too lily-livered to speak your mind?”
“Lily-livered? How dare you.”
Now he’d done it. I knew Jane well. That up-and-down heaving of her shoulders, the gasps and starts, the way she balled her fists—these signs did not bode well for Mr. Sinclair.
“If you want the truth, Mr. Sinclair, I shall be delighted to deliver it.” She ground out his name. “I find it difficult to believe that any engineer worth his salt can’t figure out how to tie a cravat properly. Or wouldn’t know how to button his waistcoat properly. I ask you, what kind of engineer can’t manage his own buttons?”
“The kind of man who doesn’t give a two-headed nickel about what’s on the outside, because he’s far more concerned about what’s on the inside.” Mr. Sinclair’s arms remained crossed, and he stared down at her from his great height as if she were a toadying magpie. “Lady Jane.”
“I have found,” she answered with cold, queenly dignity, “that the outside is a fairly clear indication of what is on the inside.”
She stretched her chin up, standing on her toes in a vain attempt to match his height. “If one is a careful, meticulous sort, as most engineers are, one polishes one’s shoes so that they might last more than one winter.” She glanced down at his scuffed footwear with disdain.
He tilted his head and I saw that expression, the one I’d noted yesterday, the one that gave me the impression he found life amusing, and that even Jane’s harsh diatribe entertained him.
He answered her in a calm, clear tone, like one might use with a child. “I know a great many engineers, my lady, and their dressing habits vary as much as feathers do on birds. What’s more, if one must steal the shoes off the feet of one’s unconscious prison guard or else traipse barefoot halfway across France, one might not have much to say about the treatment those shoes received prior to his acquiring them.”
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