VICTORIA’S MOUTH WENT DRY. TINGLES OF TERROR raced up her arms, gathering as a knot in her throat.
“Beatrice . . . ,” she said, backing away slowly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” whispered Beatrice, stepping forward.
“Wh-wh—” Victoria tried to say, “What are you doing?” but the words would not come. Fear had seized her and would not let go.
I am going to die, her brain recited calmly. I am going to be stabbed until I am dead. How infuriating. I have so much left to do.
Beatrice frowned. “Why do you look so—? Oh.” She noticed the knife and set it down on the countertop. “I’m sorry, Victoria. Did I frighten you? It’s just that with things the way they are, I needed to be careful. I won’t let anyone take me.”
Victoria slumped against the oven. The terror inside her fwoosh ed away like a sigh. She glared at Beatrice.
“Maybe put the knife down first, next time,” she hissed.
Beatrice put a finger to her lips. “Quiet,” she whispered. “Quiet.”
“What? Why?” Victoria said, crossing her arms. Then she noticed how strangely Beatrice was dressed. She wasn’t wearing the uniform Mrs. Wright made her wear—the fine work dress and apron, the little cap, the shining shoes. Beatrice instead wore a long raincoat and a kerchief about her frazzled white head. The skin under her eyes was dark. At her feet sat a piece of luggage.
Victoria narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, I stayed up all night worrying and wondering, waiting, watching . . .” Beatrice murmured, her hands working furiously at her waist.
“Watching for what?”
“I won’t watch it happen again, not again. Too many times, far too many.” She frowned, rubbing her forehead. “But then, it’s so hard to remember.”
Victoria grabbed her arm. “Watch what happen?”
Outside, lightning flashed. Beatrice glanced down the hall toward the master suite. The light around the door froze, like someone had been moving around and then stopped.
“Quiet,” said Beatrice, taking Victoria’s shoulders and hunkering down with her beside the kitchen island. “Don’t let them hear.”
Victoria narrowed her eyes to inspect Beatrice’s face. “What do you mean? You mean don’t let Mother and Father hear? Does this have something to do with that note you left me? “ ‘Be careful’ ”?
Beatrice nodded, but when she looked up again, Victoria saw how her eyes had that strange fuzzy look she had seen there before. If Beatrice was tired or if it was something else, Victoria couldn’t tell.
“And the roaches?” she said. “Professor Alban?”
Beatrice stared at her blankly. She shook her head and wiped her eyes.
“But what about the Home? The missing children?”
Beatrice’s face crumpled. “The children.”
Victoria thought about how happy and warm she had felt in Mrs. Cavendish’s kitchen, how it had been hard to remember why she was there, how it had been hard to speak. She had stood and let Mrs. Cavendish pet her hair.
Beatrice’s eyes looked like that sensation Victoria had felt—hazy, peaceful, quiet.
“It’s Mrs. Cavendish,” Victoria whispered, her skin prickling as she said the words out loud. “Isn’t it? It’s true. I’m not imagining things.”
Beatrice nodded once, sadly. Then she put her hands to her temples. Tears glinted in her eyes.
“I went there today, I—”
“You what?” said Beatrice. “Oh, no. Oh, you didn’t.”
“I did. First I went to the library to investigate through the newspaper. I met Professor Alban there, and—” Victoria paused. “Well, I don’t know what happened. I think he may be gone now too. And I’ve had just about enough of all these weird things happening everywhere, so I went to the Home to sneak around, but Mr. Alice caught me and took me inside, and—”
“How did you get out?” Beatrice whispered. “No one ever gets out unless she wants them to.”
“She let me go. She likes me, she said.”
Beatrice put a hand to her heart. “Maybe there’s still time, then.” She grabbed Victoria’s shoulders, hard. “Listen. Are you listening?”
Victoria rolled her eyes to hide the fact that Beatrice was really scaring her. “Yes, I’m listening. Stop pinching.”
“You may be all right, if she let you go, if she likes you, or maybe you’re worse off than anyone, I don’t know,” said Beatrice, in a frantic rush. She kept peering around the island toward the closed door. “But if you know what’s good for you—and I know that you do, Victoria—just do as you’re told. Go to school, eat your supper, do your homework, attend your lessons. Don’t ask questions. Do you understand?”
“How do you know all this?” Victoria demanded. “What’s going on? And where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. I can’t stay here anymore. I’ve been so scared but . . . no. I won’t let her take me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know if I can leave, but I’m going to try.”
Victoria crouched lower, eyes wide. “Take you? So it’s true. She takes people? And you’ve seen it happen before? How many times has it happened? Did you have friends who got taken? Did they ever come back?”
“Mr. Tibbalt,” said Beatrice, the quietest yet. Victoria had to squint at her lips to make it out. “Ask him. He knows. He’ll . . . remember.”
“Remember what?”
“I can’t, I can’t. Too much.” Beatrice tightened the kerchief about her head. “Just stay safe, Victoria. Don’t go poking around. Behave. Pretend you haven’t seen me. I’m sorry, I—I’ll miss you.” She kissed Victoria’s head and left.
Victoria stood at the front door, watching her go. Mr. Tibbalt’s dog yapped his way down the street, bouncing along after her.
So. Something was going on. It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t imagination, or maybe Beatrice was crazy, or maybe they were all crazy. Victoria sat at the kitchen table, alone and thinking, till the enormous grandfather clock in the foyer chimed seven and her parents came to supper.
“Well, where’s supper?” said Mrs. Wright, her copper hair gleaming, not one wrinkle in her fashionable clothes. “Where’s my dear Beatrice gone off to?”
Victoria watched her mother circle the kitchen, peeking brightly behind pots and cabinets like she was looking for something. She trailed her fingers softly along the steak knives’ handles.
Mr. Wright stood humming at the kitchen threshold, knotting his necktie. A sharp, wolfish look flashed across his face. Victoria convinced herself it was only a trick of the light.
Best to play it safe, she thought, remembering Mrs. Cavendish’s words: “Be a good girl like you know you want to be.”
“Mother, Father,” Victoria said, going to each of them and planting kisses on their cheeks. Their skin felt hard and cold. “I’m so sorry about everything today, I really am. I researched all sorts of things for my History of the World class. We’re studying the Aborigines in Australia.”
“History of the World?” said Mr. Wright. “Who teaches that?”
“Oh. Professor Alban.” Her parents turned to face her, their faces ravenous in the dim light. Victoria tried not to back away, wrinkled her nose, and sniffed with disdain. “I don’t like him much,” she lied. “He’s—nosy.”
Her parents relaxed. Mrs. Wright smiled brightly. “Yes. Nosy. That’s it. That’s it, exactly.”
“He bugs me a lot of the time. Always asking questions. I want to tell him to mind his own business and let me do what I want, because I can be the best all by myself, right?”
Mr. and Mrs. Wright nodded.
“Nosy,” Mr. Wright said.
“Own business,” said Mrs. Wright.
“Well, so anyway. I made all As this quarter,” said Victoria, forcing a smile. “Could you sign my academic report?”
Her parents relaxed even more.
Mr. Wright smiled widely. “Of course.”
Mrs. Wright tightened Vict
oria’s hair ribbon. “Such a good student.”
And that was that. No one mentioned Beatrice’s absence or wondered if she would come back soon. Victoria didn’t dare, and her parents seemed to have forgotten that Beatrice had ever existed. They ate leftover roast for supper. Victoria ate as quickly as possible before shutting herself in her room; the sight of her parents smiling brightly at her and chomping down meat with their mouths half-open left Victoria with very little appetite.
For the rest of the weekend, Victoria was a model child, studying and doing her homework, practicing her -ir and - re verbs. On Monday, she went to school with a signed academic report in hand. At Round Table, she turned it in. Jill Hennessey stared at Victoria’s report from beneath her red hair, catching the new grade with horrified eyes.
Victoria smiled and waved at Jill, but inside, she wasn’t even thinking about the report. Instead, thoughts of her parents’ closed bedroom door filled her mind. They hadn’t come out for breakfast or to say good morning. Victoria had woken to a silent, dark house.
In History of the World, Professor Alban was gone. Victoria hoped nothing showed on her face when she saw his empty chair. Inside, though, she felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach.
“Ahem,” said Dr. Hardwick, the thin, white-headed headmaster, standing at the head of the class. “Miss Wright, is it?”
“Yes,” said Victoria.
“If you’ll please take your seat.”
For the first time in her life, Victoria disobeyed an Academy employee. She did not take her seat. “But where’s Professor Alban?”
Dr. Hardwick slid his fingers across Professor Alban’s podium, back and forth, around the corners. “Professor Alban has been dismissed.”
Jill laughed. “Thank goodness. Definitely the worst professor I’ve ever had.”
“The worst,” echoed the others, laughing.
“Dismissed?” said Victoria. “He was the best professor at this school. At least he isn’t lazy, and at least he makes us work and cares about his students, and he even—he even—”
She stopped. She had been about to tell the whole story about the library and the awful things that had happened there. Dr. Hardwick’s eyes brightened. His diamond-white smile gleamed.
“Yes? He even . . . what?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Victoria, sitting down. Her cheeks flushed a bright red, but it wasn’t because of Jill and everyone laughing about how crazy Victoria Wright had gotten.
Victoria’s cheeks burned because she had finally had enough.
This time she wouldn’t let her fear get the best of her. She wouldn’t run straight into trouble armed with nothing but some stupid bug spray.
She would do what she did best—homework.
After school, she didn’t go home. She didn’t go to the Home, either. She walked to Six Silldie Place, through the yard of trash and clutter, and knocked on Mr. Tibbalt’s door. The little red dog bounced at her heels, hardly able to contain himself, but Victoria didn’t notice. Her thoughts were full of Lawrence, locked up in a buggy room with Professor Alban somewhere, wondering where Victoria was and if anyone would ever find them. She drew deep breaths to keep from pounding the door down. There was no more time to waste.
When Mr. Tibbalt opened the door, Victoria put up her chin.
“Hello, Mr. Tibbalt,” she said. “Tell me everything you know about Mrs. Cavendish.”
AT FIRST, MR. TIBBALT JUST STARED, HIS HAND shaking where it gripped the wall. Victoria wondered if he would slam the door shut in her face.
Then he said, rather croakily, “About—about who did you say?”
“You heard me.” Victoria didn’t want to say it out loud again. The wind had hushed. Things were too quiet.
“Hurry,” said Mr. Tibbalt, waving her inside. Once the door was shut, he peered past the blinds for a long time. At Victoria’s feet, the little red dog sat and panted, smiling up at her. Getting Mr. Tibbalt’s permission to come inside seemed to have upped his opinion of her.
“What are you doing?” said Victoria.
Mr. Tibbalt took off his hat and backed into the corner. Dust clouds floated up around him.
“Why do you want to know about her?” said Mr. Tibbalt. Slumped against the wall, his voice heavy and slow, he seemed a completely different person than the neighbor Victoria had always known, feared, and despised.
“I’m curious about her,” said Victoria carefully. “I’m writing an article for the Academy paper. About local businesses.”
Mr. Tibbalt scoffed. “Of course you are.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, but I know why you’re lying. I’ve lied, too. I’ve never stopped lying.”
“What are you talking about?” said Victoria.
“Come, let’s sit and have a talk,” said Mr. Tibbalt. He led Victoria down the main hallway. More garbage lined the walls, which bore pictures so black with neglect that Victoria only caught snippets of things, much like the old photograph of Mrs. Cavendish at the library—a flower, a cabin, a road, dark hair, all faded with age.
Mr. Tibbalt kept an old, tall piano shoved in the corner of his living room.
Lawrence, Victoria thought, that pang pinching her throat again. She hurried to the piano and pressed one of the keys. It was so out of tune that the note hurt her ears. Mr. Tibbalt’s dog howled.
“Quiet, Gallagher,” said Mr. Tibbalt.
“Gallagher?” said Victoria, raising an eyebrow.
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” Victoria sat on the edge of the piano bench, avoiding the questionable dark patches on the cushion. “It’s a very proper name, that’s all.”
Mr. Tibbalt set a bowl of food at Gallagher’s front paws. “A proper name for a proper gentleman.”
Gallagher began eating, his tail wagging. Victoria watched Mr. Tibbalt settle on the sofa that bore the imprint of where he must sit all day, all night. It was the only clean spot in the room. She felt uncomfortable when she noticed how he sometimes stumbled on his feet, and how the act of sitting creased his gaunt face with pain.
“Well,” said Mr. Tibbalt. “Been poking around where you shouldn’t, have you?”
Victoria kept her voice cool. “I’m only writing my article.”
Mr. Tibbalt leaned back. He didn’t have much hair left, and what remained stuck up in halfhearted tangles.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. Then, quieter, “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll get stuck, just like her, just like everyone.”
“Stuck?” Victoria took out her notebook and began scribbling. It would help to look the part of a reporter. “Just like who?”
Mr. Tibbalt waved his hand at her. “Oh, put that garbage away.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Victoria, wrinkling her nose as she caught a rotten whiff of something from behind the piano.
“You don’t fool me. I know about the little boy. The musical boy.”
Victoria forced herself to keep breathing and scribbling. “What boy?”
“Lawrence,” said Mr. Tibbalt, rolling his eyes. “Drop the act and talk to me, or leave. I don’t have time for shenanigans.”
Victoria snapped shut her notebook. “Fine.”
“Well? You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” said Mr. Tibbalt.
“I am. And I think some other kids, too. Kids from school.”
“What kids?”
Victoria sat up straighter. “What do you care about them?”
“Do you want my help or don’t you?” Mr. Tibbalt said.
At his feet, Gallagher paused in his eating to growl at Victoria, his kibbled whiskers twitching.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” said Victoria.
“Well, no, you don’t,” said Mr. Tibbalt. “But you can.”
Victoria shot Mr. Tibbalt a demon dazzle, and Mr. Tibbalt shot one right back. Then and there, Victoria decided to trust him. Anyone who could muster up a dazz
le of that quality had to be all right.
“Jacqueline Hennessey,” said Victoria. “And Donovan O’Flaherty. No one knows about Donovan, and Jill says Jacqueline’s sick, but—”
“But you don’t believe them.”
“That’s right.”
Mr. Tibbalt scratched his unshaven jaw. “Who’s Jill?”
“Jacqueline’s sister. They’re twins.”
“Yes, family.” He nodded. “Isn’t it awful when your own family gets involved in such a thing? You think you’re safe at home, but so often, you’re not.”
“What are you talking about?” said Victoria.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but they’re gone, they’re all gone. If you’re lucky, they’ll come back.” Mr. Tibbalt wiped his face with a soiled handkerchief from his jacket. “But sometimes, you’re not lucky.”
Gallagher left his supper to climb the sofa and lay his head in Mr. Tibbalt’s lap.
“Where did they go?” Victoria said, but Mr. Tibbalt just sat, staring into the room’s dark, messy corners.
Thunder broke the silence. The lightning made the house look even worse and Mr. Tibbalt look even older and more tired. Gallagher raised his head to howl.
Victoria didn’t have time for people being dramatic. After picking her way through all the filth, she wrinkled her nose and poked Mr. Tibbalt’s shoulder.
“Where did they go?” she repeated. “Tell me, or I’ll leave.”
Mr. Tibbalt blinked sadly. “She took them.”
“Mrs. Cavendish?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Tibbalt. “They’re with her. They’re at the Home.”
“I knew it,” whispered Victoria.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because I guessed right.” Victoria began to pace. “Well, I’ll just tell their parents, and they’ll call the police, and they’ll go get them out. I mean, you can’t just steal kids and take them to your orphanage. I’m sure that’s against the law. My father—”
“You don’t understand,” said Mr. Tibbalt. He put his cap back on and stumbled to his feet. “This way.”
Victoria grabbed a poker from the hearth and followed him, Gallagher trotting at her heels.
The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls Page 9