Chapter 33

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Mr. Bumble is not quite the easy mark we've made him out to be. He's gone to the

Crosses, told them everything. The Crosses are horrified that they've lost control over the

one thing that should always be in their control—their daughter. Their collateral. They've

assured Mr. Bumble that it's all some youthful folly invented by a girl nervous about her

wedding day. After all, how could a girl as lovely as Pippa be anything other than the

very picture of health? Mr. Bumble accepts their explanation in full, for they are the

parents and we are merely silly girls. The whole episode has caused a scene at Spence,

however. And so the four of us are assembled in Mrs. Nightwing's office, under the

reproachful eyes of the peacock-tail wallpaper, listening to accusations and blame,

watching helplessly as our freedom unravels thread by thread.

Tomorrow, Pippa will leave with her parents, and she will be married to Mr. Bumble by

the week's end. Hasty preparations have begun. Order will be restored. Pride upheld.

Who cares about one girl's lifelong happiness in the face of such important matters as

maintaining appearances?

She stares into her lap, biting hard at her bottom lip, completely beaten, while Mrs.

Nightwing works to soothe her parents and fiancé. Mrs. Nightwing rings a bell on a long

rope—the one that leads to the kitchen—and moments later, Brigid appears, huffing and

puffing from the race up the stairs.

"Brigid, please show Mr. Cross and Mr. Bumble to the library and offer them a glass of

our best port."

This pleases the men. They're all smug smiles and puffed chests.

"I do hope you'll accept this with a full apology and my assurance that there'll be no

further unpleasantness." Mrs. Nightwing gives Mr. Bumble a sideways glance.

Mr. Cross waves the idea away. "No great harm done, fortunately."

Mr. Bumble crinkles his mustache as if choosing a cigar. "I'm a reasonable man. But you

should keep a much tighter rein on these girls. They shouldn't be left to their own

decisions. It's not healthy."

I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Bumble careening headfirst down the long staircase and

snapping his neck before he can sip that port. The great irony is that we told him the

truth. And now we'll be punished for it.

"You're quite right. I shall follow your advice to the letter, Mr. Bumble," Mrs. Nightwing

says in a rare capitulation. She's appeasing him, but he's far too pompous to realize that.

The men leave with Brigid. Mrs. Cross stands and adjusts her gloves, pulling them tighter

on her hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Come along, Pippa. We must have you

measured for your wedding dress. I think a duchesse satin will be nice."

Pippa's quivering lip gives way to a quiet, desperate wail. "Please, Mother! Please don't

make me marry him."

Mrs. Cross's mouth tightens into an ugly, flat line that lets the words escape in a hiss.

"You are shaming this family."

"Pippa," Mrs. Nightwing says, stepping between them. "You shall be a beautiful bride.

The talk of London. And after your honeymoon, when you are blissfully happy and this

has all been forgotten, you will come to visit us."

Mrs. Cross's mouth has relaxed and there are actually tears pooling in her eyes. She cups

Pippa's chin tenderly. "I know you despise me now. But I promise, someday you will

thank me. There's an independence in marriage. Truly. If you're clever, you can have

whatever you want. Now, let's see about a dress, shall we?"

Pippa follows her mother out, but as she does, she turns to us with such a look of despair

that I feel as if I'm the one being forced to marry against my will.

It's just the three of us across from Mrs. Nightwing and her equally imposing desk. A

drawer is opened. Mary Dowd's diary drops with a thud onto the desk's gleaming

mahogany surface. Fear turns my insides. We are all marked for death now.

"Who can tell me about this?"

Seconds, loud as cannon fire, tick by on the mantel clock.

"Ann?"

Ann is on the verge of tears. "It's-s-s a b-b-book."

"I can see that it is a book. I have examined every page." Mrs. Nightwing glowers at us

over the tops of her spectacles. "Every page."

We know the one she means, and we tremble in our seats.

"Miss Worthington, would you care to tell me what you were doing in possession of this

diary?"

Felicity's head shoots up. "You searched my room?"

"I'm waiting for an answer. Or will I need to contact your father about this matter?"

Felicity looks as if she's going to burst into tears.

I swallow hard. "It's mine," I say.

Mrs. Nightwing whips her head around suddenly and blinks. The effect is of an owl

spotting prey. "Yours, Miss Doyle?"

My stomach goes fluttery. "Yes." Fine, let them expel me. Let this all be over.

"And where, pray tell, did you come upon such filth?"

"I found it."

"You found it?" She repeats my words slowly, showing just how much she believes me.

"Where?"

"In the woods."

Mrs. Nightwing glares at me but I'm too numb to be afraid. "It seems a great many things

have been going on in the woods. Pippa has confessed to me."

Beside me I can hear Ann starting to cry, Felicity squirming in her chair. But I'm

hollowed out, waiting for the inevitable.

"She told me that Miss Moore gave you the book."

It's not what I expected. I'm pulled back into the room by it.

"Is this true?"

My mouth opens, ready to say no, it's all my fault, but Felicity is quicker.

"Yes," she says so calmly that I can scarcely believe it. "It was Miss Moore."

"I'm sorry to hear it. But you'll need to tell me everything, Miss Worthington."

"No. That's not true," I say, finding my voice at last.

"You said yourself that you got it at the library." Felicity has a hard, desperate look in her

eyes. "And Miss Moore did tell us that if we wanted to know more about the Order, we

should go to the library."

"The Order? Why on earth was Miss Moore filling your heads with such poppycock?"

"She took us to the caves to see their drawings."

"Some of them are in blood," Ann adds. They're joined in this.

"I never gave Miss Moore leave to take you to any caves," Mrs. Nightwing says.

"She took us all the same, Mrs. Nightwing." Felicity widens her eyes, trying for an

innocent look.

"That's not the way it happened. I found the diary—"

Felicity puts her hand on my arm. It looks as if it's just resting there, but she's giving it a

sharp squeeze. "Mrs. Nightwing already knows what happened, Gemma. We've got to tell

the truth now." To Mrs. Nightwing, she says, "She even read part of it to us in my sitting

area."

I'm on my feet. "Because we asked her!"

"Miss Doyle, sit down at once!"

I drop into my seat. I can't look at Felicity.

"These are very serious charges against Miss Moore." Mrs. Nightwing has already taken

the idea and shaped it into exoneration for us, for Spence, and for herself. She needs

someone to blame. She needs to believe anything but the truth—that we are capable of all

of it, all on our own. And that we did it all right under her very nose. "Is this true, Ann?"

"Yes," Ann says, without stammering once.

"Mrs. Nightwing," I plead. "It's all my fault. You can punish me as you see fit, but please

don't blame Miss Moore."

"Miss Doyle. I know your heart is in the right place, but there is nothing to be gained by

protecting Miss Moore."

"But I'm not protecting her!"

Mrs. Nightwing softens. "Did Miss Moore read to you from this book?"

"Yes, but—"

"And did she take you to the caves?"

"Just to see the pictographs…"

"Did she tell you stories about the occult?"

I can't make a sound. I only nod. I've heard it said that God is in the details. It's the same

with the truth. Leave out the details, the crucial heart, and you can damn someone with

the bare bones of it. Mrs. Nightwing settles against the great wingback chair. It creaks

and sighs under her weight.

"I know how impressionable young girls are. I was a girl once myself," she says, though I

can only see her behind the bars of what she is now. "I know how much girls wish to

please and how powerful a teacher's influence can be. I shall deal with Miss Moore at

once. And so that this sort of behavior does not occur again, I shall see that all the doors

are locked each evening and that the keys are in my keeping until such time as you have

earned my trust again."

"What will happen to Miss Moore?" I ask. It's barely a whisper.

"I will not tolerate a reckless disregard for my authority in my teachers. Miss Moore will

be dismissed."

This can't be happening. She's going to sack our beloved Miss Moore. What have we

done?

A bloodcurdling scream rips the quiet of the room. It comes from downstairs. Mrs.

Nightwing is up and flying down the stairs with us right behind her. Brigid is standing on

the diamond-patterned floor of the foyer, clutching something in her hand.

"May all the saints protect me! It's her—she's come for me."

Mrs. Nightwing has her by the shoulders. Brigid's eyes are wild with fear. She drops the

thing in her hand onto the floor as if it were a snake. It's a Gypsy poppet, slightly burned,

with a lock of hair wrapped tightly about its throat.

Circe.

"She's come back," Brigid whimpers. "Sweet Jesus, she's come back!"