Howling like banshees and laughing, they lock arms and struggle to see who shall remain standing while Pippa cheers them on. I run with speed and force, knocking them down like pins and bloodying my lip. And no one laughs more than I do as the hard, metallic taste fills my mouth and the blood spills over my dress like a merciless rain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THOUGH OUR MASKED BALL IS WEEKS AWAY YET, MRS. Nightwing is adamant that we girls should prepare some sort of entertainment for our guests.
“It would be a tribute to them to show what fine young ladies you’ve become—and how talented,” she says, though I suspect our little trained-monkey performances have far more to do with proving the talents of our headmistress.
We’ve been assigned our various parts: Cecily, Martha, and Elizabeth are to perform a ballet. Felicity will play a minuet. As I have no talent in singing, dancing, French, or an instrument of any kind, I ask Mrs. Nightwing if I might read a poem, and she agrees, apparently relieved that there is something I can do that does not involve animal husbandry or cymbals played between the knees. There is only the matter of my choosing a poem and not tripping over my words. Sadly, Ann is not allowed to sing for our guests. Our scheme at Christmas has cost her this, for Mrs. Nightwing can’t afford to upset her patrons, and by now, they all know of the scandal.
Ann bears the injustice stoically, and I’ll relish the day she tells them all she’s off to tread the boards as a member of Mr. Katz’s company under the tutelage of Miss Lily Trimble herself.
Felicity sits at the piano, playing a minuet. “It’s but a small party, really, no grander than a garden tea. It’s only the costumes that give it flair,” she grouses. “It’s nothing compared to the ball Lady Markham’s hosting for me in two weeks. Did I tell you she’s to have fire-breathers?”
“I believe you might have, once or twice.” Or twelve times. I comb through a book of poems given to me by Mrs. Nightwing. They’re so treacly they make my teeth ache. I should never get through a one of them with a straight face.
“This one about the light bearer isn’t too awful,” Ann offers.
I grimace. “Is that the one in which Florence Nightingale appears on the battlefield like an angel, or is it the poem that likens Admiral Nelson to a Greek god?”
Felicity leaves the piano and joins us on the floor. “I can’t stop thinking about last night. It was the most exciting time yet in the realms.”
“You mean the Winterlands,” Ann whispers. “And you really saw Eugenia Spence there, Gemma?”
“She didn’t appear to us,” Felicity sniffs, and I fear it shall become a competition.
“I told you everything,” I say, defending myself. “Do you realize that we can save her and the realms?”
Felicity purses her lips. “You can, you mean.”
“We can,” I say, correcting her. “But first, we must find the dagger Wilhelmina took, and I’ve no idea where to look.”
“Perhaps it’s here at Spence,” Ann suggests.
“We don’t even know that Wilhelmina is trustworthy. After all, she stole it, didn’t she?” Felicity muses.
“I think she made a mistake and now she means to redeem herself by leading me to it,” I say.
“But why take it in the first place?” Felicity presses.
“You’re supposed to practice your performances!” Cecily chides, hands on her hips.
“They are helping me to select a poem,” I answer with as much disdain as is possible.
The doors swing open, and I fear that Mrs. Nightwing has come to reproach us for not working harder. Instead, she calls for Ann.
“Miss Bradshaw. Will you come with me, please?”
Head down, Ann follows her out, and I can’t imagine what sort of trouble she could be in.
“At last,” Cecily says, gloating.
“Cecily, what do you know?” Felicity asks.
Cecily twirls in a pirouette. “Her cousins have arrived from the country to take her away. Brigid is upstairs now packing her case.”
“But they can’t!” I cry as Felicity and I exchange horrified looks.
“They decided it was time. High time, if you ask me.”
“Well, we didn’t!” I snap.
Cecily’s mouth opens in an outraged O just as Miss McCleethy makes her appearance, and I curse my timing. “Miss McCleethy, will you allow Miss Doyle to speak to me so appallingly?”
Miss McCleethy levels her gaze at me. “Miss Doyle? Is an apology called for?”
