The Sweet Far Thing (62 page)

“Oh, Miss Bradshaw,” Ann’s cousin calls to her, “let her play in the roses. She loves them so.”

“She does not handle them with care,” Ann answers.

“It is your duty to see that she does,” Mrs. Wharton tells her.

“Yes, Mrs. Wharton,” Ann answers dully, and Charlotte smiles in triumph. I can only imagine what other horrors Ann endures.

Felicity and I follow them at a safe distance. Ann tries desperately to keep up with the abominable children. Carrie, who is all of four, has her fingers in her nose nearly every moment, only taking them out to examine her disgusting finds. But Charlotte is far worse. When no one looks, she yanks the roses off their stalks so that their full blooms dangle sadly on broken necks. Ann’s admonishments fall on deaf ears. The moment her back is turned, Charlotte continues her carnage.

“Ann!” we call. Ann sees us but pretends she hasn’t.

“Ann, please don’t ignore us,” I beg.

“I hoped you wouldn’t come,” she says.

“Ann—” I begin.

“I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?” she whispers. “Carrie!” she calls. “You mustn’t eat what is in your nose. It isn’t done.”

Felicity scowls. “Ugh. I shall never have children.” Carrie offers her the hideous pearl on her finger. “No, thank you. What a horrid little beast. How do you stand it?”

Ann wipes away a quick tear. “I’ve made my bed…,” she starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Unmake it,” Felicity urges.

“How?” Ann dabs at her other eye.

“You could run away,” Felicity suggests. “Or pretend to have some ghastly disease—or you could make yourself so odious that not even the most terrible children would want you for governess.”

“Gemma?” Ann looks to me, beseeching.

I’ve not given up my wounds so easily. “I offered you my help before,” I remind her. “Do you really want it this time?”

“Yes,” she says, and I can see from the set of her jaw that she means it.

“What are you discussing?” Charlotte demands, trying to break into our tidy cluster.

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“A big monster who eats too-curious little girls and swallows their bones whole,” Felicity hisses back.

Ann lets out a strangled laugh.

“I shall tell my mother on you.”

Felicity bends till she’s level with the child’s face. “Do your worst.”

Charlotte flinches first. With a glance at Ann, she runs to her mother, wailing. “Mummy, Annie’s friend told me a monster would eat me!”

“I’m done for,” Ann sighs.

“All the more reason to put our plan into effect,” I say.

After Mrs. Wharton has thoroughly taken Ann to task for Charlotte’s tantrum—in full view of the discomfited guests—she orders Ann back to her duties. We trail just behind them as Charlotte murders the roses. I bend down and say sweetly, “You mustn’t break the roses, Lottie.”

She stares at me with hateful eyes. “You’re not my mother.”

“That’s true,” I continue. “But if you don’t stop, I shall be forced to
tell
your mother.”

“Then I shall say it was Annie who broke the rose.”

To demonstrate her power, she throws a rose at my feet. How delightful. What a pleasant child.

“Here we go,” I whisper in Ann’s ear.

“Lottie, you mustn’t hurt the roses,” Ann says as sweetly as possible. “Or the roses might hurt you.”

“That’s silly.” She breaks another.

She has moved to a third when Ann says, quite firmly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She waves her hand over the roses, summoning the magic I’ve bequeathed her. Charlotte’s eyes widen as the decapitated blooms fly free of their broken stems. They rise in a sparkling red spiral. It’s a lovely effect and would most likely make a point all on its own, but it is important to impress the little beast thoroughly.

The roses fly quickly toward her and hover for only a second above her astonished face before they descend in full attack, the thorns pricking her arms, her hands, her legs, and her backside several times.

Charlotte screams and runs for her mother. The roses lie back down. I can see the girl pulling on her mother’s arm while rubbing her sore bottom. Within seconds, a whimpering Charlotte drags her mother to us. Several guests follow to see what the commotion is about.

“Tell her!” Charlotte cries. “Tell her what the roses did! What you made them do!”

We give Mrs. Wharton our most innocent smiles, but Ann’s is the biggest.

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“Why, Lottie, what do you mean, dear?” Ann asks, all concern and worry.

Charlotte is having none of it. “She made the roses fly! She made them hurt me! She made the roses fly!

She did!”

“My goodness, how did I do that?” Ann chides gently.

“You’re a witch! And you are, too. And you!”

The guests chuckle at this, but Mrs. Wharton is chagrined. “Charlotte! Such an imagination. You know how Papa feels about fibbing.”

“It isn’t a fib, Mama! They did it! They did!”

Ann closes her eyes, spinning one last charm. “Oh, dear,” she says, examining Charlotte’s face. “What are those spots?”

Indeed, small red bumps appear on the child’s face, though they are nothing more than an illusion.

“Why, it’s pox,” a gentleman says.

“Oh. Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wharton says. A ripple of concern passes through the guests. No one wants to be near, and though Mrs. Wharton fights to hold on to her perfect party, she’s losing her grip. Already, wives are tugging on husbands’ sleeves, making their excuses to leave.

And then it begins to rain, though Ann, Felicity, and I can take no credit for that event. The brass band stops playing. The carriages are brought round. The guests scatter, and the children are ushered to the nursery by Mr. Wharton. We are left blissfully alone.

“Oh, I should like to relive that moment again and again,” Ann says as we take cover under a pergola draped in grapevine.

“Witches!” Felicity says in imitation of Charlotte, and we snicker behind our hands.

“Still,” Ann says, a note of concern creeping into her voice, “she is only a child.”

“No,” I say. “She is a demon cleverly disguised in a pinafore. And her mother deserves her utterly.”

Ann considers that. “True. But what if her mother believes her?”

Felicity tears a blade of grass in two. “No one listens to children, even when they speak the truth,” she says bitterly.

The doctor arrives and makes his diagnosis: chicken pox. As Ann has never had it, he orders her away from the children and the house for three weeks. Mrs. Nightwing agrees to host Ann until she can safely return, and we have our friend packed and in our carriage within minutes.

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Mrs. Wharton objects strenuously to Ann’s leaving.

“Couldn’t she stay on?” she says as Ann’s case is secured to our carriage.

“Indeed she cannot,” the doctor insists. “It would be very serious if she were to contract the pox.”

“But how will I manage?” Mrs. Wharton pleads.

“Come now, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Wharton says. “We’ve a nurse, and our Annie will be with us again in three weeks’ time. Won’t you, Miss Bradshaw?”

“You’ll hardly notice I’m gone,” Ann answers, and I do believe she rather enjoys saying it.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

ANN’S RETURN TOSPENCE IS GREETED WITH CHEERS FROMthe younger girls, who clamor for her attention. Now that she’s been “away,” they find her exciting and exotic. No matter that it has only been a few weeks and only to a country house, there is an air of the lady about her to them. Brigid promises a toffee pudding for all in celebration, and by the time we settle in the tent next to the fire in the evening, it’s as if we’ve never been apart and Ann’s journey has been but a bad dream.

Only Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha keep their distance, but Ann doesn’t seem to mind. We tell Ann about everything—our visit to Dr. Van Ripple, the slate, my discovery of McCleethy and Fowlson’s plan to take back the power. Kartik. That part plunges me into melancholy. The only thing I don’t confess is my association with Circe, for I know they’d not understand it. I scarcely do myself.

“So,” Ann says, reviewing, “we know that Wilhelmina was betrayed by someone she trusted, someone she knew from her days at Spence.”

Felicity bites into a chocolate. “Correct.”

“Both Eugenia Spence and Mother Elena feel that someone is in league with the Winterlands creatures, and Mother Elena fears that this association will bring the dead to us.”

“Doing very well, carry on,” I say, stealing a chocolate for myself.

“The tribes of the realms might also be joining with the Winterlands creatures in rebellion.”

We nod.

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“In order to free Eugenia and bring peace to the Winterlands, we must find the dagger, which Wilhelmina Wyatt stole from Spence. And Wilhelmina, who was an addict and a thief and a generally disreputable person, might be trying to guide us to its location through Gemma’s visions. Or it’s quite possible she could be leading us to a very bad end.”

“Indeed.” Felicity licks her fingers.

“Miss McCleethy and, it stands to reason, Mrs. Nightwing know about the secret door into the realms but believe that they can only unlock it by rebuilding the tower. Eugenia confirms that this is so. Yet, Wilhelmina didn’t want them to rebuild the East Wing.” Ann stops. “Why?”

Felicity and I shrug.

“She’s on Gemma’s side?” Felicity offers as if that makes perfect sense.

“Then there is the matter of the phrase ‘The key holds the truth,’” Ann continues. “The key to what?

What truth?”

“Dr. Van Ripple said there was no key—or dagger—that he knew of,” I say again. “And the slate tells no tales; it’s only an ordinary slate.”

Ann takes a chocolate. She pushes it around in her mouth, thinking. “Why did Wilhelmina take the dagger in the first place?”

For a moment, the tent holds nothing but the sound of the three of us drumming our fingers to separate rhythms.

“She knew that the dagger in the wrong hands would bring chaos,” I offer. “She didn’t trust McCleethy or Nightwing with it.”

“But they worship the memory of Mrs. Spence. She’s like a saint to them,” Ann argues. “What reason would they have for harming her?”

“Unless they never really did care for her. Sometimes people pretend to have affection for you when they don’t,” I add bitterly, thinking of Kartik.

We peer through the tent’s crack at the two of them deep in conversation. Brigid brings Mrs. Nightwing her sherry on a silver tray.

“I don’t see how we can possibly solve this mystery tonight,” Felicity complains.

We are disturbed by a loud knocking at the door. Brigid comes to Mrs. Nightwing. “Pardon, m’um, but there’s a troupe o’ mummers outside. They say they’ve a jolly pageant to present, if you’d be so kind as to admit them.”

Mrs. Nightwing whips off her spectacles. “Mummers? Certainly not. You may turn them away, Brigid.”

“Yes, m’um.”

Mrs. Nightwing has scarcely put on her spectacles again when the girls besiege her, begging her to reconsider.

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“Oh, please!” they cry. “Please!”

Our headmistress is resolute. “They’re not to be trusted. When I was a girl, they were likely to be run out of town. Beggars at best, thieves and more at worst.”

“What’s worse than beggars and thieves?” Elizabeth asks.

Mrs. Nightwing’s lips tighten. “Never you mind.”

This sends every girl to the windows to peer out into the dark, hopeful of a glimpse of these forbidden men. Danger calls and we answer too eagerly, our noses pressed to the glass. The mummers are not turned away so easily, it would seem. They’ve set their lanterns upon the grass and have commenced with their performance. We open the windows and stick our heads out.