In the realms, I learned of my fate; I am the one who must form the Order once again and continue their work. That is my obligation. But I have another, secret mission: I shall face my mother's old friend--my foe. I shall face Sarah Rees-Toome, Circe, at last, and I shall not waver.

A steady rain lashes at the windows, making sleep impossible, though Ann is certainly snoring loudly enough. But it is not the rain that has me up, my skin prickly, my ears attuned to every small sound. It is that every time I close my eyes, I see those words on

parchment: / must see you immediately. Is Kartik out there, now, in the rain? A gust blows against the windows, rattling them like bones. Ann's snoring rises and falls. It is pointless to lie here fretting. I light my bedside lamp and adjust the flame to a low flicker, just enough to find what I need. Rummaging through my wardrobe, I find it: my mother's social diary. I run my fingers over the leather and remember her laugh, the softness of her face.

I turn my attention back to the diary I know so well and spend half an hour scouring my mother's words for some guidance, but I find none. I haven't the vaguest idea of how to go about reforming the Order or how to use the magic. There is no useful information on the Rakshana and what they may have planned for me. There is nothing more to tell me about Circe and how I might find her before she finds me. It feels as if the whole world is waiting for me to act, and I am lost. I wish my mother had left me more clues.

The pull of my mother's voice, even on a page, is strong. Missing her, I stare at her words until my eyes feel heavy, pulled down by the late hour. Sleep. That is what I need. Sleep without the terror of dreams. Sleep.

My head snaps up suddenly. Was that a knock at the front door? Have they come for me? Every nerve is alive, every muscle taut. There is nothing but the rain. No bustling in the hallways to suggest someone rushing to answer a call. It is far too late for visitors, and surely Kartik would not use the front door. I am beginning to think that perhaps I dreamed it when I hear the knock again--louder this time.

Now there is movement below. Quickly I put out my lantern. Brigid, our garrulous housekeeper, mutters as she thunders past on her way to answer the door. Who could be calling at so late an hour? My heart is keeping fast time with the rain as I creep down the hall and perch near the staircase. Brigid's candle streaks the wall with shadows as she takes the stairs nearly two at a time, her long braid flying wildly behind her.

"By awl the saints," Brigid mutters. She huffs and puffs and reaches the door just as another knock descends. The door swings wide, letting the driving rain in with it. Someone has arrived in the dead of night. Someone dressed entirely in black. I feel as if I shall be sick with fright. I am frozen in place, not sure whether to make a dash down the stairs and out the door or run back to my room and bolt the door. In the dark of the hall, I cannot make out a face. Brigid's candle moves closer, casting a glow on the figure. If this is a member of the Rakshana come for me, then I am most confused. For this is a woman. She gives her name, but as the door is still open I cannot hear it over the howling of the rain and wind. Brigid nods and bids the coachman come in and leave the woman's trunk in the hallway. The woman pays him and Brigid closes the door against the press of night.

"I'll just wake the parlormaid to get you set'led," Brigid grouses."No sense wakin' Missus Nightwing. She'll see you in proper come mornin'."

"That will be satisfactory," the woman says. Her voice is deep with a hint of a burr, an accent I cannot place.

Brigid turns up the lights to a low glow. She can't resist giving one final harrumph on her way to the maid's quarters. Left alone, the woman peels off her hat, revealing thick, dark hair and a severe face framed by heavy brows. She looks about the place, taking in the snake chandelier, the ornate carvings of nymphs and centaurs here and there. No doubt she has already noted the gargoyle collection dotting the roof and is likely wondering what sort of place this may be.

She glances up the expanse of the staircase, and stops, cocking her head. She squints as if she sees me. Quickly I duck into the shadows, pushing myself flat against the wall. In a moment, I hear Brigid's sharp voice barking out orders to the sleepy parlormaid.

"This is Miss McCleethy, our new teacher. See to her things. I'll show her to her room."

Mimi, the parlormaid, yawns and reaches for the lightest of the luggage, but Miss McCleethy takes it from her.

"If you don't mind, I should like to take this. My personal effects." She smiles without showing any teeth.

"Yes, miss." Mimi curtsies in deference and, sighing, directs her attention to the large trunk in the foyer.