“But I should like very much to receive you,” Lady Markham says suddenly, brightening. “And how is our darling Felicity? Oh, what a beauty you are, my dear!”

Felicity looks as if a pile of books has fallen on her head. She smiles uncertainly. “I am well, thank you, Lady Markham.”

“Of course you are. I shall expect you at Easter, and we shall speak of your debut—and a party!”

“Lady Markham, we must be on our way,” Lady Denby says, her jaw tight.

“Good day,” Lady Markham calls gaily. Lady Denby marches away, forcing her friend to catch up.

Everyone’s in high spirits as we wait for our train back to Spence. A greatly relieved Mrs. Worthington chats pleasantly with Mademoiselle LeFarge, who clutches her few precious purchases, Cecily’s purloined pearls shining at her neck.

“I should like to see that expression on Lady Denby’s face forever in my mind,” Felicity says.

“It was rather satisfying, wasn’t it?” I agree.

“‘Lady Markham, we must be on our way,’” Ann says, in perfect imitation of Lady Denby’s pompous voice.

“Gemma, are you still holding on to that rubbish?” Fee points to the leaflet for the exhibition at the Egyptian Hall.

“Why, it isn’t rubbish at all,” I say with mock sincerity. “We have the Wolfson Brothers and their Phantasmagoria!”

Ann arches a brow. “Nothing compared to the realms, I daresay.”

“But there is more!” I protest. In smaller script is a list of others who will exhibit at the hall, their names growing tinier in proportion to their importance. I read them one by one, making Ann and Felicity giggle.

And at the very bottom is Dr. Theodore Van Ripple, master illusionist.

CHAPTER TWENTY

FELICITY EXAMINES THE LEAFLET BY THE FIRELIGHT. “WE must get to the Egyptian Hall.”

“How shall we do it?” Ann asks. She’s no longer Nan, but some hint of magic remains, enough to keep a twinkle in her eyes. She’s like a princess in a fairy tale who has been cursed to sleep and is finally awakening. “Gemma, will you make everyone at Spence fall asleep or leave an illusion of us behind so that no one notices our absence—or will you put the thought so firmly in Nightwing’s head that she insists on attending and bringing us along?”

“I thought I would simply ask Mademoiselle LeFarge to take us. She loves this sort of exhibition.”

“Oh,” Ann says, clearly disappointed.

Felicity unwraps a toffee and plops it onto her tongue. “And you think this Dr. Van Ripple can tell us about the lady in your visions?”

“I hope so. I see her with him. Perhaps he knows something about this Tree of All Souls as well.”

“Do you hear that?” Ann asks.

Horses, coming closer. It is nine o’clock. I can’t imagine who would be calling at this hour.

“Mrs. Nightwing, it’s a carriage!” one of the younger girls calls.

We push aside the draperies and peek out. The carriage approaches in the distance. The maids rush outside with their lanterns and form a line at the door. We girls beg to be let out as well, and Mrs. Nightwing relents.

The night’s chilly breath tickles up my neck and finds my ear, whispering secrets only the wind knows. The dust rises on the path. The carriage draws to a stop, and the driver puts the steps to the door. The passenger emerges—a slender woman in a well-appointed blue-gray suit. She raises her head to take in the sight of the school, and I know her at once: dark, searching eyes under full brows; a small mouth set in a sharp face; and the stealthy grace of a panther. Miss Claire McCleethy has returned.

She greets our headmistress with a tight smile. “Good evening, Lillian. I am sorry for the late hour but the roads were muddy.”

“It’s no matter; now you’re here,” Mrs. Nightwing answers. The servants scurry about, Brigid barking orders and inviting the driver to come round the back to the kitchen for a repast. The younger girls rush toward Miss McCleethy to welcome her. I try to conceal myself, but as I’m tall, it’s impossible for me to hide for long. Miss McCleethy’s eyes find mine, and it’s enough to make my heart beat more quickly.

“Ladies, I shall allow an additional hour that we might welcome our Miss McCleethy properly,” Mrs. Nightwing announces to delighted cheers.

The fires in the great hall are stoked to blazing again. Biscuits and tea are brought round. We toast Miss McCleethy’s return, and the girls regale her with tales of Spence and the coming London season and the costumes they shall wear for the masked ball. Miss McCleethy listens to it all without divulging anything about herself or her whereabouts these past three months.