Rebel Angels

" 'Ere, now, it's late. Come back tomorrow."

Footsteps echo on the slick cobblestones. Someone is coming.

"Dear Mrs. Porter," I say desperately. "It's Felicity Worthington. Admiral Worthington's daughter."

"Admiral Worthington's daw'er, you say? Oh, me dear chil', 'ow is the admiral?"

"Quite well, thank you. I meant, no, he's not well at all. And that is why I've come for Miss Moore. It's quite urgent. May I wait for her?" Please, let me in. Just long enough to get my bearings.

Down the street, I can hear the steady clip-clopping of the constable's shoes returning.

"We-uwll . . . ," Mrs. Porter says. She's already in her nightclothes.

"I wouldn't ask except that I know you are a good and kind soul. I'm certain that my father will wish to thank you personally, once

he is able."

Mrs. Porter preens at this. "I won't be a minute."

The constable's lantern spreads fingers of light in my direction. Please, Mrs. Porter, do hurry. She's at the latch, letting me in. "Evenin', Mrs. Porter," the constable calls out, tipping his hat to her.

"Evenin', Mr. John," she answers.

She closes the door. I steady myself with a hand against the wall.

" 'Ow nice to 'ave comp'ny. So unexpected. Le' me take yer coat."

I pull my coat tight at my aching throat. "Dear Mrs. Porter," I croak. "Forgive me, but I'm afraid I must get to my business with Miss Moore and then return to Papa's bedside."

Mrs. Porter looks as if she's bitten into a piece of chocolate cake only to discover it has a pickled filling. "Hmph. 'S not right for me to admit you to 'er room. I run a honest establishment, see."

"Yes, of course," I say.

Mrs. Porter ponders her dilemma for a moment before emptying a vase on a side table and shaking the key to Miss Moore's rooms from its hiding place. "This way, if you please."

I follow her up the narrow staircase and to Miss Moore's door. "Bu' if she ain't back by 'alf past, you'll 'ave to leave," she says, jangling the key in the lock. The door opens and I step inside.

"Yes, thank you. Please don't trouble yourself to wait, Mrs. Porter. I feel a draft here, and if you were to catch cold on my account, I should never forgive myself."

This seems to mollify Mrs. Porter for the moment, and she leaves me, descending the stairs with a heavy step.

I close the door behind me. In the dark, the room is unfamiliar, ominous. I slide my fingers along the yellowing wallpaper till I find the gaslamp. It hisses into life, the flame flickering against the glass shade. The room wakes from its slumber--the velvet settee, the globe on its stand, the writing desk in its usual state of shambles, the rows of well-loved books. The masks seem gruesome in the evening gloom. I can't bear to look at them. I take comfort in Miss Moore's paintings--the purple heather of Scotland, the craggy cliffs near the sea, the mossy caves in the woods behind Spence. I perch on the settee to calm myself, trying to make sense of everything. So tired. I want to sleep, but I can't. Not yet. I must think of what to do next. If the Rakshana are in league with Miss McCleethy, with Circe herself, then they cannot be trusted. Kartik was supposed to kill me once I found the Temple. But Kartik betrayed them to help me escape. The clock ticks off the minutes. Five. Ten. Pulling aside the curtain, I peek out at the street but see no sign of Mr. Fowlson or the black carriage.

A knock at the door nearly scares me to death. Mrs. Porter comes in with a letter.

"Dearie, you can stop waitin'. Seems I overlooked this. Miss Moore lef' it on me side tabuwl this mornin'."

"This morning?" I repeat. That isn't possible. Miss Moore is lost to the realms. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. I saw her leave. 'Aven't seen 'er since, though. But I only jus' read the let'r. It says she's gone to be with family."

"But Miss Moore has no family," I say.

"Well, she does." Mrs. Porter reads aloud. " 'Dear Missus Por'er. Forgive the late no'ice, but I mus' leave at once as I'f accep'ed a position a' a school near London where moi sister is 'eadmistress. Oi shall send fer me fings as soon as possibuwl. Sincerely, Hester Asa Moore. " Hmph. Runnin' ou' on the rent is more like. She owes me two weeks' worth, Oi'll 'ave you know."

"A school? Where her sister is headmistress?" I ask faintly.

I've heard that phrase somewhere before, in Mrs. Morrissey's letter from St. Victoria's. But she was speaking of Miss McCleethy.