“Let the likes of you stand watch? We’d wake to have our pockets emptied and our throats cut!” a worker shouts.
There is more yelling; accusations are thrown, and another fight threatens to break out.
Mrs. Nightwing marches into the fray. “Gentlemen! The proposal is a sound one. The Gypsies will stand watch in the evenings so that your men might rest easy.”
“I won’t let them watch us,” Mr. Miller says.
“But we will watch,” Ithal says. “For our own protection.”
“Such a fuss.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. “Girls! Why are you standing there with your mouths open like geese? To the schoolroom with you at once.”
I pass Kartik, keeping my eyes squarely on the other girls. Don’t look at him, Gemma. He did not answer your call. Keep walking.
I manage to reach the doors of Spence before I allow myself a fleeting glance behind me, and there is Kartik watching me go.
“Letters! Letters!” Brigid comes through with the week’s post, which she has brought from the village. Our studying forgotten, we girls clamor around her, hands reaching for some word from home. The younger ones cry and sniffle over their mothers’ letters, so homesick are they. But we older girls are eager for gossip.
“Aha!” Felicity holds out an invitation in triumph. “Feast your eyes.”
“‘You are cordially invited to a Turkish ball in honor of Miss Felicity Worthington at the home of Lord and Lady Markham, eight o’clock in the evening,’” I read aloud. “Oh, Felicity, how marvelous.”
She clutches it to her chest. “I can nearly taste my freedom. What have you got, Gemma?”
I peer at the return address. “A letter from my grandmother,” I say, sticking it inside my book.
Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you open it?”
“I shall. Later,” I say, glancing at Ann. Every one of us has a letter except for her. Every time the post is delivered, it is a misery for her to come away with nothing, no caring soul to write and say she is missed.
Brigid holds a letter up to the light, scowling. “Oh, that man ’as lost ’is wits. This one isn’t ours. Miss Nan Washbrad. No Nan Washbrad ’ere.”
Ann nearly leaps for the envelope. “May I see it?”
Brigid holds it away from her. “Now, now. It’s for Missus Nightwing to decide what to do wi’ it.”
We watch, helpless, as Brigid shuffles Miss Trimble’s long-awaited letter into Nightwing’s correspondence and places them neatly into the pocket of her apron.
“It must be from Mr. Katz. We have to get that back,” Ann says desperately.
“Ann, where does Brigid put Nightwing’s letters?” I ask.
“On her desk,” Ann says, swallowing hard. “Upstairs.”
We are forced by circumstances to wait until evening prayers before we are able to try for Ann’s letter. Whilst the other girls gather their shawls and prayer books, we steal away and let ourselves into Nightwing’s office. It’s old and starched-looking and, much like the bustle at the back of Nightwing’s dress, terribly out of fashion.
“Let’s be quick about it,” I say.
We open drawers, poking about for any sign of Ann’s letter. I open a small wardrobe and peer inside. The shelves are lined with books: When Love Is True, by Miss Mabel Collins. I Have Lived and Loved, by a Mrs. Forrester. The Stronger Passion. Trixie’s Honor. Blind Elsie’s Crime. A Glorious Gallop. Won By Waiting.
“You’ll not believe what I just found,” I say, giggling. “Romance novels! Can you imagine?”
“Gemma, really,” Felicity chides from her lookout post at the door. “We’ve more important matters at hand.”
Shamed, I go to close the wardrobe when I notice a letter, but its postmark is from 1893. It is far too old to be Ann’s letter. Still, the script is oddly familiar. I turn it over, and there’s a broken wax seal with the impression of the crescent eye, so I slide the letter free of the envelope. There is no salutation of any kind.
You’ve ignored my warnings. If you persist in your plan, I shall expose you…
“I found it!” Ann exults.
Felicity’s voice is panicked. “Someone’s coming up the stairs!” she calls.
Hurriedly, I put everything back as it was and close the cabinet doors. Ann grabs her letter and we walk quickly down the hallway.
At the baize door, Brigid greets us with a scowl. “You know you’re not allowed ’ere!”