The Sweet Far Thing

“But if things have changed—”

“No, Miss Doyle. Some things will never change. We have been persecuted for our beliefs and our power both in the realms and out. We will not cede it so easily. Our mission is to bind the magic to the Temple, to rebuild the runes, and return the realms to the way they were before this terrible tragedy destroyed our security.”

“Were they ever truly secure? Doesn’t seem it.”

“Of course they were. And they might be again if we go back to the way it was.”

“But we can’t go back. We can only go forward,” I say, surprised to hear Miss Moore’s words coming out of my mouth.

Miss McCleethy lets out a rueful laugh. “How could it have come to this? Your mother nearly destroyed us, and now you’ve come along to nail the coffin shut. Help me with this basket, please.”

When I hand her the lemonade glass, we collide, and the glass fractures into pieces too small to put back together.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gathering them into a pile.

“You make a mess of the simplest things, Miss Doyle. Leave me. I’ll see to it myself.”

I stomp away, weaving dangerously through the aged tombstones bearing inscriptions to those who are beloved only once they are gone.

A mutiny is in progress at the East Wing when I return. Felicity runs to me and pulls me into the cluster of girls watching it unfold from the safety of the trees. The men have abandoned the building. They stand together, hats on, arms folded across their chests, while Mr. Miller barks orders, his face red.

“I’m the foreman here, and I say we’ve a job to finish or there’s no pay for the lot of you! Now, back to work!”

The men shuffle their feet. They fidget with their hats. One spits in the grass. A tall man with the build of a boxer steps forward. He glances anxiously at his mates.

“Don’t feel right, sir.”

Mr. Miller cups his hand to his ear and frowns. “What’s that?”

“Me and the men been talkin’. Sumfin’ don’t feel right ’bout this place.”

“What don’t feel right is not having pay in your pocket!” Mr. Miller shouts.

“Where’s Tambley gone to, then? And Johnny goin’ off last night, not comin’ back this mornin’?” another man shouts. He seems more frightened than angry. “They joos up and gone wifout a word and you don’ fink what there’s a bit o’the strange about it?”

“It’s talk like this what probably scared ’em off. And good riddance to them. Cowards. If you ask me, we need to clear the woods of them filthy Gyps. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a hand in this. Comin’ into our country and takin’ a proper Englishman’s job? Will you let them put their curses on us without a fight?”

“Your men drink. That is their curse.” Ithal swaggers down the hill trailing a dozen Gypsies in his wake, as well as Kartik. My heart beats a little faster. The Gypsies are far outnumbered by Miller’s men.

Miller staggers up the hill at a run. He takes a swing at Ithal, who dodges and weaves like an expert boxer. The two men fall into fighting with both sides egging them on. Ithal catches Mr. Miller hard on the jaw. He reels from it. Kartik keeps his hand near the dagger in his boot.

“Here now! Stop this fuss!” Brigid yells.

The whole of the school empties to see the men fighting. New blows are thrown. Everyone has a hand in it now.

“How is it none of yer lot is missing?” one of Mr. Miller’s men shouts.

“That is not proof,” Ithal says, dodging a fist.

“Proof enuf for me!” another man growls. He jumps onto Ithal’s back, tearing at his shirt like an animal. Kartik pulls him off. The man grabs for him, and quick as a flash, Kartik’s leg swings under the man, robbing him of his balance. The lawn erupts into chaos.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Felicity says, eyes flashing.

Mrs. Nightwing has come. She strides across the lawn like Queen Victoria reprimanding her guard. “This will not do, Mr. Miller! This will not do at all!”

Mother Elena stumbles into the clearing. She calls to the men to stop. She’s weak and leans against a tree for support. “It is this place! It took my Carolina! Call for Eugenia—ask her to stop this.”

“Mad as a hatter,” someone mutters.

There’s a break in the melee. Kartik steps forward. He has a fresh cut on his lower lip. “If we join forces we’d have a better chance at catching whoever it is causing trouble. We could stand guard while you sleep—”