“Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, “you said that Wilhelmina had been in contact with a sister, a friend, whom she no longer trusted. Are you certain you can’t recall her name?”
He shakes his head. “As I said, I was never introduced. The lady never came round, and as far as I know, she did not attend our shows. I only know that Wilhelmina feared her, and Mina did not fear much.”
A cold shiver speeds up my spine.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, and he sees us out. At the door, he reaches behind Felicity’s ear and produces a perfect red rose, which he hands to her. “I understand they are Mr. Wilde’s favorite.”
“I will not have it, then,” Felicity says rudely.
“Judge not, lest ye be judged, my dear,” Dr. Van Ripple says with a sad smile, and Fee’s cheeks burn.
“However did you do that?” I ask him, for I find the trick merry even if Fee doesn’t.
“In truth, it is the simplest act in the world. The trick works because you wish it to. You must remember, my dear lady, the most important rule of any successful illusion: First, the people must want to believe in it.”
“I cannot believe he asked five pounds for this.” Felicity clucks as we cloak ourselves in the gloom of London’s streets again.
“Well, let’s hope he spends it quickly before it disappears,” I say.
Under the narrow glow of a streetlamp, we examine the slate, turning it this way and that, but there’s nothing unusual about it that we can see.
“Perhaps words will etch themselves as we watch,” Felicity says.
It’s ridiculous, but we watch it anyway. Absolutely nothing happens.
I sigh. “We’ve bought ourselves a useless slate.”
“But it’s a clean slate,” Felicity quips, and I can’t even be troubled to give her a roll of my eyes.
On our way to the London underground, we pass the striking ladies from Beardon’s Bonnets Factory. Their faces are long; they lean into one another, resting their protest signs against their skirts whilst passersby pay no attention to their plight or, at the worst, heckle them, calling them the most appalling names.
“Spare a copper for our cause?” the girl with the coin cup asks, her voice weary.
“I can spare more than that,” I say. I reach into my purse and give her what real coins I have, and then I press my hand to hers and whisper, “Don’t give up,” watching the magic spark in her eyes.
“The tragedy of the Beardon’s Bonnet Factory!” she shouts, a fire catching. “Six souls murdered for profit! Will you let it stand, sir? Will you look away, m’um?”
Her sisters-in-arms raise their placards again. “Fair wages, fair treatment!” they call. “Justice!”
Their voices swell into a chorus that thunders through the dark London streets until it can no longer be ignored.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
WE’VE ONLY JUST ARRIVED BACK AT SPENCE AND PUT OUR suitcases in our rooms when Mrs. Nightwing comes brandishing an invitation. “There is to be a birthday party in honor of Miss Bradshaw’s cousin Mr. Wharton at Balmoral Spring,” Mrs. Nightwing says, rolling the estate’s name on her tongue as if it were wine gone to vinegar.
“No doubt they think we can do them some favor in society,” Felicity mutters for my ears only.
“The party is tomorrow noon, though the invitation only arrived two days ago,” Mrs. Nightwing says, and I hear her add under her breath, “Ghastly manners.
“I know you have missed Miss Bradshaw’s company,” she continues. “Would you care to attend?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Felicity exclaims.
“Very well. You must be dressed and ready to leave first thing in the morning,” she says, and we promise to do so.
In the evening, Felicity sits with the other girls, basking in the praise they heap upon her ball. “And did you adore the Dervishes?” she asks, eyes bright.
“Very nice. And for such a long program it wasn’t too tiring,” Cecily says, managing to put a slap in the compliment as is her skill.
“Mother will only allow me a tea,” Elizabeth says, pouting. “I’ll not be remembered at all.”
I leave them and sequester myself in my room to examine Wilhelmina Wyatt’s slate. I turn it over in my hands, scrutinize the tiny nicks as if I might read its history of words there. I put my ear to it in hopes it might whisper its secrets. I even summon a bit of magic, instructing it to reveal all, as if I, myself, were Dr. Van Ripple. But whatever secrets Miss Wyatt’s slate may hold remain locked tightly inside.
