Felicity gasps."You've given me chills."
Ann's confused."But I thought you said she was at Bethlem."
"Well, yes," I say, realizing how ridiculous it must all sound. Two newsboys pass, heckling us as they go. We pay them no mind.
"But you don't think she is mad. You think she's only playacting to protect herself ?"Felicity leads.
We've reached a place selling elaborate snuffboxes. I inspect one that is inlaid with ivory. It is dear, but I've nothing for my father yet, so I instruct the girl to wrap it for me. "Actually, I visited with her earlier. She is, in fact, insane. She did this," I say, showing my battered amulet.
"Oh, my," Felicity says.
"I don't see how she can possibly help us, then," Ann grumps.
"She's seen Circe. I'm sure of it. She kept mentioning the path. 'Stick to the path. " She said it several times." "What do you suppose that means?" Felicity asks. We pass through the arcade and out to Bond Street, stopping before a glittering shop window. Claret silk cascades over the silent wax dummy of a woman. Each crease shimmers like wine in moonlight. We cannot help staring longingly.
"I don't know what it means. But I do know that Nell Hawkins was a student at Saint Victoria's in Wales."
"Isn't that where Miss McCleethy taught before she came to Spence?" Ann asks.
"Yes. But I've no idea if she was one of Nell's teachers. I shall write a letter to the headmistress there asking when Miss McCleethy left their employ. I believe that there is some terrible connection between what happened to Nell Hawkins and Miss McCleethy, something that has to do with the realms. If we can solve that riddle, it may very well lead us to the Temple."
"I don't see how," Ann grouses.
I sigh."I don't either, but at present, it's my only hope."
The silk taunts us from its high perch behind glass. Ann sighs. "Wouldn't you adore having a dress made from that? Every head would turn."
"Mama is having my dress sent from Paris," Felicity says, as if discussing the weather.
Ann puts her hand to the glass. "I wish . . ." She can't even finish the sentence. It's too much even to wish.
A shopgirl steps up into the window, the arc of lettering that is Castle and Sons, Dressmakers, cutting her into two neat sections. She removes the dazzling fabric. Stripped of its finery, the dressmaker's dummy wobbles and settles upright, nothing more than a flesh-colored shell.
We walk on till we find ourselves on a small side street, where I am struck dumb. Tucked away under an awning is a tiny shop--the Golden Dawn.
"What is it?" Felicity asks. "That shop. Miss McCleethy had an advert for it in her case. It was one of the only things she had, so it must be of some importance," I say.
"A bookseller's?" Ann asks, wrinkling her nose.
"Let's have a look for ourselves," Felicity says.
We dip into the dark cave of the shop. Dust swirls in the weak light. It isn't a very well-kept shop, and I wonder why Miss McCleethy is fond of it.
A voice comes from the darkness. "May I be of assistance?" The voice takes form in the person of a stooped man of about seventy. He hobbles over, leaning on a cane as he does. His knees creak with the effort. "How do you do? I am Mr. Theodore Day, proprietor of the Golden Dawn, bookseller since anno regni reginae eighteen hundred and sixty-one."
"How do you do," we murmur in unison.
"What are you after, then? Ah, wait! Don't tell me. I've just the thing." Cane leading the way, Mr. Day limps speedily to a tall bookcase crowded with volumes. "Something with princesses, perhaps? Or, no--haunted castles and maidens in peril?" His eyebrows, those two fat white caterpillars atop his spectacles, wiggle with obvious delight.
"If you please . . . ," I begin.
Mr. Day wags a finger."No, no, no, don't spoil it. I shall find what you're after." We trail Mr. Day as he examines each shelf, running his knobby finger over leather spines, muttering to himself in book titles. "Wuthering Heights . . . Jane Eyre . . . Castle of Otronto--oh, that's a splendid book, I say."
"If you please, sir," I say, raising my voice slightly. "We were rather hoping to find a book about the Order. Have you any such books?"
I've perplexed Mr. Day. The caterpillar eyebrows collide at the bridge of his nose. "Dear, dear ... I can't say as I've heard . . . What was that title again?" "It isn't a title," Felicity says in such an impatient way I can practically hear the unspoken you doddering old fool that follows.