“I fear I shall faint,” Elizabeth says, teary.
“You will do no such thing, Elizabeth Poole!” Mrs. Nightwing’s frosty glare stops Elizabeth’s tears straightaway. “The restoration of the East Wing is very important. We have waited years for it, and no one shall halt our progress. Don’t we want Spence looking her best for our masked ball?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer.
“Think what a proud moment it will be when you return years from now, perhaps with your own daughters, and you can say ‘I was there when these very stones were put in place.’ Every day, Mr. Miller and his men toil to restore the East Wing. You might reflect upon that as you scrub.”
“‘When you return with your own daughters,’” Felicity scoffs. “You can be sure I won’t be coming back.”
“Oh, I can’t bear to touch it—blood!” Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. She looks ill.
Cecily scrubs in small circles. “I don’t see why we should all be punished.”
“My arms ache already,” Martha grouses.
“Shhh,” Felicity says. “Listen.”
On the lawn, Mrs. Nightwing questions Brigid fiercely while Mr. Miller stands by, arms folded across his chest. “Did you do it, Brigid? I am only asking for an honest answer.”
“No, missus, on my heart, I swear it weren’t me.”
“I won’t have the girls frightened by hex marks and talk of fairies and the like.”
“Yes, missus.”
Mr. Miller scowls. “It’s them Gyps. You can’t trust ’em. The sooner you turn ’em out, the better we’ll all sleep for it. I know you ladies have a delicate sensibility…”
“I can assure you, Mr. Miller, that there is nothing delicate about my sensibilities,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps.
“All the same, m’um, say the word and me and my men will take care of the Gypsies for you.”
Revulsion shows on our headmistress’s face. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Miller. I am sure this little prank will not happen again.” Mrs. Nightwing glares at us and we snap our heads down and scrub as hard as we can.
“Who do you suppose did this?” Felicity asks.
“I’ll wager Mr. Miller has it right: It’s the Gypsies. They’re angry they haven’t been given work,” Cecily says.
“What can you expect from their sort?” Elizabeth echoes.
“It could be Brigid. You know how odd she is, with all her tales,” Martha says.
“I can’t imagine Brigid leaving her bed in the night to mark the stones. She complains about her back day in and day out,” I remind them.
Cecily dips her brush in the pail of murky red water. “Suppose that’s a ruse. What if she’s really a witch?”
“She does know a lot about fairies and such,” Martha says, wide-eyed.
It’s becoming a game, this suspicion.
Felicity’s eyes match Martha’s. She leans close. “Come to think of it, didn’t the bread taste just like the souls of children? I shall faint!” She puts a hand to her forehead.
“I’m quite serious, Felicity Worthington,” Martha scolds.
“Oh, Martha, you’re never serious,” Felicity teases.
“But why mark the East Wing with blood?” I ask.
Cecily mulls it over. “For revenge. To frighten the workers.”
“Or to raise evil spirits,” Martha offers.
“What if it’s the sign of a witch or…or the devil?” Elizabeth whispers.
“It could be for protection,” Ann says, still scrubbing.
Elizabeth scoffs. “Protection? From what?”
“From evil,” Ann replies.
Cecily narrows her eyes. “And how do you know this?”
Ann suddenly realizes she’s walked into it. “I—I’ve read such things…in the B-Bible.”
Something hard flashes in Cecily’s eyes. “You did it, didn’t you?”
Ann drops her brush into the pail and the water splashes her apron with muck. “N-no. I…I d-didn’t.”
“You can’t bear our happiness, our talk of parties and teas, can you? And so you want to ruin it for us!”
“No. I d-don’t.” Ann retrieves her brush and resumes cleaning, but under her breath she mutters something.
Cecily turns Ann around to face her. “What did you say?”
“Stop it, Cecily,” I say.
Ann’s face is flushed. “N-nothing.”