and regarded the tangle of woods that whispered to him to come out, come out now. He wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of the night here in his cottage, he knew that already. But in his hands he held one of the fleece blankets he’d put in the carriage for her, and he was unwilling to relinquish it quite yet. After a few long minutes more of watching the dark, he brought it up to his face.
Loosestrife, he thought. Delicate spiky flowers, sweet and spice.
Lora.
A pretty name, even if it wasn’t her true one.
He stood, draped the blanket over the chair behind him. With a single practiced vault he was out the window and out of the confines of roof and walls, bare feet in moss, fresh air on his face. An easy run that sank him deep and quiet into the dark.
Chapter 5
The walls of the castle closed in around me with a gray cold sameness, broken only by flickering shadow and flame from an oil lamp burning in an alcove by the doors. I followed the lumpy shape of Mr. Hastings without really seeing him, without taking in the fine paintings that began to appear along the corridor or the wool runner that unfurled like a long woven tongue into the gloom ahead.
Jesse. Jesse of the blissful touch. Jesse of the silent song.
I remembered the starlit contours of his face and felt a shivery echo of that pleasure begin its way through me, from the top of my scalp to my toes.
Oh, God. There was definitely something wrong with me.
“Keep up, gel.” Mr. Hastings had stopped before a new door, a much more modern one than the ancient iron-and-oak pair blockading the main entrance. He waited until I crept closer, nodded, then knocked hard twice against the painted wood.
“Enter,” came a female voice from the room beyond.
Hastings opened the door, motioned for me to go ahead.
It was clearly the headmistress’s chamber. I’d seen enough of Director Forrester’s office to recognize the subtle signals of adult power, although it was accomplished much more elegantly here: the bookcases filled with important tomes, their lettering a gilded gleam along flawless spines. Long, creamy lace curtains framing the windows—no dust on these—beautiful enough to be bridal veils. Vases of lilies perfuming the air, a low crackling fire in the hearth. A chandelier of brass and wax candles throwing glints of honeyed illumination. A ticking clock.
A wide polished desk of cherrywood with two wing chairs before it and a more imposing one behind with a woman seated in it, her head bent, writing.
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings,” she murmured, without glancing up from her work.
I heard the door close behind me. I stood where I was without moving, without even loosening my grip on my hat and case.
The clock continued to tick. The woman continued to write. Her hair was confined to a strict ebony twist, not a strand out of place, something I never managed to accomplish with my own.
A ring flashed on her hand. Instinctively I knew—and hated that I knew—that it was a green sapphire, one-and-one-quarter carats, with a band of platinum.
I realized then that I felt queasy. The light was too slick, the scent of the lilies nearly overwhelming. I swayed a bit on my feet and dug my fingers deeper into the straw of my hat.
It’s all a mistake, I thought. She’ll look up, she’ll look at me and tell me it’s all been a mistake, I’m too peculiar, I’m not wanted here after all. I’ll have to find my way back to the station. I’ll have to speak to Jesse again and hear that music, and what if he touches me—
The woman’s head lifted. She was older than the absolute black of her hair had implied. Her features were finely lined; the corners of her lips had wrinkled into puckers.
“Miss Jones. You are quite late.”
“I beg your pardon,” I replied automatically, although a spot of resentment began a sudden burn in my chest, dispelling some of the nausea. What was I supposed to have done? Pushed at the train with my bare hands to force it faster?
Perhaps she noticed my instant of rebellion. Perhaps not. Her eyes seemed to narrow, but it might have been merely the poor light.
“You may be seated.”
I moved to the wing chair nearest me, sinking like a child deep into the leather.
“I am Mrs. Westcliffe, the headmistress of Iverson.”
I tried to inch up higher in the chair. “How do you do?”