Tess woke in the cold, empty chapel and pulled herself up into a sitting position, looking at the viewer. She’d tried to open it again after speaking to Thomas but it hadn’t worked and she must have fallen asleep out here all alone.
Checking her wristwatch, she saw that it was almost five o’clock in the morning—which meant she didn’t have long before the staff back in the house would be awake and beginning their day. She’d have to hurry. As much as she hated the thought of climbing back up the ivy she’d used to make her escape the previous night, she knew she had little choice.
Tess made her way out of the chapel and across the dew-sodden field as quickly as she could. Within minutes her nightgown was sticking to her wet legs, and when she reached the gate, her fingers were so numb she could barely climb it. She stumbled past the bower seat, crunched across the gravel past the kitchen door and was making for the front of the house when, suddenly enough to make her gasp, the kitchen door opened.
Inside stood Millie, who gaped out at Tess. In the dim light of morning, in her sodden nightclothes, Tess could only imagine what she looked like.
“Miss? What on earth are you doing out here?” said Millie. “Get in before you catch your death!”
“I—I w-was just out for a w-walk,” Tess began, her teeth chattering so hard the words came out in pieces. “D-d-didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me, you silly thing,” Millie said, reaching out to grab a handful of Tess’s cardigan, ushering her into the warm kitchen. “I’m awake for ages. I heard you clattering about outside and presumed it was Johnny.” She glanced at Tess, who looked blank. “The milkman, miss. He usually comes with the day’s delivery around this time. Anyway, you get on upstairs and back into your bed. Go on! I’ll bring you up something hot as soon as I can.”
Tess gave her a grateful look and left the kitchen, cursing her numb-footed clumsiness on the stairs. Soon she was back in her bedroom. The window she’d left open the night before had made the whole room smell damp and earthy. She hurried to close it and the pane clattered home with a thump. She made grateful use of her chamber pot before undoing the buttons on her boots and kicking them off. Finally she pulled off her cardigan and then her wet-hemmed nightgown, leaving them all in a pile, and got into bed in just her underthings, shivering in the cold sheets.
When someone entered the room a few moments later, she turned, expecting to see Millie arriving with a mug of warm milk—but instead she met the eye of Mrs. Thistleton.
“I heard a noise,” she said in a voice chillier than Tess’s frozen toes. “I wanted to check whether you were all right?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Thistleton. Thank you. I’m fine. I just had to—um. Well. I had to use the convenience.” Tess felt her cheeks begin to burn.
Mrs. Thistleton raised a frosty eyebrow. “I’m sure it didn’t necessitate you throwing the contents out of the window,” she said. “Perhaps that was how things were done where you came from, but I can assure you it’s not how we do things here.”
Tess didn’t know how to answer. As she struggled to find the words, she heard Millie’s quiet voice in the corridor. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Thistleton, but I have something for the young lady.”
Mrs. Thistleton turned. “What on earth has you away from your duties at this hour, Millicent?”
“Miss Tess needed a cup of warm milk, ma’am. It was only a minute’s work to prepare it and bring it up.” Millie cringed outside the door, holding a tray with a single cup on it. She’d even thought to put a cube of chocolate beside the mug, as an extra treat. “I’ll get back to laying the fires now.”
Mrs. Thistleton reached out and snatched the tray from Millie’s hands. “Yes, you most certainly will,” she snapped at the young maid, and Millie threw Tess an apologetic glance as she hurried away.
Mrs. Thistleton turned back to Tess and crossed the room in three angry steps. She slapped the tray onto Tess’s dressing table, hard enough to make the milk slosh over the lip of the cup. She glanced at the pile of soggy clothes on the floor, noting the presence of Tess’s walking boots, which stood wet and muddied on the bedside rug, and walked slowly toward them.
For a horrible moment Tess thought she might be about to touch her things, and an image of the viewer falling out of her cardigan pocket flashed across her mind’s eye. Careless idiot! She began to sit up, the protest already on her lips—but Mrs. Thistleton just turned to stare at Tess, her dark beetle eyes glittering.
“Mr. Cleat might have taken you in as his particular pet,” she said, her voice a vicious murmur as she took two slow menacing strides in Tess’s direction. “But I can guarantee not even his special favor will excuse you from distracting the staff of this house, instructing them to do your will on a whim, or playing them for fools.”
Tess sat up fully, not caring that she was half-dressed. “What? I never asked Millie—”
“I beg your pardon!” Mrs. Thistleton continued in a strangled hissing whisper. “You’ll lower your voice and speak to me with respect. And how dare you present yourself to me in that condition.” She glanced down at Tess, who quickly drew the bedclothes up to her shoulders.
“It’s only a vest,” she muttered, her cheeks reddening.
Mrs. Thistleton straightened up and refolded her arms. “Enjoy your warm milk,” she said. “Don’t let it spoil your appetite. You’re expected for breakfast at seven sharp.” Then, without another word, she turned and left the room.
Tess sighed and flopped back onto her pillow. Her head ached with tiredness, but she knew she’d never sleep now. Violet crawled onto her open palm, her eyes shiny and sad-looking. She gazed at her mistress with endless sympathy.
“What a mess, girl,” Tess whispered to the spider. “Mrs. Thistleton hates me, Mr. Cleat has me here as some sort of experiment and my only friend—besides you and Millie, I suppose—is in another reality. Great, eh? Just peachy.”
Violet, as was her usual way, made no reply, but exuded an air of gentle understanding nonetheless. Tess settled the spider on her head and dressed herself, carefully transferring Miss Ackerbee’s note, the viewer and her experiments notebook into her new pockets.
Then, because she had nothing better to do, she sat back on the bed and picked up Mr. Cleat’s book. She’d lost track of where she’d reached; there wasn’t really anything memorable about the story so far, and once again she wondered why on earth she’d bothered taking it from his library. On the flyleaf, she spotted an inscription she’d missed before. It read, in slightly faded blue ink and the most beautiful handwriting Tess had ever seen:
To my dear son, Norton Francis Cleat, on the occasion of his twelfth birthday, September 27, 1918. From his loving papa.
Tess ran a finger gently over the words, and she wondered why Mr. Cleat had allowed her to keep a book like this, a book with such precious memories attached to it. Perhaps other people were so used to having gifts from their fathers that they thought nothing of it…but then her anger faded and she slid off the bed, placing the book on her bedside table, knowing there was no point in trying to read it now.
A quiet knock sounded at her door. Before Tess had a chance to turn round, the door had opened and Millie slipped into the room.
“Just here to collect your tray, miss,” she said.
Tess nodded, flashing a quick smile. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” she said in a low voice.
Millie snorted. “Trouble? Breathing’s enough to get you into trouble with that one. Don’t give it another thought.” She walked to the dressing table and picked up the tray, blinking at the undrunk milk and the ruined chocolate. Then she looked up at Tess. Her eyes were wide but not with fear. They shone with something like anger, a fury barely contained—but Tess knew it wasn’t directed at her.
“They’re not sending your letters,” she said in a quiet, private voice. It wasn’t a question.
Tess nodded. “And maybe keeping letters from me too. I don’t know.”
The maid gave a determined nod. “I’ll see what I can do about that, miss. You leave it with me,” she whispered, and before Tess could answer her, she was gone.
Wilf sat on a too-hard chair in Dr. Biggs’s consulting room, kicking her heels a little harder than strictly necessary against its legs. She folded her arms and glared at the world in general as she listed off her woes, which were many. The worst of the lot, however, was that it had now been three whole weeks since Tess had left Ackerbee’s and there was still no word from her.
Her gaze traveled idly around Dr. Biggs’s office as she waited. On the desk in front of her sat a large red folder full of records dating back to when Wilf’s condition had first been diagnosed. She had no interest in leafing through that, as she’d seen it all before. Beside the jotter was a selection of pens and a mostly empty inkwell and a pile of post for Dr. Biggs’s attention. Along the wall behind the desk were bookshelves packed with medical dictionaries and folders full of other patients’ records. Dr. Biggs’s stethoscope hung on the arm of his chair and Wilf was considering trying it on for size when something she’d only half noticed drew her attention back to the top of the tower of correspondence.
A card edged in gold foil caught Wilf’s eye, and she saw the word that had snagged her. That word was Cleat, written in an elegant hand, and Wilf licked her lips, trying to resist the temptation to have a peek. It’s not like you’re opening a sealed letter, for goodness’ sake, she snapped at herself. It’s a card! It’s right there!
She threw a glance at the door; there was no sign of anyone returning, and Wilf knew this was her chance. Slowly and as carefully as she could, she nudged the envelope on top of the card slightly to one side, revealing more of the message underneath.
As an esteemed member of
the Interdimensional Harmonics Society
I have pleasure in inviting you and a guest of your choice
to an exhibition of Unparalleled Importance
on May 30, 1941, at 8 p.m. sharp
at Roedeer Lodge, Fairwater Park, Hurdleford
None of that meant anything to Wilf—but a handwritten message beneath this invitation was what made her eyes widen. Charles, it read. Looking forward to greeting you and Adeline at my little soiree. All best! N. F. Cleat.
“Cleat,” Wilf breathed. She snapped out of her surprise long enough to pull the envelope back over the card and sit back in her chair. Her mind thudded with thoughts of Tess and she tried to be certain that the name of the man who’d come for her had been Cleat.
If it was, Wilf knew, then what had started off as a terrible day could have turned into the best one she’d had since her dearest friend had been taken from Ackerbee’s. A tight grin broke over her face and her eyes widened, shining with purpose and energy. If that’s the same Cleat, now we know where to find him, she thought, her heart rising. And if we can find him, Tess won’t be far behind.