Thomas sat in the observatory with the window open. The darkness had long ago given way to the pinkish gray of dawn and he wrapped himself loosely in a blanket, hoping the cool of the morning would keep him awake. He hadn’t slept much in the twenty-four hours since Tess had vanished; he’d dozed a bit during daylight hours but through the night he’d waited for any sign that she was coming. There had been nothing.
Moose sat on Thomas’s blanket-swathed knee, gazing out at the day. “I know,” Thomas whispered to the mouse. “It’s daytime again and she’s not here. And there’s nothing we can do except hope, is there, boy?” Moose quivered, his ears changing direction as he listened, and then he scampered for Thomas’s head. His tail dangled in Thomas’s eyes as the mouse changed position, tiny claws prickling the boy’s scalp.
“What is it, Moose?” Thomas asked. He looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his mouse, and then he heard it—a squeaking noise from the chapel below. His heart leaped into his throat.
The vestry trapdoor, he thought. The tunnel! Could it be Tess? He knew he’d mentioned the tunnel to her. Maybe she’d had to use the Star-spinner in her own house, which meant she would have arrived in Thomas’s, and it had been safest to come to the chapel that way. But if it isn’t…
Thomas tossed off the blanket and slid across the floor. Moose clung to his head as Thomas began to climb down the ladder, intending to go just far enough to see into the chapel, but as his shoes touched the rungs, footsteps rang out in the chapel—heavy footsteps, coming fast.
“That’s not Tess,” Thomas muttered, leaning down to look. He almost lost his grip when he saw Mackintosh striding up the central aisle, his face a mask of fury. His cheeks were crimson and his teeth were bared and his bulge-eyed gaze was fixed on the boy.
“No!” Thomas shouted. “Get away!” He scrambled back up the ladder and began to fiddle with the bolts that held it in place. They were supposed to release in a trice if there was an emergency—but there had never been an emergency before and Thomas hadn’t kept them oiled. His fingers shook and slipped as he tried to undo them, even just enough that he could drag the ladder up into the room, out of Mackintosh’s reach…
“Give it up, lad,” Mackintosh growled, landing on the bottom rung of the ladder with the grace and solidity of a sack of coal. He gripped the sides and began to climb. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Get out of here!” Thomas sobbed, pushing himself away from the hole in the floor. Moose scrambled for his shoulder, tucking himself tight against Thomas’s neck. “You’re never supposed to come out here!”
“Oh, right? A bit like you’re never supposed to go into my office.” Mackintosh’s head was through the hole and still he climbed. Thomas cast his gaze around, hoping for something to throw, but there was nothing. Even his sharp-edged tins of food were in the cupboard, all the way across the room.
“Nothing in that house belongs to you,” Thomas said, getting to his feet. “It’s not your office. It was my father’s workroom and you’ve got no right—”
“Give it a rest!” Mackintosh roared. His gaze landed on Thomas’s desk, with his radio and Oscillometer and the pile of his mother’s notebooks. “I’ll have those back and all,” he said, striding toward them. “You’ve got no need for this stuff, boy—it belongs with me.”
Thomas stood in his path and Mackintosh stopped, a mocking grin on his face. “Like that, is it?” the man said.
“Those were my mother’s,” Thomas said, sticking out his chin and trying not to fall down. “Which means they’re mine now.” He raised his fists and Mackintosh laughed.
“I don’t have time for this,” the man muttered, grabbing Thomas by the upper arms in a grip so tight that Thomas cried out. Moose, squeaking wildly, ran down Thomas’s arm and up onto Mackintosh’s sleeve quicker than a blink, but Mackintosh threw the boy, hard, against the nearest wall.
Thomas landed awkwardly, his head whacking against a wooden pillar, and just before he blacked out, he heard Mackintosh’s voice. “Get off me, you rotten vermin!” the man yelled, pulling Moose off his sleeve and flinging him to the floor. He raised his boot to stamp and Thomas knew no more.
“Nobody mentioned headdresses,” muttered Wilf, settling hers on top of her too-tight hairdo. “I mean, there’s looking ridiculous in public and then there’s this.” She examined her reflection in the dusty mirror. She and what seemed like a hundred other girls were crammed into the basement of something called the Interdimensional Harmonics Society, which, Millie assured them, meant they would soon be on their way to Roedeer Lodge. The room was abuzz with preparation, loud voices shouting instructions and not a small amount of excitement. Wilf, for her part, merely felt so nervous she could vomit.
“Oh, do budge up,” snapped Prossy, shuffling over to crowd Wilf out of the mirror. “At least you don’t have three feet of hair to tuck in somehow. There simply aren’t enough pins in the world.” Her plait was wound around her head like a crown and her headdress sat on top of it like a raft atop a golden sea.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” asked Wilf, frowning at Prossy’s movements. “Have you hurt yourself?”
Prossy finished pinning on her headdress and turned to Wilf with a mischievous grin. “Look at this.” Casting a glance around, she pulled Wilf to one side and gathered up her long black skirt. Before Wilf could protest, Prossy had lifted the skirt up high enough to display one leg encased in a long, thick sock—and a hockey stick, which was shoved down inside the sock. She had tied a ribbon around the neck of the stick just above her knee, keeping it tight to her upper leg.
Wilf’s mouth dropped open and Prossy dropped her skirt, settling it neatly. There was no sign of the stick besides the fact that Prossy couldn’t bend her knee much as she walked. Somehow she was managing to make up for it by taking long strides and talking a lot.
“What do you need that for?” Wilf asked, aghast.
“She’s not a ‘that’; she’s my best gal, Hortense. Never leave home without her,” Prossy said sagely, patting her thigh.
Wilf didn’t have a chance to reply before a door opened at the top of the room, drawing her eye. A woman stepped through it with a bosom like a galleon in full sail. “Girls!” came her loud, crisp voice, followed by a barrage of sharp claps. The room fell silent and everyone turned to face her.
“Now, ladies,” she began, “you’ll form two neat lines and we’ll assemble outside where Mr. Cleat has arranged a fleet of steam cars for us…” The woman’s voice droned on but Wilf allowed herself to tune out. Mr. Cleat. This was really happening. In less than an hour, she’d see Tess again.
“Quick march, girls! One, two! Let’s get going!” The woman (“Mrs. Hayden,” Millie whispered) led the way through the downstairs floor of the Society building. Wilf tried not to look around too much. She figured a girl in service—like she was supposed to be—would be far too well trained to be nosy, but she couldn’t help seeing some things, like the framed portrait of Mr. Cleat on one of the walls in the lobby. She gave it an evil glare.
Then the girls were being ushered two by two into one of three steam cars parked outside, each vehicle gently hissing. Prossy stepped up into the steam car with her good leg, drawing the one with the hockey stick behind it. Wilf threw her a grin and she returned it.
“I still can’t believe Miss Ackerbee is letting us do this,” Wilf said as they found seats near the back. She remembered the worry in her housemistress’s eyes as Millie had outlined her scheme for infiltrating Fairwater Park.
“I reckon Miss Whipstead talked her round,” Prossy replied. Wilf nodded, her own worry returning. When they’d been summoned to Miss Ackerbee’s parlor the day before to brainstorm a plan, Wilf had surprised herself by feeling relieved. She should have guessed; it was impossible to keep a secret in Ackerbee’s.
Today, Miss Ackerbee and Rebecca had seen them off, giving hugs and kisses and whispered wishes of good luck, smoothing shoulders and tucking back locks of stray hair as though they were off on a school trip. Wilf had thrown a glance at the house as they’d walked away; the upstairs windows had been lined with watchful girls, each pair of eyes willing them on. She’d lifted a hand to wave and a forest of hands had waved back.
And now Wilf found herself chugging up the quays alongside the Plura in a steam car, not knowing what to expect next. It was a bright day, sunny and warm, and the river sparkled. They passed the Gossamer Bridge, and Wilf realized she’d never been this far north of the city before.
“We’ll see Kingsbridge Station soon,” Millie’s cousin Rosaleen said, turning round in her seat to talk to them. “After that it’s not far to the main gate of Fairwater Park.”
Wilf nodded and gave Rosaleen a grateful grin. Rosaleen turned round again, settling herself in her seat before Mrs. Hayden caught sight of her.
“So what’s the plan for when we—” Wilf began, muttering out of the corner of her mouth to Prossy, but her words were drowned out by the roaring of an engine—a petroleum one, by the noise it was making—swooping overhead. It was overwhelmingly loud and it was belching out a thick black cloud. The steam car seemed to jerk to one side as everyone leaned to look out of the windows at the same time.
“What is that?” said Prossy, her eyes round as she searched the sky. Wilf pressed her nose against the glass as another engine noise ripped through the air above their heads. She saw the riveted belly of a silver machine passing over the steam car before roaring out over the water. It flew upriver, following the course of the Plura. The machine was long and thin, tapering near the end, with two straight stretched-out wings on either side. At its nose flickered a propeller, chopping at the sky. As Wilf watched, a second machine joined the first and they accelerated away, banking and turning as they reached the furthest point that Wilf could see on the horizon before finally vanishing from view.
“Whatever they are,” she said, turning to Prossy with fear in her voice, “they’re heading for the park.”