“Another helping, Tess?” Mr. Cleat waved a serving spoon filled with mashed potato in the vague direction of her plate and Tess nodded. “Good,” he declared, plopping it down into the remnants of her gravy. She’d already eaten enough for her ribs to start creaking, but she felt sure she’d find space for the extra food. Making up for this morning, she told herself, digging her fork in.
“Hm-hmm,” said Mrs. Thistleton from behind her napkin, throwing Tess a disapproving glance. Tess swallowed her potato unconcerned.
“What a relief it is, at least, to see something in your hair that doesn’t have eight legs,” Mrs. Thistleton continued, noticing the pencil stuck in Tess’s topknot. The words were barely out of her mouth before Violet stuck a hairy forelimb out from underneath Tess’s cardigan. Mrs. Thistleton jumped, almost sucking her thin lips completely into her mouth as she stifled her surprise. Tess risked a grin.
“Ruddy imbecile,” Mr. Cleat muttered suddenly, making Tess’s grin vanish. She turned to look; his eyes were on the evening newspaper spread out beside his dinner plate.
“Something upsetting in the news, Mr. Cleat?” asked Mrs. Thistleton mildly.
“Nothing more than usual,” he answered. “Henderson’s up to the same antics. The man never stops.”
“Has he declared your Society a menace to society again?” Mrs. Thistleton asked with a smirk.
“He’ll see. I’ll show them all,” Mr. Cleat muttered. “There’ll be none of his scaremongering when I—”
Mrs. Thistleton cleared her throat and Mr. Cleat stopped short.
Tess frowned at him. “When you what?”
“Beg pardon?” He raised his eyebrows at her.
“There’ll be none of his scaremongering when you what?” Tess prompted.
He gave her a slow blink. “Never mind,” he said, looking back at the paper.
“And who’s Henderson?” Tess continued through a mouthful of food.
“I’m sure it has no relevance whatsoever to you,” Mrs. Thistleton replied, her nose wrinkling in distaste at Tess’s table manners.
Tess shrugged. “I was just asking.”
“And I,” Mrs. Thistleton responded with great dignity, “merely answered you.” She picked up her napkin and forcefully shook it out before settling it back on her lap.
Mr. Cleat observed this exchange with a patient, long-suffering look. “Mr. Cornelius Henderson, Tess, is a newspaper journalist. He pretends to be a correspondent on matters of science and industry, but in truth he is a creature with a vendetta against my every venture.” He gave a tired sigh. “If he’d only give me a chance, he might see I’m not the greedy businessman he seems to think I am. Or, at least”—he paused to chuckle—“I’m not just a greedy businessman.”
Tess couldn’t think of a way to reply beyond giving Mr. Cleat a polite smile, which he didn’t seem to notice and which faded as soon as she caught sight of the viperous look on Mrs. Thistleton’s face. She took another forkful of potato before realizing her appetite had vanished, and the laden fork was put back on her plate uneaten. She sat in silence for a moment or two, watching Mr. Cleat reading and Mrs. Thistleton watching him, before clearing her throat and getting to her feet.
“Not so fast, young lady,” came Mrs. Thistleton’s voice as Tess stood. “Mr. Cleat and I need a word with you.”
Tess looked up at her. “A word? What about?”
“We should probably discuss your schooling,” Mr. Cleat said. “As in whether you’re going to have any,” he continued, folding the paper over and pushing it away.
“My schooling?” Tess stared at him in turn, her feet rooted to the floor. She hadn’t expected that.
“Mm.” Mrs. Thistleton looked up at her, not quite smugly, Tess thought, but not far off. “Mr. Cleat and I have been discussing the matter ever since he mentioned the problem to me a number of days ago. He hasn’t yet decided whether to send you away as a boarder or to deal with the matter in-house, so to speak.”
“In-house?” Tess frowned at Mrs. Thistleton.
“I used to be a governess of sorts in my youth,” Mrs. Thistleton said lightly. “I am more than capable of instructing you, should the need arise. Latin, Greek and grammar are my particular points of expertise.”
Tess hoped she wasn’t pulling a face. “Right.”
“In any case, it will have to be decided upon soon,” Mrs. Thistleton said with a small sigh. “You’re roaming around the place like a wraith, in and out of the garden doing goodness knows what.” She gave Tess a cool look, which made the girl swallow hard. “The sooner you’re occupied from morning till evening, the better. It’ll keep you out of mischief.”
“The things I do in my lab aren’t ‘mischief,’ ” Tess muttered.
“You’ll have plenty of time to do your experiments after lessons, Tess,” Mr. Cleat said. “Don’t let that concern you.”
“In any case I’m quite certain the world of science will wait,” Mrs. Thistleton said. “It’s not like you’re inventing a perpetual motion machine, or anything of its ilk.” She gave a derisive chuckle. “Or are you?” She shared a look with Mr. Cleat, who frowned at her and turned back to Tess. Mrs. Thistleton deflated a little.
“Your scientific work is important, Tess, of course. But you do need a wider education. History, geography, mathematics, things like that. It’ll be good for you.” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “So Mrs. Thistleton’s offer to tutor you is an option I’m considering, along with that of sending you to boarding school.”
“I know a good one,” Tess muttered. “It’s run by a very nice lady named Miss Ackerbee.”
Mr. Cleat gave Tess an indulgent smile. “Very good, Tess. Most amusing. But get all thoughts of Ackerbee’s out of your head.” Tess bit her tongue at this. “Now,” he continued, “if we are to send you away to school, there are a few things to be weighed up. Firstly, the cost. Secondly, the location. And thirdly, the question of what to do with your pet.”
“What?” Tess felt like her stomach had turned over. She stepped closer to the table. “What does this have to do with Violet?”
“You can hardly expect a school to accept a tarantula on its premises,” said Mr. Cleat, extending his hands as though appealing to Tess to be reasonable. “Don’t be absurd. So if it is to be boarding school, I’m afraid Violet will have to be destroyed.”
The floor seemed to drop away from beneath Tess’s feet. “De-destroyed? You can’t do that!”
“As your guardian,” Mr. Cleat said, “you’ll find I can do whatever I choose, if I feel it’s in your best interest.”
“But—no!” Tess took another step toward the table, her fists clenched. “I won’t let you! She’s mine!”
“I’m sorry, Tess,” Mr. Cleat replied. “But you must appreciate my hands are tied here. I can’t be expected to care for her, and neither can Mrs. Thistleton. Most of the staff can barely stand to be in the same room as the creature, so it’s hardly fair to ask them.”
“Then don’t send me away. I’ll stay here,” Tess said, setting her jaw. “You can’t have Violet. Nobody is taking her from me.”
Mr. Cleat settled back in his chair with a smile and a strange self-satisfied look in his eye—almost like he’d heard exactly what he wanted to hear, or that Tess had given him the right answer to a question she didn’t know he’d asked her. She felt a pang of unease. “That settles it then,” he said. “You’ll begin lessons tomorrow morning with Mrs. Thistleton in her office.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Thistleton said. “I’ll look forward to stretching my old teaching muscles. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Cleat.” She nodded at him, but he ignored her.
“Right. I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. “If only everything were so easy,” he murmured, grabbing up his newspaper again and getting to his feet. “I’ll retire for the evening then. I bid you both good night.” He nodded at them.
“Good night, Mr. Cleat,” Mrs. Thistleton replied, but he left the room without appearing to hear her. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Tess. “We’ll begin straight after breakfast. I think we’ll take Latin as our first lesson, so you’ll address me in the following manner in the classroom: Salve, magistra. Do you have that?”
“Sal-what?” said Tess.
Mrs. Thistleton sighed. “I’m going to have a job with you, aren’t I? You may as well go and enjoy your evening, child. Tomorrow, we work.” Her eyes fell on Violet and her lip curled. “And I’d appreciate it if that thing could stay out of my way while I’m teaching. She is, to say the least, a distraction.”
Tess’s nostrils flared. “So I can go?”
“You may go,” Mrs. Thistleton said, rolling her eyes.
Tess didn’t need to be told twice.
From the observatory window, Thomas watched Mackintosh’s car as it drove out of the gates. His trips to the city were infrequent now; fuel rationing meant it was often more trouble than it was worth to travel. When the car vanished from sight, Thomas knew it was time to make his move. He didn’t know how long he’d have before Mackintosh returned.
“Come on, Moose,” he said, helping the mouse into his top pocket. Together they hurried down into the vestry behind the disused altar in the old chapel. Thomas pulled open a low, squat-looking door in the corner of the room and dropped through it. As soon as he landed, he flicked on his torch. A tunnel yawned, its long dark throat like the twisting gullet of a snake, but Thomas wasn’t frightened. He’d done this journey a hundred times.
A few minutes later, Thomas emerged at the tunnel’s other end—into the scullery of the house he’d once shared with his parents. Mackintosh hadn’t yet spotted the door to the tunnel, though Thomas dreaded the day he did—he’d surely block it off, and then Thomas would have to come up with an alternative plan for getting in and out. But, he told himself with grim determination, I’ll have evicted him by then anyway.
He slipped his knapsack off and filled it with food—as much as he could carry and the sort that would keep—and steeled himself for the next part of his mission. “You’re behind enemy lines,” he whispered to himself. “Just you and Moose. You’ve got to be brave now.”
Thomas opened a small wall cupboard to reveal several keys and he slipped one off its hook. Then he sneaked out of the kitchen, his heart hammering. He quickly made his way up the corridor, reaching the door of what had been his parents’ study. He hadn’t been here since the day three years before when they’d had their accident, and when…
He pushed the thought away and unlocked the door with his pilfered key, and then he was inside. The tall bookshelves and the long, familiar desk he remembered from before—the one his parents would often sit at together, working late into the night—were still there. He blinked hard, telling himself the air was dusty, and made a dash for the nearest pile of books.
“Quantum Mechanics,” he muttered, running a finger down the spines. “Gobbledygook. None of it any use.”
He turned to the bookshelves behind him and instantly saw a row of notebooks, each with his mother’s handwriting on its narrow spine. He pulled one out. Helena Molyneaux, Notes, 1934, he read, and his heart gave a lurch. The shelf was full of his mother’s work, and without thinking about it for a second longer, he upended the knapsack and shoved as many of the notebooks as possible into the space where his food had been. He was only sorry that he couldn’t bring them all.
The remaining notebooks slumped to one side now that their shelf-mates were gone, and Thomas knew Mackintosh would spot the gap straightaway. He told himself he didn’t care. There’s got to be something in here that can help Tess, he told himself.
He looked back at the knapsack. “Not a lot of room left for grub, eh, Moose?” he muttered. With a sigh he crammed in as much food as he could and slung the heavy bag onto his back again. Then he bent to pick up the rest, more than filling his arms. As he struggled to lock the door behind him, a tin of something or other—condensed milk, he thought—fell and rolled away, losing itself in the shadows beneath the console table in the lobby. “Drat,” Thomas muttered, but there was nothing to be done.
Slowly, awkwardly, he made his way with the booty back through the tunnel, hoping he wouldn’t have long to wait before Tess came back—and this time, he promised himself, he’d have something useful to tell her.