Since I was closest to the door, I flew out of Mrs. Thurston’s office and raced up the stairs, following the noise. I worried that it was coming from the Senior dormitory, so I climbed faster and faster, thinking of Adèle.
Miss Miller followed me into the hallway, but Mrs. Thurston did not. One quick backward glance affirmed that the superintendent was planning to remain in her rooms. I didn’t spare a second look.
As I mastered the stairs with increasing difficulty, I reminded myself that my young charge had been fine when I left her mere minutes ago. Sleeping soundly, totally insensate to her surroundings, but fine.
The scream dwindled to whimpers.
When I reached the second floor landing, I spotted the open dormitory door. The setting sun had darkened the room somewhat, but my eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom.
I discovered a figure sprawled on the floor. “Are you hurt?” I called out.
“No,” sobbed a childlike voice.
“Adèle?” I said to the lumpy covers, a quiet mound signifying her still-drugged form. I leaned close enough to hear her snore lightly. Her skin felt warm to my touch, but not overly so.
I turned to the child on the floor. Ragged sobs came from her throat. A sliver of light revealed a tangle of auburn hair, a body curled tightly into a protective ball like a threatened hedgehog.
“Are you all right?” I asked, touching her shaking shoulders with a gentle hand.
“Sc-scared. Gh-ghost! I want Miss Miller!” The name came as a wail of misery.
“I am her friend. Where are your classmates?”
“Lining up for dinner,” she said without once looking at me. “Are you a ghost?”
“No. I assure you that I am quite real. Here.” I located both of the child’s hands, which she had pressed to her face. Slowly, I peeled her fingers away. Her hands clutched mine in mortal terror, and still she refused to open her eyes.
“Come now. It’s all right. Look at me.”
“Miss Eyre, where are you?” Miss Miller called up the stairs.
“In the Senior dormitory.” I raised my voice, hoping it would carry my message to her.
Cautiously, the girl on the floor opened her eyes.
“Eeek!” she cried again. “What is wrong with your face?”
I had forgotten my bruises. I choked back a laugh. All the students would be curious about my injuries. That was the nature of the young, to approach the world with unrestrained wonder, unfettered by the faux sophistication that society encouraged adults to affect. Only as we grew older did we learn to practice the art of dissembling about our natural, healthy interest or shutting down that miraculous facility of a wondering mind.
“I’ve been hurt. That’s all. Tell me what has happened. Miss Miller is on her way.” I could hear my friend’s heavy footsteps leading the way on the stairs, followed by the tromping of a group of other, lighter feet.
Miss Miller’s voice mixed with others, and I realized she was diverting the students, who had responded to their friend’s scream by swarming the stairway. They sounded like a bunch of magpies chattering, trying to make sense of a confusing situation.
But of course they were upset. They had every reason to be. One of their classmates had been discovered dead—and their imaginations had run wild.
Reaching into my pocket, I located a handkerchief and mopped the wet cheeks of my crying companion.
“Come along. There’s a draft along the floorboards.” After I helped her to her feet, I coaxed the girl to sit on an empty bed. Even in the fading sunlight, I could see that she had a curious delicacy, suggesting she would grow up to be a beauty. Tears dripped from long lashes set in an oval face and balanced by tiny rosebud lips.
“Wh-who are you?” she asked of me.
Miss Miller finally made her way through the clutch of hysterical students crowding outside the dormitory door. “Rose, this is our new German and drawing teacher. Meet Miss Eyre.”
But the girl refused to calm down, almost throwing herself at Miss Miller. “Don’t let Selina hurt me! She’s haunting us!”
“She’s dead, child,” Miss Miller said sternly.
“No! She…she’s here!” Rose pointed at the coatrack, draped with my wet things. The imaginative mind of a frightened girl had given them substance and a human shape.
“I see naught but a coatrack and sodden outer garments,” Miss Miller said. “Rose? Cast a good look yonder. Do not let your mind play tricks on you. See? There is no ghost, merely wet clothing belonging to Miss Eyre.”
To help support this claim I went quickly to the coatrack and held out my shawl and bonnet for Rose to inspect. Afterward, I replaced everything on the pegs.
Rose peeled herself away from Miss Miller and peered, first through squinted eyes and finally through wide-open lashes, at the bonnet and shawl. I lifted each of them again, moving more slowly.
“I thought…I thought…she had come back for us,” said Rose. “I only came up to find my wrap because I was cold, and then I saw…I saw that…and I…I guess I was silly.”
“No,” Miss Miller said, “you were not silly. You had a fright, that’s all. We’re all upset. Let’s splash water on your face and tidy you up.”
Below us a clock bell chimed six times. Miss Miller nodded. “Good. Time for dinner. Come along, Rose. Let’s show Miss Eyre to the dining room.”
“Give me a minute to check on Adèle,” I said. After again noting the even rise and fall of her chest, I readjusted the sleeping child’s covers and planted a gentle kiss on her cheeks. She sighed in her sleep but made no effort to awaken.
As Rose, Miss Miller, and I started down the stairs, I paused to extend my hand to the girl. “I assume your name is Rose?”
She took my hand and shook it solemnly. “Rose Amanda Taylor. How do you do, Miss Eyre?” As children often do, she had moved from panic to self-possession in the twitch of a cat’s whisker.
The other girls had already preceded us down the stairs. They waited for us in front of the dining room. I could tell from the expressions on their faces that Rose’s screams had left them terrified.
And they had a right to be.