“Shut the door,” came a low purr from the far end of the room.
Her papa obeyed.
“Come closer,” the headmistress growled. “I’m not about to bite.”
Her papa gave a nervous chuckle and pushed her forward.
“The both of you.”
Brewster gulped and stepped onto the dusty Persian carpet, almost tripping on the head of the Bengal tiger rug splayed across it. Miss Bentwhistle claimed her great-grandfather, Horatio III, had bagged the beast on safari. In truth, he’d stalked it down in a dusty Toronto curiosity shop. Either way, it was a skinned warning to any who’d dare to cross a Bentwhistle.
Now in range, their eyes accustomed to the muslin light, Mary Mabel and her papa saw a vision gave them pause — Miss Bentwhistle in the highest of high dudgeon, a grand inquisitor to make the angels quake, as imperious a judge as the combined host of Bentwhistles past who glowered through the gloom from the baroque frames that lined her lair. Mary Mabel felt faint, the air heavy with powders, pomades, and lavender potpourris. She glanced at her papa. He looked set to vomit.
An awkward pause. The Iron Maiden cocked an eyebrow. “Well, Miss McTavish, you’ve been quite the busy bee.”
“The girl is sorry,” Brewster said. He stuck an elbow in his daughter’s ribs. “Apologize to your Auntie Horatia.”
“Don’t interrupt,” their captor snapped. She fixed Mary Mabel in her sights. “It is barely nine o’clock in the morning, and we find ourselves besieged by the Middlesex County press. Muckrakers from the Gleaner, Bugle, and Beacon, not to mention our London rag, have decamped at the Academy’s front gates. We’ve been obliged to call in constables, Miss McTavish. Constables. It’s a positive scandal.”
“But what’s it got to do with me?”
She flung the Free Press on her desk and tapped her right index finger three times on the banner headline: LONDON GIRL RESURRECTS DEAD BOY.
“Oh my.”
“Oh my?” Miss Bentwhistle’s breasts elevated to the heavens. “All you can say is ‘Oh my’? A young lady knows better than to draw attention to herself, but you, you flibbertigibbet, you made a scene! And on a Sunday! In so doing, you sullied the Academy’s hard-earned reputation for propriety!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Of course not. You’re just a sweet, little Florence Nightingale. Although even she was never ascribed the powers of our Lord Jesus.”
“I didn’t say a word to the press.”
“Why bother when three hundred witnesses, Holy Rollers, God spare us, are happy to babble away on your behalf. Well, you just march outside and tell the press their story is absurd.”
“But it happened. I can’t deny it.”
“Listen to me,” the headmistress said, “and listen hard. I am telling you: there was no miracle. That boy was never dead.”
“He was. Dr. Hammond signed the death certificate.”
“A piece of paper can easily be ripped up.”
“I don’t care. The boy was dead. A power surged down my arms, out of my fingers, and he came back to life.”
“You make it sound like jump-starting a car.” Miss Bentwhistle circled her prey. “Some might say the lad was simply unconscious. That the affair was a stunt. Adolescent theatrics.”
“They’d be wrong.”
“It’s those books of hers,” Brewster blurted. “They’ve turned her wits.”
Miss. Bentwhistle bristled. “When it comes to scandal, insanity is a complication not a defence.” She cast her eye on Mary Mabel. “Though you have shamed the Academy, my pet, I am willing to compromise. You may think what you like in private, provided you say what I want in public.”
“What sort of compromise is that?”
Smoke might have shot from the dowager’s ears. She stormed to the window — migraine be damned — and threw back the curtains. “Do you see those clouds? They take such pretty forms. I imagine I see the shapes of people. Little homeless people scudding across the sky. Why look — an odd-jobs man and his lumpen daughter. Do you see them, my pet? It’s a picture clear as day. Or perhaps not, for look, even as we speak the wind is blowing them apart. Take care, precious, my visions have a habit of coming true.”
Mary Mabel threw back her shoulders. “Do what you like. I won’t deny the reason I’m alive.”
“Indeed, little martyr?” Miss Bentwhistle laughed dryly. “And are you prepared to sacrifice your father for your arrogance?”
“How dare you threaten Papa!”
“Damn right.” Brewster leapt to attention. “If the girl insists on being wilful, do what you must. But why punish me?”
“Heavens, what do you take me for?” Miss Bentwhistle gasped. “I’d hardly put a young thing on the streets alone.”
Miss Pigeon flew into the room. “Toronto’s on the line! A man from the Globe!” The Globe was the paper of record for Academy parents.
Miss Bentwhistle spun on her heel. “No more delay. Recant. Now.”
“No.”
The headmistress whirled back to her secretary. “Inform the Globe that we no longer have McTavishes on staff. Furthermore, should they intend to feature us in their account, provide them with the name of our solicitor.”
Miss Pigeon scuttled off.
“You have one hour to pack and be gone,” Miss Bentwhistle said, with a glance at her watch.
“For God’s sake,” McTavish pleaded, “don’t cast your darling Brewster to the wind!”
“‘My darling’?” Miss Bentwhistle’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Imagination must run in your family! How dare you think I’d stoop to the likes of you?”
“Stooping’s the least of it,” Brewster rose to his feet, no longer the supplicant. “If I’m kicked out, I’ll leave with lips flapping. Your ‘special interests’ will turn this county on its ear.”
“Lunacy!”
“Don’t play the innocent. You’re no more virgin than I am. Why, you take to acrobatics that’d make the Devil blush.”
“Depraved ravings!”
“Not half so depraved as your delight in feather dusters!”
Miss Bentwhistle’s eyes twitched. “Mr. McTavish, your rant is nothing short of slander. Nor is slander the least of your sins. You’ve been denounced by the Misses Budgie, Lundy, and Brown. Their accusations are documented in my filing cabinet. Gross indecency. Attempted rape. Why, I myself had cause to fend you off.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Oh? And who do you suppose will be believed: a McTavish or a Bentwhistle? We know the local magistrate, my dear. Be careful how you tread. Any loose talk and you will find yourself locked in the Kingston Pen with a bounty on your bottom! Now — get out of my school, my town, my county!”
“Mercy for Papa,” Mary Mabel begged.
Miss Bentwhistle curled her lip. “That, my dear, would take a miracle. And you’re fresh out.”
Back in their quarters, Brewster went on a tear. “Trouble, that’s all you’ve ever been. Well, now you’ve ruined us. Happy? You only had to say it never happened.”
“I don’t have much, Papa. I couldn’t give her that.”
“But