"Never in all my years," Marge was saying as she knitted away feverishly, "have I felt as poor as I do now."

"You and Ammie have this desire for fine things in common, you know," came Susan's muffled voice as she held her face over a steaming bowl of water and rose tea oil. "I only wish for a respectable name and situation. In that I shall find solace."

"You speak bravely, silly girl, but weren't you saying earlier how you wished to have a fine house and carriage?" said Ammie, eyeing her reflection in the mirror.

"She always pretends to be a saint, that's why her sinuses are giving in to the cold," said Miss Finicktoff.

"And you are a christened fiend, Marge. And if you throw another yarn at me I'll call Ms. Petruny!"

"Come, girls," said Harriet. "We mustn't bicker. I'm sure if we do, Lia will wish she hadn't decided to spend the night in our company."

I was only half listening since my attention was drawn to the window.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?" All heads turned in my direction.

"I'm not sure. It was almost like the wind and yet so unlike it. Perhaps that of an oncoming storm."

Marge glared in my direction.

"Don't dare to mention a storm, Lia. Gordorf cannot withstand another. The last one nearly took down Bedlaam's roof!"

"It wasn't as bad as that."

"Marge is afraid of storms, Harriet. So she'll think all of them will blow up the roof."

"And you're still afraid of grasshoppers," said Ammie, shooting a venomous glare at the golden haired Susan. "Not to mention toads and crickets and spiders and—"

"Listen!"

They all shut up like clams. And for some time, silence reigned while every girl stared and listened.

"There! Something's gone past the window!"

Everyone ran to gaze and gawk, each one squeezing and pushing the other in order to peer into the darkness outside.

"Lemme see, Susan!"

"What is it?" whispered Violet.

"Nothing important, obviously," said Marge.

"Was it a bird?"

"Don't be a ninny, Rose, it's dark."

"Ellen Trupp if you hit me with yer elbow one more time I'll box yer ears in!" said little Phoebe.

Eventually, everyone returned to their places.

"Lia, come and sit down it was probably just a grindelle."

"Really, Violet? A grindelle after dark?"

Violet gave one of her rare impatient looks.

"If you should know, Miss Finicktoff, male grindelles hunt after dark while the females hunt during the day."

Marge shifted uncomfortably.

"She didn't know that, of course!"

"Shut your water well, Phoebe."

"Where did you learn about grindelles, Violet?" inquired Janie, a very inquisitive girl of seven who took a keen interest in animals, particularly the ones with wings. Violet brightened visibly.

"Dinah Henfield knows a great many things about birds and things and shared a few grindelle habits and peculiarities with me last time I visited."

"Of course she did," muttered Marge.

"Have you decided to go to the Brastins yet, Violet?"

"Oh, I'm sure she has. How could she refuse? They're such nice people."

Violet put down the skirt she was mending.

"Your tone suggests mockery, Marge, and I don't like it. If you wish to think badly of people you've never taken the time to know, go ahead if you will, but keep your opinions to yourself."

"I think," Harriet quickly began, "that I should like to go myself."

"Why?!" cried Susan clearly in agreement with Marge opinion of the Brastins.

"Because I received a letter from Mrs. Brastin begging me to come and although I am not very fond of the family myself, I should like a bit of excitement."

"I wish I could go."

Violet brushed a hand over Janie's coarse hair. "I know, love, but little girls mustn't be out late."

"So you best console yourself with Phoebe's degrading conversations."

"Marge!"

"It's alright, Lia. Marge is not very polite for a lady. She's a vixen you know with a dreadful air about her that," she started to cough and fanned herself expeditiously, "anyone can feel it when she enters a room. Watch it! She's moving!"

There was a roar of laughter from the others as Phoebe sprang from her chair to avoid Marge's grasp. Violet's plea for order was lost in the delighted squeals and Quistelle, having crept silently downstairs due to the commotion no doubt, overlooked the ruckus from the entryway with an unimpressed air.

"Aye!" 

Every girl was on her feet, silent and grave.

"Didn't I tell you not to be harsh with the younger girls, Marge?"

"Yes, Ms. Petruny."

"So what am I seeing here?" she said, her stocky figure as straight as a military sergeant's.

She turned to Violet. "Go and see to Mrs. Satcher. You may take Phoebe and Janie with you."

Once safely behind Petruny, Phoebe stuck a pink tongue at Marge. The latter frowned so much that her brows joined.

Quistelle disappeared as silently as she came.

Ms. Petruny, about to leave, set her eyes on me.

"Miss Malstoyke, what is the matter?"

"She's seeing ghosts out the window, ma'am," said Ida Bedowell from her place on the hearth.

"Now listen here," she began, wagging an impatient finger, "I ain't your Prudence Wellings, so don't talk your nonsense to me and expect me to make light of it, just 'cause she's gone home to her mother."

"Yes, Ms. Petruny," they chorused.

"Good. Now it's high time you ladies bed down."

The room was hastily arranged, more wood put into the grate, and odds and ends whisked away from the scene until there was order. Silence pervaded as I followed eight heads of varying heights upstairs, and quite likely it would, for Petruny, like a waiting vulture, stationed herself below with her arms crossed over her heavy bosom....

Whispers and giggles lasted long into the night. Marge, being a heavy sleeper, was out the minute her head touched the pillow. Janie wouldn't close her eyes unless Violet sang, and Ammie, Harriet and Susan were busily going back and forth about Richard Dayne.

"Wasn't he dreamy?" sighed Harriet.

"A pity he only kissed Marge's hand," said Susan. "Mine's not half so pale."

"I daresay he liked my fiery hair. Saw how he looked at it?"

"Let Gordorf grieve for once! It wasn't your hair girl," said Susan, sounding annoyed. "It was that dreadful flower you put in it! The smell of it must have been awful. I saw him wrinkle his handsome nose."

"You lie! I don't believe you."

"Girls," said Violet drowsily from the other room,"can you not continue your discussion in the morning?"

"Bats be gone!" Marge said in her sleep.

"Well, I didn't want to tell you this, but your perfume was so strong it nearly burned his beautiful eyes out!" said Ammie clearly ignoring Miss Partridge.

"Such rubbish!"

Harriet sighed from her bed.

"You both are spinning tales because he didn't get close enough to either of you."

After a pause, she said, "He does have a very attractive voice, though... and chin."

"You mean jawline, Harriet," Susan corrected.

"But he barely said anything!" Ammie continued. "Cotts was doing all the talking and she didn't give the dear man a chance!"

"Hush you fool! Don't you know she makes her rounds about the house at this hour?"

"That Mr. Critchford was quite handsome too, wasn't he?" asked a thoughtful Harriet.

"I don't like his moustache," said a decisive Ammie. "It reminds me of my cousin Heric. He kissed me at my Aunt Pye's fifth wedding party last spring. It wasn't a pleasant experience."

The others giggled uncontrollably.

"Moustaches aside," Susan said, collecting herself, "I'll admit he was pleasant enough but not nearly as delicious as Richard Dayne!"

Peals of laughter richoted off the walls as everyone fell into a fit. Several cries of "Naughty Susan!" floated in the air but no one took it seriously.

Ammie was the first to recover and propped herself on her elbow.

"Lia laughs, but she is the only one that hasn't made a comment."

I could've smothered her with the pillows!

Susan sat up in bed.

"Yes, we can use an expert opinion, Lia. What did you think of Mr. Dayne?"

"For a start, he had more decency than the entire lot of you."

"Now she's going to play her favourite part: the proper lady."

Harriet laughed. "Lia doesn't have to play at it—she is proper."

I could almost see Susan wrinkle her nose.

"We know you would know lots of things, Malstoyke. You always have parties with handsome, eligible bachelors back home, don't you?"

"Yes but—"

"So you admit you know what handsome looks like! See girls? She always plays the innocent. Enough of that now, Malstoyke, let's have an honest opinion."

"Very well, he was the epitome of good manners. And yes, I'll admit he is a stately and pleasant old man."

"You're avoiding answering on Richard Dayne!"

A pillow flew my way.

Ammie saved me with a reckless speculation. "I wonder if Mr. Dayne is interested in remarrying yet?"

"Richard Dayne's never been wedded."

"I never mentioned Richard Dayne."

If it had not been for my current objective, I would never have agreed to stay the night. Their arguments and laughs went on for hours and at what time they finally decided to sleep remained a mystery.

As I lay awake thinking of Eres and Pete and wondering how they were getting on, a soft rustling noise reached my ears.

Sitting up, I listened intently before slipping noiselessly out of bed, and peered out the window.

The shadows of the leafless elm danced upon the ocean of lawn which swept away lazily into the night. A half moon peeked out from grey clouds as the wind hurled a night owl past the panes. I pressed my face against the glass which was cool against my cheek.

My stomach growled and I regretted my earlier decision in passing up supper. Although the fish was full of bones and the biscuits as hard as rock and black as cinders, I ought to have set aside my pride. No, it wasn't the best, but my stomach now sent its discontentment.

I slid into my dressing gown. "Oh, it can't be helped. I simply must eat something or Uncle Jeff will be sure to receive a corpse in place of his niece. And what would my dear papa say?"

Before going down I climbed the dark spiral staircase which led to Quistelle's room. An eerie draft swept over me and I drew my robe tighter. Windy howls escaped from beneath the door and I blinked several times.

Does Quistelle have the windows open in this weather? Unwilling to believe such recklessness, I threw open her door only to be greeted by dark silence.

The windows were shut and latched!

The room was warm, and wandering inside, I examined the fireplace. The cinders still glowed. Turning to the modest bed, I made out a mound beneath the covers. I went nearer and let out a relieved sigh when Quistelle's dark hair spilled over the pillows. She looked so peaceful... as if death had crept silently in and kissed her in her sleep. I shuddered and quickly and quietly slipped outside drawing the door shut behind me. Strangely, the hinges made no sound...

I waited upon the stairs. The ticking of the great grandfather clock at the foot of the stair and the old creaking sounds within the house broke the silence. Satisfied, I started my descent, avoiding some of the creaking steps.

The kitchen was a large yet simple space. Goods, Laggsby, and Prue kept it as best as they could; Mrs. Goods was particular about order in her kitchen and though she usually prepared the worst meals, everyone came to appreciate her tidiness. If she'd only make Laggsby head cook in her stead, supper should always be quite palatable.

No one has made the suggestion, though.

Laggsby snored lightly, her bad leg propped on a chair. Her long arms were folded across her stomach while her chin rested on her chest.

Quietly slipping by on tip toe, I found some cold yerd, (a tough bird common in Gordorf which is beaten to make it tender) some cheese, and rye bread which was still warm.

Laggsby kept the wine in the cellar, a place the others feared for good reason. There's always been ghost stories circling Bedlaam's cellar, though Marge suggested it was just to keep the younger girls away from the wine and rum. But it wasn't only the younger girls that avoided the dingy place.

Battling my nerves and taking a breath, I made my decision.

There were certain rules in place when it came to wine and the girls at Bedlaam. Ms. Cotts, with her strict ways, kept the cellar padlocked both day and night. It was customary that the girls received no wine except on special occasions, and due to Marge's unusual attachment to strong drink—having once belonged to a family of wine brewers—it was mandatory that the bars should be locked at all times.

Mrs. Satcher had a key of her own, only I never knew why since she neither drank wine nor would go down to fetch it if she did. Ms. Petruny was entitled one as well, and the last belonged to Ms. Laggsby who always kept it in her apron. It wasn't hard to find, as it hung on one of the wall hooks and once it was retrieved, I left Laggsby muttering:

"Gawdof's brum! Ma's puddin's fell!"

I stopped in my tracks.

The iron bars were hanging ajar and at my feet lay the padlock.