Orphans of Chaos

1.

The next morning they were watching us like hawks.

Dr. Fell sat at the head of the table, looking more severe and supercilious than usual. Mrs. Wren, for once, seemed not to have a hangover, and her hair was tied more neatly into her bun than was her wont. She was in a good humor, commenting happily on the flavor of the marmalade, the cool crispness of the air, the beauty of the weather. I found her cheer disquieting.

It seemed even the smallest exercise of arbitrary authority could go to one’s head like wine. I told myself to remember this when I was older.

Even Miss Daw, the music teacher, was there, wearing her dress of blue chiffon set with ribbons of white and pale pink. Miss Daw, as I have said, is graceful and delicate, a creature of impeccable manners, with a voice as soft as the coo of a dove.

She sat at the chair which was reserved for her, but which she almost never used, between Victor and Colin, and both the boys had subdued manners in her presence. She was eating a cold French soup, using a silver spoon so small it might have come from the place setting for a doll. She wore gloves at breakfast.

We were not allowed to speak, except when spoken to, or to ask someone to pass us something. I was burning to ask the boys what had happened last night.

From Quentin’s subdued posture, and Colin’s expression, which was a mix of sleepy annoyance and an I-told-you-so smirk, I assumed failure surrounded last night’s expedition. But whether they had made it to the Barrows, or been caught along the way, was not something I could ask them with our simple pass-the-whathaveyou code.

Also, the cream was not on the table, so I could not ask for the cream, which was our code to ask if we were facing a punishment. If all were well, you poured the cream for the person who asked; if not, you spilled a little bit.

I was waiting for breakfast to end, thinking there would be a moment of confusion while we queued up for our first lessons, and I could exchange a whisper or two with Victor and discover what happened. But even that hope was frustrated. Before breakfast ended, there came commotion at the door, and the Headmaster appeared.

2.

The Headmaster was dressed, as he nearly always was, in his full academic regalia. Above his suit of charcoal gray, he wore his flowing academic robes of black, trimmed with white ermine and dark blue velvet. Around his neck he wore a chain of office, from which depended a jeweled starburst. Down his back draped that silly scarf academicians wear, which they call a hood. His mortarboard was trimmed with ermine.

I do not know how many schools in England still have their professors dress in robes. Headmaster Boggin, in addition to whatever duties he had as Headmaster (heading things, I suppose), taught Astronomy, Philosophy, and Theology. For Astronomy, we were allowed to dress as normal. For the other two classes, we had to don black robes of our own before lecture, no doubt to impress us with the gravity of the subject.

Headmaster Boggin was broad at the shoulder and thick through the chest, like a wrestler or a blacksmith might be. His face was dark and weathered and craggy. His overhanging brow gave him a frown of stern command; yet the lines around his eyes and hook nose showed grave good humor.

His hair was red and, unlike every other man I had ever seen, he wore it long, though tied with a black ribbon in a ponytail flowing down his back, like a pirate or a Chinese mandarin. He was clean-shaven, and the tiny reddish stubble from his imperfectly shaven jaw seemed to give a rough blush to his cheeks, as if he were in high spirits, or red-faced from some passionate exertion. His jaw was large and strong. The ghost of a little smile seemed always to be fading in and out of existence on his lips.

With him were his secretary, a thin and gray hollow-cheeked man named Mr. Sprat, and his rough-looking sidekick, Daffyd ap Cymru, who dressed in brown leather. We had to call him by his last name; the grown-ups called him Taffy. He was supposed to be some sort of groundskeeper or gamekeeper or something for the estate. None of us could ever remember seeing him do a lick of work.

When the Headmaster stepped suddenly through the door, with his two flunkies in tow, Dr. Fell rose to his feet and offered him his chair.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Ananias,” said the Headmaster solemnly, while Mr. Sprat scuttled around to hold out the chair at the foot of the table for the Headmaster, and Mr. ap Cymru sauntered after, looking over the gathering as if trying to assess who might or might not be armed. When the Headmaster gathered his robes and sat, by some sleight of hand it seemed, he was now at the head of the table, and Dr. Fell was at the foot. Ap Cymru and Sprat took positions to either side of the Headmaster’s chair, like supporters on a coat of arms.

“Please don’t allow me to disturb your normal routine,” the Headmaster intoned in a genial voice. His voice was a deep basso profundo, like a thunderhead talking. “I am sure whatever your normal breakfast table conversation might be, is suitable for me. Think of me as your guest.”

No order was ever disobeyed so blatantly. Dr. Fell stared at the Headmaster without expression, like a machine on standby, awaiting further input. Mrs. Wren’s good humor had evaporated. She looked like a wild-eyed rabbit, petrified, and nibbled her toast with tiny bites. Even the cool Miss Daw seemed subdued, although, with Miss Daw, such a thing was hard to tell.

A few minutes crawled by in frozen silence. The Headmaster asked for nothing more than a cup of coffee with cream: but it required three members of the Cook’s staff to come scurrying out of the kitchen to make sure all was in order. The Headmaster sipped the coffee and thanked the Cook, who backed out of the room, bowing and smiling.

Well, I saw a chance. I cleared my throat and said, “Please pass the cream?” For the Cook’s man had brought a silver creamer in on its own plate, surrounded by chips of ice, for the Headmaster.

Victor said, “Permit me…” and stood to reach for it.

The Headmaster, however, picked up the creamer and, using his right hand to hold back the drapes of his left sleeve, leaned across the table toward me. He seemed to loom like an approaching thunderhead in my vision. I thought the distance too far, since there were two empty seats between us, but he leaned farther than I could guess, or the distance was less than I thought.

“Ah, no; please permit me,” he said in a voice like a genial earthquake. “But, Miss Windrose, you seem to be drinking only orange juice this morning. This seems odd. For what particular purpose did you require the cream, Miss Windrose?”

Every eye was now riveted on me. Time seemed to slow, get slower, and finally freeze, as everyone around the table—Mr. ap Cymru, Mr. Sprat, and the assistant Cook—all waited for me to say something.

Across the table from me, a slow sneer of impatience was forming on Colin’s features. Evidently, he did not think it should be so terribly difficult to think of something clever to say. Impatience? Disgust, rather. He thought I was letting the group down.

Whatever it was that was so obvious, I couldn’t think of it.

Headmaster said, “Why did you want the cream again, Miss Windrose? Surely I am not to pour it over your kippers?”

I sat in miserable silence.

The Headmaster merely smiled, and said, “Here, well, why don’t you keep it near till your memory returns, then?”

He set it down so abruptly on the tablecloth that a little cream slopped out onto the linen.

“Oh dear,” he said, smiling, settling back into his chair like a mountain sinking into the sea. “It seems that did not go as planned. Well, fortunate for me that, as Headmaster, there is no one to punish me for my little slips, is there? Rank hath its privilege, as they say, what?” He looked around, as if expecting a polite laugh.

No one laughed.

“Very good,” he said, not one whit disturbed by this reception. He sipped his coffee, one sip, put it down in his saucer, and straightened up a little in his chair as if he were about to make an announcement.

“Since we are all sharing breakfast together so comfortably, let me just say to all of you, staff and students alike, that this institution has a deep interest—I am tempted to say a crucial interest—in the upcoming meeting of the Board of Visitors and Governors. Fundamental changes are in the offing. Fundamental changes. There should be no real cause for alarm. We can go about our daily business as we always have done—one big, happy family, dedicated to learning and improvement.

“However, I would like to emphasize that we must put our best foot forward. Our institution here, is, I dare say, unique, and some of what goes on here may be subject to misinterpretation by certain less generous souls. But is there a way to lessen, may I say, mute, this threat?

“Well, ladies, gentlemen, children, we have all been on this Earth for some years now, and I trust that we all know how to act. We all have high spirits; some of us have very interesting hobbies. But let us all dedicate ourselves, yes, dedicate, in keeping those high spirits and those unusual habits in their proper orbit.

“I am speaking as much to the staff here as to the student body, for how our charges behave, is, ultimately, a reflection on the care with which we have carried out our duty.

“Oh, I realize what some of you must be thinking…”

Mrs. Wren turned pale as a sheet of paper when he said this…

“…and I know what is in your hearts. You think that the students have grown now to an age where we can be a little more relaxed in the discharge of our duties, that we can encourage the young birds to fly, so to speak.

“And you youngsters are no doubt thinking that you are as old and wise as can be, and have no more need of our guidance and instruction.

“Well, such thoughts must be held in check. This institution does not look favorably upon any act of insubordination or impertinence, no matter who the originator might be. Especially now, at this crucial time, when the situation here—in which we have all been so comfortable for so long—may be in danger of upset.

“Dedication is the key. As long as we are all, as a group, I dare say, as a family, dedicated to preserving a proper appearance before each other, before society, and before the rather important guests we are about to receive, then all will be well. I assume I can count upon all of you. Remember that whichever link in the chain proves to be weakest is the one that shall be broken first. Broken. This is the significant word here.”

He stood, told us to return to our breakfast, and sailed out, Mr. ap Cymru and Mr. Sprat trailing in his wake.

Victor and Quentin were staring with grave disquiet at the little puddle of cream the Headmaster had made upon the tablecloth. It did not seem as if all would be well after all.

3.

None of us had a chance to speak. At the end of the meal, Dr. Fell stood and told Vanity to go with him. The rest of us stayed in our places. A moment later, Mrs. Wren led Quentin from the room, and Miss Daw made the slightest possible sigh in her throat, which indicated she was waiting for one of the boys to hold her chair as she rose. Both Colin and Victor scrambled to their feet, and she gravely informed them that harpsichord practice was to be held early this day, and would they be so kind as to accompany her immediately?

I was left alone at the table. Mr. ap Cymru came sauntering back into the room, both hands in his back pockets. He grinned down at me wolfishly. There was a toothpick hanging between his teeth, which wiggled up and down when he grinned.

There was something in his eyes I didn’t like. I stared down at my knees, blushing.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Windrose, sitting pretty and all alone here at table.”

That comment did not seem to call for a response, so I said nothing.

“Here we are, Miss Windrose. I’ll let the devil take me if this fails to cheer you up. I know it made me laugh.”

He put out his hand, but I did not reach for what he was offering. He snorted, and dropped a slip of paper on my empty plate. Without a word, he ambled out of the dining room. I do not know where he ate his breakfast. With Mr. Glum, I supposed.

I opened the paper.

The note read: “Report to the Headmaster’s office at 9:15 sharp. This note will excuse you from classes or other duties.”

4.

Headmaster’s office was on the highest floor of the West Wing, an area of the manor where we had almost never been. Mr. Sprat had an office filled with dark mahogany, with law books on heavy shelves. Double doors, with red leather tacked to their surfaces, led from Sprat’s office to the waiting room.

Mr. Sprat merely nodded at me, and motioned toward the doors. The room beyond was empty of people. Tall wing-backed chairs of red plush faced a long divan of the same material across a coffee table made of a slab of green marble. There were trophy cases on two walls, filled with cups and plaques, and stuffed and mounted fish hanging high near the ceiling. Above the divan was a truly enormous swordfish.

There were two narrow arrow slits between the trophy cases, letting thin slivers of light into the otherwise dark room. Frost coated the glass.

I rubbed at the glass, leaving a white, hand-shaped streak of visibility in the blind surface. Snowflakes were falling onto the gray grass below, the first fall of the season. Silent, white, implacable. The world never looked so lonely.

And there were two clocks, one to either side of the door leading to the inner office. They were half a second out of synch, so that one loud ticking noise seemed to be jumping back and forth between them; first one would tick, then the other would, then the first again, then the second again, in endless monotony. Both clocks were oblong, tall and thin, but were slightly wider in the upper half, before narrowing again at their crowns. I felt afraid of those clocks for a reason I could not name, a fear like none I had known since my days, as a little girl, before Colin made clowns out of the gargoyles in my room.

As if my thought of him had summoned him, Colin stepped suddenly out from the inner office. Seeing me, he shut the door quickly behind him, before the Headmaster should know I was there.

He hissed, “Mr. Headmaster, I was going to ask for the tea in a moment, but I wanted to be sure they did not take the cream away again. Tea.”

I hissed back, “He knew.”

“He guessed. Your deer-frozen-in-the-headlights act convinced him.”

“What happened last night?”

“Nothing. Quentin stood on a tombstone with a cape from the theater stores around his neck. He hopped up and down a few times. He said the air was embarrassed, and wouldn’t carry on when anyone was watching. What happened to you?”

“Glum’s dog talked. It was going to catch us, but led Glum on a wild goose chase instead. The dog wants to be our friend when our star is in the ascendant. Oh, and Vanity can either bend space-time, or create secret passages at will. There’s crawl spaces behind the walls, and peepholes to watch us. Dr. Fell said His Highness is coming, and that this was never an orph…”

The door swung open behind Colin, and there stood the Headmaster, tall and black in his robes. He had taken his pony-tail down. I had never seen him with his hair undone before. It fell to his shoulders in loose red ringlets. He looked like a picture of an ancient king. Or like a lion standing on its hind legs.

There was such a dangerous glint in his eye that I was sure he was going to strike Colin down on the spot. But he merely nodded to the far door, saying to Colin, “That will do.”

Colin looked at me, but could ask nothing further. So he shrugged and walked off.

The Headmaster stepped back, making a grand gesture with his arm, so that the drapery of his sleeve filled the doorway for a moment, and then receded, like curtains being drawn before a play. “Miss Windrose, if you please.”

His was a massive desk of oak. Behind the desk was a chair whose back reached all the way to the ceiling. The surface of the desk was entirely bare. The desk and the chair stood on a dais, which was covered with red carpet. Before the dais was a small uncomfortable chair of black wood. It sat on a floor of wood, which was harder and no doubt colder than the carpeted dais.

Two framed paintings filled the wall behind him, one to either side of the chair. One showed a green mountain in the midst of the sea, atop which a walled city rose, with towers and colonnades. Above the island rose, even higher, a great wave poised to drown the city.

The other painting showed a mariner tied to the mast of a ship, his face contorted with longing and agony, and, on the rocks past which they rowed, sat beautiful women with harps, their mouths wide with song.

5.

The Headmaster said, “I see you are observing the masterpieces. The one on the left depicts Atlantis. You are familiar with the myth? A virtuous people under the leadership of the sea god Poseidon enacted laws, which they inscribed on a pillar of orichalchum in the center of their great public temple. But when, as time passed, they came to forget these laws, an angry Zeus called destruction down upon their greatness, and sank the island. He had cause to be angered, you see. All other laws are written by mortal legislators, who had only the wisdom of men to guide them; and human laws can be good or bad just as human men are good or bad. But the laws of the gods are the order of nature.

“The painting here on the right shows Odysseus being tormented by the Sirens. Their song is so beautiful, you see, that anyone who hears it is enchanted. Fortunately, he had the wisdom to have his men lash him to the mast, since he knew he would not be able, just by his own effort, to exercise the self-control he would need. No doubt he was terrifically annoyed at those bonds at the time. No doubt he was glad of them later, once he had wits about him enough to see the danger of the Sirens’ song. They were cannibals, you see, and ate the flesh from the men they lured onto their reefs.

“Or so the story goes. One must remember that, according to Homer, it was Nausicaa who found the shipwrecked Odysseus on the shores of the magical isle of the Phaeacians. The whole tale we think of as the travels of Odysseus, was nothing more than his report to Nausicaa’s father, the king of Phaeacia. Since he was the only survivor of his journey, there was no one to contradict him, was there? He may have learned more from the Sirens’ song than he admitted.”

He folded his hands on the desk before him, and leaned his back against the carven back of his tall, tall chair.

I was beginning to learn that when grown-ups drone on and on about something, they are driving at a point they don’t want to admit they are driving at.

It was with a sense of wonder that I realized that such indirectness might be meant to spare my feelings. In other words, it was a sign of kindness, not cowardice. What cause could the Headmaster have to fear me? His expression was a friendly one.

On the other hand, what in the world could he be trying to protect me from?

As when I didn’t know what to answer in class, I decided merely to sit, look attentive, and keep my hands folded in my lap.

Boggin pursed his lips, then said, “You are often annoyed, too, aren’t you, Miss Windrose? Like our wandering Odysseus here, eh? You want to see the wide-open spaces of the world, to walk where no white man has trod, to drink from untasted streams of unclimbed mountains. You are chafing at your bonds, like he is.” Now he pointed to the skulls and bones that the artist had placed around the feet of the Sirens. “What always puzzled me about the story is that he saw the remains of the other men, but was eager to throw himself on the rock at the feet of the Sirens nonetheless. Do you know why?”

It was a direct question. “No, Headmaster.”

“Because he was an optimist. At least, during the moments when the Sirens’ song was influencing his reasoning powers. He thought himself equal to the task.”

Boggin was silent for a while, watching me. He had more practice at the staring and waiting game than I did. I began to squirm and fidget.

“Very interesting, Headmaster. May I go now?”

“Have you been well treated here, Miss Windrose?”

That was unexpected. “W-what…? I mean… Sir…?”

He repeated the question.

“Well, I… I do want to leave here.”

“Why, and so you shall, once you have reached the age of your majority.”

“How old am I, Headmaster?”

“Sixteen.”

“That is odd. Because you told me I was sixteen four years ago. By that reckoning, I am at least twenty by now. If I was actually twenty when you said I was sixteen, I am now twenty-four.”

“Your recollection must be in error, Miss Windrose.” The dismissal was curt.

“But, four years ago, you said—”

“I am sure we have exhausted this topic, Miss Windrose. Let us dwell on the main point. You appear to be unhappy here, and I am at a loss to understand why. Have you been beaten? Starved? Mistreated? No indeed. You have received a first-rate education, food, medicine, clothing—some would say very fine clothing—and have been sheltered in a mansion of singular historic import, and great beauty.

“Why, Sir Francis Drake was said to have obtained his famous looking glass from the master of these lands, after throwing a pin made of gold into the well at Holywell. And Owen Glendower bivouacked in the haunted woods north of Penrice Castle yonder, to make attacks against Edward’s mighty fortress at Carreg-Cennen. Earlier myths say that the giant stone slab at Cefn Bryn, upon four upright standing stones (still called Arthur’s Table) marks the very spot to which King Arthur removed the head of the giant Bran, after the High King unearthed it from the Tower of London. The Head of Bran preserved the realm from foreign invasion, you see, and Arthur feared the forces from the Otherworld more than he feared those from France. You should deem yourself honored to dwell in such a setting, Miss Windrose. Honored!”

I said, “My room is cold. At night.”

“What?”

“It is a fine mansion, Headmaster. The grounds are beautiful. But my room is ice-cold.”

To my surprise he frowned, and said, “I’ll see to it.”

“You mean—?”

“I am sure you are not prone to the accidents, or the antics, which tempted our young Mr. mac FirBolg to abuse the privilege of having a fire in his room. I will see you are supplied with firewood and kindling. Unless you would prefer an electric space heater?”

“May I have both?”

“Why not? We are not your enemies, Miss Windrose, no matter what you may have been led to believe. We are your legal guardians—in loco parentis, so to speak. We shall be very much derelict in our duties if we do not do everything parents would do to see to the health and well-being of their children.”

Greatly daring, I said, “If you did not lock us in at night, we could use the water closet on the second floor. Instead of a chamber pot.”

“My, we are optimistic, aren’t we? Well, why not? If…”

“If… what…?”

“If you do not abuse the privilege. May I have your word?”

I sat watching him, looking up. He sat watching me, looking down. He looked very satisfied with himself.

I ventured to say, “I don’t believe I understand, Headmaster.”

“But I believe you do, Miss Windrose. May I have your word?”

“What exactly am I agreeing to, Headmaster?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “No doubt you would like to have your legal counsel present before you answer. But that is a prerogative only adults may enjoy.”

“Headmaster, I only want to know what I am agreeing to…”

“Must you play games with me, Miss Windrose? That, I am afraid, is also a prerogative only adults enjoy, and few of them come off the better for it, I assure you.” He drew his eyes back down from the ceiling, and, at that moment, even though the doors and windows here were shut, a very heavy draft fluttered through the room. I shivered in the sudden cold. His loose hair rose up off his shoulders for a moment, swaying and reaching in the wind gust, and his robes rippled. He appeared not one whit disaccommodated by the sudden drop in temperature.

He said, “In sum, you will agree not to do anything to make me regret my decision, Miss Windrose. No running off, no midnight escapades. We have a concern for proper morality here, and do not need to have young girls making visits to young men in the small hours before dawn.”

He leaned back, and the wind gust stopped. I could not shake the feeling that the draft had come from his side of the room, despite that the door was behind me. I sat in the chair, hugging myself.

Headmaster Boggin tapped his fingers on the tabletop, looking idly amused. “Well, do we have an agreement?”

I looked up at him. I really, really hated that chamber pot. And the agreement would not go through if Vanity did not agree also. Nevertheless…

“Why?” I said.

“Why what, Miss Windrose? The question is very general in its application, and has caused puzzlement among philosophers for years.”

“Why is it important to you? Now, I mean. It’s the meeting of the Board of Visitors and Governors, isn’t it?”

“Very perceptive.”

“Well, you did mention it at breakfast…”

“Yes, but none of your brothers asked about it. Of course, this upcoming meeting is very important to us. To you, especially. The way we do things here may be changed. The school might close. Or it might stay open. You might be moved to another institution. Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or, if the Board of Visitors and Governors become convinced that we have made an error in estimating your age… your records were lost, you see… you might simply be released. Free. Off to see the world! Wouldn’t that be grand? It could happen tomorrow. Or the next day.”

He paused to let that sink in.

“But…”

Another pause.

He said, “But what do you think, Miss Windrose, would persuade the Board that you are, in fact, an adult and mature woman? Surely you make the strongest case by acting in the most adult fashion possible. The most, if I may say, responsible fashion possible.”

I asked, “What is this meeting about? Why is it so important?”

Now he smiled again, folded his arms, and leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, a fairly informal posture I do not think I had seen him take before. “The matter is complex. You may have noticed, over the years, certain tensions here among the staff. I, for example, am employed directly by Saint Dymphna’s School and College for Destitute Children. Dr. Fell, who looks after your health, is an employee of the Delphian Trust for Foundling Children. Both he and I, however, are paid out of trust funds, as are the teachers who are employed by the school. Mr. Glum, on the other hand, works directly for the Branshead Estate, and is paid out of the funds of the Talbot family, who owns the land. Mrs. Wren is not, in fact, under my direct authority, but was appointed by Her Majesty’s Commission on the Welfare of Unwanted Children. She is, in fact, a crown officer, who also serves as an inspector and compliance overseer for you children.”

“Who pays Mr. ap Cymru?”

“Mr. ap Cymru works for the Historical Institute, who lent a rather large sum of money to the Talbot family, in return for certain promises that historical features on the ground would be preserved. In effect, he is here to make sure Mr. Glum does not run over a cromlech with a tractor, or something. He would be something of a free agent were it not for the fact that the Institute also borrowed money from the Foundling Trust, and ceded some authority to them.

“I should tell you, however, that the Foundling Trust recently lost its master. The property was supposed to pass to the heirs of the chief trustee, but the matter is being disputed in court as to which of two sons the new chief trustee should be. Both factions, quite frankly, are courting our favor, for neither wants us to file an amicus curiae brief—that is a type of legal document—saying we prefer one man over the other. The court may take our opinions quite seriously.

“There you have the whole picture, Miss Windrose. Are you an adult, as you claim? Do you see the seriousness of your position, and mine? The new trustee might conclude that you have been living here in the lap of luxury, and should be sent to a state-run home, or even a workhouse. Or, he might conclude that you have been kept here too long, release the funds held in trust for you, and send you with Godspeed to wherever you wish to go. My position is similar. I might be discharged. Or my authority might be expanded. It is odd indeed to be a headmaster of a school that employs nine tutors and has only five students; I would like to see more faces here, myself. You would not believe the trash they learn in state schools these days. They do not even teach Greek and Latin any longer.”

I looked at the painting of Odysseus. “They don’t read Homer?”

“Students are lucky if they are assigned to read Page Three of the Royal London Yellow Journal of Gossip and Tripe, Miss Windrose. Students these days do not know Euclid, nor Lucretius, nor Descartes, nor Shakespeare, nor Milton. They cannot calculate a grocery bill, much less calculate the zodiacal anomaly for Venus in hexadecimals. Do you begin to see how lucky you are, Miss Windrose? How well you are treated at this place you think of as a prison camp?

“The reason why you and I have not had this talk before is that there was no need before. If you wish to help Mr. Triumph in his extracurricular studies, I do not wish to impede you. I am frankly rather proud of him, and of you. Most teachers beg on their knees to the deaf and uncaring heavens for students as bright as you have shown yourselves to be. Can you imagine how pleased they would be to find someone who could understand the Michaelson-Morely experiment, much less reproduce it?

“I am proud of you, Miss Windrose. You are bright and attractive. Maybe even a genius. But I am also deeply ashamed when I hear of certain late-night shenanigans and vandalism. Ashamed, because it becomes clear we have not done our duty in raising you properly. Please do me the favor, Miss Windrose, of allowing me to hear no more such rumors.”

He sat there, looking friendly yet stern. I sat, feeling smaller and smaller with each passing moment.

Finally I said, “May I go, Headmaster…?”

“You may go, Miss Windrose.”

I rose and was walking out, when his voice stopped me. “Oh, Miss Windrose…? One more thing…?”

I turned. There he sat, between the doomed glory of Atlantis and the torments of Odysseus, his loose red hair piled around his shoulders.

“Yes, Headmaster?”

“Your word, Miss Windrose…?”

“You have it, Headmaster. I promise.”

“Then your door shall be unlocked tonight.”

I closed the door behind me. In the waiting room again, I stood between the two clocks, ticking slightly out of synch, with their tick-tock now in my left ear, now in my right. I was shaking slightly.

6.

We got the chance to exchange talk after lunch. Colin pretended to throw an epileptic fit, and choke on his soup, and they rushed him off to the infirmary. It was quite natural that we were permitted to visit him, of course, since we all became so distraught that we could not attend our Home Economics lessons. Mrs. Wren let the four of us out early.

We had tried the same thing a period earlier, with Miss Daw, but she had simply smiled a cool, dreamy smile, as if she were listening to distant music, and continued with her fingering instructions.

“That’s great!” said Colin, when he heard what the Headmaster had said to me. “The door’s unlocked! You can get out any time!”

He lay in the hospital bed, his hands folded behind his head, looking pleased as punch.

“What did he say to you boys?” asked Vanity. Vanity was irked, because she had not been called in to see Headmaster Boggin.

Quentin said, “Substantially the same thing. We should behave while the Board meeting is in progress. He didn’t tell us the details, though.” He looked at me sidelong, as if thinking that I was, after all, two or three years older than he was, and was privy to information denied him.

Victor said, “We should not attempt our final escape until we discover more about who this guest of the Board is. This is our first hint that there is a power even the Headmaster fears. If we can enlist such a power to our aid, then we stand a chance of getting away from here. Otherwise, I do not see how we can get far enough away, fast enough. Even if we stole a boat from the village, Headmaster could have the police run us down.”

Colin said, “What about merely heading into the forest? It gets deeper and darker the further in you go.”

“The maps show the woods are only two miles wide,” said Quentin softly. “If you pass through them, you come to Oxwich Green.”

“Maps of England,” said Colin, “On Earth. The real forest goes on for a trillion miles, and then leads to a forest darker than it is.”

Quentin said in a mild voice, “I am not claiming this is Earth. But maps are powerful symbols, and may be influencing us in a subtle fashion. We should destroy or deface the maps here, to loosen their grip on us, and draw maps of our own portraying the true world beyond these walls.”

I said, “You know, maybe we should listen to the Headmaster. I mean, what you guys are saying does sound a little, well, crazy, doesn’t it? He said that the Board might just release us. And he said there were funds waiting for us. Some sort of trust fund held for us when we reach eighteen. I mean, can’t we try to give him a chance? The Headmaster?”

Victor looked puzzled, as if I had gotten the wrong answer on a math sum. Quentin looked pensive and slightly sad. Colin laughed at me, and stuck his hands under his own shirt, pushing them out as if he had breasts. “Let’s give the Headmaster a chance!” he said in a high falsetto, batting his eyelashes. “Oh, let’s listen to him! I want a good grade on my toad-eating class next week!”

Vanity yanked the pillow out from under Colin’s head so that his head fell back sharply onto the wooden bed frame, and smote him in the face with it, before he could get his hands clear of his shirt to defend himself.

She said, “Did you ask the Headmaster about the talking dog? Or Dr. Fell saying he wanted to cut us up for experiments? About me being a princess, and you being from before the fall of Adam?”

Victor and Quentin stared. “What talking dog?” came Colin’s muffled voice from under the pillow.

Fortunately, we had enough time to fill them in on the details before the nurse, Sister Twitchett, came back in.

By the time we were done reciting the tales of our discoveries, my pleas to give the Headmaster a chance began to seem to be the crazy talk, not Quentin’s soft-voiced observation that the room we were in might have a peephole in it, and could we have Vanity look for the secret door?