Chapter 12 #2
I found Eleanor in her office standing behind her desk.
Her composure rigid. Hands clasped at her waist, looking at past portraits on her wall.
Children who had come and gone so many years ago, many of whom found great joy here and later success.
Going on to study and travel. Not allowing stories of abandonment and pain to dictate their life’s path.
My eyes moved to the man in the seat in front of her desk.
Him. Again. Constable Finch. Older, wider, but with those dead blue eyes all the same.
“What is she doing here?” he asked. No greeting. No courtesy. Just the flat blade of disbelief.
“You’ve got a good memory, Detective Constable Finch,” Eleanor said. “You haven’t laid eyes on Wendy Darling in over a decade.”
Detective constable now. He’d moved up in rank.
With that familiar dry, clipped tone he said, “I’d know that face anywhere.”
“I work here,” I replied, keeping my voice level.
Eleanor stepped forward. “Miss Darling doesn’t have much time. She needs to get home and rest so she can teach in the morning.” Her voice was firm. “And I’d appreciate you refrain from speaking to my staff as if they were criminals.”
“She doesn’t live here?” He looked from Eleanor to me, scanning my hand, finding no wedding ring. “That’s peculiar, don’t you think? A single woman living on her own?”
“Detective Constable Finch,” Miss Eleanor said. “It is improper for a man your age to scrutinize the personal life of a young woman in my school, especially when the pressing matter is a missing child. Ask your questions, please.”
His gaze stayed fixed on me. “Where is Agnes?”
The question landed hard.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You have a history,” he murmured. “A record of being … overly involved with missing children. And now one child is grievously injured and another is missing at Marigold House.” He paused. “Strange, isn’t it, Miss Darling?”
Strange.
Such a strange girl. That Wendy Darling, claiming she’d been chased by birds with human faces.
Something inside me recoiled. The measured meanness to his tone. I’d heard it all from him, from other adults when I returned.
That Wendy Darling. Strange. Mad. Unusual.
I heard she was seeing things.
She told the paper that she could fly.
I heard she was speaking to people who weren’t even there.
Her poor, poor mother. I just can’t imagine the scandal. A child speaking of dead children.
You know what they say, she may have been involved with them being missing. Maybe even their murder.
“You should be looking for Agnes. Not here interrogating me.” My voice cracked, but I recovered and steadied it. He would not intimidate me. Not anymore. My focus had to be on finding Agnes.
Beside me, Eleanor made a sound, hmm. Sounding impressed with my words.
“Where do you think she’s gone to, then?” he asked.
I had to choose my words carefully. Otherwise they would haul me to Bethlem Royal Hospital again where they locked away women who dreamed strange dreams or spoke truths men couldn’t bear to hear.
I imagined that the wards didn’t look too different today than from my visit there long ago.
Tile floors scrubbed raw. Locked doors. Nurses with pity on the surface and steel beneath.
They would force a diagnosis on me to keep me there trapped: hysteria, delusion, exhaustion.
Anything to make sure I’d never leave again.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s your job to attend to. We’ll do all we can. Search the house. The estate. We’ll do our part, but we need you to do yours.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw a warm smile grow on Eleanor’s face.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go home so I can be prepared for my students in the morning.”
In the hallway, I found the other constables making their way downstairs. I ducked into the parlor and watched as they entered Eleanor’s office.
I had time, but not much.
I rushed up the stairs.
In the girl’s dormitory, past Lillian’s bed, past Elsie’s and Florence’s.
Agnes’s cot was the third from the end, always near the window, where she liked to be. To whisper to the trees before she fell asleep, she’d once told me.
Her bed was not made. Sheets creased. Blankets folded back as if she’d merely risen to use the lavatory and would return any second. The pillow was on a strange angle. Beneath the pillow, I thought. She’s hiding something there.
When I lifted it, there it lay. A black feather.
I raised it to the light. In my hand it felt warm, alive, and as I looked closer it pulsed as if it had its own heartbeat.
Outside the window came a riot of noise.
In the treetops I spotted dozens of black spots dotting branches. Crows. A great many of them. And all of them seemed to be screaming in a tangle.
I thought of Agnes’s bird skull, and how she said dead things could rise. Be made new again. Maybe that’s what Peter was. Maybe he was dead for a time. Asleep. And now, after a long slumber, he was awake, ready to fill the island with more children.
I approached the window and looked down and saw a little boy staring up at me.
Jax. Another boy from that faraway land. His neck still held that bulge the way necks shouldn’t. It was the last image of him I had.
Birds descended on him in a single, terrible hush. Black bodies, sharp-beaked, their wings wheeling. Dozens. More. All spinning around him, and he disappeared in a blur.
Behind me, the dormitory erupted. Children clutching their nightgowns.
“You’re right. It is bedtime. I need to run home.”
“Miss Wendy!” They gathered around me, arms wrapped around my arms, legs, waist, squeezing me tight.
“Can you read us a story?”
I tapped the tip of Mabel’s nose. “Just one. Go get Grimm’s Fairy Tales, please.”
Easing onto the window seat, I glanced once more outside. Everything was still. No birds, no wandering boys.
Mabel pressed the book into my hand, and the children gathered around me on the floor, seated cross-legged. Eyes bright. Wanting a bit of magic before bed.
I turned the pages, until I found “The Golden Bird,” settled in and read:
“A certain king had a garden, in which stood a tree that bore golden apples. When the apples were nearly ripe, they were counted; but one morning one was missing. The king became angry and ordered that someone should watch under the tree every night to find out who was stealing them …”
In the morning, I would try again to reach my brothers. If that didn’t work, I would walk to their homes and pound on their doors.
I didn’t care if they found discomfort in speaking of the past. It was speaking to me now, and if we all didn’t face it together, that past, that story, would consume us all.