Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DIANA OCTOBER 1918

Like a weight, Diana carried Josh's despairing outburst with her throughout the rest of the day. It fit in next to other new weights—like pity for the fatherless Willis family and worry about wandering boys at night—and older ones that she preferred not to look at head on. "One apocalypse at a time" one of her nursing supervisors used to say. Though sometimes that just resulted in lining up your disasters in a seemingly never-ending line. All in all, enough for a pulsating pain at the base of her skull by the time she made it to breakfast.

In any but the most strictly disciplined schools, mealtimes with dozens of boys were always a dull roar of voices and silverware and dropped plates and the scraping of chair legs.

Diana nearly backed out of the dining room, but when she caught sight of Clarissa Somersby, sitting straight and ghastly-pale alone at the head table, she grabbed a bowl of oatmeal and sat next to the headmistress without worrying about whether she was wanted. If Clarissa didn't want company, she should have stayed in her room.

Anyone would have asked it: "Are you feeling quite well, Miss Somersby?" Even if Diana hadn't overheard this morning's ultimatum from Sir Wilfred, she would have guessed that something was wrong with Clarissa. Strands of her glossy hair slipped from crooked pins, and up close her skin had the green tinge of nausea.

Clarissa turned her head, her eyes the only glittering, alive part of her face. She put down her fork and seized Diana's wrist. "Tell me about the ghost," she commanded.

"I don't … what ghost?" Diana would have liked to look around for reinforcements, but she was afraid to break eye contact. Quite why she was afraid, she couldn't say.

"I heard about the Willis boy, Austin. He was out of bed in the night because the ghost boy was calling to him. You stayed with him, right? Can you tell me exactly what he said? Beth does not want me questioning him. Not yet."

Not ever , Diana thought, if this wildly intense version of Clarissa were going to stick around . Forget ghosts calling children out of bed—if Clarissa Somersby were to get at Austin Willis right now she'd frighten him much more than any story.

With the decisiveness of a field nurse, Diana pushed her chair back and used Clarissa's hold of her wrist to get them both standing. "Let's speak in your office," she said in a low voice. "Best not to let any whisper of ghosts be heard by the boys. The only thing that flies faster than rumors is fear."

The walk, or perhaps the reminder of her position, did Clarissa good—she had herself under better control when they reached her office. But instead of taking a seat behind the desk, she gestured Diana to a settee and joined her. So, a conversation between equals, or as near as the two of them could come.

Before Clarissa could ask again, Diana gave her a detailed—and purposefully dry—account of Austin's nighttime wanderings. The last thing they needed just now was more atmosphere. She ended by saying firmly, "Mrs. Willis is right to keep him calm and resting today. The last thing he should be doing is answering further questions. At least, none that aren't asked by his mother. I'm sure Mrs. Willis will be forthcoming with any details she learns."

Clarissa had lost the green tinge to her skin, without gaining any pink. But her eyes had calmed. "You think me mad."

"I find that term imprecise and insulting. If you mean that I think you are mentally unsound in some way—no, I do not." Diana hesitated, uncertain how honest to be. When the headmistress continued simply to look at her, she threw caution to the wind and said exactly what she was thinking. "I think you have a very sound mind, and a very sad past. I think that the imminent end of the war is causing a great many of us to experience … to feel things we have tried not to feel for a long time. Obviously you learned once how to cope with great loss. I am certain you will learn how to cope once more."

"You must think me very pitiable. Poor little rich girl, lost her brother ages ago. How many children die in England each year, do you think? In 1915, it was one hundred and fifty thousand children under the age of five. How many of their sisters have the luxury to sit around and mourn endlessly? And you, well you have seen death in numbers so great as to make individual tragedies seem … trivial."

"No death is trivial," Diana said, heat burning her throat with the words. "And you really must stop telling me what I think."

When Clarissa laughed, it teetered for a moment on the edge of hysteria but only for a moment. It softened into something softer that, despite its melancholy, eased the grip around Diana's chest. Whatever had possessed Clarissa Somersby had retreated. For now.

"Did you learn plain speaking as a nurse, or did you take it with you to France?"

Diana let out a huff equal parts relief and amusement. "My mother says my first words were telling her she'd burnt the toast. Sometimes an authoritative voice was all I had to get a terrified or enraged soldier under control."

"You feel that you need to get me under control?"

"I feel that researching annual childhood-mortality rates is not a healthy coping mechanism for loss."

With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Clarissa appeared to be debating with herself. She stood up suddenly, her own authority back in place, and walked to a side table that held a number of silver-framed photographs. She took one up and lightly passed a finger across it before handing it to Diana.

"That is my brother Thomas. It was taken just eight weeks before he disappeared. It is a story much passed around in the village and, no doubt, the school with all the variations that time and curiosity can create. I wonder … I find I am in need of a detached observer. A nurse, if you will. An unflappable, intelligent mind that can see past emotional complications in order to view things in their proper relationships. I would like to tell you about Thomas and my own reasons for remaining at Havencross."

When Diana didn't immediately reply, Clarissa added, "Not now. It's been a rough night and a difficult morning. You must see to Austin Willis, and I must see to my school. Perhaps you would join me for tea tomorrow or the next day?"

Diana looked from the boy, frozen forever just before a smile, to the woman who still grieved enough that she hoped to find ghosts. "Of course I'll join you. I'd be honored."

Maybe by then she could think of something to say that wouldn't be dismissive or dishonest.

After checking in with Beth—Austin had fallen asleep and she was keeping both boys out of class for the day—Diana went to the infirmary and tidied away the linens from Austin's stay. Next she sat down to update her notes. She got no further than the date before exhaustion and melancholy swamped her and she put her head on her crossed arms on the desk.

She slipped somewhere between daylight and dreams, into that nebulous space where everything harsh and sharp recedes and all is muffled in cotton wool. She drifted in that half-pleasant, half-stultifying state until jerked upright by the sound of an enormous crash behind her.

Diana whirled out of her chair and was not surprised to find an empty room.

She was surprised to discover one of her file cabinets on its side. Diana touched it with the tip of one shoe; it was solid oak. Even empty she'd only been able to move it by throwing her shoulder against it and shoving it with the whole weight of her body. She doubted there was a boy who could do it. The faculty?

But none of that answered the question of how the person had vanished so suddenly.

Rolling her eyes, Diana grudgingly accepted that, whatever her fears, she would have to explore Joshua's secret passages. Whatever the difficulties, there must have been some added to the medieval sections, now lost from present memory. It was the only explanation that made sense—even if it did leave out the why of the whole thing.

As though he'd read her resolution from afar, a knock on her door was followed by Joshua's entry. He had his mouth open to speak but switched what he'd meant to say when he saw the fallen file drawer.

"More pranks?" he asked.

But even as Diana shook her head, the expression on his face changed and he strode across the room, the hitch of his left leg noticeable in his haste. "What happened?" he asked more urgently.

"It fell—" she began.

But Joshua had taken her chin in one hand and angled her face up and away. "A file drawer didn't do that."

Diana raised a hand to her neck, only now realizing that it stung. She pulled away from Joshua and fetched the hand mirror she kept in a drawer.

Angled from her left ear down her neck, which had been exposed while she dozed at her desk, were four red streaks. Diana had never seen anything quite like them before but she knew instantly what they were: sharp fingernails had raked her skin hard enough to draw beads of blood.