“I’ll be in Mr. Munt’s study during the service.” I turned on my heel. “If you might make any excuses necessary which prevent my being looked for? That would be rather the least you could do.”
? ? ?
Shadows are curious entities; they are lightless and yet cast a shape into the world, just as I do. As I ventured through the empty hallways, I did not think of myself as myself at all but as another Jane, a shadow given form. This curious phenomenon echoed the way I had come to think of my cousin’s murder—Edwin was no more, due to regrettable events somehow removed from the Jane Steele who had mastered translating Cato and gliding along with a spine straight as a pikestaff. My mother was also no more, but that was another matter, I thought as I tiptoed, flinching at each creak. I had been wicked, in an impulsive fashion; I had been devious, in minor targeted ones.
This time I would invade a headmaster’s private office, forge records, and escape, which would be a sure step on the road to perdition.
The unlocked door to Mr. Munt’s study swung open. The shelves were crammed, boasting titles from phrenology to poetry, and the dwindling fire’s aroma mingled with book must and tobacco. I had visited the coffer-ceilinged chamber twice—once, I realised to my own horror, as a trusted messenger delivering Vesalius Munt a note from Miss Lilyvale; and once, after our late lamented Fox had insisted upon eating, I was sent there to escort the sobbing girl back to our dormitory.
Fox refused to say what had happened—they all did—but I heard her whimper I’m not as feckless as I am ugly in my memory as I stepped over the threshold.
The record lay wantonly open next to an ink pot, pen, blotter, and gleaming letter opener. A silvery charge shot through me, and I dived for the thing; my stomach rose up my gullet as I examined the record of purchases never meant for us to consume:
20 lbs. cod, alive—at 2d. a pound
50 bunches turnips—at penny a bunch
13 pints dried figs for pudding—at 1d. a pint
Biting my lip, I reached for his pen and dipped it in the inkpot. Keeping track of foodstuffs was rightfully the cook’s province, but considering the profits Mr. Munt made by selling our strength away, it was unsurprising he sought complete control. Meals were planned a month in advance, with decisive check marks next to the supplies that had already been paid for.
My hands were steady as I hovered over the order to be delivered the next day. It would have been a fatal mistake to cross anything out and rewrite it, so some thought was required; but within three minutes, I had changed 70 bunches cress to 20 bunches cress, 90 lbs. potatoes to 80 lbs. potatoes, and 7 dozen eggs to 4 dozen eggs.
Granted, I should have to ascertain how to make off with fifty bunches of cress, ten pounds of potatoes, and three dozen eggs, and then hide these items, and then cook them, but these steep obstacles to me seemed mere irritants. The fire languished, and the smiling moon of the standing clock leered at me. My altered numbers were rather strange, but not so very unlike Mr. Munt’s other characters, and I blew upon the page to dry my falsehoods, imagining a great steaming plate of fried eggs and potato hash and cress salad for—
“I wonder just what you think you’re doing—and then again, I don’t.”
Dropping the pen as horror gripped me, I sent a bloodlike spatter across the page.
Mr. Munt stood in the doorway, half smiling as if he were greeting a friend in a tea shop. My dismay was quickly buried under an avalanche of frozen rage.
“She meant for me to be caught,” I found myself hissing.
“The kindhearted Miss Lilyvale?” Mr. Munt shut the door and approached with even strides as I backed away. “Come now, I’m not going to hurt you. When have I ever hurt any of you? Madame Archambault is a fine French instructor, and her ways are set, but despite the Bible’s injunctions to spare not the rod, I confess I find violence crude.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, too angry to prevaricate. “What about your sermon?”
Mr. Munt placed his Bible reverently upon the desk. “The village prelate is delivering his marvellous message upon original sin. One must grasp the squalorous condition of the unredeemed soul in order to be duly grateful for Christ’s intercession. As for your accusation regarding Miss Lilyvale, that is more complicated. I may have mentioned to the cook that I was grateful she was so honest—for were this ledger to be tampered with, I should never know whether our deliveries had arrived intact. Miss Lilyvale may have heard me say so, for she was nearby, though I should never imply she is capable of eavesdropping.”
Hatred thrust like a stake through my heart.
“I took advantage of my colleague’s visit in order to settle the books. I ought to have locked the door, in retro—”
“You planned all of this!” I cried. “This is another of your cruel games.”
“Cruel?” He feigned hurt, his fine features twisting. “Steele, is your heart so hardened that you can invade my private office—”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“Falsify my accounts—”