Rebel Angels Read Online Free PDF

nothing but the rain. No bustling in the hallways to suggest someone rushing to answer a call. It is far too late for visitors, and surely Kartik would not use the front door. I am beginning to think that perhaps I dreamed it when I hear the knock again—louder this time.
    Now there is movement below. Quickly I put out my lantern. Brigid, our garrulous housekeeper, mutters as she thunders past on her way to answer the door. Who could be calling at so late an hour? My heart is keeping fast time with the rain as I creep down the hall and perch near the staircase. Brigid’s candle streaks the wall with shadows as she takes the stairs nearly two at a time, her long braid flying wildly behind her.
    “By awl the saints,” Brigid mutters. She huffs and puffs and reaches the door just as another knock descends. The door swings wide, letting the driving rain in with it. Someone has arrived in the dead of night. Someone dressed entirely in black. I feel as if I shall be sick with fright. I am frozen in place, not sure whether to make a dash down the stairs and out the door or run back to my room and bolt the door. In the dark of the hall, I cannot make out a face. Brigid’s candle moves closer, casting a glow on the figure. If this is a member of the Rakshana come for me, then I am most confused. For this is a woman. She gives her name, but as the door is still open I cannot hear it over the howling of the rain and wind. Brigid nods and bids the coachman come in and leave the woman’s trunk in the hallway. The woman pays him and Brigid closes the door against the press of night.
    “I’ll just wake the parlormaid to get you set’led,” Brigid grouses.
"No sense wakin’ Missus Nightwing. She’ll see you in proper come mornin’.”
    “That will be satisfactory,” the woman says. Her voice is deep with a hint of a burr, an accent I cannot place.
    Brigid turns up the lights to a low glow. She can’t resist giving one final harrumph on her way to the maid’s quarters. Left alone, the woman peels off her hat, revealing thick, dark hair and a severe face framed by heavy brows. She looks about the place, taking in the snake chandelier, the ornate carvings of nymphs and centaurs here and there. No doubt she has already noted the gargoyle collection dotting the roof and is likely wondering what sort of place this may be.
    She glances up the expanse of the staircase, and stops, cocking her head. She squints as if she sees me. Quickly I duck into the shadows, pushing myself flat against the wall. In a moment, I hear Brigid’s sharp voice barking out orders to the sleepy parlormaid.
    “This is Miss McCleethy, our new teacher. See to her things. I’ll show her to her room.”
    Mimi, the parlormaid, yawns and reaches for the lightest of the luggage, but Miss McCleethy takes it from her.
    “If you don’t mind, I should like to take this. My personal effects.” She smiles without showing any teeth.
    “Yes, miss.” Mimi curtsies in deference and, sighing, directs her attention to the large trunk in the foyer.
    Brigid’s candle turns the staircase into a dance of shadow and light. I fly on tiptoe down the hall and take refuge behind a potted fern resting on a wooden stand, watching them from the cover of those mammoth leaves. Brigid leads the way, but Miss McCleethy stops at the landing. She gazes at everything as if she has seen it before. What happens next is most curious indeed. At the imposing double doors that lead to the fire-damaged East Wing, the woman stops, flattening her palm against the warped wood there.
    In straining to see, my shoulder bumps the potted fern. The stand wobbles precariously. Quickly, I put out a hand to steady it, but already, Miss McCleethy peers into the darkness.
    “Who’s there?” she calls out.
    Heart pounding, I tighten myself into a ball, hoping the fern will disguise me. It won’t do to be caught sneaking about the halls of Spence in the dead of night. I can hear the creaking of the