The Deepest Night Read Online Free PDF

stared down at me with narrowed eyes. I pressed my lips into a line and stared back until I realized I shouldn’t. Then I stared at my knees.
    “How are you feeling these days, Eleanore?”
    I lifted my head, wary. Whatever else I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.
    “Very well, ma’am.”
    “And how is your—ah—arm?”
    I’d been shot in the arm. I’d been shot in the wing, too, but she couldn’t know about that.
    “Doing better, ma’am.”
    “The village physician has informed me that your physical recovery appears to be properly on course.”
    At least something about me was proper. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “It is unfortunate about the scar, but—well! What can one do?”
    One can avoid being in the path of a spray of bullets, that’s what.
    Mrs. Westcliffe looked away and cleared her throat. She lifted a hand to her immaculate black coif and patted at it fretfully, and I thought, incredulous, Crikey, she’s going to do it. She’s going to boot me out of the school.
    Despite what I’d said to Armand, I hadn’t really thought about not coming back next year, and sitting in that overstuffed chair right then, I realized how very much I did want to come back. That however difficult my life had been at Iverson, it was still the closest thing I’d ever had to a home. I wasn’t ready to give that up yet. I’d just thought … somehow it’d all work out. Somehow the magic would keep me here, even with Jesse gone.
    The angel clock began to chime.
    “I’ll be late to literature, ma’am,” I said hopefully.
    “You will be excused,” she replied, curt. “In fact, you will be excused for the remainder of the day. I’ve received a cable from the Duke of Idylling’s personal physician in Bath. It seems His Grace has requested a visit from you.”
    Now I was the one who had to clear her throat, because when I’d sucked in my breath I’d inhaled my spit. “Uh—from me ?”
    “Yes. In addition, it was specified that for sake of the duke’s continued … peace of mind, the visit is to take place at once. There are tickets already reserved for us at the train station in Bournemouth. We must leave immediately.” Westcliffe drummed her nails atop the desk, frowning. “I have struggled to maintain contact with His Grace, I admit. It seems the communication policy of his new … place of residence is rather restrictive. Still, I find the haste of this plan very nearly mysterious, especially since not even one of my letters …”
    She trailed off, glanced up, and noticed I was still there. The frown deepened.
    “You may cease looking so stupefied, Miss Jones. Did you imagine I’d allow you to see His Grace alone?”
    No, actually, I didn’t. Because Reginald, the Duke of Idylling, was locked away in a madhouse, and what I’d imagined was that I’d never have to see him ever again.
    Bugger it.
    I had been on a train only once before in my life. Once that I recalled, that is. Earlier this year I had traveled third class from London to the town of Bournemouth, which had the station nearest to Iverson, and it had been cramped and stinky and slow and absolutely fantastic, because every hour that passed had put more distance between me and my life at the orphanage. I hadn’t even minded the torturously upright wooden pews they’d called seats.
    But I wasn’t traveling third class now. Mrs. Westcliffe and I made our way down the station platform to the first-class compartments, and strange men touched the brims of their hats to us, and a porter took my hand to help me up the steps—which I appreciated, since my skirt hobbled me so severely I had to hitch it to my shins just to climb the first rung. Good thing Westcliffe had gone aboard first.
    The first-class seats weren’t merely padded, but padded in real burgundy velveteen. More porters moved up and down the aisle, offering glasses of cold water or ale and doily-lined trays of chocolates and nuts. The handful of other passengers already seated