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accent she has,” Cecily says. "Foreign.”
    “Doesn’t sound Welsh to me,” Martha adds. "More Scottish, I should think.”
    Elizabeth Poole drops two lumps of sugar into her brackish tea and stirs daintily. She’s wearing a delicate bracelet of golden ivy, no doubt an early gift from her grandfather, who is rumored to be wealthier than the Queen.
"She could be Irish, I suppose,” she says in her tight, high voice. "I do hope she isn’t a Papist.”
    It wouldn’t be worth my time to point out that our own Brigid is Irish and Catholic. For people like Elizabeth, the Irish are fine—in their place. And that place is living under stairs, working for the English.
    “I certainly hope she is an improvement on Miss Moore.” Cecily takes a bite of jam on toast.
    At Miss Moore’s name, Felicity and Ann go silent, eyes down. They haven’t forgotten that we were responsible for the dismissal of our former art teacher, a woman who took us into the caves behind Spence to show us the primitive goddess paintings there. It was Miss Moore who told me about my amulet and its connection to the Order. It was Miss Moore who told us stories about the Order, and that, in the end, was what led to her fall. Miss Moore was my friend, and I miss her.
    Cecily wrinkles her nose. “All those stories about magical women . . . what was it?”
    “The Order,” Ann says.
    “Oh, yes. The Order,” Cecily says. She gives the next bit a dramatic flair.
"Women who could create illusions and change the world.” This makes Elizabeth and Martha laugh and draws the attention of our instructors.
    “Utter nonsense, if you ask me,” Cecily says in a quiet voice.
    “They were only myths. She told us that,” I say, trying not to meet the eyes of either Ann or Felicity.
    “Exactly. What purpose did she have in telling us stories about sorceresses? She was supposed to teach us how to draw lovely pictures, not take us into a damp cave to see primitive scratchings by some old witches. It’s a wonder we didn’t all take a chill and die.”
    “You needn’t be so melodramatic,” Felicity says.
    “It’s true! In the end, she got what she deserved. Mrs. Nightwing was right to dismiss her. And you were absolutely right to put the blame where it belonged, Fee—on Miss Moore. If it hadn’t been for her, perhaps dear Pippa...” Cecily doesn’t finish.
    “Perhaps what?” I say icily.
    “I shouldn’t say,” Cecily demurs. She is rather like a cat with a small mouse in her mouth.
    “It was epilepsy that killed Pippa,” Felicity says, fiddling with her napkin.
"She had a fit. . . .”
    Cecily lowers her voice. “But Pippa was the first to tell Mrs. Nightwing about that wretched diary you were all reading. She was the one who confessed that you’d been out to the caves at night, and that you had gotten the idea from Miss Moore herself. I think that a strange coincidence, don’t you?”
    “The scones are exceptionally good today,” Ann says, trying to change the subject. She cannot bear conflict of any kind. She fears that it will always be her fault somehow.
    “What are you accusing her of?” I blurt out.
    “I think you know what I’m saying.”
    I can contain myself no longer. “Miss Moore was guilty of nothing but sharing a bit of folklore. I suggest we refrain from speaking of her altogether.”
    “Well, I like that,” Cecily says, laughing. The others follow her lead. Cecily is an idiot, but why is it that she still has the power to make me feel foolish? “Of course, you would defend her, Gemma. It was that strange amulet of yours that began the conversation in the first place, as I recall. What is it called again?”
    “The crescent eye,” Ann answers, crumbs sticking to her bottom lip.
    Elizabeth nods, adding kindling to the fire. "I don’t think you ever told us exactly how you came to be in possession of it.”
    Ann stops eating mid-scone, her eyes large. Felicity jumps in. "She did say. A village woman gave it to her