mine.”
Henry couldn’t deny it: the professor finding Finella in the company of four men, in the back room of a pub at night…
He remembered then something that Leonard had said, in the moments before Henry had floored him.
Does anyone here not know where she spends her nights?
Henry knew exactly what he had meant at the time, but had thought little of it once the incident had resolved itself. However, he would bet a lot that it was Leonard who told the professor where to find him—if the old man had indeed come to have a word with him. Finella’s expression was a dark one. Her career was in jeopardy.
Dorian approached, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “When I met you, you said that a moment like this was inevitable. That eventually people would begin to talk, and that it would make life at school difficult. I hope you don’t regret that decision now.”
Finella shook her head. “If you will excuse me, though, I think I would like some time alone.”
“Of course.”
“Good night, gentlemen.”
Henry stepped after her. “At least let us walk you to a cab.”
“Not necessary, but thank you.”
And Henry watched her go.
Finella did not attend the next night. Or the night after. The day after that Henry waited for her outside class, watching from a block away, and she did not appear.
“She’s been expelled,” he told Dorian that night. “I’m sure of it.”
“She can’t be expelled if no one enrolls,” Dorian said. “Anyone can turn up and pay by the lesson.”
“The professor can still choose to exclude someone from the class, if he thinks their attendance would tarnish the school’s reputation.”
“Good grief. This is ridiculous.”
“We have to find her.”
“She won’t have done anything stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking. Finella’s too proud for that.”
“She may have gone home,” Jukes said. “Back to Mother.”
“Too proud for that, too, I would have thought.”
Henry made for the door. “Tell me where she was staying.”
“Fine, I’ll come with you. Jukes, Dysart, amuse yourselves or come along if you’d like.”
Henry opened the door, onto an unreadable Finella, her hands clasped before her. “Gentlemen,” she said. “I have some things to say.”
It became apparent to Henry in the weeks leading up to the summoning that this meant more to Dorian than any simple bout of curiosity. And Dorian was more fluent with the language of hidden things than any man his age should have been.
Finella had been refused entry to the classroom for reasons the professor offered to keep between the two of them, in the hope that, perhaps, she would still be able to salvage some respectability. Finella had protested, had taken it to the school board, all to no avail. Having left the school, unable to stop angry tears from staining her face and refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her wipe them away, she had sat herself down by the least offensive part of the river that she could find and let her mind run riot.
Summoning an intelligence such as Voso’s is no easy matter. It is no tearoom beckoncall. It is an effort of collective will with no margin for error.
Finella decided she would try again, elsewhere, and that meant leaving all she had here in Boston. Margaret Fuller’s ideas were taking root in cities across the country. Somewhere she would find a place to finish her studies to her satisfaction. But first she had a final duty to the group, and she would see it through. She would be with them, prepare with them, and together—one last final, extraordinary act—they would summon Voso.
Henry didn’t know what to say. The news left him hollow, filled with cold air. Finella spent no time with him now, and instead focused rigidly on the task at hand. When Henry couldn’t sleep he found himself tangled in impassioned scenes he would never realize, and soon she would be gone.
Dorian vanished without so
Henry couldn’t deny it: the professor finding Finella in the company of four men, in the back room of a pub at night…
He remembered then something that Leonard had said, in the moments before Henry had floored him.
Does anyone here not know where she spends her nights?
Henry knew exactly what he had meant at the time, but had thought little of it once the incident had resolved itself. However, he would bet a lot that it was Leonard who told the professor where to find him—if the old man had indeed come to have a word with him. Finella’s expression was a dark one. Her career was in jeopardy.
Dorian approached, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “When I met you, you said that a moment like this was inevitable. That eventually people would begin to talk, and that it would make life at school difficult. I hope you don’t regret that decision now.”
Finella shook her head. “If you will excuse me, though, I think I would like some time alone.”
“Of course.”
“Good night, gentlemen.”
Henry stepped after her. “At least let us walk you to a cab.”
“Not necessary, but thank you.”
And Henry watched her go.
Finella did not attend the next night. Or the night after. The day after that Henry waited for her outside class, watching from a block away, and she did not appear.
“She’s been expelled,” he told Dorian that night. “I’m sure of it.”
“She can’t be expelled if no one enrolls,” Dorian said. “Anyone can turn up and pay by the lesson.”
“The professor can still choose to exclude someone from the class, if he thinks their attendance would tarnish the school’s reputation.”
“Good grief. This is ridiculous.”
“We have to find her.”
“She won’t have done anything stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking. Finella’s too proud for that.”
“She may have gone home,” Jukes said. “Back to Mother.”
“Too proud for that, too, I would have thought.”
Henry made for the door. “Tell me where she was staying.”
“Fine, I’ll come with you. Jukes, Dysart, amuse yourselves or come along if you’d like.”
Henry opened the door, onto an unreadable Finella, her hands clasped before her. “Gentlemen,” she said. “I have some things to say.”
It became apparent to Henry in the weeks leading up to the summoning that this meant more to Dorian than any simple bout of curiosity. And Dorian was more fluent with the language of hidden things than any man his age should have been.
Finella had been refused entry to the classroom for reasons the professor offered to keep between the two of them, in the hope that, perhaps, she would still be able to salvage some respectability. Finella had protested, had taken it to the school board, all to no avail. Having left the school, unable to stop angry tears from staining her face and refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her wipe them away, she had sat herself down by the least offensive part of the river that she could find and let her mind run riot.
Summoning an intelligence such as Voso’s is no easy matter. It is no tearoom beckoncall. It is an effort of collective will with no margin for error.
Finella decided she would try again, elsewhere, and that meant leaving all she had here in Boston. Margaret Fuller’s ideas were taking root in cities across the country. Somewhere she would find a place to finish her studies to her satisfaction. But first she had a final duty to the group, and she would see it through. She would be with them, prepare with them, and together—one last final, extraordinary act—they would summon Voso.
Henry didn’t know what to say. The news left him hollow, filled with cold air. Finella spent no time with him now, and instead focused rigidly on the task at hand. When Henry couldn’t sleep he found himself tangled in impassioned scenes he would never realize, and soon she would be gone.
Dorian vanished without so
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