CHAPTER 1
Spider In A Bookrest
Sister Lemoine crept along the corridor, her nostrils flaring with each sharp breath. She was furious, like a hornet disturbed from its nest. At the distant rumble that deepened into a rolling thunderclap, she flinched every few steps, shielding her eyes with her hand. A storm was brewing.
Suddenly, one of the windows groaned under the gusting wind. Sister Lemoine quickened her pace, the ghostly whistle of the air through the old panes sending shivers down her spine. Her unease worsened as a sudden, heavy downpour veiled the world in a drab, grey curtain. Soaked and panting, she wiped her brow with the sleeve of her habit. The heavy clatter of her plain leather heels echoed through the corridor, sending the youngest children scuttling under their beds.
'St. Lazarus' Orphanage was run by nuns. It was hardly a warm or welcoming place—and that had little to do with the capricious weather of Scotland's north-eastern coast. Discipline was strict, and punishment for any disobedience was commonplace. One child in particular drove Sister Lemoine to the brink of madness. Not a day passed without her trudging to Mother Superior Forsyth to complain about a certain red-haired girl.
"Mother Forsyth! Again! On my lesson, again! That's the sixth habit this month! That child is pure evil!"
"But—"
"You saw for yourself last week that she burned my habit with her bare hands! Isn't that reason enough to send her away? Anywhere! She's a spawn of Satan!" Sister Lemoine thrust a hole in her habit, shaped like a small child's hand, almost under the Mother Superior's nose.
"And what am I supposed to do with her?!" Mother Superior Forsyth exclaimed, spreading her hands helplessly.
"Just send her away!" Sister Lemoine hissed, her voice rising in hysteria.
"Where?!"
"Anywhere!"
"Orphanages and shelters are bursting at the seams! Nobody wants another mouth to feed. Poverty and misery crawl through the streets, and the number of orphans grows. Just yesterday I received a telegram—storms have overturned Admiralty ships returning from India, and they'll be sending us another five children!" Mother Superior Forsyth clutched her temples and shook her head. "We have no room left…"
"Ever since that child arrived, we've had neither spring nor summer! It's mid-May, and day after day it's October weather! Don't tell me it's climate mischief, Aberdeen is by the sea!" "Spring and summer have never been here! And they told me about it when I was assigned to this place. No one knows why it is so. The sun has a habit of avoiding only this stretch of the coast. That's the charm of this place."
"It's a cursed charm! And it didn't come from nowhere! I'm telling you.. for twelve years I haven't seen a single bright day here. Nowhere in the human world does a cold shiver, unease, and helplessness run down your spine as it does here when those sudden, strange storms break out. How is it possible that there is a single part of the whole country perpetually shrouded in fog and plagued by storms?" – Sister Lemoine raised her voice.
"As we say here, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute," replied Sister Forsyth gloomily.
She always said that when Sister Lemoine came complaining. The latter could not understand the Mother Superior's indifference to her warnings. Sometimes Sister Forsyth seemed absent, as if her thoughts were far from Aberdeen. Relying on time was not the best advice in this gloomy place. Waiting a minute, as the Scottish saying advises, changed nothing, and new troubles kept appearing for Erie – the little girl who terrified Sister Lemoine so much.
Saint Lazarus was located far from the city. Precisely on the steep cliffs of Cove Bay, right above the North Sea. The orphanage was originally a city citadel, built back in the early days of the "empire on which the sun never sets," but it survived for about a decade. Later, it was converted into a home for orphans. The following centuries brought the toll of civil wars and epidemics, after which many places met a similar fate. Orphaned children kept arriving without end. Orphans and illegitimate children had a difficult life in 17th-century England.
Sister Lemoine had the impression that the overcrowded orphanage and the telegram about more children to care for were not the only worries of the Mother Superior. While she always sat in her office gloomy and pensive, that day she was visibly concerned. From under the sleeve of her habit, Sister Lemoine caught a corner of a newspaper.
"What is this?" she asked.
Sister Forsyth lifted her gaze and slowly revealed what she had been hiding. It was the morning paper. Its front page was "adorned" with a grim headline: "Another Incarnation of Trithemius." Beneath it, against the backdrop of a blazing pyre, stood the local magistrate, notorious for his zeal in accusing people of witchcraft. He had presided over the loudest witch trials of the past decades, in which hundreds had perished.
Sister Lemoine snatched the newspaper and crumpled it in her hands, fuming:
"Who still listens to that deluded pest! That blasphemer and fool! That… that…"
"Rogue," finished Sister Forsyth for her, rising from behind the desk.
She moved to the lofty window and stared at the black cloud coiling over the sea.
"If anyone learns of our troubles with Erie, and especially of what you so fittingly called 'the mad one,' we shall have problems far graver than the absence of spring and summer."
"I thought the witch hunts had ended…" sighed Sister Lemoine.
"They will not end while such a marvel as Spall holds sway. Great hunts in France, blazing pyres in Germany, persecutions in Switzerland, blindness and ignorance in the Low Countries, madness in America. And here too. In five days, another trial in Edinburgh: ten accused of witchcraft, including two children. And charlatans like Spall!" Sister Forsyth's voice rose. "They will judge them! Do you know what that means?"
"More senseless deaths," said Sister Lemoine, tossing the paper onto the pile of coal beside the small stove.
"That foolish man, blinded by delusions and ignorance, is welcomed at every court: the Papal court, episcopal palaces, Catholic and Protestant courts alike… in the castles of feudal lords. Esoteric knowledge from ancient tomes, according to men like him, is the purest of sciences. I had thought that the natural sciences would cast this superstition of witchcraft onto the rubbish heap of history, but… apparently not…"
"If all those possessed knew how many the walls of this orphanage and places like it conceal from their accusations, they would have long since burned every nun in the country at the stake."
"The last crop failure and these storms over Cove, according to the rabble, are the work of witchcraft. I fear we shall soon be called to protect in these cellars those condemned for sorcery once more."
At that moment, a broad, radiant lightning bolt struck the churning waters of the North Sea. The crack rolled across the surroundings, and the air shivered violently.
"Words spoken at the wrong hour can prove prophetic," said Sister Lemoine, immediately crossing herself, before dashing from the Mother Superior's office.
She managed to calm herself during the midday break, only to run again along the corridor, her boots clattering harshly, to lead the Latin lesson. By the time she reached the third floor, she was exhausted. Her ample frame made the exertion painfully evident.
From the far end of the corridor, she could already hear the sounds of a commotion in the classroom. For a moment, she paused to listen, but when a loud cry from one of the girls spilled into the corridor, she ran forward.
Upon reaching the doorway, she found herself momentarily breathless at the chaos before her. In the centre of the classroom, two girls were grappling, pulling at each other's hair and garments. The rest, terrified, watched from the back.
"Sister Lemoine! Erie threatened Susan yesterday!" cried one of the girls, pointing at the red-haired girl who seemed to be winning the fight.
"Stop this immediately!" the nun bellowed, advancing toward them.
Her words fell on deaf ears. The girls kept fighting.
Sister Lemoine rolled her habit sleeves up to the elbows and seized them both by the broad straps of their black dresses. She met with fierce resistance. She had not expected such ferocity from ten-year-old girls. She struggled with them for some time, until at last she wedged herself firmly between them.
"What on earth are you doing?! What is the meaning of this?!"
"She started it!" cried the dark-haired girl, her hair cut to the nape of her neck.
"Erie, what have you to say for yourself?"
"Nothing," said the red-haired girl, defiantly.
"Don't lie! Yesterday at supper you laughed at my hair! And today you said it would all fall out any day now!"
"Don't shout, Susan. Tell me how Erie laughed at you."
"She said my hair is so ugly it'll be crawling with tangles before long! And that when I fall asleep, she'll cut it all off in the night with scissors!"
"Why did you say that?"
"Because she laughed at mine. And threw food at me."
"Susan!" Sister Lemoine cast a heavy look at the dark-haired girl.
"That's not true! She's lying! Besides, she's a freak! She's always frightening us with something!"
"Erie!" This time the nun's anger turned on the red-haired girl.
The girl said nothing.
"She's always playing those stupid tricks when no one's looking! But everyone knows it's her!"
"Do not make accusations without proof, Susan," Sister Lemoine said warningly, raising a finger at her.
"She's a witch!" Susan screamed, pointing at Erie.
Sister Lemoine opened her mouth in astonishment. It seemed that at last someone had dared to say aloud what everyone had been thinking in silence. The rest of the class followed the dark-haired girl's lead. All the girls began chanting in unison, "Witch! Witch!", their eyes fixed on Erie.
Sister Lemoine snatched up the long wooden ruler from beside the blackboard and struck it sharply against her palm. That meant punishment. The noise died at once, and each of the chanting girls received a stroke across her open hand. Only Erie and Susan did not hold out their hands.
"And what are you waiting for?!" Sister Lemoine cried angrily.
"Why should I be punished when I've done nothing!" Susan protested.
"Hold out your hands!"
"No!"
"Very well, then. Your punishment will take place after lessons—and I promise you, it will not last a mere second like the strike of a ruler, but very much longer. Back to your seats!"
Sister Lemoine set their minds to a difficult subject, and when the clock struck two, she forbade them from going out for break and instead set a short test on the flora and fauna of Europe. The next lesson was mathematics; from the outset she wrote out a challenging geometry problem for them, while she herself began marking their Latin tests.
A silence fell over the classroom, deep as the grave. Only the occasional heavy sigh and the scratching of pencils against heads could be heard. Sister Lemoine raised her eyes and swept her gaze across the room. Only one pencil moved without pause. It was Erie, working steadily through the problem, and it seemed she was close to finishing.
The nun narrowed her eyes and examined the girl's desk from floor to top. Surely she isn't cheating, she thought, and returned to her marking. Yet scarcely had she lowered her head when another noise distracted her.
Something struck one of the windows with force.
Sister Lemoine visibly tensed. The class turned their eyes towards the window. Flocks of birds had long met their deaths here, colliding with the orphanage's great panes of glass. The past few days of quiet had made them forget.
Then another impact echoed, as a bird struck the far window. All heads turned towards the back of the room. There was unease in the air.
It was broken by Erie, who rose to hand in her work. She walked between the desks and laid the completed solution upon Sister Lemoine's desk. The nun glanced over it quickly and gave a faint, disappointed murmur.
"Write it on the board," she ordered, taking a box of chalk from the drawer and handing it to Erie.
Susan watched with growing envy as Erie worked through the problem on the board. In frustration, she scratched at her head with her pencil—but it caught in her hair. She tugged harder and tore it free. Running her hand through her hair, she felt a tangled knot. Then she looked at her hand and saw it full of loose strands.
She sprang to her feet and dragged her fingers through her hair. More knots. Around her, on the floor, there gathered what seemed almost a dark moat of fallen black hair.
The girl screamed.
"I told you she's a witch! She's put some spell on me! Sister, just look!" she cried, weeping, holding out her hands filled with hair.
"Stand still and do not move!" Sister Lemoine snapped—then moved swiftly towards Susan.
At that moment, another blow shook the window. A third bird struck with such force that a great spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass; one more impact, and it would surely shatter.
"Come with me," she said to Susan, seizing her by the sleeve of her white blouse.
The whole class froze, watching Erie in terror. Yet after a moment, every eye dropped back to the exercise books.
To take over and finish the lesson, Sister Forsyth herself arrived. As punishment, the entire class was given only a small portion of porridge made with water and a cup of chamomile tea for supper.
Sister Lemoine struggled in vain with Susan's hair until midnight. Even washing it three times did nothing to loosen the tangles—in fact, it only caused more of it to fall out. At last, she had no choice but to cut it close to the scalp.
Susan's weeping echoed through the corridors of the second floor until three in the morning.
The following day, during the natural history lesson taught by Sister Bloom, Susan was absent. All the girls cast anxious glances at the empty place at her desk—and then, almost at once, at Erie, who seemed scarcely troubled by her classmate's absence.
Lizzie Allen, in particular, watched her with open hostility. She had always been Susan's most eager accomplice in tormenting Erie. From the middle of the lesson until its end, she ceaselessly flicked little paper pellets onto Erie's desk. After forty minutes, a considerable mound had gathered around her, for which Sister Bloom deprived Erie of her break and ordered her to clean up.
Erie, meekly and without a word of protest, swept the entire room.
The girls returning from the dinner break brought with them a lively din. Just behind them came Sister Lemoine, carrying a parcel wrapped in paper, which she set down upon the escritoire.
"Your order. It has just arrived."
Sister Bloom unwrapped it at once and was immediately delighted by the sight of a finely bound, weighty volume.
"Botany?" Sister Lemoine glanced over her shoulder. "Are you planning to build a greenhouse in the garden?"
"Do you not think it would be useful?"
"And do you suppose anyone would be willing to work in it? Apart from you, of course."
Sister Bloom began to leaf through the book, but the noise in the classroom made it impossible to concentrate.
"Silence! Open your desks and take out your geography books!" she shouted—but only some of the children obeyed. "And you—back to your seat!" she called to Erie, who was sitting on the sill of the last window, her back turned to the room.
"Have you all gone deaf? Sit down and take out your books!" Sister Lemoine commanded, in a tone that brooked no disobedience.
At once, everyone took their seats. The faces of the nuns disappeared from view, buried in the thick volume, still fragrant with fresh print.
Suddenly, a piercing scream tore through the room.
From Lizzie Allen's desk crawled a large black spider, its long legs thick with bristles, before dropping onto her lap. The girl flung it off and leapt onto the chair beside her. Within moments, the classroom resembled a young copse, for every girl stood upon her chair, shrieking at the top of her lungs as they tracked the spider scurrying across the floor.
It made straight for the dais.
Sister Bloom sprang onto her desk with astonishing speed and tried to haul Sister Lemoine up after her, but the latter could not even lift one leg onto it—let alone both. Seeing the bewildering creature inches from her feet, she dragged a chair to the window and, climbing awkwardly along the curtain, managed—with great effort—to hoist her six stone of living weight first onto the bare chair, and then onto the sill.
The spider had nowhere to flee. It circled from desk to desk, and at each one it met with a fresh eruption of terrified screams.
Then Erie sprang lightly down from the windowsill. She took an empty chalk box from the shelf at the back of the classroom and approached the dais, where the spider stood as though uncertain what to do next. She set the box upon the floor and knelt beside it, fixing her gaze upon the great, hairy creature.
At first, it moved its front mandibles, as if testing the air; then its forelegs shifted, and it took a tentative step forward. Sister Lemoine crossed herself in terror.
The spider, however, obediently crept into the box and fell still, as though settling there quite comfortably. Erie lifted it and carried it between the rows of desks. This, in turn, set off another wave of piercing screams. When she reached the window at the far end of the room, she placed the box upon the sill, opened the casement, and held it out beneath a dense tangle of clematis climbing the wall outside.
The spider extended one leg from the box and caught hold of the trailing vines. With a nimble motion, it transferred itself onto the plant and vanished beneath the leaves. Erie watched as it slipped swiftly down into the safe, shadowed recesses of the old, neglected garden. When it disappeared from sight, she closed the window, crossed the classroom, and stopped before Sister Lemoine.
"The noise may frighten them—or enrage them. It is better not to scream."
"That will do!" Sister Lemoine hissed, clambering down from the sill with difficulty—first onto the chair, then to the floor.
She straightened her habit, wiped her brow, and strode furiously towards Erie. Seizing her by the wrist, she dragged her along.
"You are like a contagion," she spat through clenched teeth. "Little witch!"
She flung open the classroom door and hauled the girl down the long corridor. By the time they reached the first floor, near the refectory, Erie understood what awaited her and began to wrench her hand free.
"No! No! I don't want to!" the girl struggled.
"I shall teach you proper manners yet! You are the worst wretch ever brought into this place! In all my life I have never seen such an ugly, disagreeable, ungrateful, vindictive child as you!" the nun went on, tightening her grip and dragging her towards the kitchen. "Never have I known a child who cannot cry! Not a single tear since the day you were born! I shall never forget that night when I looked into the basket in which you were left here—not a cry, not a tear! Evil incarnate!"
The girl dug in her heels, but it availed her little. With her free hand she began clutching at whatever she could reach—curtains, the cords of the gas lamps along the walls, furniture, pictures, door handles—anything. It was all in vain.
"It's not my fault! Why are you punishing me?!" Erie cried, digging her nails into the nun's arm, though the thick habit shielded her from such attacks.
At last they reached their destination. The nun shoved open the old kitchen door and all but hurled Erie inside. The girl barely kept her footing.
"You will spend the afternoon break here! Forget your books and the common room!" the nun snarled.
"Why?" Erie asked, narrowing her eyes darkly.
"Because I say so."
"Why?!" the girl raised her voice.
"Do not raise your voice to me, Erie!"
"Why? Why? Why?!" she cried, lunging at the nun's habit.
Sister Lemoine struggled to push her away. Only with the help of the cooks and the rest of the staff were they able to separate them.
Then Sister Lemoine's eyes narrowed at something she had not noticed in the classroom. On Erie's white blouse, just below her left collarbone, were several tiny spots of blood. The fabric itself was unbroken, save for the unevenly fastened buttons at the neck. It looked as though she had scratched the skin there too harshly.
A sudden fear seized the nun—of some outbreak of scabies, or another infectious disease—and she looked at the girl with renewed severity.
"When she is finished here, lock her in the dark room! And no supper—only water!"
"No!" Erie cried, her face flushing with anger.
"Indeed you shall!" Sister Lemoine replied with grim triumph. "I am not the only one who has had enough of you. The children hate you as well. Yes, Erie—I know very well what you do to those who mock you. I know of Jane Follows's ruined exercise books, of the mouse droppings in Sarah Nicholas's hair, of the knocking and tapping in the night, of things that go missing—and now of the enormous spider in Lizzie Allen's desk! I pray for the day someone finally takes you away from here!"
She forced out the last words through clenched teeth, then turned and left the kitchen.
The housekeeper, Mistress Brahe—fat, sweating, and reeking of garlic and stale oil—gripped Erie by the back of her dress and dragged her into the darkest, filthiest corner of the kitchen. There she set her before a high sink that reached nearly to her chin. It was heaped with a towering pile of blackened, greasy pots, stacked almost to the ceiling—and so precariously that Erie feared it might topple onto her head at any moment. It was plain that the heap had been gathering for days—perhaps even weeks.
"What are you waiting for?" the cook grunted, kicking a low, rickety stool towards her. "Up you get—and scrub!" she barked.
Erie climbed onto the stool and began sorting through the greasy pans and cauldrons.
"And thoroughly!" the woman added, tossing two worn wire scourers into the sink.
The girl set to her task with quiet resolve, but after a dozen minutes her hands had begun to wrinkle, and the water in the sink had turned into a murky broth. All the while, she kept one eye on Mistress Brahe, watching as she stalked about the kitchen, tyrannising the staff and never once taking her eyes off Erie at the sink.
Then help came—from an old and unlikely friend.
As she scrubbed a soup cauldron nearly her own size, she caught sight, among the cups upon the shelf above the sink, of a long snout and a damp nose framed by fine, even whiskers. It was a large rat, mottled like tortoiseshell, more akin to a well-fed cat than any ordinary rodent.
They had first met four years before, when Erie had been made to stand in the corner during one of Sister Lemoine's lessons for failing to learn her multiplication tables. Long after the lesson had ended, she had been kept there—and the tri-coloured rat had been her only companion.
Its most striking feature was the absence of fur across nearly half its head: a scarred strip of bare skin ran from its nose along the left side of its face and beyond its ear, as though it had once suffered a severe burn. Erie suspected Mistress Brahe had caught it stealing food and scalded it with hot oil—and for that alone she hated the woman all the more. The only faintly comical result of the injury was the creature's uneven ears: one full and richly coloured, the other shrivelled and bare.
"Come here, Scar-Ear," she whispered, extending her hand.
"What are you poking about for? I've given you everything you need!" Mistress Brahe roared, striding furiously towards her.
She reached the sink and seized Erie by the arm.
"Let go!" Erie cried—and with her free hand snatched Scar-Ear by the scruff.
In the next instant, the rat landed squarely upon the cook's head.
Mistress Brahe shrieked so piercingly that the windowpanes seemed to rasp, as though sand had been flung against them. She spun in circles, desperately trying to dislodge the creature from her hair. But the rat leapt away of its own accord and darted onto Erie's shoulder, burrowing into her thick, curly locks as it watched the woman's hysteria alongside her.
Though the animal was no longer there, Mistress Brahe continued spinning, tearing at her own hair. At last she stumbled into the stack of unwashed pans, and one came crashing down upon her head. Under its weight she dropped to the floor, where she remained, screaming at the top of her lungs:
"Help! Get it off me!"
The entire kitchen staff rushed to their leader's aid.
"A toad in a helmet—run for it!" Erie cried, leaping from the stool in a flash.
Almost on all fours, she slipped across the grey stone floor as though through a maze, weaving deftly between rows of cupboards and shelves, following close behind Scar-Ear. Together they dodged the grasping hands that reached for them from between the cabinets. In a moment they had reached the door—and were gone.
Once outside the kitchen, they raced like the wind down the corridor towards the baths at its far end. Erie darted at once to a mirror and unfastened her blouse. She examined her forearm closely.
There was not the slightest trace of a wound.
Scar-Ear sat upon the washbasin, squeaking uneasily.
"What is it?" Erie asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
The rat rose onto its hind legs and began to sniff the air. Its whiskers quivered like a divining rod over hidden water. After a moment, something startled it, and it bolted from the basin as though shoved by an unseen hand. Erie called after it, but it did not return.
Suddenly, the room darkened.
Once more, black clouds gathered over the coast. Through the windows she saw the treetops lashed by the wind, swaying like restless spectres, their branches striking against the panes. Then came the sound—soft at first, then insistent.
Rain.
It swept in from the sea and began to drum ever more heavily upon the glass.
After a moment, the sky lightened briefly, and a bolt of lightning tore across it. A thunderclap followed—so heavy it seemed to smother every light. Only a single lamp by the door flickered convulsively.
Erie froze, holding her breath.
Outside, a streak of sharp blue-violet light flashed unnaturally fast across the sky. She had seen one just like it the previous night, when—shortly after midnight—she had been woken by a piercing pain and burning beneath her collarbone.
It had been going on for over a week now. Her skin burned and itched mercilessly. Almost every day she scratched herself raw, then slipped a handkerchief—pilfered from the common room during sewing lessons—beneath her blouse. Yet within a few hours, the wound would close and vanish. The next day the burning would return, worse than before—especially when sudden, violent storms broke without warning.
She had begun to think she had grown sensitive to changes in the weather. Of late, the dark, tumultuous storms seemed to trouble her as never before.
Until now, Erie had concealed it well, bearing the pain through her lessons. She only scratched when the nuns stepped out of the room, or when they stood at the far end and could see only her back. But that day, the pain and burning were unbearable. They had woken her at midnight and kept her from sleep until five in the morning.
A murmur rose along the corridors. Lessons had most likely been dismissed, and the nuns were leading the children back to their dormitories. The storm had been gathering since yesterday—thunder rolling in warning from the Shetlands well into the afternoon. Now the sea was beginning to heave under the gale, and the tempest lashed the trees and flung rain against the windows like a whip.
Erie slipped from the washroom and hurried down the corridor. She slowed as she approached Sister Forsyth's study. A beam of light spilled out into the passage, falling in a cone upon the floor.
Moving on tiptoe, she slipped behind the heavy curtain by one of the windows and peered through the half-open door with a single eye.
Inside, the Mother Superior was throwing on a large, old coat, while Sister Lemoine held up a gas lamp so she could see the buttons.
"The children have already reached the jetty. I shall fetch them and return within the hour—if this storm does not delay us. God help us!" Sister Forsyth crossed herself.
"God help us!" echoed Sister Lemoine, crossing herself twice. "Drive this tempest away, or we shall never be rid of that hellish brat! Does she know someone is coming for her tomorrow?"
"No—and it must remain so. I do not want her hiding herself away again. Have you destroyed it?"
"W-we…" Sister Lemoine faltered, lowering her gaze.
"What is it?" Sister Forsyth demanded.
"We tried."
"What do you mean?"
"It wouldn't… it wouldn't burn…" she stammered.
"How can it not burn? It is made of wood!" Sister Forsyth exclaimed.
"This morning it was still in the hearth. Covered in ash. I do not wish to know what it is."
"Perhaps it is time we opened it."
"Sister Bloom tried. Even with an axe," Sister Lemoine said, her voice trembling.
"And?"
"It chipped. I am telling you—send the child away! Can you not see all these ill omens? What more must happen before we rid ourselves of her?"
Suddenly, a massive branch smashed through one of the windows in Sister Forsyth's study. A cold gust tore inside, whistling violently as it swept everything from the desk. The pictures on the walls flew off like silk scarves and shattered on the floor. The books on the shelves rattled as the wind pressed against them, and several fell with a crash, meeting the same fate as the pictures. The hurricane was growing increasingly aggressive. In moments, it tore down the right-hand curtain entirely and spun the chandelier so violently that it flickered on its last remaining strength.
Sister Lemoine pulled Sister Forsyth to the wall, fearing that the ancient ironwork might fall upon them with the next gust. From the Clock Tower in the west wing came the loud tolling of a bell. Superstitious Sister Bloom never rang it during storms—so it was believed that the bell's sound would scatter clouds and drive away the demons responsible for thunderstorms and hail.
Sister Lemoine stood, wide-eyed, staring at the shattered window, while Sister Forsyth clutched her hat against the wind and listened to the sinister whistling. After a moment, both dashed into the corridor and vanished down the stairs. Erie had heard a key turning in a lock just before. She rushed to the Mother Superior's office, but the door did not budge. The nuns were hiding something, and Erie was certain it was her own possession, the one she had "brought" with her.
Suddenly, the crack of breaking glass ran down the corridor, showering every gas lamp along the walls with sparks, and the passage plunged into darkness as if night had fallen.
In the gloom came the sudden slam of flung-open shutters. The gathering hurricane had ripped open the dining hall's shutters with a deafening crash. A fierce gust barreled down the corridor, shoving Erie against the window curtain. She clutched it to keep from falling. Once the first worst shock passed through the floors above, she entered the dining hall.
Outside, the sky brightened as a massive bolt of lightning split it. From beyond the horizon crawled a band of violet-green light, hazy and shimmering like the aurora borealis. But there could be no northern lights here—there was no polar night at this time of year.
The open shutters slammed against the walls, scattering shards of glass. In the darkness, broken only by lightning flashes on the horizon, the gaping shutters seemed spectral. Erie could not shake the feeling that something was watching her from every direction.
A sharp pain struck her forearm. She grabbed it to massage the spreading cramp. The room exuded an eerie, malignant energy. Everyone had fled suddenly, leaving a mess behind. The tables were strewn with dishes and food, tossed by the wind across the floors and walls. Stains from drinks and scraps of food dotted the surfaces like black holes in a field. Broken inkwells lay shattered among countless smashed plates, cups, and glasses.
The ceiling lamp groaned ominously, buffeted by the wind snaking through the corridor. In the distance, the aurora seemed to shift, moving closer to the Bay. Erie caught a faint hiss, like a whisper, followed by a sharp snap, as if something had broken. She dashed into the corridor, now drowned in darkness and an oppressive silence. Another snap… then a second… and silence. Erie listened intently. A barely audible hissing came from the washrooms. Suddenly, Scar-Ear shot out like a slingshot, racing past her like a ghost. Erie called after him, but he ran on, wild and unstoppable. Around the bend, another snap echoed. A shiver ran through Erie as she heard a heavy breath. She bolted, nearly as fast as her rat had shot down the corridor.
She reached the great atrium and lunged at the heavy oak entrance doors. Gripping the massive brass handle, she swung herself almost like a pendulum, yanking it down. When the old, stubborn lock finally gave and the doors creaked open with a monstrous squeal, she slipped through like a snake and quickly shut them behind her. She had barely turned when her face collided with Sister Lemoine's enormous belly. The nun immediately dragged her back inside.