Which was saying a good deal, indeed, as she’d seen other girls get on Mrs. Belden’s bad side—and been on it herself.

Notoriously cold and heartless, the headmistress inspired terror in the hearts of students and staff within the institution alike. Why, even Myrtle, who prided herself on not being weak-kneed, had been moved to tremble a time or two.

Even with all that, Mrs. Belden herself would have quaked with fear at the sight of the man below.

Still . . .

Myrtle cocked her head. There was something interesting about him. Something almost sad.

He glared at her, a black, menacing look that reached all the way across the streets and space separating them.

Daring her to stay. Urging her to leave.

And she should.

After all, “do not stare, and always drop your gaze to the floor” had been one of the first rules ingrained in her by one of the instructors at Mrs. Belden’s.

Despite all the skills she had mastered to get herself out of that place as quick as possible, “no direct stares” had also been one of the rules she’d been hopeless to master.

The stranger’s frown deepened, and then whipping away from her direct look, the man stomped off.

“Do get away,” Cassia urged frantically, catching Myrtle by the arm and speedily steering her to the back of the line. “You’ll be seen,” she whispered, taking up her place next to Meghan, while Myrtle remained behind even her flighty cousins. “Or did he see you?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. He had seen her. Myrtle was sure of it. “He was . . .”

It didn’t matter that the words had left her head. She was already forgotten as Cassia whispered and talked to her like-in-age cousins. Myrtle wrinkled her brow. Yes, her place had fallen mightily, indeed. Pushed to the literal and proverbial end of the line.

“. . . always heads to the stables with the wood.”

“It’s not wood; it’s kindling,” Myrtle pointed out.

Linnie cast an annoyed look over her shoulder. “How do you know that?”

Actually, she didn’t. And yet . . . “What else would a servant be gathering wood for?” Myrtle shot back.

“He is no servant,” her sister said with an exasperation that would have been more suitable had Myrtle been around to learn all these details herself. Including Myrtle in the discussion, she dropped her voice and spoke in haunting tones.

Pride demanded Myrtle leave where she was not wanted; curiosity, however, compelled her. “Who is he?”

“That is the Duke of Aragon,” her sister explained.

A duke. No wonder, then, that their parents had made a pest of themselves welcoming their neighbor.

“And they say he gathers that wood and uses one log for each of his victims . . .” Cassia paused for effect. “Murder victims.”

Their cousins let out quiet screeches.

“Better off without him, I’ll say,” Meghan whispered.

Linnie added a nod of support.