Rutger rolled to his left, got stuck, then grunted as he tried rolling to his right. His body slipped off the pillow, his arms and legs flailing as he tried to find the leverage he needed to stand up. “Good grief, would someone give me a hand, please?”

Mothball entered the room, wiping her hands on her shirt and chewing on something. “What’s this?” she asked. “There’s a ruddy bowling ball loose, there is! Someone snatch it up before it breaks a vase!”

“Oh, go on and make jokes, then,” Rutger said, lying on the floor as his body rolled back and forth. “Poor Master Paul only has a severely broken arm—no big deal.”

Mothball’s face melted into a frown as her eyes fell upon Paul’s injury. “Oh, dear, terribly sorry. Quite nasty that, by the looks of it.”

“Yeah,” was all Paul managed to say. The room had started to pitch and spin in his vision.

“All right, then,” Mothball said as she reached down and yanked Rutger to his feet with a big roar. “Get the lad the help he needs.”

“Come on, Paul,” Rutger said, swiping at the dust on his round bottom.

Paul nodded and followed him as he heard Master George speaking to the others.

“Sofia, Sally—I need to know everything.”

Chapter

36

~

The Tale of Mistress Jane

Let’s have a seat,” Mistress Jane said. “I’m sure Reginald will be here shortly to rant and rave his frustration that we both made it here alive.”

She grabbed Tick’s arm again, pulling him toward one of the impossibly clear benches lining the lighted walls. Once there, she let go and sat down, crossing her legs under the tight yellow material of her dress. She flicked her thick black hair across her shoulder then motioned for Tick to sit next to her.

Tick wanted to run. No, he wanted to yell and scream at Jane for the terrible things she’d done, including killing one of Mothball’s closest friends, Annika. He wanted to rip her ridiculous glasses off, throw them on the ground, crush them with his shoe, then punch her right square between her flaming green eyes. He wanted to—

“Sit down!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the room as though a chorus of Janes had called out the two words.

Tick fell to the bench, his short burst of spirit crushed. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at the glowing floor below his feet.

Jane took a deep breath. “I’m . . . I’m very sorry, Atticus. I should not have spoken to you like that. I apologize.”

Tick closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. He realized suddenly that the woman sitting next to him was crazy. Crazy and dangerous.