Outrun the Moon(63)

All the girls are milling about the campfires by the time we return. To my surprise, each of the Bostons have their hands snowballed around a tiny kitten. The man in the swallowtail coat found some patsies. I sigh. More mouths to feed, assuming they last the night. At least we have the cow.

I don’t see Headmistress Crouch among the girls, and she is usually the first up. I consider waking her but decide against it. Let the woman sleep as long as she can.

In the distance, Katie is showing Minnie Mae how to milk the cow. Harry has taken the porridge off the stove and is stirring it cool. Folks on their way to the water pump gaze hungrily at our pot. The looks don’t go unnoticed by the girls, who stare awkwardly at one another. The time has come to speak.

When Katie and Minnie Mae return with the milk, I step up onto a crate. “Good morning, ladies.” The girls stop what they’re doing and look up at me, all except Elodie, who continues scribbling in her journal. “We have all had a shaky twenty-four hours, but we have survived, and, God willing, we will emerge from this park stronger for having gone through it.”

The Boston girls observe me with suspicion marking their teapot faces, their tiny mouths pursed small as embroidery knots. Georgina regards me with her typical unsmiling, no-nonsense demeanor.

“As Mr. Waterstone loved to remind us, a St. Clare’s girl comports herself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others. This holds true even when we are using the rules of comportment to wipe our shady sides.” That gets a grin out of Georgina. “So my tentmates and I have decided to make a feast for forty-four guests tonight, free of charge, good while supplies last.”

My gaze travels to Elodie, who has stopped writing. Her narrowed eyes meet mine, then she puts her nose back into her journal.

“How are you going to get enough food for everyone?” asks one of the Boston sisters. She leans her face against her fist, pushing creases into her frail cheeks.

Headmistress Crouch’s cane pokes through her canvas cocoon, followed by the rest of her. Her long sleep doesn’t seem to have done much for her humor. Her face is still overly bright, her lips bent into a tight frown.

I clear my throat, trying to remember what I was talking about. “We are still working out the particulars. We will ‘borrow’ if we have to.”

Georgina pulls at her rope-like braid. “You mean loot? Mayor Schmitz ordered looters to be shot on sight.”

A few girls gasp, but I continue before any chatter starts. “It’s only a rumor. And we don’t expect any of you to help us, but we do invite you all to partake.” I smile brightly. “It will be a night to remember.”

Georgina raises her hand. “I will help. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

“Thank you. The twig forks have been helpful, but we could use real cups and forks. Maybe even some dishes.”

Another Boston sister raises her hand. “We only have four pots, and some must be reserved for water,” she says primly. “I don’t see how this is possible.”

Francesca looks up from where she is stirring milk into the porridge. “One time at the restaurant, our stove broke, but we continued serving dinner. We did cold cuts and cheese and olive plates, and it was one of our best nights. There’s always a way.”

“What do you think will happen if one of you does get caught?” says a gravelly voice from the back. Headmistress Crouch peers at me through the hoods of her eyes. Now everyone is looking at me with the same dubious expression.

The moment becomes two, then three. I don’t have an answer for her. All I know is that it would be a very sad world if it was every man for himself. We are our brother’s keeper under Christian rules, and Buddhist, and probably Hindu and Zulu, too. I skirt around her question. “When a law isn’t just, I believe it’s okay to disobey it. In fact, I believe we are morally obligated to disobey it.”

Headmistress Crouch stamps her cane. “We all know your penchant for breaking the rules. But laws exist for a reason. The army will arrive soon, and when they do, they will feed us. People should not be allowed to turn a profit on a tragedy.”

Her words hammer thin my patience. “We would not be doing this for profit.”

She approaches me with labored footsteps. “You are risking the lives of these girls to prove a point!”

My breath spills out of me. “What point?”

“You want to force the doors of self-respecting institutions like St. Clare’s open for all the heathens and Mongols, and maybe the monkeys, lions, and bears, too!” She stamps her cane again hard, as if trying to spear a worm.

“I don’t, I—”

“You have already looted, Miss Wong, stealing from this tragedy for your own personal gain.” The woman’s eyes are bulging, and her face glistens with sweat.

“Headmistress Crouch!” Francesca says sharply.

The woman stops suddenly, blinking hard like the sunlight is too bright. Her rib cage heaves in quick succession, and she clutches her chest. Like a felled tree, her cane lands with a thud, and a moment later, the head peacock of St. Clare’s crashes to the ground after it.





29



GIRLS SHRIEK AND FORM A RING AROUND the headmistress.

“She needs a doctor!”

“Give her space!”

“Get off me; it’s just a dizzy spell,” pants Headmistress Crouch, who is amazingly, but not surprisingly, still conscious. No doubt when she’s outfitted in her wooden coat, she’ll be one of those corpses whose eyes won’t close, forever glaring.