Meg said nothing for a long moment. Then: “I’m not.”
“What?” Beatrix said.
“I’m leaving Hazelhurst.”
“But—don’t you need another semester to graduate?” Ella asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand,” Beatrix said, swallowing what she really wanted to ask:Were you threatened? Or was the attack on Lydia and my reaction to it simply too much?
“I have to,” Meg said, sounding profoundly dispirited.
Beatrix sped along the streets and parked in the driveway, not bothering to pull into the garage. She needed to know if this was her fault—if she’d brought Meg’s college education to an untimely end by being ruthless at exactly the wrong moment.
Lydia and Rosemarie were waiting for them in the dining room.
“Meg’s dropping out of Hazelhurst,” Ella said, getting right to the heart of the matter.
Lydia led her classmate to a chair. “Why? You’re so close to graduation. Why leave now?”
“I have to,” Meg said again.
“No one can listen in here.” Lydia squeezed her hand. “There’s a spell on the room. It’s safe—I promise. You can tell us the reason.”
Tears slid down Meg’s cheeks. “I just have to. Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Beatrix mouthed, “Should I leave?” Lydia hesitated but shook her head, then sat next to Meg. “At least tell me you’re transferring. Smith? Barnard?”
“No,” she whispered.
Regret so sharp it felt like dread exploded from Beatrix’s stomach in waves. They should have offered Meg more support. Invited her to dinner. Made sure she wasn’t alone. Instead, they’d concentrated all their energy on Lydia and ignored the one person who’d shown she had no reserves of bravery and strength to call on. And she, Beatrix, should have been first in line to say something. She’d seen Meg’s eyes when she—she, Beatrix—screamed at her to get the Vow to take.
“Please don’t drop out.” The words fell from her lips like acid, both necessary and awful to get out. “I know it’s nerve-wracking, but we’ll be here for you. You can get through this, it’s just a few more months—I’m so wretchedlysorryfor what I said. Please don’t give up now.”
Meg looked at her with something like horror before dropping her gaze. “You’ll be better off without me.”
Ella launched into an argument about every person counting. Lydia put her arm around the girl.
But Rosemarie said: “You’re the spy.Aren’tyou, Margaret Wallace.”
Meg opened her mouth, bottom lip trembling. No sound came out.
Beatrix threw up her hands. “Rosemarie!”
“Answer the question,” Rosemarie demanded, striding around the table.
“I’m—I’m not ...”
Ella crossed her arms. “These continual accusations are really getting tiresome. Beatrix, can’t you call on our Vows and ask usallwhether we’re the spy so we can be done with it?”
Meg, face chalk-white, stuttered, “P-please, not magic. Not that, not again, please,please...”
She was as petrified as she’d been that night. A question cut through Beatrix’s churning guilt:Why?
Lydia bit her lip. “Surely it’s not necessary?—”
“Rosemarie Harriet Dane, Ella Ruth Knight and Margaret Gertrude Wallace,” Beatrix interrupted, “answer my questions in this room fully and truthfully or it will harm Lydia Josephine Harper, her efforts with the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic and the League generally. And sitdown,” she added as Meg leapt from her chair.
