back and tells us there’s been another bombing,” Priscilla persisted, “will you admit the odds just got much better on Mr. Petersen being one of the bombers?”
“Yes,” said Jean, whose father gambled, “from ten-to-one outsider to four-to-six odds-on favorite.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sophie, glaring at them both. She went resolutely back to the essay.
Miss Hopkins returned just as Nan threatened to single out two particularly loud girls for punishment.
“Girls,” Miss Hopkins said, taking her place before the class, “there’s no need to panic—”
Several girls uttered small screams.
“—but I’m sorry to have to tell you that another bomb went off this morning, this time right in the heart of Princes Street.”
She looked like someone trying not to weep.
“How many people were killed?” Nan asked, her voice quite calm.
“More than a hundred,” said Miss Hopkins. She took off her glasses and wiped them on the cuff of her blouse.
Some of the girls began crying.
Sophie didn’t dare look at Jean and Priscilla.
Of course Mr. Petersen wasn’t the bomber. He couldn’t be. On the other hand, where was he?
Sophie walked in a daze through the rest of the day’s classes, earning a reprimand from the maths teacher and an extra essay assignment from the lady who taught spiritualist instruction, an old crony of Great-aunt Tabitha’s.
Though she still felt sad and angry and worried and confused—feelings were awful —Sophie’s spirits lifted just a little when the bell rang to mark the end of the last class. Mikael would be able to help her, she told herself as she ran upstairs to pack for the weekend.
She decided to cram everything into her satchel so that she wouldn’t have to carry more than one bag. It was a tight fit. She said good-bye to the others and ran downstairs, earning a reproof from a prefect in the hallway. She would have to hurryif she didn’t want to be late.
Lord Nelson’s Column—shaped like a telescope and visible from almost everywhere in Edinburgh—was surrounded by a secluded park, an overgrown brick path weaving through the hilly garden thick with rough grass. The tower had five stories all together, each with a few narrow windows. After climbing a hundred and forty-three stairs to reach the small circular chamber at the top, Sophie passed through the tiny doorway, barely a foot and a half wide, and out onto the little balcony, its sturdy low parapet just hip height.
Still panting from the climb, she dumped her satchel on the flagstones and used it as a seat, then leaned her elbows on the parapet to look out. It was so clear that she could see all the way down the coast to North Berwick, where Sophie had spent many summer afternoons paddling in the rock pools while Great-aunt Tabitha played eighteen holes on the links.
Where was Mikael? The trouble with waiting for someone was that it was like not being able to go to sleep, Sophie thought. It gave one altogether too much time to think about things.
She couldn’t stop worrying about what it would mean if Scotland and the Hanseatic League went to war with Europe. Even worse, what if Scotland lost ? Would the streets of Edinburgh be renamed after French and German war heroes? Would troops patrol Calton Hill? Would French becomeScotland’s official language, and would a permit from the local prefecture be needed to take the train to North Berwick?
How much longer would the Hanseatic League hold fast?
By the time Mikael got there, Sophie was cold and bored and more than a little hungry. Her delight at seeing him warred with her feeling of grievance at his lateness, but when he smiled, her irritation washed away like a bloodstain under cold running water.
“So which day did you get to Edinburgh?” she asked as Mikael took a seat beside her. The satchel was fine for one person to sit on but small for two, and she shivered at the pressure of his leg against hers.
“On Sunday,” Mikael said. “My mum
“Yes,” said Jean, whose father gambled, “from ten-to-one outsider to four-to-six odds-on favorite.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sophie, glaring at them both. She went resolutely back to the essay.
Miss Hopkins returned just as Nan threatened to single out two particularly loud girls for punishment.
“Girls,” Miss Hopkins said, taking her place before the class, “there’s no need to panic—”
Several girls uttered small screams.
“—but I’m sorry to have to tell you that another bomb went off this morning, this time right in the heart of Princes Street.”
She looked like someone trying not to weep.
“How many people were killed?” Nan asked, her voice quite calm.
“More than a hundred,” said Miss Hopkins. She took off her glasses and wiped them on the cuff of her blouse.
Some of the girls began crying.
Sophie didn’t dare look at Jean and Priscilla.
Of course Mr. Petersen wasn’t the bomber. He couldn’t be. On the other hand, where was he?
Sophie walked in a daze through the rest of the day’s classes, earning a reprimand from the maths teacher and an extra essay assignment from the lady who taught spiritualist instruction, an old crony of Great-aunt Tabitha’s.
Though she still felt sad and angry and worried and confused—feelings were awful —Sophie’s spirits lifted just a little when the bell rang to mark the end of the last class. Mikael would be able to help her, she told herself as she ran upstairs to pack for the weekend.
She decided to cram everything into her satchel so that she wouldn’t have to carry more than one bag. It was a tight fit. She said good-bye to the others and ran downstairs, earning a reproof from a prefect in the hallway. She would have to hurryif she didn’t want to be late.
Lord Nelson’s Column—shaped like a telescope and visible from almost everywhere in Edinburgh—was surrounded by a secluded park, an overgrown brick path weaving through the hilly garden thick with rough grass. The tower had five stories all together, each with a few narrow windows. After climbing a hundred and forty-three stairs to reach the small circular chamber at the top, Sophie passed through the tiny doorway, barely a foot and a half wide, and out onto the little balcony, its sturdy low parapet just hip height.
Still panting from the climb, she dumped her satchel on the flagstones and used it as a seat, then leaned her elbows on the parapet to look out. It was so clear that she could see all the way down the coast to North Berwick, where Sophie had spent many summer afternoons paddling in the rock pools while Great-aunt Tabitha played eighteen holes on the links.
Where was Mikael? The trouble with waiting for someone was that it was like not being able to go to sleep, Sophie thought. It gave one altogether too much time to think about things.
She couldn’t stop worrying about what it would mean if Scotland and the Hanseatic League went to war with Europe. Even worse, what if Scotland lost ? Would the streets of Edinburgh be renamed after French and German war heroes? Would troops patrol Calton Hill? Would French becomeScotland’s official language, and would a permit from the local prefecture be needed to take the train to North Berwick?
How much longer would the Hanseatic League hold fast?
By the time Mikael got there, Sophie was cold and bored and more than a little hungry. Her delight at seeing him warred with her feeling of grievance at his lateness, but when he smiled, her irritation washed away like a bloodstain under cold running water.
“So which day did you get to Edinburgh?” she asked as Mikael took a seat beside her. The satchel was fine for one person to sit on but small for two, and she shivered at the pressure of his leg against hers.
“On Sunday,” Mikael said. “My mum
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