I NTRODUCTION TO THE TENTHANNIVERSARY EDITION
Publishing a book is a strange kind of alchemy, and a very different kind from writing a book. When you write, you are having a kind of extended personal vision. You see the characters and their world as vividly as though you were standing in the room with them, listening to their conversations. You know each of your heroes as intimately as you know your best friends. Or at least, this is what happens when I write. When I am in the middle of a draft, the world is mine, and I am safe inside it. I may seem as though I am in a cafe, or on the train, or at a dinner party. Instead, I am at Deepdean. But publishing that manuscript means handing over my world to everyone else. To you. I have to believe that you will love my friends, and their story, as much as I do. I have to trust that you will treat this piece of my soul with care. And ten years ago, on the 5th of June 2014, readers opened my first book – this book – for the very first time.
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They met Hazel Wong, Vice-President and Secretary of the Detective Society, and her more than slightly overbearing best friend, the Society’s President, Daisy Wells. The Detective Society had never been called on to solve anything more complicated than The Case of Lavinia’s Missing Tie – but in the first chapter, their world changes for ever, because on the afternoon of the 29th of October 1934, Hazel goes running into the gym and finds their Science mistress, Miss Bell, lying dead on the floor . . . murdered.
And with that, the story that I had constructed from my favourite mystery novels and my own school experiences went public. I thought I knew what would happen: a few people would read it, some of them would like it, and then the book would fade away without much of a ripple. But, instead, that publishing alchemy worked the way it does only a handful of times each year, for only the most astonishingly lucky authors. Readers saw what I had seen, and fell in love with Daisy and Hazel as completely as I had – and have stayed true to them for ten years now.
I am so proud of Murder Most Unladylike’s murder plot. People still write to me wanting to talk about its ending today. I won’t say anything more about that here, in case you’re reading this before you read the book. If you are: don’t skip to the end! See if you can solve the mystery before Daisy and Hazel! All of the clues are on
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the page – I play fair, I promise, and I want you to work it out. Very few people do . . .
But I do think that no one would still be picking up this book in 2024 if it wasn’t for Daisy and Hazel. A lot of things changed about Murder Most Unladylike from its first draft in 2010 to its final publication four years later – did you know there used to be a sixth member of Daisy and Hazel’s dorm? – but Daisy and Hazel’s characters never did. Awkward, empathetic, shy Hazel, with her deep inner core of stubbornness and self-belief, and bold, clever, outrageous Daisy, who is acting everything apart from how much she adores her Watson, felt real to me as soon as they arrived in my head, and they still do. They’re based on many of my favourite fictional detectives – Poirot, Holmes, Miss Marple, Nancy Drew – and many of my favourite reallife friends (who I won’t name, but you know who you are). But they are also uniquely themselves, like no one else I’ve ever met. I can see them so clearly that I can’t really believe that I couldn’t turn a corner and see them sitting on a park bench together, arguing about some complicated case they’re in the middle of cracking. I would recognize them in an instant, and I think you might be able to as well. Still, their longevity has never felt inevitable. Each year I’ve had with them, and each book I’ve written about them, has been a gift. I have been able to do what very few authors are allowed to: grow with their characters, and watch their fans grow too. Like Hazel at the beginning of
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Murder Most Unladylike, when I first published the book I was trying to understand my place in a world that often felt alien and confusing. Like Hazel I doubted myself and my voice. And I think, like Hazel, and like all of the fans who have written to me over the years telling me how my books have helped shape the people they have become, these stories let me discover who I really am.
‘And who ever heard of a Chinese Sherlock Holmes?’ Hazel asks in the first chapter of Murder Most Unladylike. I always meant that question to be ironic – I was certain she was a person worth knowing about. And ten years later, it turns out that I was more right than I ever could have guessed. 2.5 million people and counting have heard of Hazel, and Daisy, and all their detective friends. Will the Detective Society, as Daisy imagines in Death Sets Sail, still be talked about in one hundred years? Only time will tell, but I am so proud of my detectives, and so lucky that they have already had such an incredible life.
Being an account of The Case of the Murder of Miss Bell, an investigation by the Wells and Wong Detective Society.
Written
by Hazel Wong (Detective Society Secretary), aged 13.
Begun Tuesday 30th October 1934.
THE STAFF
Miss Griffin – Headmistress
Miss Lappet – History and Latin mistress
Miss Bell – Science mistress, also the victim
Miss Parker – Maths mistress
Mr MacLean – Reverend
Mr Reid, ‘The One’ – Music and Art master
Miss Tennyson – English mistress
Miss Hopkins – Games mistress
Mademoiselle Renauld, ‘Mamzelle’ – French mistress
Mrs Minn, ‘Minny’ – Nurse
Mr Jones – Handyman
Matron – Matron
THE GIRLS
Daisy Wells – Third former and President of the Wells & Wong Detective Society
Hazel Wong – Third former and Secretary of the Wells & Wong Detective Society
THIRD FORMERS
Kitty Freebody
Rebecca ‘Beanie’ Martineau
Lavinia Temple
Clementine Delacroix
Sophie Croke-Finchley
FIRST FORMER
Betsy North
SECOND FORMERS
Binny Freebody
The Marys
FIFTH FORMER
Alice Murgatroyd
BIG GIRLS
Virginia Overton
Belinda Vance
HEAD GIRL
Henrietta Trilling, ‘King Henry’
ThisisthefirstmurderthattheWells&WongDetective Societyhaseverinvestigated,soitisagoodthingDaisy boughtmeanewcasebook.Thelastonewasfinished afterwesolvedTheCaseofLavinia’sMissingTie. Thesolutiontothat,ofcourse,wasthatClementine stoleitinrevengeforLaviniapunchingherinthe stomachduringlacrosse,whichwasLavinia’srevenge forClementinetellingeveryoneLaviniacamefroma brokenhome.Isuspectthatthesolutiontothisnew case may be more complex.
IsupposeIoughttogivesomeexplanationofourselves,inhonourofthenewcasebook.DaisyWellsisthe PresidentoftheDetectiveSociety,andI,HazelWong, amitsSecretary.DaisysaysthatthismakesherSherlock Holmes,andmeWatson.Thisisprobablyfair.Afterall, Iammuchtooshorttobetheheroineofthisstory,and who ever heard of a Chinese Sherlock Holmes? stoleitinrevengeforLaviniapunchingherinthe
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That’swhyit’ssofunnythatitwasmewhofound MissBell’sdeadbody.Infact,IthinkDaisyisstillupset aboutit,thoughofcourseshepretendsnottobe.You see,Daisyisaheroine-likeperson,andsoitshouldbe her that these things happen to.
LookatDaisyandyouthinkyouknowexactlythe sortofpersonsheis–oneofthosedainty,absolutely Englishgirlswithblueeyesandgoldenhair;thekind who’llgallopacrossmuddyfieldsintherainclutching hockeysticksandthensitdownandeattenicedbunsat tea.I,ontheotherhand,bulgealloverlikeBibendum theMichelinMan;mycheeksaremoony-roundandmy hair and eyes are stubbornly dark brown.
IarrivedfromHongKongpartwaythroughsecond form,andeventhen,whenwewereallstillshrimps (shrimps,forthisnewcasebook,iswhatwecallthelittle lower-formgirls),Daisywasalreadyfamousthroughout DeepdeanSchool.Sherodehorses,waspartofthe lacrosseteam,andwasamemberoftheDramaSociety. TheBigGirlstooknoticeofher,andbyMaytheentire schoolknewthattheHeadGirlherselfhadcalledDaisy a ‘good sport’.
ButthatisonlytheoutsideofDaisy,thejolly-goodshowpartthateveryonesees.Theinsideofherisnot jolly-good-show at all. It took me quite a while to discover that.
Daisywantsmetoexplainwhathappenedthisterm uptothetimeIfoundthebody.Shesaysthatiswhat properdetectivesdo–adduptheevidencefirst–so Iwill.ShealsosaysthatagoodSecretaryshouldkeep hercasebookonheratalltimestobereadytowrite upimportanteventsastheyhappen.Itwasnogood reminding her that I do that anyway.
Themostimportantthingtohappeninthosefirst fewweeksoftheautumntermwastheDetectiveSociety, anditwasDaisywhobeganthat.Daisyisallformaking upsocietiesforthings.LastyearwehadthePacifism Society(dull)andthentheSpiritualismSociety(less dull,butthenLaviniasmashedhermugduringa séance,BeaniefaintedandMatronbannedspiritualism altogether).
Butthatwasalllastyear,whenwewerestillshrimps.
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Wecan’tbemessingaboutwithsillythingslikeghosts nowthatwearegrown-upthirdformers–thatwaswhat Daisysaidwhenshecamebackatthebeginningofthis term having discovered crime.
Iwasquiteglad.NotthatIwaseverafraidofghosts, exactly.Everyoneknowstherearen’tany.Evenso, thereareenoughghoststoriesgoingroundourschool tohorrifyanybody.Themostfamousofourghostsis VerityAbraham,thegirlwhocommittedsuicideoffthe GymbalconythetermbeforeIarrivedatDeepdean, buttherearealsoghostsofanex-mistresswholocked herselfintooneofthemusicroomsandstarvedherself todeath,andalittlefirst-formshrimpwhodrownedin the pond.
AsIsaid,Daisydecidedthatthisyearweweregoing tobedetectives.ShearrivedatHousewithhertuckbox fullofbookswithsinister,shadowycoversandtitleslike PerilatEndHouse and MysteryMile. Matronconfiscated themonebyone,butDaisyalwaysmanagedtofind more.
WestartedtheDetectiveSocietyinthefirstweek ofterm.Thetwoofusmadeadeadlysecretpactthat nooneelse,notevenourdormmates,Kitty,Beanie andLavinia,couldbetoldaboutit.Itdidmakeme feelproud,justmeandDaisyhavingasecret.Itwas awfullyfuntoo,creepingaboutbehindtheothers’backs andpretendingtobeordinarywhenallthetime we
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knewweweredetectivesonasecretmissiontoobtain information.
Daisysetallourfirstdetectivemissions.Inthatfirst weekwecreptintotheotherthird-formdormandread Clementine’ssecretjournal,andthenDaisychosea firstformerandsetustofindouteverythingwecould abouther.This,Daisytoldme,waspractice–justlike memorizing the licences of every motor car we saw.
InoursecondweektherewasthecaseofwhyKing Henry(ournameforthisyear’sHeadGirl,Henrietta Trilling,becausesheissoremoteandregal,andhassuch beautifulchestnutcurls)wasn’tatPrayersonemorning. Butitonlytookafewhoursbeforeeveryone,notjustus, knewthatshehadbeensentatelegramsayingthather aunt had died suddenly that morning.
‘Poorthing,’saidKitty,whenwefoundout.Kittyhas thenext-doorbedtoDaisy’sinourdorm,andDaisyhas designatedheraFriendoftheDetectiveSociety,even thoughsheisstillnotallowedtoknowaboutit.Shehas smooth,lightbrownhairandmassesoffreckles,andshe keepssomethinghiddeninthebottomofhertuckbox thatIthoughtatfirstwasatorturedevicebutturned outtobeeyelashcurlers.Sheisasmadaboutgossip asDaisy,thoughforlessscientificreasons.‘Poorold KingHenry.Shehasn’thadmuchluck.ShewasVerity Abraham’sbestfriend,afterall,and you knowwhat happened to Verity. She hasn’t been the same since.’
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‘Idon’t,’saidBeanie,whosleepsnexttome.Her realnameisRebeccabutwecallherBeaniebecause sheisverysmall,andeverythingfrightensher.Lessons frightenhermostofall,though.Shesaysthatwhenshe looksatapageallthelettersandnumbersgetupand doajiguntilshecan’tthinkstraight.‘Whatdidhappen to Verity?’
‘Shekilledherself,’saidKittyinannoyance.‘Jumped off the Gym balcony last year. Come on, Beans.’
‘Oh!’saidBeanie.‘Ofcourse.Ialwaysthoughtshe tripped.’
Sometimes Beanie is quite slow. Somethingelsehappenedatthebeginningofterm thatturnedouttobeveryimportantindeed:TheOne arrived.
Yousee,attheendoflastyearMissNelson,the DeputyHeadmistressandourdulloldMusicandArt mistress,retired.Wewereexpectinghertobereplaced bysomeoneelsequiteasuninteresting–butthenew MusicandArtmaster,MrReid,wasnotuninteresting at all. He was also not old.
MrReidhadruggedcheekbonesandadashingmousHe lookedexactlylikeafilmstar,althoughnobodycould agreeonwhichone.KittythoughtDouglasFairbanks Jr,andClementinesaidClarkGable,butonlybecause ClementineisobsessedwithClarkGable.Reallythough, tache,andheslickedhishairbackwithbrilliantine.
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itdidnotmatter.MrReidwasaman,andhewasnot MrMacLean(ourdotty,unwashedoldReverendwhom KittycallsMrMacDirty),andsothewholeschoolfellin love with him at once.
Adeadlyserioushalf-secretSocietydedicatedtothe worshipofMrReidwasestablishedbyKitty.Atitsfirst meeting,hewasrechristenedTheOne.Weallhadto goaboutmakingthesecretsignalateachother(index fingerraised,righteyewinking)wheneverwewerein His Presence.
TheOnehadbarelybeenatDeepdeanforaweek when he caused the biggest shock since Verity last year. Yousee,beforethisterm,thewholeschoolknewthat MissBell(ourSciencemistress)andMissParker(our Mathsmistress)hadasecret.Theylivedtogetherin MissParker’slittleflatintown,whichhadaspareroom init.Thespareroomwasthesecret.IdidnotunderstandwhenDaisyfirsttoldmeaboutthespareroom; nowweareinthethirdform,though,ofcourseIsee exactlywhatitmustmean.Ithassomethingtodowith MissParker’shair,cutfartooshorteventobefashionable,andthewaysheandMissBellusedtopasstheir cigarettesfromonetotheotherduringbunbreakslast year.
Therewerenocigarettesbeingpassedthisterm, though,becauseonthefirstdayMissBelltookone lookatTheOneandfellforhimasmadlyasKittydid.
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Thiswasaterribleshock.MissBellwasnotconsidered abeauty.Shewasverytucked-inandbuttoned-upand severeinherwhitelabcoat.Andshewaspoor.MissBell worethesamethreethreadbareblousesonrotation,cut herownhairanddidsecretarialworkforMissGriffin afterschoolhoursforextrapay.Everyoneratherpitied her,andweassumedTheOnewouldtoo.Wewere astonished when he did not.
‘Somethinghasclearly happened betweenthem,’ Clementinetoldourformattheendofthefirstweek ofterm.‘Iwenttothesciencelabduringbunbreakand IcameuponMissBellandTheOne canoodling.Itwas really shocking!’
‘Ibettheyweren’t,really,’saidLaviniascornfully. Laviniaispartofourdorm,too–sheisabig,heavygirl withastubbornmopofdarkhair,andmostofthetime she is unhappy.
‘Theywere!’saidClementine.‘Iknowwhatit lookslike.Isawmybrotherdoingthesamethinglast month.’
Icouldn’tstopmyselfblushing.Imaginingstiff,wellstarchedMissBell canoodling (whateverthatmeant)was extraordinarily awkward.
ThenMissParkergottohearaboutit.MissParker istrulyferocious,withchopped-shortblackhairanda furiousvoicethatcomesbellowingoutofhertinybody likeafoghorn.Therowwasimmense.Almostthewhole
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schoolheardit,andtheupshotwasthatMissBellwas not allowed to live in the little flat any more.
Then,atthebeginningofthesecondweekofterm, everythingchangedagain.Wecouldbarelykeepup withitall.SuddenlyTheOnenolongerseemedtowant tospendtimewithMissBell.Instead,hebegantotake up with Miss Hopkins.
MissHopkinsisourGamesmistress.Sheisround andrelentlesslycheerful(unlessyouhappennotto begoodatGames)andshemarchesabouttheschool corridorsbrandishingahockeystick,herathleticbrown hairalwayscomingdownfromitsfashionableclippedbackwaves.She is pretty,and(Ithink)quiteyoung,so itwasnotatallsurprisingthatTheOneshouldnotice her–itwasonlyshockingthatheshouldjiltMissBell to do it.
SonowitwasTheOneandMissHopkinsseen canoodlinginformrooms,andallMissBellcoulddo wasstormpastthemwhenevershesawthem,herlips pursed and her glare freezing.
GeneralDeepdeanopinionwasagainstMissBell. MissHopkinswasprettywhileMissBellwasnot,and MissHopkins’sfatherwasaveryimportantmagistrateinGloucestershirewhileMissBell’swasnothing importantatall.ButIcouldnothelpbeingonMiss Bell’sside.Afterall,itwasnot her faultthatTheOne hadjiltedher,andshecouldnothelpbeingpoor.
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Nowthatshecouldnotstayintheflat,ofcourse,she was poorer than ever, and that made me worry.
TheonlythingMissBellhadtocheerherupwas theDeputyHeadmistressjob,andeventhatwasnotthe consolationitshouldhavebeen.Yousee,MissGriffin hadtoappointanewDeputy,andafterafewweeks therumourwentroundthatMissBellwasabouttobe chosen.Thisoughttohavebeenlucky–onceshewas formallyappointed,MissBell’smoneyworrieswould vanishforgood–butallitreallymeantwasthatthe mistresseswhowerenotchosenbegantodespiseher. Thereweretwoothersreallyintherunning.Thefirst wasMissTennyson,ourEnglishmistress–thatisher name,really,althoughsheisnorelationtothefamous one.Ifyou’veseenthatpaintingoftheLadyofShalott droopinginherboat,youhaveseenMissTennyson. Herhairisalwaysdownroundherface,andsheisas drippyasunderdonecake.ThesecondwasMissLappet, ourHistoryandLatinmistress,whoisgreyanduseless andshapedlikeanoverstuffedcushion,but thinks she isMissGriffin’smosttrustedadviser.Theywereboth simplyfumingabouttheDeputyHeadmistressjob, andsnubbedMissBellinthecorridorwhenever they saw her.
And then the murder happened.
IsaythatitwasmewhofoundthebodyofMissBell, anditwas,butIneverwouldhavebeenthereatallifit hadn’tbeenforthosecrimenovelsofDaisy’s.Matron’s fondnessforconfiscationmeantthatitwasnogood tryingtoreadthemupatHouse,soDaisytooktohangingarounddownatschoolintheevenings.Shejoined theLiteratureSociety,slipped WhoseBody? betweenthe pagesof ParadiseLost,andsattherepeacefullyreadingit whiletheotherstalked.Ijoinedtoo,andsatattheback oftheroomwritingupmyDetectiveSocietycasenotes. Everyone thought I was writing poetry.
ItwasafterLit.Soc,onMonday29thOctober,that ithappened.After-schoolsocietiesendat5.20,but afterwardsDaisyandIhungbackintheemptyform roomsothatshecouldfinish TheManintheQueue. Daisywasabsorbed,butIwasjumpywithworrythat wemightbelatefordinnerupatHouseandthus
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incurtheawfulwrathofMatron.Ilookedaboutformy pulloverandthenrememberedwithannoyancewhere I had left it.
‘Bother,’Isaid.‘Daisy,mypullover’sintheGym. Wait for me, I’ll just be a minute.’
Daisy,noseinherbookasusual,shruggedvaguely toshowthatshehadheardandcontinuedreading.I lookedatmywristwatchagainandsawthatitwas5.40.If Iran,I’dhavejustenoughtime,asgettinguptoHouse fromOldWingEntrancetakessevenminutes,and dinner is at six o’clock exactly.
Ipeltedalongtheempty,chalk-smellingcorridorof OldWing,andthenturnedrightdownthehigh,black andwhitetiledLibrarycorridor,myfeetechoinginthe hushandmychestheaving.EvenafterayearatDeepdean,whenIrun,Istillhuffandpuffinawaythatrude Miss Hopkins calls ‘determinedly unladylike’.
Ipassedthemistresses’commonroom,thelibrary, MrMacLean’sstudy,TheOne’scubbyandtheHall, andthenturnedrightagainontothecorridorthat leadstotheGym.There’saschoollegendthattheGym ishauntedbytheghostofVerityAbraham.WhenI firsthearditIwasyounger,andIbelievedit.IimaginedVerityallbloody,withherlonghairhangingdown infrontofherface,wearingherpinaforeandtieand holding a lacrosse stick.
EvennowthatIamolderandnotashrimpanymore,
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justknowingthatIamonmywaytotheGymgivesme theshivers.ItdoesnothelpthattheGymcorridoris awful.It’spackedfullofdusty,brokenbitsofoldschool furniturethatstanduplikepeopleinthegloom.That eveningallthelightswereoff,andeverythingwas smudgedinmurkyshadesofgreyandbrown.Iranvery fastdownthecorridor,pushedopenthedoorstothe Gym and galumphed in, wheezing.
And there on the floor was Miss Bell.
OurGym,incaseyouhavenotseenitforyourself, isverylarge,withbarsandbeamsallfoldedupagainst thewallsandwideglasswindows.There’saterrifyingly high-upviewingbalconyonthesidenearestthemain door(wearenotallowedtogouptherealoneincase wefall,butsinceVerityjumpedoffitnoonewantsto), andalittleroomunderthatforustochangeandleave kit in, which we call the Cupboard.
MissBellwaslyingbeneaththebalcony,quitestill, withherarmthrownbackbehindherhead,andher legsfoldedunderher.Inmyfirstmomentofshockit didnotoccurtomethatshewasdead.IthoughtIwas abouttogetanawfulticking-offforbeingsomewhereI oughtn’t,andnearlyranawayagainbeforeshecaught sightofme.ButthenIwondered–whatwasMissBell doing, lying there like that?
Iranforwardandkneltdownbesideher.Ihesitated beforetouchingher,becauseIhadnevertoucheda furniturethatstanduplikepeopleinthegloom.That
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mistressbefore,butintheeventitonlyfeltliketouching a human being.
Ipattedtheshoulderofherwhitelabcoat,hoping mostawfullythatshewouldopenhereyesandsitupand scoldmeforbeingintheGym afterhours. Butinstead, mypattingmadeMissBell’sheadlollawayfromme. HerglassessliddownoffhernoseandIsawthatwhat Ihadthoughtwasonlyashadowbehindherheadwas actuallyadarkstainthesizeofmyhandkerchief.Some ofthestainhadspreadtothecollarofherlabcoat,and thatpartofitwasred.Iputoutmyfingerandtouched the stain, and my finger came away covered in blood.
Iscrambledbackwards,scrubbingmyhandagainst myskirtinhorror.Itleftalongdarksmear,andIlooked atthatandthenatMissBell,whohadstillnotmoved, andfeltsickasanything.Ihadneverseenadeadbody upclosebefore,butIwasquitecertainnowthatMiss Bell was dead.
WhatIoughttodointhecircumstanceswasscream, Ithought,buteverythingwassodarkandquietaround methatIcouldn’t.WhatItrulywantedtodowastear offmyskirt,justtogetthatbloodawayfromme,but myDeepdeantrainingroseupinsideme,making thethoughtofrunningabouttheschoolhalfnaked somehow far worse than being alone with a corpse.
AsIthoughtthis,IrealizedthatMissBellreally was dead,andIwasalonewithherbody.Isuddenly
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rememberedtheghostofVerityAbraham,andthought thatperhapsitwas her whohadkilledMissBell,pushing herofffromexactlythesamespotshehadjumpedfrom ayearago...andnowshemightbewaitingtodothe sametome.Itwassillyandchildish,butallthehairs prickleduponthebackofmyneckand,Deepdean trainingorno,Ijumpedtomyfeetandranoutofthe GymasfastasIcould–asifMissBellwasgoingtoleap up and run after me.
IwasinsuchatearinghurrythatasIranbackalong thecorridorIcrashedintoseveralabandonedchairs andscrapedmykneequitebadly.ButIhardlynoticed untillater.Myfootstepswereechoingallaroundme, anddarkodd-shapedshadowsroseupattheedgesof myvision;mybreathcaughtinmythroat.Iranallthe waybackalongLibrarycorridortoOldWingandfound Daisy,atlast,comingoutoftheformroomwhereI’d left her.
Imusthavelookedahorriblesight,allpinkand damp and heaving.
Daisyblinkedatmecuriously.‘Whatever’supwith you?You’rebleeding.We’regoingtobelatefordinner. VO’s raging about it.’
Ilookeddownatmyselfinsurprise,andonlythen sawthatIhadbloodrunningdownmylegfroma longcutonmyknee.Icouldnotfeelitatall.Itwas
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