“I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“I hate you,” she wails.
“I know that, too.”
Another shriek pierces the night, rattling the windows and sending the girls squawking like frightened geese. The battle between the gargoyles and the riders is fierce.
Mrs. Nightwing rises unsteadily to her feet. Her hymnal shakes in her hands. “Come, girls, take up your hymnals. We shall sing,” she commands.
“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing,” Elizabeth cries. “How can we sing?”
“They’ll eat us alive!” Martha joins in.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts above the din. “We are perfectly safe in here. We are English, and I expect you to behave as such. No more crying. Let us sing.”
Mrs. Nightwing’s deep voice booms out, the notes tremulous. More hideous screams echo in the woods, so she sings more loudly. Brigid jo
