Free The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School by Kim Newman Page A

voice from behind them. ‘Such a shocking spectacle,’ it continued, from another direction. ‘I should say this was unmistakably a Major,’ from one of the chimneys. ‘What do you think, Head Girl?’
    It was Crowninshield, throwing her voice about. All the Murdering Heathens were here, in grey nighties and dressing gowns. They carried hockey sticks or cricket bats. Henry Buller had one of each, hefted on her shoulders like the crossed swords of a barbarian gladiator. Crowninshield II was with them, a cadet Witch, drooling at the sight of a trussed Third.
    ‘I fear very much so, Prefect Crowninshield,’ said Gryce. ‘
C’est tres mechant… tres mechant
indeed.’
    The surprise jarred Amy’s concentration. Suddenly, she wasn’t
heavy
. The chair was let go, over the edge.
    Inchfawn wasn’t the only one who screamed.

XI: In the Ruck
    B EFORE SNATCHING I NCHFAWN from her cot, the Moth Club had prepared the roof. In case of eventualities like this, a stout cord was tied between guardrail and chair-back. The prisoner dropped barely five feet before the rope cracked taut like a hangman’s neck-breaking noose. Knots tied to QMWAACC standards held. The chair stayed as securely tethered to the rail as Inchfawn was to it. She might not be exactly comfortable but was in no real danger.
    Still, her nasty tumble was a useful distraction.
    Amy reached out with her mind and tried to float Henry Buller. The Sixth was hefty. Her flat feet were planted firmly.
    ‘I say, g-g-g-girls,’ stuttered Buller. ‘I’ve come over queerly…’
    Buller’s waist-length braids rose as if on stiff wires and bobbed like charmed snakes. Her crossed bats lifted from her shoulders, seemingly of their own accord. Her eyes almost popped – which wasn’t Amy’s doing, just a natural reaction.
    Dora Paule hissed. An Unusual herself, she recognised another.
    ‘I d-d-don’t like this,’ said Buller, her croak close to cracking. ‘S-s-s-Sid, m-m-make it s-s-s-stop!’
    The bats were tugged out of Buller’s hands. Amy made them dance in the air like dangerous puppets. She let go and the bats clattered, thumping Buller’s shoulders as they fell.
    Inchfawn, out of sight, was still making a fuss.
    ‘Cut out the yelpage, stoat,’ said Frecks. ‘Dangle with some dignity. For the House’s sake, if not your own.’
    Seemingly unperturbed, Gryce signalled her Murdering Heathens to spread out, cutting off the Moth Club’s avenues of escape. Buller was
hors de combat
, but the Head Girl had other minions. The Crowninshield sisters took flank positions, chins down as if expecting a charge, evil mismatched eyes peeping up through long fringes. Their identical smiles of unhealthy excitement were all the scarier in moonlight. Paule seemed, as usual, distracted – but was stationed between the Moth Club and the access door to the backstairs.
    ‘How gaudy you look,’ commented Gryce. ‘I note a dozen Minor Infractions of the dress code. Or has there been some
minuit masquerade
to which, by an oversight, we were not invited? In any case,
mes enfants
, the party is
fini
.’
    This was worse than facing the Hooded Conspiracy proper. Grown men might shoot at you, but couldn’t dish out extra punishments for having the temerity to fight back. If the Moth Club survived and were unmasked, they would be cleaning the Heel with their tongues and have burning bamboo shoved under their fingernails in the Whips’ Hut for the rest of their lives at Drearcliff.
    ‘
Mes filles
,’ said Gryce, ‘let us see which spotty faces cower behind those ridiculous bug disguises…’
    The Crowninshield sisters stepped forward. They had rounders bats. Frecks had taught Amy ‘only bounders play rounders’, a game for twits who had not the patience and poetic soul for cricket. Buller was now superstitiously afraid of her own weapons, but her ham-sized fists were clenched.
    It was going to be a ruck.
    ‘Let the Witches have it,’ cried Frecks. ‘Tally-hoooo!’
    Light