“Including, but not limited to, flaky pastries,” murmured Arabella.

Both Fitzhughs looked at her with identical expressions of confusion.

“What?” said Sally, as her brother chimed in with, “I say, what was that?”

“Nothing,” said Arabella hastily. “Never mind.” Once they got on to pastries, there would be no going back. The girls would probably dismember every brioche in the place, looking for freakishly small spies.

“I mean it, Sal,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, looking severely at his sister, or as severely as his genial features would allow. “No running about sneaking out of the school after puddings. I’ll go to Farley Castle for you, but only on condition that you stay here. Inside. Where you’re meant to be.”

“And I will be here to make sure you abide by that,” said Arabella. She had spoken quietly, but they all turned to look at her. Now seemed as good a time as any to tell them. She took a deep breath. “I shall be starting here on Monday as a junior instructress.”

“Will you? How splendid!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll show you exactly how to go about! You won’t have to fret about a thing!”

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” muttered Mr. Fitzhugh.

“No,” admitted Arabella. There was no point in pretending, was there? Funny how easy it could be to talk to a man once he had seen you sprawled on the ground, not once, but twice. “But I am committed now. I told Miss Climpson that I would be ready to begin on Monday.”

Mr. Fitzhugh looked at her with undisguised pity in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. I say. You don’t start until Monday?”

“Ye-es.” Monday did generally mean Monday. It wasn’t exactly Arabella’s favorite day of the week, but it was what it was. “Why do you ask?”

“I say,” Mr. Fitzhugh said hesitantly. “Would you consider — that is, if one were to — what I mean is, this jaunt to Farley Castle. Might I prevail on you to bear me company? That is, if you fancy the drive.”