by Libba Bray
We glide across the floor, trying our best to ignore the hammering and the shouts. The noise isn’t what distracts us. It is the knowledge that there are men here, one floor above us, that keeps us jittery and light.
“Perhaps we could see the progress they’ve made, Mrs. Nightwing? How extraordinary it must be,” Felicity Worthington suggests with a sweetness bordering on pure syrup. Only Felicity would be so bold as to suggest this. She is too daring by half. She is also one of my only allies here at Spence.
“The workmen do not need girls underfoot, as they are already behind schedule,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “Heads up, if you please! And—”
A loud bang sounds from above. The sudden noise makes us jump. Even Mrs. Nightwing lets out a “Merciful heavens!” Elizabeth, who is nothing more than a nervous condition disguised as a debutante, yelps and grabs hold of Cecily.
“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing!” Elizabeth cries.
We look to our headmistress hopefully.
Mrs. Nightwing exhales through disapproving lips. “Very well. We shall adjourn for the present. Let us take the air to restore the roses to our cheeks.”
“Might we bring our paper and sketch the progress on the East Wing?” I suggest. “It would make a fine record.”
Mrs. Nightwing favors me with a rare smile. “A most excellent suggestion, Miss Doyle. Very well, then. Gather your paper and pencils. I shall send Brigid with you. Don your coats. And walk, if you please.”
We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be.
“Walk!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
THE LONG EXPANSE OF THE EAST WING STRETCHES OUT like the skeleton of a great wooden bird. The framing is in place, but the men spend most of their effort on restoring the dilapidated turret that joins the East Wing to the rest of the school. Since the fire that ravaged it twenty-five years ago, it has been nothing more than a beautiful ruin. But it shall be resurrected with stone and brick and mortar, and it promises to be a magnificent tower—tall and wide and imposing—once it is complete.
Since January, swarms of men have come from the neighboring villages to work in the cold and damp, every day but Sunday, to make our school whole again. We girls are not allowed near the East Wing during its reconstruction. The official reason given for this is that it is far too dangerous: we might be hit by an errant beam or impaled by a rusty nail. The various ways in which we could meet a terrible end have been detailed so thoroughly by Mrs. Nightwing that every hammer stroke makes the nervous among us as jumpy as a bagful of cats.
But the truth is that she doesn’t want us near the men. Her orders have been clear on this point: We are not to speak to the workers at all, and they are not to speak to us. A careful distance is maintained. The workers have pitched their tents a half mile from the school. They are under the watchful eye of Mr. Miller, their foreman, while we are never without a chaperone. Every care has been taken to keep us apart.
This is precisely what compels us to seek them out.
Our coats buttoned up against the still-formidable March chill, we walk quickly through the woods behind Spence with our housekeeper, Brigid, huffing and puffing to keep pace. It is not kind of us to walk faster than necessary, but it is the only way to have a few moments of privacy. When we race up the hill and secure a spot with a commanding view of the construction, Brigid lags far behind, affording us precious time.
Felicity thrusts out a hand. “The opera glasses, if you please, Martha.”
Martha pulls the binoculars from her coat pocket, and they are passed from girl to girl, to Felicity’s waiting hands. She puts them to her eyes.
“Very impressive, indeed,” Felicity purrs. Somehow, I do not think she means the East Wing. From where we sit, I can see six handsomely formed men in shirtsleeves hoisting a giant beam into place. I’m sure that had I the opera glasses, I could see the outline of their every muscle.
“Oh, do let me see, Fee,” Cecily moans. She reaches for the glasses, but Felicity pulls away.
“Wait your turn!”
Cecily pouts. “Brigid will be here any moment. I shan’t have a turn!”
Felicity drops the glasses quickly and reaches for her sketch pad. “Don’t look now, but I believe we’ve caught the eye of one of the men.”
Elizabeth jumps up, craning her neck this way and that. “Which one? Which one?” Felicity steps on Elizabeth’s foot, and she falls back.
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
“I said, don’t look now,” Felicity hisses through clenched teeth. “The key is to make it seem as if you do not notice their attention.”
“Ohhh,” Elizabeth says in understanding.
“That one on the end, in the shirt with the unfortunate red patching,” Felicity says, feigning interest in her sketch. Her coolness is a talent I wish I could manage. Instead, every day, I search the horizon for some sign of another young man, one I’ve not heard a word from since I left him in London three months ago.
Elizabeth steals a peek through the opera glasses. “Oh, my!” she says, dropping them. “He winked at me! The cheek of him! I should report him to Mrs. Nightwing at once,” she protests, but the breathless excitement in her voice betrays her.
“By all the saints.” Brigid has finally reached us. Hurriedly, Felicity hands the opera glasses to Martha, who squeaks and drops them in the grass before shoving them into the pocket of her cape.
Brigid takes a seat on a rock to catch her breath. “You’re too quick for your old Brigid. Have you no shame, leaving me so?”
Felicity smiles sweetly. “Oh, we are sorry, Brigid. We didn’t know you’d fallen so behind.” Under her breath she adds, “You old battle-ax.”
Brigid narrows her eyes at our tittering. “Here now, wot are you on about? Making sport of your Brigid, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, this is no good.” Cecily sighs. “How can we possibly draw the East Wing from so far a distance?” She looks hopefully at Brigid.
“You’ll sketch it from here and not an inch closer, miss. You’ve ’eard wot Missus Nightwing ’as to say on the matter.” Brigid stares at the timber spine, the masons cutting stone. She shakes her head. “It ain’t right putting that cursed place back together. They should leave well enough alone.”
“Oh, but it’s thrilling!” Elizabeth argues.
“And think how lovely Spence will look once the East Wing has been restored!” Martha echoes. “How could you say it’s not right, Brigid?”
“Because I remember,” Brigid says, tapping the side of her head. “There was something not right about that place, the turret in particular. Somethin’ you could feel. I could tell you stories…”
“Yes, I’m sure you could, Brigid, and fine stories they’d be,” Felicity says, as sweetly as a mother placating her irritable child. “But I do worry that the chill will put the ache in your back.”
“Well,” Brigid says, rubbing her sides. “’Tis a bother. And m’knees ain’t gettin’ no younger.”
We nod in concerned agreement.
“We’ll only step a fraction closer,” Felicity coos. “Just enough for a proper sketch.”
We do our best to look as innocent as a choir of angels.
Brigid gives us a quick nod. “Off you go, then. Don’t go gettin’ too close! And don’t think I won’t be watching!”
“Thank you, Brigid!” we shout gleefully. We move quickly down the hill before she can change her mind.
“And be quick about it! Looks like rain!”
A sudden gust of brisk late-March wind blows across the brittle lawn. It rattles the weary tree limbs like bone necklaces and
whips our skirts up till we have to push them down. The girls squeal in surprise—and delight—for it has brought us the attention of every man’s eyes for one unguarded, forbidden moment. The gust is the last charge of winter’s army. Already the leaves are shaking off sleep and arming themselves. Soon they will mount their attack of green, forcing winter’s retreat. I pull my shawl about my neck. Spring is coming, but I cannot yet shake the cold.
“Are they looking?” Elizabeth asks excitedly, stealing glances at the men.
“Steady,” Felicity says under her breath.
Martha’s curls hang limply at her neck. She gives them a hopeful push, but they will not spring back into shape. “Tell me truthfully, has the damp made a ruin of my hair?”
“No,” Elizabeth lies at the precise moment I say, “Yes, it has.”
Martha purses her lips. “I might have known you’d be unkind, Gemma Doyle.”
The other girls give me frosty stares. It would appear that “Tell me truthfully” is a carefully coded message which means “Lie at all costs.” I shall make a note of it. It often seems that there is a primer on all things Polite and Ladylike and that I have not had the good guidance of its pages. Perhaps this is why Cecily, Martha, and Elizabeth loathe me so and only tolerate my presence when Felicity is around. For my part, I find their minds to be as corseted as their waists, with conversations limited to parties, dresses, and the misfortunes or shortcomings of others. I should rather take my chances with the lions of Rome’s ancient Colosseum than endure another tea chat with the likes of them. At least the lions are honest about their desire to eat you and make no effort to hide it.
Felicity glances at the men. “Here we go.”
We edge closer to the work site.
The workers have caught the fever of us now. They stop what they are doing and quickly doff their caps. The gesture is all politeness, but their smiles hint at less mannerly thoughts. I find I am blushing.
“Oi, gents. Keep to the work if you want to keep working,” the foreman warns. Mr. Miller is a burly man with arms the size of small hams. To us, he is courteous. “Good day, ladies.”
“Good day,” we murmur.
“There’s trinkets for the taking, if you’d like a souvenir of the old girl.” He nods toward a rubbish pile where discarded lumber lies along with the broken, soot-smudged glass of decades-old lamps. It is the very sort of thing Mrs. Nightwing would place on her To Be Avoided for Fear of Injury, Death, or Disgrace list. “Take any souvenirs you like.”
“Thank you,” Cecily mumbles, backing away. Elizabeth continues to blush and smile and glance shyly at the man with the red-patched shirt, who appraises her longingly.
“Yes, thank you,” Felicity says, taking control of the situation as she always does. “We shall do that.”
We set about scavenging through the remains of the old East Wing. The great school’s past is told here in splintered, charred wood and remnants of paper. To some, it is the story of a tragic fire that took the lives of two girls. But I know better. The true story of this place is one of magic and mystery, of devotion and betrayal, of wickedness and unspeakable sacrifice. Most of all, it is the story of two girls—best friends turned bitter enemies—both of them thought dead in the fire twenty-five years ago. The truth was so much worse.
One of the girls, Sarah Rees-Toome, chose a path of darkness under the name Circe. Years later, she hunted down the other girl, her former friend, Mary Dowd, who had become someone new, Virginia Doyle—my mother. With an evil spirit at her disposal, Circe murdered my mother and set my life on a different course. The story whispered in these walls is my story as well.
All around me, the girls jump about in merry treasure hunting. But I can’t feel happy here. This is a place of ghosts, and I don’t believe that new beams and a warm fire in a marble hearth will change that. I want no souvenirs of the past.
A fresh round of hammering sets a family of birds squawking toward the safety of the sky. I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.
“Oi, there’s a beauty.” It’s the man with the red patch on his shirt. He points to a jagged wooden pillar eaten through at one end with rot. But much of it has managed to survive the wrath of the fire and the years of neglect. Carved into it is an assortment of girls’ names. I run my fingers over the grooves and the fanciful scrapings. So many names. Alice. Louise. Theodora. Isabel. Mina. My fingers move across the bumpy wood, feeling it like a blind person’s. I know that her name must be here, and I am not disappointed. Mary. I flatten my palm against the years-worn carving, hoping to feel my mother’s presence beneath my skin. But it is only dead wood. I blink against the tears that sting my eyes.
“Miss?” The man is looking at me curiously.
Quickly, I wipe my cheeks. “It’s the wind. It’s blown cinders into my eyes.”
“Aye, wind’s strong. More rain comin’. Maybe a storm.”
“Oh, here comes Mrs. Nightwing!” Cecily hisses. “Please, let’s go! I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Quickly, we gather our sketches and sit a safe distance away on a stone bench by the still-hibernating rose garden, our heads bent in desperate concentration. But Mrs. Nightwing takes no note. She appraises the progress on the building. The wind carries her voice to us.
“I had hoped to be farther along by now, Mr. Miller.”
“We’re putting in a ten-hour day, missus. And then there’s the rain. Can’t blame a man for nature.” Mr. Miller makes the grave error of smiling at Mrs. Nightwing in a charming way. She does not succumb to charm. But it is too late for me to warn him. Mrs. Nightwing’s withering glare sends the men’s heads down over their lumber. The sound of hammers and saws hard at work is deafening. Mr. Miller’s smile vanishes.
“If you cannot finish the job in a timely manner, Mr. Miller, I shall be forced to seek other workers.”
“There’s building all over London, mum. You won’t find the likes of us growing on trees.”
By my count, there are at least twenty men working day in and day out, and still Mrs. Nightwing isn’t satisfied. She clucks and fusses and badgers Mr. Miller daily. It is very queer. For if the old building has lain hollowed out for this long, what do a few months more matter?
I try to capture the likeness of the new turret on my paper. When completed, it will be the tallest part of Spence, perhaps five stories high. It is wide as well. A man stands near the top, pressed against the gathering rain clouds like a weather vane.
“Do you not find it odd that Nightwing’s in such haste to complete the East Wing?” I ask Felicity.
Cecily overhears and is compelled to give her opinion. “It’s not a moment too soon, if you ask me. It’s a disgrace they’ve let it go so long.”
“I hear it’s only now they’ve secured the funds,” Elizabeth reports.
“No, no, no!” Mrs. Nightwing strides toward the masons with purpose, as if they were her charges. “I’ve told you—these stones must be placed in order, here and here.”
She points to an outline made in chalk.
“Begging your pardon, missus, but what does it matter? She’s goin’ up sturdy and strong.”
“It is a restoration,” she sniffs as if speaking to a simpleton. “The plans are to be followed exactly, without deviation.”
A worker calls down from atop the turret’s third floor. “’Ere comes the rain, sir!”
A splat hits my cheek in warning. A rhythm of drops follows. They splatter across my page, turning my sketch of the East Wing into rivulets of charcoal. The men look to the sky with upturned palms as if asking it for mercy, and the sky answers: No quarter.
Quickly, the men scamper down the turret’s side and race to cover their tools and save them from rust. With sketch pads held over o
ur heads, we girls dash through the trees like frightened geese, squawking and squealing at the indignity of such a soaking. Brigid waves us in, her arms a promise of safety and a warm fire. Felicity pulls me behind a tree.
“Fee! The rain!” I protest.
“Ann returns this evening. We could try to enter the realms.”
“And what if I can’t make the door appear?”
“You only need to put your mind to it,” she insists.
“Do you think I didn’t put my mind to it last week or last month or the time before that?” The rain is coming down harder now. “Perhaps I am to be punished. For what I did to Nell and Miss Moore.”
“Miss Moore!” Felicity spits. “Circe—that’s her name. She was a murderer. Gemma, she killed your mother and countless other girls to get to you and your power, and she would surely have destroyed you had you not dispatched her first.”
I want to believe that this is true, that I did right to imprison Miss Moore in the realms forever. I want to believe that binding the magic to myself was the only way to save it. I want to believe that Kartik is alive and well and making his way to me here at Spence, that in these woods at any moment I shall see him wearing a smile meant only for me. But these days, I’m not certain of anything.
“I don’t know that she’s dead,” I mumble.
“She’s dead and good riddance to her.” Life is ever so much simpler in Fee’s world. And for once, I wish I could crawl into the solid lines of it and live without question. “I have to know what happened to Pippa. Tonight we’ll try again. Look at me.”
She turns my face to hers so that I cannot avoid her eyes. “Promise.”
“I promise,” I say, and I hope she cannot see my doubt turning to fear.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
THE RAIN HAS LOOSED ITS WRATH IN FULL. IT SOAKS THE sleeping rose garden and the lawn, the yellow green of the leaves struggling to be born. It has also found my friend Ann Bradshaw. She stands in the foyer in a plain brown wool coat and a drab hat dotted with droplets. Her small suitcase rests at her feet. She has spent the week with her cousins in Kent. Come May, when Felicity and I make our debuts, Ann will go to work for them as governess to their two children. Our only hope for changing her prospects was to enter the realms and attempt to bind the magic to all of us. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot enter the realms. And without the realms, I cannot make the magic flare to life. Not since Christmas have I seen that enchanted world, though in these past few months I have tried dozens of times to get back. There have been moments when I’ve felt a spark, but it is short-lived, no more consequential than a single drop of rain in a drought. Day by day, our hopes dim, and our futures seem as fixed as the stars.