Then she noticed something. The buzzing was not all that she could hear in this noisy whirl of insects. She could hear something else. Victoria’s eyes fixed on a moth that was flying toward her. As it whizzed by her face, she heard a word whispered amid the flapping.
Rrrrrrrr. “Spencer.” Rrrrrrrrr.
Then another moth came buzzing past. It too whispered something.
Rrrrrrr. “Divorce.” Rrrrrr.
Then, as she turned around in a circle, she noticed that all of the little creatures were saying something. Words were flying at her, in a giant jumble, intermixed with buzzing and flapping. Rrrrr. “Thomas.” Rrrrr.
Rrrrrrr. “Party.” Rrrrr.
Rrrr. “School.” Rrrrr.
Rrrr. “Election.” Rrrrrrr.
Rrrrrr. “Suspicion.” Rrrrr.
Victoria grabbed her head. There was no way she could piece together what all of these creatures were saying. They were all speaking at once, throwing words here and there. She called out for Madame Vileroy.
Madame Vileroy’s voice came to her calmly, yet magnified, as if carried by the moths. “Don’t try to listen, Victoria. Just close your eyes and remove yourself from the moment. Let them do the work. When they are finished, you will know.”
Victoria reluctantly obeyed. She stopped trying to listen. She simply closed her eyes and tried to shut off her brain. She just stood there, almost in a trance. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes in shock and ecstasy.
“They put the information in my brain! I can see what happened for the last three days at Thomas’s house. And Lucy’s house. And at the neighbors’ upstairs.”
“All you have to do is stand there and let them whisper to your unconscious mind. There are enough of them to cover every house in the city, but you must be careful. They interpret information just as you would. They do make mistakes.”
“Are you sure it’s OK for me to know all this?”
“Knowledge is power — and power is good. Anyone who tries to tell you that you shouldn’t know something is just afraid that you’ll become powerful.”
Victoria squealed with delight.
“Well, that was petty,” Belle spat as soon as she found her governess alone.
“Do you think so, dear? Tell me why.”
“Because!” Belle raised her voice. “You knew he’d go nuts! And for what? You traded me the bath, only to set up Victoria’s little plan. Since when is a nice deed enough of a reward for you?”
Madame Vileroy shrugged. Belle persisted.
“What’s in it for you? Why help Vic? All the rest of us have to make deals . . .”
The governess looked at Belle with the kind of pity you would feel for the slowest kid in the class. “Did you really think I did it out of the kindness of my heart?”
“Vic got her way. . . . She must be your favorite, then.” Belle stopped short, angry at herself for having just said that — having shown the governess that she cared. She whispered, “If you’d have me do all that for her. . . . The doctor and the snack were all for her sake.”
Madame Vileroy looked at Belle with interest, with that look on her face that appeared only when she was studying someone or something. When she was deigning to find the children fascinating.
“I thought that the current wisdom among you children was that Valentin’s my favorite.”
“I just don’t get why you couldn’t do it all yourself. I mean why would you need me?”
“Well, dear, if you took a moment to think, you might realize that things aren’t quite that simple and that it had to be you for a reason. If you were cleverer or savvier, you might even come to think that you, not Victoria, could be my favorite.”
Belle looked confused.
“I don’t care who wins that prize, Victoria or the poor fool who really deserves it. And I don’t care about what ridiculous item triggers Christian’s rage,” said the governess, careful not to mention that Belle could be the new object of that rage. Instead she sat back and spun her web around Belle. Her naive charge. Her favorite. “This entire bargain only matters because of what you can learn from it. The way you use it. The ripples you produce.”
“Ripples?” Belle asked.
Madame Vileroy waved away the question.
“I did it to teach you a lesson. I had to make you do it, so you would learn — for your future. This was all for you, Belle.”
“That makes no sense. What can I learn from Christian going nuts over a snack?”
“Simply how difficult it is to predict people’s reactions. How difficult and how useful. I want you to learn that no matter what your intentions are, other people will always interpret things in their own way, based on their own past. I want you to realize that if you knew in advance, if you could read people well enough, you would have more power than the bath could ever give you. Learn that, and you won’t need to be my favorite. You can be anyone’s favorite.”
Belle spent a few moments thinking, wondering how much to trust Vileroy. Her heart beat fast, and the black mark above it lay dark and dormant, hidden beneath her dry skin. Learn that, and you can be anyone’s favorite.
“I’m pretty good at reading people . . .”
“Darling, you managed even to misread my intentions. First you thought I was doing something nice for Christian. Then for Victoria. And all the time, you knew enough to figure it out. You must dig deeper.”
Suddenly Belle felt utterly stupid. The governess went on: “People act and react based on things that go far deeper than what you expect. You have to dig and then dig deeper . . . always deeper.”
“What happened to Christian? Why did he act like that?”
“He learned a lesson too,” said Vileroy, her eyes fixed on Belle in such a way that she could hardly miss how intricately woven it all had been. She could hardly miss how, like a simple girl, she had missed it completely. “Christian got a taste of what it was like before. A tiny reminder of his old life — what it’s like to be poor. So now he can focus on why he’s here and not be distracted with this poet fantasy. We all know that has to die.”
“Great. So he learns his lesson and hates me in the process.”
Vileroy smiled at the many lasting effects of one small action.
“Well, if you can’t read him well enough to make him love you again, you can always use the bath.”
Even though she knew better, that last comment made Belle feel good.
“So you see, dear? Are you convinced? I’ve never bothered to teach lessons before. Never wasted a bargain. But you, my Belle. You could be special. You could go so far and do so well.”
With that, the governess walked toward Belle and held her face in her hands. Those long, icy fingers around Belle’s chin felt like falling into a pool of stagnant water, her face wrapped in slithering water snakes.
“You could be my favorite. Just like a daughter of my own . . . that is, if you don’t disappoint me.”
Just like a daughter.
Those words swam through Belle’s heart and mind and landed hard in her stomach, so that all day long she had to hold herself together, her arms wrapped around herself, warming her body against sudden chills — those frantic bursts of cold when the words left the back of her mind and splashed to the surface.
Victoria stood outside the cloud of moths alone, watching the moths circling the room, forming various shapes, speeding up and slowing down as if they too were thinking about something. She stepped back into the gray cloud, ignoring the fact that the hairs on her arms were standing on end. When she was in the middle, she shut off her mind and let the words buzz past her, melding into coherent thoughts. After a while, she knew that the neighbor upstairs was getting a divorce, the neighbor downstairs was having an affair with the doorman, and the mailman on Forty-second Street was stealing birthday cards for the cash. With this kind of power, Victoria could easily become the most successful student at Marlowe. Harvard? Forget it. That’s nothing. President of a small country? Try the United States!
She didn’t ask to be liked; she didn’t care if she hurt anyone, and she didn’t feel too queasy about using the ideas Madame Vileroy whispered in her ear. She just wanted to win. Plain and simple.
The probing insects were hard to get used to, though, constantly touching her, barely letting her breathe. It was like being buried alive. She focused on Thomas, whom she knew to be her top competition in debate. She asked for more information about him, and the moths responded like obedient angels. Thomas has been holed up in his room all day. His father came to him twice to see if he wanted to play a round of golf. His father kept saying not to put pressure on himself. Thomas has been practicing for the State Debate and Drama Tournament for months now. He has over a thousand pieces of evidence and a box full of data. His room is filled with debate trophies and certificates. He is a front-runner for the Marlowe Prize, the most prestigious merit-based award at the school — usually given to the top student. Thomas said to his dad that he has a great idea for winning the big tournament. Didn’t hear the idea.
Victoria felt the beginning of a headache. It felt like the moths were getting heavier and heavier over her head. She wanted to swat them away. She still didn’t know Thomas’s idea. None of it helped. It was all just pointless gossip. What she needed was a way to cheat off Thomas — a way to go deep into his mind without interference, without being detected.
What was Lucy doing now? She asked the moths to spy for her, and without hesitation, a handful of them flew out the window. Victoria was surprised at their speed. They brought back information in almost no time, as if they were connected to each other, like a line of children playing telephone all the way from her house to Lucy’s. She could hear Lucy now.
“They’re such freaks! One of them tried to flirt with Thomas right there under my nose! She wasn’t even polite enough to assume we were together.”
“But, Lucy, you’re not together. You weren’t even together that much at the play.” The moths carried Charlotte’s voice now.
“But she didn’t know that. And he kissed me, so we’re as good as together.”
“Really?” gushed Charlotte. “After the party? I knew it.”
“There was some mistletoe.” Lucy giggled, then she went on: “Anyway, that Victoria girl freaks me out. This is going to sound weird. You have to promise not to laugh.”
“OK,” said Charlotte with hesitation.
“I think she’s psychic or something. I swear she was reading my mind.”
“Oh, Lucy . . .”
“No, I’m serious! I tried to be nice. She was asking a million questions about grades and stuff. My mom says they’re all trying to worm their way to the top.”
“Everyone at Marlowe is competitive.”
“Are you taking their side?”
“They’re not all bad. What about Valentin? He’s pretty cute, no?”
“Oh, right, you mean the one with Tourette’s?”
“He doesn’t have Tourette’s. I think he’s hot, and very poetic.”
“You’re just desperate to find another bleeding-heart poet.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t be such a spaz, Charlotte.”
“So, Char,” Lucy started after a few more minutes of random gossip. “Are you going to help me with my campaign?”
“Sure,” Charlotte said in a bored tone.
“No, seriously! This is important. I have to be class president! My mom was class president!”
“Fine. I said I’d help.”
“How about, ‘Vote Lucy, She’ll keep Marlowe free of mind-reading, grade-grubbing, boyfriend-pawing orphan freaks’? Can you put that on a hundred posters?”
“Yeah . . . maybe that’s a little too specific, Luce,” Charlotte said, laughing. “I’ll write you a couple of good slogans.”
Victoria stumbled out of the fog with a raging migraine. She put a finger to her upper lip and found a drop of blood from her nose. She had taken in too much. Using the moths was definitely not easy. It hurt. It made her feel ashamed. But still, the room exhilarated Victoria — like the feeling of new friends. Thousands of friends that would always have time for her. Millions of sisters that would help her when she asked. For the first time, Victoria felt her heart filling with love. The others could keep their little clique and exclude her. They could laugh and it wouldn’t matter. Victoria’s new family would always do what she told them, say what she wanted. Victoria could open and shut the door at will. She could control the slightest flap of the smallest creature. And so for the first time, Victoria also felt loved.
Down the hall, a lonely moth flew in zigzags through Madame Vileroy’s cold, unwelcoming home. It followed Valentin into a small bedroom and watched as he tried to entice Christian into conversation. When that failed, it followed Valentin into Belle’s room, where he thought he could catch her changing. He found the room empty, and so he loitered around the living room looking for Victoria — maybe he could bait her into driving herself crazy trying to cheat off of his thousand-version memories. That would be fun. But no luck. He decided to go back to hanging out with Christian. He grabbed his notebook and bounded into the room. But when he opened the door, he found Madame Vileroy waiting there, alone.
She was reclining on a chair, giving him a sidelong glance as though he amused her. She motioned for him to shut the door and said, “It must be fun toying with your brother like that.” She nodded toward the notebook in Valentin’s hand. “Reading to him every day. Making him listen, when you know he’s secretly wishing he were you.”
Valentin didn’t answer. He clutched his notebook, with its perfectly printed poems, the initials VF on every page, and held it to his chest.
“I must remind Christian not to waste his time,” she mused, almost to herself.
“What do you mean?” asked Valentin.
“Writing . . . listening to poems. He is here to become strong. To win at sports. That’s what he wanted. Writing is a waste.”
“You should let him do what he wants,” said Valentin, averting his gaze, playing with the spine of his notebook. The sardonic look on Madame Vileroy’s face, the gently mocking purse of her lips, made him falter, but he went on: “He likes to write. Just let him do what he likes.”
The young pharaoh surveyed her kingdom, its fertile soil, its mountains of riches, the endless Nile. Only a girl, yet she had managed to become a god-queen, feared and loved at the same time. She had supreme power, complete control. Yet barely a day passed when someone, some traitorous soul, wasn’t put to death for questioning her reign. In those days, she demanded more time alone. When her servants and handmaids left her chambers, satisfied that the pharaoh had retired for the day, she made her way to her hidden pyramid, the secret hiding place that her mother had built. Here, she knelt like a common pauper and dug her hidden treasures out of the ground, dozens of vials of colorful liquid. Here, in this dark, damp pyramid, in a hole dug in the dirt, she mixed together a bubbling, writhing bath the color of blood. She lowered herself into this pit without ceremony, forgetting that she was royalty, that she was wallowing in dirt and excrement like a street urchin. This dark world required no fanfare. And so she closed her eyes, determined to bear the pain of the bath, a solution whose cleansing sting she craved daily now. A potion that blinded and mesmerized her people, bound them to her like opium, and made them forget their most fervent objections.
On the first day of school, Victoria got up early to print out her to-do list, review the activities she planned to join, reread her Harvard Business School catalog, and spend some time with the moths.
Valentin and the girls were driven to school in Madame Vileroy’s sleek black Town Car. When they arrived, they split up without speaking. They didn’t use a map or stop to ask anyone for directions. They knew exactly where to go, as if they had attended Marlowe for years. They didn’t look around in a curious way; they didn’t even wander around looking for their new lockers. Madame Vileroy had shown it all to them before, in the weeks before school starte
d, when they were just watching. Their casual attitude made them more of a target for gaping eyes and gossip than if they had behaved like new kids are supposed to. Still, it made little difference to them since they were anticipating much worse. At the moment, they were only a strange family that had just moved into town. In a few weeks, they would be the strange family that had taken over the school.
Christian had left for school two hours earlier than everyone else to check out the swim team’s morning practice and talk to the coach about joining late. Buddy had woken him up with a series of reluctant pulls and nudges. He shoved Christian’s shoulder, pushing him to get going. Christian reached out as he shook off the groggy first light of waking up and dropped Buddy to the ground. Then he rolled out of bed and got dressed.
Christian had decided that he would join the golf, swimming, tennis, and martial arts teams this year. Since those were all individual sports for the most part, he wouldn’t have to sort out any complications of teamwork. He could just win and leave it at that. But after a few solitary days of practicing, he thought that maybe one team sport wouldn’t hurt, and he decided to play a bit of basketball too. Five sports in one semester — Christian would have to pick up the slack next year with a few more, but it was better to start off slow. He didn’t really need the physical training, and he was stealing to make things certain. As for handling objections from coaches, well, Madame Vileroy was an expert at that. The martial arts team was an informal club that met on weekends, and she had arranged for Christian to simply show up for the tennis and golf matches. That left swimming, which practiced before school, and basketball, which met after.
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