The Darkness Dwellers

by Kirsten Miller

“Is today really Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Fishbein. February fourteenth. Same day every year,” Oona said.

  “Save the sarcasm, Wong. I just had an idea. Do you guys know what happens on Valentine’s Day?”

  “You really need us to explain it to you, Ananka? Have you ever met a member of the opposite sex?”

  “Okay, Oona,” Betty said. “That’s enough. Let Ananka talk.”

  “Would you guys be up for a little trip to the Marble Cemetery?” I asked.

  Oona looked confused, but Betty’s eyes lit up. “We can find out who leaves the lilies every Valentine’s Day!”

  “Oh yeah. I remember now,” Oona said with much less enthusiasm.

  “I’ll go! I’ll go!” Betty exclaimed.

  “You guys have fun,” Oona told us. “I’m not freezing my butt off just to see what kind of person wastes flowers on dead people.”

  “It’ll be more entertaining than watching the other Irregulars work,” I promised Oona.

  “But not quite as exciting as taking a nap,” she said, lifting the bag of groceries out of my arms. “See you tomorrow. I hope you still have all your toes.”

  The Irregulars had been regularly visiting the hidden graveyard known as the Marble Cemetery for almost three years. We knew about its underground vaults and the tunnel that connected them to the subterranean Shadow City. But the walled enclosure just off Second Avenue was still keeping one secret from us. Though we’d never encountered another visitor in the cemetery, every February 14, a dozen white calla lilies mysteriously appeared near one of the tombs. There was always the same poem on the card attached to the bouquet.

  I will not ask where thou liest low,

  Nor gaze upon the spot;

  There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

  So I behold them not:

  It is enough for me to prove

  That what I lov’d, and long must love,

  Like common earth can rot;

  To me there needs no stone to tell,

  ’T is Nothing that I lov’d so well.

  ILEMA

  I might have found it terribly romantic, if I’d known the first thing about romance. While most of my friends had already booted a boyfriend or two, I was in serious danger of becoming—shudder—a late bloomer. It wasn’t really my fault. As a student at the Atalanta School for Girls, I was more likely to have a close encounter with an extraterrestrial than a member of the opposite sex. I knew only one crush-worthy boy—and I’d been repeatedly informed that he was completely off-limits. Fourteen Valentine’s Days had already passed without so much as a corny e-card. My fifteenth would be spent staking out a snow-covered graveyard. It cheered me a little to know that sweet, pretty Betty Bent would be there by my side. If she was with me on Valentine’s Day, it meant she wouldn’t be spending it with Kaspar—her handsome beau and the boy of my dreams.

  Betty kept watch while I picked the lock on the Marble Cemetery’s gate. Once inside, we realized we must have just missed the caretaker. A shoveled path began at the entrance and ran along the southernmost wall. The rest of the graveyard remained a seamless stretch of white. No tombstones rose from the snow—the names of those buried beneath the frozen ground were chiseled into plaques set in the cemetery’s walls.

  We followed the caretaker’s path to its end, then waded through the snow until we reached the shelter of one of the graveyard’s trees. The afternoon light was growing dim, and the tree’s skeletal branches cast enough of a shadow to hide us from view. We carved out a hole in the two-foot-deep snow and settled in to wait for our guest.

  “I really wish Kiki was here,” Betty whispered.

  I’d been thinking the very same thing. Kiki was the one who’d first spotted the flowers. It felt a bit wrong to uncover their secret without her.

  Betty pulled out her phone and checked the clock. “Do we know what time the lilies usually show up?”

  “Why? Are you in a hurry? You got big plans tonight?” I teased her. Kaspar attended an art academy outside the city, and he hadn’t made it to town in weeks. Part of me hoped that Betty would end up looking for love a little closer to home.

  “Sort of,” Betty admitted shyly. “Kaspar said he’s going to have something delivered to my house at six o’clock. I should probably be there when it arrives.”

  “What is it?” I asked, trying not to sound jealous.

  “He wouldn’t tell me.” I knew Betty was blushing underneath her fuzzy scarf. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  Just as fresh flakes began to fall, the wrought-iron gate that hid the graveyard from the rest of the city opened with an unpleasant creak, and an elegant figure appeared. She was tall, thin, and dressed in a charcoal-gray coat that swung about her boot-clad ankles. A dark hat concealed her face. In her arms, she cradled a bundle of calla lilies, their blooms whiter than any snow that has ever fallen in New York City. The woman stopped in front of one of the plaques on the wall and placed the lilies on the ground beneath it. From her pocket she retrieved a white handkerchief, which she used to dust the city soot from the name engraved in the stone. Then she stood back and stared straight ahead, as though she’d been transported to another place, leaving only a lifeless body behind.

  “This isn’t right,” Betty whispered. “We made a mistake coming here. We shouldn’t be watching this.”

  I was feeling the same remorse, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Come on—aren’t you curious?” I tried to convince both of us.

  “Not anymore,” said Betty stiffly. Before I could stop her, she rose from our hiding place and started toward the cemetery’s exit. I had no choice but to follow her. My sense of horror grew when I saw Betty stop at the woman’s side.

  The lady peered down at the two of us, and I realized she was much older than her perfect posture suggested. Her attractive features had been hardened by time, and her thin lips were so tight that a smile would have cracked them. The eyes that studied us were steel gray and just as cold.

  “My name is Amelia Beauregard. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” The woman’s crisp, upper-crust accent was a holdover from an era of gaslights and horseless carriages.

  Betty held out a hand. “How do you do? I’m Betty Bent. And this is my friend Ananka Fishbein. Sorry for interrupting you, ma’am. We were just leaving.”

  Amelia Beauregard’s eyes scanned my coat, which was still covered in gutter muck from my earlier fall. Something about her expression told me she suspected I was descended from donkeys and wearing dirty underwear. She turned to Betty but didn’t take her hand.

  “A young lady must wait for the older person to offer her hand first.”

  “I’m sorry,” Betty said, taken aback. I didn’t blame her. No one had corrected my manners in years.

  “No, you apologize. Now, would you girls care to tell me why you choose to spend your afternoons spying on old ladies in cemeteries?”

  “We didn’t know you’d be an old lady.” Somehow the words hadn’t come out right.

  “What Ananka is trying to say,” Betty translated, “is that we spend a lot of time in this cemetery, and we’ve noticed the beautiful flowers you bring every year. We didn’t think many other people knew about the graveyard, so we were curious to see who left the lilies. We really didn’t intend to spy on you.”

  Something flickered in Amelia Beauregard’s eyes. “You make a convincing case,” she said, examining Betty a bit closer.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And you have an impressive sense of style. It’s been years since I’ve seen a young lady dress so well. You said your family name is Bent?”

  Betty nodded.

  “Any relation to Franklin and Eloise?”

  “They’re my parents.”

  “I admire the work they do at the Metropolitan Opera. The costumes they designed for The Magic Flute were remarkable. You’re quite lovely, too. My hair was once that very same shade of red.”

  Betty lifted on
e hand to her hairdo. “It’s just a wig,” she admitted.

  “It suits you,” Amelia noted. “You know, Miss Bent, I’ve been searching for someone like you …” She drifted off, her brain calculating unknown possibilities. “What I mean to say is that I run several schools. I’ve been looking for a young assistant. Someone with potential. A girl who could use a little polish. A diamond in the rough, if you will.”

  She opened her handbag, fished out a silver cardholder, and handed each of us a business card.

  AMELIA BEAUREGARD

  HEADMISTRESS

  L’INSTITUT BEAUREGARD

  NEW YORK · PARIS · ROUGEMONT

  Just a glance at the card turned my spine to ice. L’Institut Beauregard was an etiquette academy, and it was infamous among my fellow students at the Atalanta School for Girls. Every September, at least one of my schoolmates was enrolled in after-school classes at the institute. By the time she returned from Christmas vacation, her transition from sassy schoolgirl to well-behaved robot was almost always complete.

  “I’m very flattered, Madame Beauregard,” Betty told her. “But I’m afraid I’m too busy with school to consider taking a job.”

  Amelia Beauregard was not easily deterred. “Why not sleep on it, my dear?” she suggested. “I leave for Paris in a few days, and I could use some help while I’m there. A trip might be a pleasant way to begin your employment. Do you happen to speak any French?”

  “A little,” Betty replied.

  “Betty’s too modest. She’s practically fluent,” I said.

  “Humility is a rare and precious quality,” Madame Beauregard noted, the sides of her mouth curling up ever so slightly. “If you are interested in the position, Miss Bent, please stop by the institute. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I have some thinking to do. Good day, ladies.” Having thus dismissed us, Amelia Beauregard turned her attention back to the plaque on the wall. Before Betty could pull me away, I caught a glimpse of what was written there.

  GORDON GRANT

  BORN JANUARY 18, 1920

  MISSING IN ACTION AUGUST 1944

  THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … BEING A LADY

  I know exactly what you’re thinking. What does it take to be a lady? And why on earth would I want to be one? (This is a question most male readers are probably asking right now. Please substitute the word gentleman, sirs. You’ll find it works equally well.)

  Not long ago, being a lady meant presenting a certain face to the world. A lady never used a fish fork to eat steak. She kept her nails filed and her appearance tidy. And she never wore white shoes after Labor Day. This was the sort of person that girls were told they should strive to be. That’s all fine and dandy, of course. Wearing dirty clothes can be quite unsanitary. And when used correctly, fish forks are genuinely handy utensils. But times have changed. In the twenty-first century, I think we can all aim a little bit higher, don’t you?

  A Twenty-First-Century Lady (Or Gentleman) …

  1. Meets challenges with grace, cunning, and courage. (And occasionally a mean right hook.)

  2. Knows how to defend herself—in an argument, a sporting match, or a dark alley.

  3. Is a champion of all who are younger, weaker, and less fortunate than herself.

  4. Knows you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. (Though she’s prepared to whip out the vinegar in case of emergency.)

  5. Chews with her mouth closed. (For many reasons, including the prevalence of flying insects.)

  6. Is comfortable in her own skin. (No matter how many times her parents drag her to the dermatologist.)

  7. Is always open to learning and trying new things. (Never turn down an opportunity to ride a pig. Trust me.)

  8. Chooses her allies wisely. And while she never sets out to make enemies, she knows they’re not always avoidable.

  9. Is too busy to worry about what other people may think of her.

  Chapter 5

  Institutionalized

  A young woman is judged every time she leaves her home. Her posture, her attire—even her table manners—speak volumes about a girl’s background and upbringing. Parents today are eager to give their daughters every advantage. They spare no expense when it comes to tutors and tuition. And yet most neglect to provide their offspring with the most fundamental of skills.

  The world is watching your daughters. A refined appearance and an understanding of etiquette will act as a shield against loose tongues and cruel eyes. For almost a century, L’Institut Beauregard has transformed Manhattan’s girls into refined young ladies. You will notice a difference in less than a week—and so will everyone else.

  —Amelia Beauregard, Headmistress,

  L’Institut Beauregard

  That night, I stayed up late, waiting for Kiki to call from Pokrovia. Rather than address my ever-growing pile of homework, I decided to engage in a bit of wholesome cyberstalking. The website for L’Institut Beauregard was a sickening shade of pink, with text written in a florid cursive font. Unable to bear the sight of the fake smiles plastered on the faces of the Institute’s poster children, I hastily clicked the link for “Parent Testimonials.”

  “Before L’Institut Beauregard, my daughter and I were at war. Since she graduated, we’ve become the best of friends. Yesterday she even asked to borrow my pearls! A year ago, I would have been terrified that she’d pawn them and run away. But now I know I can trust her.”

  “Just six months ago, my daughter was a slovenly oaf. Thanks to L’Institut Beauregard, her personal hygiene has improved significantly! Yesterday, a neighbor even complimented me on her appearance. The woman was only being nice, of course, but it wasn’t so long ago that such a sentiment would have been too ludicrous to utter!”

  “My little **** went through a horrifying stage when she wanted to be a writer. She would spend all day moping around the house and scribbling in a notebook. It was depressing to watch! Thank goodness for L’Institut Beauregard. Now my precious darling loves nothing more than shopping. Just two months of instruction, and she’s a whole new girl!”

  There were more, of course. Girls who’d had “potty mouths,” girls who’d stumbled over their own two feet, girls who’d shown a preference for boys from bad homes. Amelia Beauregard had cured each and every one of them. According to the wealthy mothers of Manhattan, she was a miracle worker. Her character was irreproachable, her own background pristine.

  “Ananka, would you please take your clothes out of the dryer when they’re done?” My mother dumped a load of unfolded laundry on my bed and readjusted the pencil that pinned her curly black hair into an untidy bun. “I’m not your maid.” She caught sight of my computer screen and gasped. “Why on earth are you looking at that?”

  “What?” I asked, wondering if she’d seen something I hadn’t. It was as if she’d caught me surfing for smut. “It’s just the website for L’Institut Beauregard. It’s an etiquette academy.”

  I noticed that my mother’s posture had suddenly improved. “I know what it is. And I know all about that horrible woman who runs it.”

  “Amelia Beauregard?” I asked. “What’d she ever do to you?”

  “For your information, she and her institute ruined my sophomore year of high school.”

  “Wow. She was ruining people’s lives back in the dark ages?” I asked.

  “Not funny,” my mother replied. “That woman and her so-called school turned half the girls in my class into mindless zombies. I lost my two best friends thanks to her.”

  “Really?” A personal connection tends to make any investigation more intriguing. My fingers scuttled back to the computer keys, eager to dig up a little more dirt.

  “Yes, and then your grandmother decided to sign me up for classes when she found out our trust fund would cover the fees. She said I was a little ‘rough around the edges.’”

  “At least Grandma didn’t threaten to send you to a boarding school in West Virginia.”

  “You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” my m
other asked.

  “It was just a joke, Mom. So, if you went to the institute, how come you ended up being so normal?”

  “I got myself kicked out.”

  “You?” I snorted. This was the same woman who’d once demanded that a traffic cop write her a ticket after she’d accidentally parked in a handicap zone. “How did you manage that?”

  “It’s none of your business,” my mother said slyly. “I don’t want to give you any ideas. But let’s just say you’re not the only one in the family with a rebellious streak.”

  “I wouldn’t tease me if I were you,” I warned her. “Don’t think that I can’t find out what you did.”

  “Go ahead. Give it your best shot,” my mother said. “But you might have more fun turning your detective skills on Amelia Beauregard. Back in my day, they said Madame had a secret. No one knew what it was, but there was something behind all the gossip. I’d swear to it.”

  “Might it have had something to do with a mysterious gentleman friend?” I said, mimicking Amelia Beauregard’s manner of speaking.

  “It might,” my mother said. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Maybe,” I said with a smile, just to torture her.

  “Well, I expect a full report soon,” my mother quipped on her way out the door. “Or I’ll have to send you to the institute to do some firsthand research.”

  When I was certain my mother wasn’t spying over my shoulder, I clicked out of the institute’s website and called up Google. In the search box, I typed, “Gordon Grant MIA 1944.” The first listing was a page from a site titled Benedict Arnolds: Little-Known American Turncoats. I clicked through and found myself staring at a black-and-white photo of a young man in a uniform. I could see how his good looks and rakish grin might have warmed the cockles of Amelia Beauregard’s icy heart. “Gordon Mackenzie Grant,” the headline read. “Nazi Collaborator and Saboteur.” Jackpot.

  Raised in Shacklesville, Alabama, Gordon Grant was a recognized mathematical genius by the age of ten. At age twenty-two, he was a respected professor at New York’s Columbia University. During World War II, he joined the Army’s Office of Strategic Services, a precursor to today’s CIA. For most of the conflict, Grant worked as a cryptographer. Then in 1944, he volunteered for a dangerous assignment—one that required parachuting into Nazi-occupied France.