by Libba Bray
“Have you noticed?” Martha says in a stage whisper. She is one of Cecily’s loyal followers and has begun to dress like her and even to resemble her a bit. They share the same practiced, coy laugh and a tendency to smile in a way that is meant to look demure but only seems as if they have bitten off too much bread and cannot swallow.
“Noticed what?” Felicity asks.
“We’ve a new teacher,” Martha continues. "Do you see? She’s sitting beside Mademoiselle LeFarge.”
Mademoiselle LeFarge, our plump French instructor, sits with the other teachers at a long table set apart. She has been seeing a detective from Scotland Yard, an Inspector Kent whom we all like very much, and since their courtship began, she has taken to wearing brighter colors and more fashionable dresses. Her newfound gaiety, however, has not extended to excusing my deplorable French.
Heads swivel in the direction of the new teacher, who is seated between LeFarge and Mrs. Nightwing. She wears a suit of gray flannel, a sprig of holly pinned to one lapel. I recognize her instantly as the woman who arrived in the dead of night. I could share this information. It might make me quite popular at the table. Most likely, it would cause Cecily to run immediately to Mrs. Nightwing and inform her of my nighttime activities. I decide to eat a fig instead.
Mrs. Nightwing rises to speak. My fork, which was so very close to tasting happiness, must be stilled at my plate. I utter a silent prayer that she will be brief, though I know this is very much like asking for snow in July.
“Good morning, girls.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer in unison.
“I wish to present Miss McCleethy, our new instructor in the arts. In addition to drawing and painting, Miss McCleethy is knowledgeable in Latin and Greek, badminton, and archery.”
Felicity flashes me an excited smile. Only Ann and I know how happy this makes her. In the realms, she proved to be quite a skilled archer, a fact that would no doubt startle those who think she is concerned only with the latest fashion from Paris.
Mrs. Nightwing drones on. “Miss McCleethy comes to us from the very esteemed Saint Victoria’s School for Girls in Wales. I am fortunate indeed, for I’ve known her as a dear friend for many a year.”
At this Mrs. Nightwing gives Miss McCleethy a warm smile. It is astonishing! Mrs. Nightwing has teeth! I have always assumed that our headmistress hatched from a dragon’s egg. That she is in possession of a “dear friend” is beyond me.
“I’ve no doubt she will prove an invaluable asset to us here at Spence, and I ask you to welcome her warmly. Miss Bradshaw, perhaps you’d be willing to sing a song for our Miss McCleethy? A carol would be nice, I should think.”
Ann rises dutifully and walks between the long tables toward the front. As she goes there is a bit of whispering, a snicker or two. The other girls never seem to tire of tormenting Ann, who keeps her head down and endures their cruelty. But when she opens her mouth to sing “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming,” her voice, clear and beautiful and powerful, silences every critic. When she finishes, I want to stand and cheer. Instead, we give a round of brief, polite applause as she walks back to the table. Cecily and her friends make a point of not acknowledging Ann at all, as if she hasn’t just sung for the whole room. It’s as if she doesn’t exist for them. She’s no more than a ghost.
“That was splendid,” I whisper to her.
“No,” she says, blushing. “It was terrible.” But a sheepish smile lights up her face anyway.
Miss McCleethy stands to address us. “Thank you, Miss Bradshaw. That was a nice start to our day.”
A nice start? It was lovely. Perfect, in fact. Miss McCleethy has no passion at all, I decide. I shall be forced to give her two bad conduct marks in my invisible ledger.
“I look forward to meeting each of you and hope to be of service. You may find that I am an exacting teacher. I expect your very best at all times. But I think you will also find that I am fair. If you put forth effort, you shall be rewarded. If not, you shall suffer the consequences.”
Mrs. Nightwing beams. She has found a kindred spirit, which is to say, someone devoid of all human joy. “Thank you, Miss McCleethy,” she says. She sits, which is our blessed cue to begin eating.
Ah, grand. Now to the bacon. I lift two thick slices onto my plate. They are like heaven.
“She sounds a jolly sort,” Felicity whispers naughtily, nodding toward Miss McCleethy. The others titter behind closed mouths. Only Felicity can get away with such outright cheek. If I were to make such a remark, I’d be greeted with stony silence.
“What a strange accent she has,” Cecily says. "Foreign.”
“Doesn’t sound Welsh to me,” Martha adds. "More Scottish, I should think.”
Elizabeth Poole drops two lumps of sugar into her brackish tea and stirs daintily. She’s wearing a delicate bracelet of golden ivy, no doubt an early gift from her grandfather, who is rumored to be wealthier than the Queen. "She could be Irish, I suppose,” she says in her tight, high voice. "I do hope she isn’t a Papist.”
It wouldn’t be worth my time to point out that our own Brigid is Irish and Catholic. For people like Elizabeth, the Irish are fine—in their place. And that place is living under stairs, working for the English.
“I certainly hope she is an improvement on Miss Moore.” Cecily takes a bite of jam on toast.
At Miss Moore’s name, Felicity and Ann go silent, eyes down. They haven’t forgotten that we were responsible for the dismissal of our former art teacher, a woman who took us into the caves behind Spence to show us the primitive goddess paintings there. It was Miss Moore who told me about my amulet and its connection to the Order. It was Miss Moore who told us stories about the Order, and that, in the end, was what led to her fall. Miss Moore was my friend, and I miss her.
Cecily wrinkles her nose. “All those stories about magical women . . . what was it?”
“The Order,” Ann says.
“Oh, yes. The Order,” Cecily says. She gives the next bit a dramatic flair. "Women who could create illusions and change the world.” This makes Elizabeth and Martha laugh and draws the attention of our instructors.
“Utter nonsense, if you ask me,” Cecily says in a quiet voice.
“They were only myths. She told us that,” I say, trying not to meet the eyes of either Ann or Felicity.
“Exactly. What purpose did she have in telling us stories about sorceresses? She was supposed to teach us how to draw lovely pictures, not take us into a damp cave to see primitive scratchings by some old witches. It’s a wonder we didn’t all take a chill and die.”
“You needn’t be so melodramatic,” Felicity says.
“It’s true! In the end, she got what she deserved. Mrs. Nightwing was right to dismiss her. And you were absolutely right to put the blame where it belonged, Fee—on Miss Moore. If it hadn’t been for her, perhaps dear Pippa...” Cecily doesn’t finish.
“Perhaps what?” I say icily.
“I shouldn’t say,” Cecily demurs. She is rather like a cat with a small mouse in her mouth.
“It was epilepsy that killed Pippa,” Felicity says, fiddling with her napkin. "She had a fit. . . .”
Cecily lowers her voice. “But Pippa was the first to tell Mrs. Nightwing about that wretched diary you were all reading. She was the one who confessed that you’d been out to the caves at night, and that you had gotten the idea from Miss Moore herself. I think that a strange coincidence, don’t you?”
“The scones are exceptionally good today,” Ann says, trying to change the subject. She cannot bear conflict of any kind. She fears that it will always be her fault somehow.
“What are you accusing her of?” I blurt out.
“I think you know what I’m saying.”
I can contain myself no longer. “Miss Moore was guilty of nothing but sharing a bit of folklore. I suggest we refrain from speaking of her altogether.”
“Well, I like that,” Cecily says, laughing. The others follow her lead. Cecil
y is an idiot, but why is it that she still has the power to make me feel foolish? “Of course, you would defend her, Gemma. It was that strange amulet of yours that began the conversation in the first place, as I recall. What is it called again?”
“The crescent eye,” Ann answers, crumbs sticking to her bottom lip.
Elizabeth nods, adding kindling to the fire. "I don’t think you ever told us exactly how you came to be in possession of it.”
Ann stops eating mid-scone, her eyes large. Felicity jumps in. "She did say. A village woman gave it to her mother for protection. It was an Indian custom.”
It is an amulet of the Order, given to me by my mother before she died. My mother, Mary Dowd, who with her friend, Sarah Rees-Toome, committed a vile act of sacrifice here at this very school more than twenty years ago and shattered the Order.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I say softly.
“They were most likely in league,” Cecily says to her followers in a whisper that is meant to be overheard. "I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she were a . . .” Cecily stops suddenly for effect. I shouldn’t take the bait, but I do.
“A what?”
“Miss Doyle, do you not know that it’s rude to eavesdrop on others’ conversations?”
“A what?” I press.
A cruel smirk spreads across Cecily’s face. "A witch.”
With the back of my hand, I knock the bowl of preserves onto Cecily’s plate. Some of the raspberry splatters across her dress so that she will have to change before Mademoiselle Le-Farge’s class. She’ll be late and lose marks.
Cecily stands in outrage. "You did that on purpose, Gemma Doyle!”
“Oh, how clumsy of me.” I make a diabolical face, baring my teeth. "Or perhaps it was witchcraft.”
Mrs. Nightwing rings a bell. "What is happening there? Miss Temple! Miss Doyle! Why are you creating such a scene?”
“Miss Doyle deliberately knocked the preserves onto my dress!”
I stand. “It was an accident, Mrs. Nightwing. I don’t know how I could have been so clumsy. Dear Cecily, here, let me help you.” Giving my best well-mannered smile, I swipe at her dress with my napkin, infuriating her.
She pushes my hand away. "She’s lying, Mrs. Nightwing! She did it on purpose, didn’t she, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth, the obedient dog, comes to Cecily’s aid. “She did, Mrs. Nightwing. I saw it.”
Felicity’s up now. “ That is a lie, Elizabeth Poole. You know very well that it was an accident. Our Gemma would never do such an unkind thing.”
Well, that is a lie, but I’m grateful for it.
Martha stands for Cecily. “She’s always had it in for our Cecily. She is a most uncivilized girl, Mrs. Nightwing.”
“I resent that!” I say. I look to Ann for help. She sits meekly at the table, still eating and unwilling to enter the fray.
“That is enough!” Mrs. Nightwing’s harsh voice silences us. “This is a fine welcome for our Miss McCleethy. She will probably pack her things and head for the hills rather than stay amongst the savages. I cannot possibly loose you upon an unsuspecting London like the hounds of Hades. Therefore, we shall spend the day perfecting our manners and reflecting in prayer until what emerges is the sort of young lady Spence would be proud to call her own. Now, let us finish our breakfast in peace without any further unseemly outbursts.”
Reprimanded, we sit and resume our meal.
“If I weren’t a Christian, I should tell her exactly what I think of her,” Cecily says to the others as if I can’t hear her clearly.
“Are you a Christian, Miss Temple? I couldn’t be sure,” I say.
“How would you know about Christian charity, Miss Doyle, raised among the heathens in India?” Cecily turns to Ann. “Dear Ann, you should take care not to be associated with such a girl,” she says, flicking her glance to me. "She might do great harm to your reputation, and, truly, that is all you have to recommend you as a governess.”
I have met the devil, and her name is Cecily Temple. The evil frog knows just how to sow fear and doubt in Ann—poor, orphaned Ann, a scholarship student who is only here at a distant cousin’s largesse, so that she might work for them when she leaves. Cecily and her ilk will never accept her, but they make sport of using her when it suits them.
If I’d hoped that Ann would rise to the occasion, I was sadly mistaken.
Ann does not say, “Why, Cecily, you really are a toad of a girl.” “Why, Cecily, thank heavens you’ve a fortune, for with that face you’ll need it.” “Why, Cecily, Gemma is my good, dear, true friend, and I should never speak against her.”
No. Ann sits silently, letting Cecily think she’s won by her refusal to go against her. And so Cecily does, making Ann feel, for the moment, as if she has been accepted into their circle, though nothing could be further from the truth.
The potatoes are cold and tasteless now, but I eat them anyway, as if I have no feelings to hurt and the snickers of the other girls are nothing more than the patter of rain.
When the dishes have been cleared away, we’re forced to sit at the long tables and endure a lesson on manners. It has been snowing all morning. I’ve never seen snow, and I long to walk out into the lush whiteness, feel the cold, wet crystals on my fingertips. Mrs. Nightwing’s words drift in and out of my wandering mind.
“You would not wish to find yourself snubbed by good society and crossed off the visiting lists of the best households . . .”
“Never ask a gentleman to hold your fan, bouquet, or gloves during a dance unless he is your escort or a relative. . . .”
As I know no gentlemen besides my father and brother, this shan’t be a concern. That isn’t entirely true. I know Kartik. But we are unlikely to see each other in the ballrooms of London. What news has he for me? I should have gone to him on the way back from vespers. What a foolish girl he must think me.
“The lady of the highest rank shall enter the dining room first. The hostess shall enter last. . . .”
“Talking loudly or laughing on the street shows ill-breeding. . . .”
“. . . Association with a man who drinks, gambles, or engages in other ills is to be avoided at all costs, lest he should bring disgrace upon your reputation. . . .”
A man who drinks. Father. I want to push the thought away. I see him as I saw him in October, eyes glazed with laudanum, hands trembling. Grandmama’s few letters since have made no mention of his health, his addiction. Is he cured? Will he be the father I remember, the jolly man with the gleam in his eye and a quick wit to make us all laugh? Or will he be the father I’ve known since Mother’s death—the hollow man who doesn’t seem to see me anymore?
“Ladies may not leave a ballroom unattended. To do so could invite gossip.”
The snow piles against the windowpanes, creating tiny hilly villages there. The white of the snow. The white of our gloves. Of Pippa’s skin. Pippa.
They’re coming for you, Gemma. . . .
A chill passes through me. It has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with what I do not know; what I am afraid to discover.
CHAPTER SIX
ALL THE MORNING’S DIFFICULTIES ARE FORGOTTEN once we are let out. The sun, strong and bright, reflects off the fresh white in dazzling sparkles. The younger girls squeal in delight as the wet snow spills over the tops of their boots and down inside. A group has already begun work on a snowman.
“Isn’t it glorious?” Felicity sighs. She’s got her new fox-fur muff to show off, so she is quite happy. Ann follows gingerly, her mouth set in a grimace. The snow is a marvel to me. I grab a handful and am surprised to find it so pliable. “Ah, it sticks!” I shout.
Felicity regards me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Yes. Of course.” Now it dawns on her. “You’ve never seen snow!”
I want to fall back and bathe in it, such is my joy. I bring a mound to my mouth. It seems as if it should taste creamy as custard, but instead it is merely cold. The flakes dissolve instantly, melting into the heat of
my tongue. I’m giggling like a fool.
“Here, let me show you something,” Felicity says. She scoops the snow in both gloved hands, patting and shaping till she’s got a hard ball of it, which she shows to me. "Behold: the snowball.”
“Ah,” I say, not understanding in the least.
Without warning, she hurls the packed snow at me. It hits me hard on the sleeve, sending a spray of wet crystals into my face and hair till I’m sputtering.
“Isn’t snow marvelous?” she says.
I should be angry, I suppose, but I find I am laughing. It is marvelous. I love the snow and wish it would go on forever.
Huffing and puffing, Ann finally reaches us. She slips and plops down into a large puff of white with a squeal, which makes Felicity and me laugh uncharitably.
“You might not laugh if you were the one soaked through,” Ann grumbles, struggling to her feet in a very ungraceful fashion.
“Don’t be such a ninny,” Felicity scoffs. “It isn’t the end of the world.”
“I haven’t ten pairs of stockings at the ready, as you do,” Ann says. It’s meant to sound clever but it comes out dreary and petulant.
“I shan’t bother you further, then,” Felicity says. “Oh, Elizabeth! Cecily!” And with that, she marches off to the other girls, abandoning us to the cold.
“But I don’t have a wealth of stockings,” Ann says, defending herself.
“You sounded very sorry for yourself is all.”
“I can’t seem to say anything right.”
My happy afternoon in the snow is fading. I don’t think I can bear an hour of Ann’s whining. I am still a bit angry with her for not coming to my defense at breakfast. The snow is in my hand before I can think. I hurl it at Ann and it splats across her surprised face. Before she can react, I throw another snowball.
Ann splutters, “I—I—I . . .”
Another hits across her skirt.
“Come on, then, Ann,” I say, taunting her. “Are you going to allow me to keep punishing you? Or are you going to take your revenge?”