by Libba Bray
The gasps catch from girl to girl like a brush fire. There is a sense of both horror and ecstasy: the East Wing! Blood! A secret crime! It will give us something to gossip about for a week at least.
“Quiet, please!” Mrs. Nightwing barks. “Has anyone any knowledge of this crime? If you shield another through your silence, you do her no service.”
I think of last night, the figure in the dark. But I can’t very well tell Mrs. Nightwing about it, else I’d have to explain what I was doing out of my bed.
“Will no one step forward?” Mrs. Nightwing presses. We are silent. “Very well. If there is no admission, all will be punished. You will spend the morning with pail and brush, scrubbing till the stones gleam again.”
“Oh, but, Mrs. Nightwing,” Martha cries above the hum of anguished murmurs, “must we really wash…blood?”
“I fear I shall faint,” Elizabeth says, teary.
“You will do no such thing, Elizabeth Poole!” Mrs. Nightwing’s frosty glare stops Elizabeth’s tears straightaway. “The restoration of the East Wing is very important. We have waited years for it, and no one shall halt our progress. Don’t we want Spence looking her best for our masked ball?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” we answer.
“Think what a proud moment it will be when you return years from now, perhaps with your own daughters, and you can say ‘I was there when these very stones were put in place.’ Every day, Mr. Miller and his men toil to restore the East Wing. You might reflect upon that as you scrub.”
“‘When you return with your own daughters,’” Felicity scoffs. “You can be sure I won’t be coming back.”
“Oh, I can’t bear to touch it—blood!” Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. She looks ill.
Cecily scrubs in small circles. “I don’t see why we should all be punished.”
“My arms ache already,” Martha grouses.
“Shhh,” Felicity says. “Listen.”
On the lawn, Mrs. Nightwing questions Brigid fiercely while Mr. Miller stands by, arms folded across his chest. “Did you do it, Brigid? I am only asking for an honest answer.”
“No, missus, on my heart, I swear it weren’t me.”
“I won’t have the girls frightened by hex marks and talk of fairies and the like.”
“Yes, missus.”
Mr. Miller scowls. “It’s them Gyps. You can’t trust ’em. The sooner you turn ’em out, the better we’ll all sleep for it. I know you ladies have a delicate sensibility…”
“I can assure you, Mr. Miller, that there is nothing delicate about my sensibilities,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps.
“All the same, m’um, say the word and me and my men will take care of the Gypsies for you.”
Revulsion shows on our headmistress’s face. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Miller. I am sure this little prank will not happen again.” Mrs. Nightwing glares at us and we snap our heads down and scrub as hard as we can.
“Who do you suppose did this?” Felicity asks.
“I’ll wager Mr. Miller has it right: It’s the Gypsies. They’re angry they haven’t been given work,” Cecily says.
“What can you expect from their sort?” Elizabeth echoes.
“It could be Brigid. You know how odd she is, with all her tales,” Martha says.
“I can’t imagine Brigid leaving her bed in the night to mark the stones. She complains about her back day in and day out,” I remind them.
Cecily dips her brush in the pail of murky red water. “Suppose that’s a ruse. What if she’s really a witch?”
“She does know a lot about fairies and such,” Martha says, wide-eyed.
It’s becoming a game, this suspicion.
Felicity’s eyes match Martha’s. She leans close. “Come to think of it, didn’t the bread taste just like the souls of children? I shall faint!” She puts a hand to her forehead.
“I’m quite serious, Felicity Worthington,” Martha scolds.
“Oh, Martha, you’re never serious,” Felicity teases.
“But why mark the East Wing with blood?” I ask.
Cecily mulls it over. “For revenge. To frighten the workers.”
“Or to raise evil spirits,” Martha offers.
“What if it’s the sign of a witch or…or the devil?” Elizabeth whispers.
“It could be for protection,” Ann says, still scrubbing.
Elizabeth scoffs. “Protection? From what?”
“From evil,” Ann replies.
Cecily narrows her eyes. “And how do you know this?”
Ann suddenly realizes she’s walked into it. “I—I’ve read such things…in the B-Bible.”
Something hard flashes in Cecily’s eyes. “You did it, didn’t you?”
Ann drops her brush into the pail and the water splashes her apron with muck. “N-no. I…I d-didn’t.”
“You can’t bear our happiness, our talk of parties and teas, can you? And so you want to ruin it for us!”
“No. I d-don’t.” Ann retrieves her brush and resumes cleaning, but under her breath she mutters something.
Cecily turns Ann around to face her. “What did you say?”
“Stop it, Cecily,” I say.
Ann’s face is flushed. “N-nothing.”
“What did you say? I should like to hear it.”
“I should too,” Martha says.
“Oh, Cecily, really. Do leave her alone, won’t you?” Felicity says.
“I’ve a right to hear what is said behind my back,” Cecily declares. “Go on, Ann Bradshaw. Repeat it. I demand that you tell me!”
“I s-said, you’ll be sor-sorry someday,” Ann whispers.
Cecily laughs. “I’ll be sorry? And what, pray, will you do to me, Ann Bradshaw? What could you possibly ever do to me?”
Ann stares at the stones. She moves the brush up and down in the same spot.
“I thought not. In a month’s time, you shall take your rightful place as a servant. That’s all you were meant to be. It’s high time you accepted that.”
Our work finished, we empty the disgusting water from the pails and trudge toward Spence, exhausted and filthy. Talk has turned to the masked ball and what costumes we shall wear. Cecily and Elizabeth want to be princesses. They’ll have their pick of silks and satins from which to fashion pretty dresses. Fee insists she will go as a Valkyrie. I say I should like to go as Miss Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet, but Felicity tells me it is the dullest costume in the history of costumes and no one should know who I was, besides.
“I should have told Cecily to jump in the lake,” Ann mutters.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“What if she told Mrs. Nightwing I painted the stones? What if Mrs. Nightwing believed her?”
“What if, what if,” Felicity says with an irritated sigh. “What if you stood up to her for once?”
“They hold all the power,” Ann complains.
“Because you give it to them!”
Ann turns away from Felicity, wounded. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“No, you’re right. I shan’t ever understand your willingness to lie down and die,” Felicity barks. “If you won’t at least try to fight, I have no sympathy for you.”
The day is as regimented as a soldier’s. French is followed by music, which is followed by a joyless luncheon of boiled cod. The afternoon is taken up with dance. We learn the quadrille and the waltz. As it is wash day, we are sent to the laundry to give our linens and clothing to the washerwoman, along with a shilling for her work. We copy sentences from Mr. Dickens’s Nicholas Nickleby, perfecting our penmanship. Mrs. Nightwing strides between the neat rows of our desks, scrutinizing our form, criticizing the loops and the flourishes she feels fall short of the mark. If we have an inkblot upon the page—and with our leaky nibs and weary fingers, it is nearly impossible not to—then we must start the whole page over again. When she calls time, my eyes have begun to cross and my hand will surely never be rid of its ghastly cramp.
B
y the time the evening rolls around, we’re exhausted. I’ve never been so grateful to see my bed. I pull the thin blanket up to my chin, and as my head dents the pillow, I fall into dreams as intricate as mazes.
The lady in lavender beckons to me from her cloak of London fog. I follow her into a bookseller’s. She pulls books furiously from the shelves, searching until she finds the one she wants. She lays it open and begins to draw, covering the page in strange lines and markings that put me in mind of a map. She inks the page as quickly as possible, but we are interrupted by the sound of horses. The lady’s eyes grow wide with fear. The window crackles with frost. Cold fog creeps around the cracks in the door. It blows open suddenly. A wretched monster in a tattered cape sniffs the air—a Winterlands tracker.
“The sacrifice…,” he growls.
I wake with a start to find I’ve pulled every one of my books from the shelf. They lie in a heap upon the floor.
Ann calls to me in a sleep-soaked voice. “Gemma, why are you making such a racket?”
“I…I had a nightmare. Sorry.”
She rolls over and returns to her dreams. Heart still beating fast, I go about putting my books away. A Study in Scarlet has only a few bent pages but Jane Eyre has a wretched tear in it. I mourn the injury done to it as if I, myself, have been cut, and not Miss Eyre. Mr. Kipling’s The Jungle Book is mangled. Miss Austen’s Pride and Prejudice is wounded but still intact. In fact, the only book to escape without a scratch is A History of Secret Societies, and I suppose I should be grateful something has survived my midnight rampage.
I place them all neatly on the shelf, spines out, except for Pride and Prejudice, for I have need of the comfort of an old friend. Miss Austen keeps me company by lamplight until well into the morning, when I fall asleep dreaming only of Mr. Darcy, which is as good a dream as a girl may reasonably hope for.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
* * *
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT I, ANN BRADSHAW, SHALL SEE LILY Trimble perform her greatest role!”
“Yes, well, you will see her, but not as Ann Bradshaw,” I say, bustling about my dressing table. I try the simple straw hat with a deep green ribbon. It does not make me into a beauty, but it is rather handsome. “I am sorry that you cannot go as yourself, Ann.”
She nods, resigned. “It’s no matter. I shall see her, and that is all I care about.”
“Have you given thought to your illusion?” I ask.
“Oh, yes!” She beams.
“Very well, then. Let’s give this a try, shall we?”
I take Ann’s hands in mine. She’s still got a bit of magic left inside her and it joins with what I’m giving her. Her joy over seeing her idol is contagious. I feel it traveling from my hand to hers and back again, an invisible thread connecting us.
“Go on, then. Make yourself into whomever you like,” I say, smiling. “We’ll wait for you.”
“It will only take a moment!” she says, exulting. Her cheeks are already rosy. “I promise.”
“This will end in misery, I’ve no doubt,” Felicity grumbles when I go downstairs. She’s fumbling with a bow at her neck. I put my hand over it, and it fluffs out, full and pretty.
“You’re the one always saying the magic’s no good unless we can make use of it here,” I say.
“I didn’t mean for little jaunts to the shows and new hats,” she snaps.
“It means the world to Ann.”
“I can’t see how attending a matinee will change her life,” Felicity grouses. “Instead of being a governess, she’ll be a governess who has been to the theater.”
“I don’t know either. But it’s a start,” I say.
“Hello.”
We turn at Ann’s voice, but it isn’t Ann who’s standing on the stairs above us. It is someone else entirely—a Gibson Girl, roughly twenty years of age, with sumptuous dark curls, an upturned nose, and eyes the color of sapphires. There’s no trace of our Ann in this creation. She wears a dress that could be on the cover of La Mode Illustrée. It’s a peach silk confection with black moiré piping and a wide lace collar. The sleeves puff out at her shoulders but taper down the length of her arm. It is topped off by a hat of butterscotch velvet adorned with a single plume. A dainty parasol completes the ensemble.
She poses at the top of the stairs. “How do I look?”
“Simply perfect,” Felicity answers, astonished. “I can’t believe it!”
Ann regards me curiously. “Gemma?”
She’s waiting for my response. It isn’t that she’s not lovely; she is. It’s that she’s no longer Ann. I look for the features I find so comforting in my friend—the pudgy face, the shy smile, and the wary eyes—and they are not there. Ann has been replaced by this strange creature I don’t know.
“You don’t like it,” she says, biting her lip.
I smile. “It’s only that you look so very different.”
“That is the point,” she says. She holds out her skirts and gives a small twirl. “And you’re certain no one will be able to tell?”
“I cannot tell,” I assure her.
Her face clouds. “And how long will the illusion hold?”
“I can’t say,” I answer. “Several hours at least. Perhaps even the whole day—certainly long enough for our purposes.”
“I wish it could be forever,” she says, touching a gloved hand to her new face.
Cecily prances through, all grins. She wears a beautiful pearl necklace with the daintiest cameo pendant. “Oh, Fee, come look! Isn’t it absolutely gorgeous? Mother sent it. I shouldn’t wear it before my debut but I can’t resist. Oh, how do you do?” she says, seeing Ann for the first time.
Felicity jumps in. “Cecily, this is my cousin, Miss—”
“Nan Washbrad,” Ann says coolly. Felicity and I nearly burst with laughter, for only we realize that that is an anagram of her name, Ann Bradshaw.
The spell is working well for Ann. Cecily seems absolutely enchanted with Felicity’s “older cousin,” as if she were speaking to a duchess.
“Will you be joining us for tea, Miss Washbrad?” she asks, breathlessly.
“I’m afraid I cannot. We’re to see Miss Lily Trimble in Macbeth.”
“I am a great admirer of Miss Trimble’s,” Cecily coos. Liar.
Ann is like a cat who has cornered the mouse. “What a lovely necklace.” She runs a finger boldly over the pearls and frowns. “Oh, it’s paste.”
Horrified, Cecily brings her hand to her neck. “But they can’t be!”
Ann gives her a look that is both pitying and contemptuous. “I am well versed in jewels, my dear, and I am so very sorry to inform you that your necklace is a forgery.”
Cecily’s face reddens, and I fear she will cry. She pulls the necklace off and examines it. “Oh, dear! Oh! I’ve shown everyone. They will think me a fool!”
“Or a fraud. Why, I heard a tale recently of a girl who passed herself off as nobility, and when her crime came to light, she was ruined. I should hate for such a fate to befall you,” Ann says, a hardness creeping into her tone.
Panicked, Cecily cups the pearls in her hands, hiding them. “What shall I do? I shall be ruined!”
“There, there.” Ann gently pats Cecily’s shoulder. “You mustn’t worry. I shall take the necklace for you. You may tell your mother it was lost.”
Cecily bites her lip and gazes at the pearls. “But she’ll be so angry.”
“It is better than being thought the fool—or worse—isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Cecily mumbles. “I thank you for your good advice.” Reluctantly, she passes the necklace to Ann.
“I shall dispose of it for you, and you may be confident that no one shall ever know of it,” Ann assures her.
“You are most kind, Miss Washbrad.” Cecily wipes away tears.
“There is something in you that brings out this kindness,” Ann purrs, and her smile is like the sun.
“That was a remarkable forgery,” I say wh
en we are alone. “How could you tell they were false? I could have sworn they were real pearls.”
“They are real,” Ann says, clasping the jewels around her own neck. “I am the remarkable forgery.”
“Why, Ann Bradshaw!” Felicity exclaims. “You are brilliant!”
Ann beams. “Thank you.”
We hold hands, relishing the moment as one. At last, Ann has bested the hideous Cecily Temple. The air feels lighter, as it does after a rain, and I am certain we are on our way to a happier future.
Mademoiselle LeFarge lets us know that the carriage has arrived. We introduce “Nan” to her and hold our breath, waiting for her response. Will she see through the illusion?
“How do you do, Miss Washbrad?”
“V-v-very well, thank you,” Ann answers in a faltering voice. I hold her hand tightly, for I fear that any lack of confidence might weaken the illusion she’s created. She must believe it wholeheartedly.
“It’s odd, but I can’t help feeling we’ve met before. There is something so familiar about you, though I cannot put my finger on it,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says.
I squeeze Ann’s hand, strengthening our bond. You are Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad.
“I am often m-mistaken for others. Once I was even taken for a poor mouse of a girl at a boarding school,” Ann answers, and Felicity bursts out laughing.
“Forgive me,” Fee says, collecting herself. “I’ve only just gotten a joke told me last week.”
“Well, I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Washbrad,” LeFarge says. “Shall we? The carriage awaits.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “That was a bit thick at the end, wasn’t it?” I whisper as the coachman opens the carriage door.
Ann grins. “But she believed it! She didn’t sense anything amiss. Our plan is working, Gemma.”
“That it is,” I say, patting her arm. “And it’s only the beginning. But let’s keep our heads about us.”
“My, what a beautiful necklace,” Mademoiselle LeFarge remarks. “Such exquisite pearls.”
