Even Helen gave up complaining about missing the New York season and applied herself to all her studies. I suspected that it was not from love of poring over old books, which often made her sneeze and which she complained soiled her nice clothes, but from the time she got to spend with Nathan. Just as I suspected that Mr. Bellows’s enthusiasm for spending time in the library stemmed in equal parts from scholarly ardor and the glow of Vionetta Sharp’s smile when he brought her, as he did almost every day, a bouquet of violets from town. I think we all basked in that glow.
While Miss Corey and Nathan brought the books out from the Special Collections Room, Miss Sharp would stir the coals in the grate and put a kettle on for tea. She seemed at those moments like some ancient goddess of the hearth—the Greek Hestia, or Roman Vesta, or one of the Scottish hearth hobs we learned about in Miss Frost’s class, fairies who lived in fireplaces. The honey-colored light that streamed in through the leaded glass windows bathed her face and turned her hair to liquid gold. As she handed out the teacups she had a kind word for each of us. As we read she would come around to refill our cups, tuck a shawl around Miss Corey’s shoulders, brush crumbs off Mr. Bellows’s jacket, save Helen’s sleeve from an ink spill, tuck an errant pin into my hair, feed Nathan a biscuit, and straighten Daisy’s collar—all her motions binding us in a warm glow that lessened the gloom of what we were reading.
The books Nathan brought us to read were all the ones that dealt with shadow attacks on the Order. There were many. The prioress of a Benedictine convent wrote in the fourteenth century that just before the Black Death ravaged the neighboring village she spied a murder of crows perched on the town walls, and that when she ordered the bell ringers to toll a peal they melted away “like smudges of ash” only to be replaced by a single figure of a winged man.
In a fifteenth-century bestiary I found a reference to “a Darknesse of Shadoes” next to an illustration of rats melting into black puddles. In the margin of the text was a drawing of a winged man. The scribe had written next to it “Angel or Shadoe?”
My circle of friends and teachers may have made it easier to deal with this grim material during the day, but at night the images—of crows flaking into ash and rats melting into puddles—made their way into my dreams. Worse, the images reversed themselves. I would be walking down Fifth Avenue with my mother, her boot heels clicking on slick cobblestones, and then her boot would land in a puddle and the puddle would turn into a nest of rats that swarmed over her, carrying her away from me. Or I was at the Triangle Waist factory, sitting next to Tillie, large flakes of ash floating through the air. When I looked up from my sewing and looked at Tillie I saw that the ash had turned to bats, which clung to her, sucking the blood from her veins. They were swarming over all the girls, tangled in their hair, I felt them in my hair, too, crawling over my skin.
I would wake up in a cold sweat, batting at the empty air.
One night I awoke and heard a pattering on the windowpanes above my bed. Shadows flitted over the glass. I lay for a moment, very still, watching the shadows moving, feeling a cold dread creeping over me as I grew sure that they had come for me because I was part of them. The girl who went to classes, and laughed with her new friends, and worked so hard to impress her teachers was an illusion—a trick of the daylight. I didn’t really belong at Blythewood. The real Avaline was the girl who carried laudanum home to her mother and worked in a factory. The real Avaline belonged in the Pavilion for the Insane. The real Avaline dreamed of monsters and longed for them. I belonged to the shadows and now they had come to take me back. I had only to lie still and they would take me.
A floorboard creaked, breaking my frozen spell. Daisy was standing beside my bed, her long white nightgown spattered with the moving shadows. I sat up to warn her away, but she was already crouching on my bed, her face pressed to the window.
“Look!” she whispered. “It’s snowing!”
I crouched beside her and looked out. Fat snowflakes swirled through the night, lit by a half-hidden moon. Already the lawn was covered with a glittering white blanket. The hedges and statues in the garden had been transformed into fanciful ice sculptures, the great pine trees at the edge of the woods mantled in white looked like women in ermine cloaks.
“Isn’t it . . . magical?” Daisy asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes,” I agreed. More than all the spells and potions and bell changes we had learned, this felt like the true magic of Blythewood, as if a bit of Faerie dust had blown out of the woods and spread itself across the school grounds. Seeing the school like this felt like seeing its secret self. It made me feel like I belonged here.
But even that magic had its dark side.
In the morning Miss Swift, accompanied by Gillie and a hooded falcon, roused us all from our dorm rooms to gather on the lawn near the edge of the woods for a “tracking class.” There in the pristine white snow we found the cloven hoof marks of centaurs, the long clawed scratches of goblins, and, most frightening of all, a trail of blood that ended with a long black feather.
“As we approach the winter solstice we must all be on our guard,” she lectured us. “Like All Hallows’ Eve, the solstice is a time when the barriers between the worlds grow thin. Fairies and demons slip though the gap and venture into our world. They’re particularly brazen at this time of year and use the snow as cover for their incursions. Observe.”
She nodded to Gillie and he removed the hood from the falcon’s head. Immediately the bird was alert, eyes searching the ground. She cocked her head and strained at her jesses. Gillie made a clicking sound in his throat that sounded just like the falcon’s trill, and released her. She flew straight off his hand and dove into the snow. She came up almost immediately with something in her talons. Gillie cast a feathered lure down to distract the bird away from her prey and quickly scooped up the struggling animal when the falcon released it.
Only it wasn’t an animal. It was a tiny winged sprite like the ones Miss Frost kept pinned in her classroom—but alive. This one was covered in white down and had blue eyes. Gillie cupped it in his gloved hands as it beat its wings furiously. “Who can identify it?” Miss Swift demanded.
“Lychnobia riparia,” Daisy said breathlessly, “commonly known as a hyter sprite. They can transform themselves into birds—usually sand martins. Native to East Anglia. There’s a legend that they lead stray children home.”
Miss Swift snorted. “Completely erroneous, as are all such legends of fairies helping children. There’s a similar story about your namesake, eh, Gillie?”
“Aye,” Gillie answered hoarsely. “The Ghillie Dhu was said to find lost children and lead them home, just like the hyter sprites. This one is just a wee thing. Shall I let it go?” “And let it tunnel its way through the snow into the castle? That’s what they do. They get into the root cellar and granary and eat up all the oats and apples. Vermin.” She sniffed. “I’m sure Miss Frost will be happy to have it as a specimen. Bag it and give it to Daisy to bring to her.”
Gillie lifted his black eyes up to Miss Swift. For a moment I saw a flash of green in them and his hands opened to let the sprite out, but when it tried to fly up it landed with a thud back in his hands. “It’s broken its wing,” he said sadly, “and probably wouldna last the winter.” He took a soft leather sack out of his hunting bag, popped it over the sprite’s head, tied the sack shut, and handed it to a wide-eyed Daisy.
“Make sure Miss Frost is quick about it,” he said gruffly. Then he whistled for his falcon and stomped off in the snow. Miss Swift rolled her eyes. “Very well. I suppose it’s time for us all to go. Class dismissed.”
I walked back to the castle between Helen and Daisy, Helen complaining about the cold and being up so early she hadn’t had a chance to curl her hair, Daisy cradling the bag holding the condemned hyter sprite in her arms. When we got to the house, Daisy suddenly wheeled on Helen.
“How can you go on about your hair when this poor creature is about to die?” she cried.
> Then before Helen or I could say anything she ran toward the North Wing classrooms, sobbing.
“What’s wrong with her?” Helen asked. “It’s not like the lampsprite’s human.”
“Do we really know that?” I asked. “I mean, no, they’re not human, but they’re not animals either. The reason Miss Frost hates them so much is because she blames them for leading Sir Malmsbury astray.”
“Well, not that I generally agree with Miss Frost, but she does have a point here. The important thing to remember is that these creatures are not like us.”
I stared at Helen, who had paused by a gilded mirror to fuss with her hair. “And just because someone is not like you, that means it’s okay to torture and kill them?”
“Oh please, now you sound like those horrible radicals preaching from their soapboxes in Union Square.”
“Some of those ‘horrible radicals’ were my friends,” I said, thinking of Tillie, “and the people who they were speaking up for were people like my mother and me and all the girls at the Triangle.”
Helen made a face in the mirror. “Everyone agrees that the Triangle fire was most regrettable.”
“Most regrettable?” I cried. “You make it sound like a failed tea party. Girls were burned alive and all because no one cared enough about their lives to install proper fire escapes or trusted them enough to leave the doors unlocked—”
“Well,” a voice came from behind me, “girls like that do steal. We had a maid once who stole my pearl earrings.”
I turned and found Georgiana Montmorency standing with a cluster of girls. My argument with Helen had drawn a little crowd. These were the same girls who had cheered me a few weeks ago, but there were all looking at me queerly now.
“I had no idea you worked as a seamstress, Ava,” Georgiana said, raising her eyebrows at Alfreda and Wallis. The rest of the girls were staring at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted horns. It was the way they looked at the lampsprites when they examined them. A factory girl was as much a different species as a lampsprite in their eyes. Georgiana, seeing that the tide of public opinion had turned against me, smiled sweetly. “I have some shirtwaists that need mending if you’re looking to earn some extra money. Who knows? Perhaps they were made by your friends at the Triangle. I’m afraid they’re rather slipshod.”
I don’t know why this insult was the one that finally broke me. I heard the bass bell in my head and instead of trying to slow it I made it speed up and, somehow, I made it change tone until it was a high screech inside my head. The mirror behind Helen shattered. I turned to see if Helen was all right. Glass shards glittered in her hair like new-fallen snow. Her eyes were wide and frightened. She was looking at me as if she saw a monster. I couldn’t blame her; it’s what I felt like. I turned and fled, the other girls scattering away from me in fear, and ran blindly through the halls until I turned a corner and ran into Nathan.
“Ah, Ava, I was looking for you . . .” He stopped when he saw the tears streaming from my face.
“Why?” I cried. “Do you have some mending for me to do? Or do you want a display of my freakish powers?”
He stared at me, open-mouthed, and then slowly smiled. “Neither,” he answered. “I want to show you a display of my freakish powers.” Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the empty library and before I could protest he opened the trapdoor behind the fireplace and started dragging me down the spiral stairs.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “We’re not allowed down here without a teacher.”
Nathan snorted. “Do you really care what anyone here thinks after the way they’ve talked about you?”
“You heard them?” I asked, glad that he was ahead of me on the dark stairs and couldn’t see the blood rise to my face.
“Helen’s little lecture on social inferiors and Georgiana’s offer for you to slave over her blouses for a few pennies? Yes. I heard that and much more. You think these girls are your friends just because they smile to your face? Do you think they’ll ever see you as an equal?”
We’d come to the corridor at the bottom of the stairs. Nathan held up his lantern in front of the wall, lighting up a row of filing cabinets. “Do you know what these are?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Genealogical records,” he replied. “The Order has kept track of the bloodlines of their members since the original six sisters and six knights. They’ve made careful notes of abilities and flaws so that they could breed a better warrior. Why do you think Sir Malmsbury studied lampsprites? So he could understand how to breed people.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . .”
“Disgusting? Heartless?”
I nodded, dumbstruck.
“Yes, but can you tell me you’re really surprised, with all Helen’s silly blather about marriage and finding a suitable husband?”
“But what about girls like Daisy?”
“Outsiders? They bring them in when they find a desirable trait to introduce into the stock. If Daisy is deemed acceptable after three years here, she’ll find herself matched up to a proper boy from Hawthorn. If not, well . . . the Order isn’t totally heartless. They offer her employment.”
“Like Miss Sharp?”
“Exactly. They would never allow Miss Sharp to marry because of the madness in her family—or Miss Corey because of that peculiar skin of hers, or Miss Frost because of a tendency to drink and corpulence.” Nathan’s voice changed, as it did when he was repeating something he’d heard or read.
“You’ve read the files?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “At first I was just looking for mine.” He opened a drawer and took out a slim manila folder and smiled at it ruefully. “Honestly, I just wanted to know more about my father. He died when I was so young, you see. So I don’t recall much about him. Louisa used to tell me there wasn’t much to know. He was a wealthy man from an old family. Simon Beckwith.” He held open the folder to a chart with a family tree and pointed at the names of Simon Beckwith and India Montmorency joined together with a lowercase m and the date 1893. Below them were Louisa and Nathan’s names and their birthdate, February 12, 1894.
“I didn’t know you and Louisa were twins,” I said.
“We were so unalike that people often forgot,” Nathan said with a rueful smile.
“What are these symbols?” I asked, pointing to a bell and an eye next to Dame Beckwith’s name and an acorn next to Simon Beckwith’s.
“Traits. A bell means the ability to ring the bells—not as a chime child—the symbol for that is a circled bell, but as you see, that’s very rare. My mother had the ability to ring the bells and to influence people with a glance of her eyes. I apparently got the bell-ringing ability from her, but not the fixing people with a steely gaze . . .” Nathan bulged his eyes out at me and I laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the underground corridor. I wasn’t so sure he hadn’t inherited something of his mother’s penetrating gaze. “And I certainly didn’t inherit my father’s personality. The acorn is a symbol of steadfastness.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to smile. “I didn’t know your mother was a Montmorency.”
“Oh yes, she’s from the original founding families and so was Simon Beckwith. I must have been a disappointment to them. All I got was bell ringing, but look at Louisa. She got steadfastness, the penetrating gaze and bell ringing. Imagine their dismay to lose such a valuable breeder.”
“That’s not fair, Nathan! Your mother loved . . . loves your sister. I could tell from how she looked when she talked about her.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure she was fond of her, but if she loved her would she have done this?” Nathan held the folder closer to the lantern. I noticed his hand was shaking and was afraid he might set it on fire. I had to steady his hand to make out what he meant. A faint pen stroke had been drawn through Louisa’s name. Below it, in delicate script that I recognized as Dame Beckwith’s handwriting were written the words “Lost in the Blythe Wood, August 1911. NLVBL.”
“
What does NLVBL mean?”
“I asked myself the same question. That’s when I started looking though the other files to find that notation. I found it right away in Euphorbia Frost’s file and your mother’s.”
“My mother’s?”
He opened another drawer, retrieved a file, and showed me another chart. I glimpsed a long line of Halls intermingled with Rutherfords, Vanderbilts, Morgans, and Montmorencys (Georgiana and I were related!) that ended with my mother’s name. The same florid pen stroke had crossed out her name with the notation “Lost in the Blythe Wood, 1893. NLVBL.”
“But my mother came back!” I said. “Why doesn’t it say that?”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” Nathan replied. “She was still NLV BL.”
“But what . . . ?
“No longer viable bloodline.”
I stared at Nathan, desperately trying to think of something else the initials could stand for, but I couldn’t come up with anything.
“You see, that’s why they haven’t bothered trying to find Louisa. As far as they’re concerned, she’s already ruined. They’ve given up on her, but I haven’t. I’m going into the woods to find her. And if I can’t find her I’ll take one of the Darklings and hold him for ransom until they give me Louisa back.”
“Why are you so sure it was a Darkling that took Louisa?”
“I saw how that fiend looked at you that night in the woods and on the day on the lawn. If the bells hadn’t rung he would have grabbed you. And what do you think those crows were about? The Darklings sent them. You saw in the candelabellum how the Darkling broke up into the crows. They’re one and the same thing.”
“But the crows felt . . . different.”
Nate gave me a strange look. “They felt the same to me— same black wings and black beady eyes. And they both disappeared when the bells rang. And I bet they’re both vulnerable to this . . .” He slid a silver dagger out of his pocket, identical to the one that Mr. Bellows had given Miss Sharp when we were attacked by the crows.
Blythewood Page 24
