I shut my own door. If Nicholas was any indication, the rest of the Rochesters were also probably a wonderful, loving family that just happened to live in a big scary house. Maybe tonight’s party had been super-important. And there was nothing wrong with formal dining, I just wasn’t used to it. In our house we sometimes even wore pajamas to dinner.
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Blueeeeeeberry pancakes for my girls! Dad sang as he danced around the kitchen, brandishing the spatula like it was a mic.
Mom laughed as he bent low to croon to her. They were both wearing matching threadbare Brown T-shirts and navy cotton shorts. Dad held the spatula out, and she obligingly added, Put choooocolate chips in mine, pleeeeasse!
I rolled my eyes. You guys are so lame. And you’re dressed alike again.
That’s because weeee’ve got style, Dad responded, and Mom clapped as he took a bow.
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The memory made the lead ball in my gut sink another inch. Suddenly exhausted, I dragged myself across the room and collapsed into bed. It was past midnight, and breakfast was apparently in precisely seven hours. I set the alarm on my phone for six forty-five and plunged into sleep.
I woke up feeling shaky and disoriented. Ever since the helicopter crash, I’d been plagued by bad dreams. There were minor variations, but in all of them I was trapped, surrounded by fire. I could hear voices through the smoke, the sound of someone crying; but no matter how loudly I screamed, no one ever came to rescue me.
It took a minute to remember where I was. The overhead light was still on; I’d been too tired to turn it off. According to my phone it was 3 a.m.
I ran a hand through my hair as I shuffled across the room. My mouth tasted terrible, and I debated digging through luggage for my toothbrush.
As I flicked off the chandelier, there was a bloodcurdling shriek. I froze, then fumbled for the switch. The room flooded with light again, illuminating the goosebumps along my arms. I couldn’t pinpoint where the scream had come from, although it had sounded like it was directly above me. I strained my ears, but it was dead silent.
I wasn’t even completely certain it had come from inside the house; maybe someone was being attacked in the street? San Francisco was a big city, after all. I didn’t have a clue whether or not Pacific Heights was considered safe, although mansions weren’t usually in the bad part of town.
I hurried to the window and drew back a curtain. Nothing but impenetrable darkness—the backyard, probably.
I sat there barely breathing for five full minutes, but the house remained still. I chewed my lip—maybe it had just been my imagination? After all, I’d just had a nightmare in an unfamiliar place. And I’d gotten so little sleep over the past few weeks, it could be affecting my mind. But what if it had been something? Shouldn’t I tell someone?
Of course, the only person I’d met so far was a kid, and I wasn’t even sure I could find his room. Conflicted, I toyed with the drawstring on my pajama bottoms and kept listening.
After a few more minutes I gave up and went back to bed, leaving the lights on again. But even with them blazing, I kept catching moving shadows in my peripheral vision. Each time, I jerked up in bed and snapped my head around; but of course there was nothing there, and I was left feeling ridiculous.
Hours passed. I finally drifted off to sleep as daylight seeped beneath the curtains.
Chapter II
There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.
Waking up felt like dragging myself to the surface of the sea with clumsy strokes. My head ached, and my whole body seemed to have been recast in lead.
I sat up and groaned. Hopefully the Rochesters wouldn’t have any big plans for my first day. I lifted my phone and squinted at it: 7:45 a.m.
“Crap!” I dropped the phone on the bed and scrambled to my feet. Nicholas had given the distinct impression that being late to breakfast was frowned upon. I was kind of surprised no one had knocked to wake me. Maybe they were letting me sleep in.
I was tempted to grab a few more minutes of shut-eye, but my stomach protested. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since I’d eaten anything, and that was only a half bagel. Maybe I can take a nap later, I thought, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and my dad’s old sweatshirt.
On the threshold I paused. I had no idea where the “formal dining room” was. The hallway was only slightly brighter than it had been last night. My feet sank into a plush rug. Dark oil paintings lined the corridor like grim soldiers, flanking marble statues. I let out a low whistle, thinking there were probably museums that weren’t this nice.
There was a flight of stairs on my left; at least I could avoid the elevator. As I started down, I heard the faint sound of conversation, and something inside me quailed. I was half tempted to go back to bed and hide under the pillows.
“C’mon, Janie,” I muttered out loud. “Don’t be such a baby.” Steeling myself, I continued descending.
Two flights down, I emerged in the front hall. It was much larger than I’d realized, probably fifty feet wide. Prettier, too, now that it was filled with sunlight. An archway led into what appeared to be a ballroom.
The voices were coming from that direction. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded a lot like arguing. I hesitated. Should I just go back to my room and wait? I had very little experience with this sort of thing—my parents rarely fought. And when they did, it always ended with Dad cracking a dumb joke and banging out a song on our piano about strong-minded women and the men who fell for them. Mom would start laughing, and then they’d—
I gritted my teeth, forcing back the memory. Enough, already. Time to meet the Rochesters.
I followed the voices through three more rooms, each more intimidating than the last. Chandeliers swooped down from the ceilings, spotlighting furniture that didn’t look like it was meant to be touched. I kept my arms crossed in front of my chest, terrified that I’d accidentally send a priceless heirloom crashing to the ground.
The fourth room turned out to be the formal dining room. Informal dining room, I thought, and had to repress a laugh. The mammoth table could probably comfortably seat twenty. Three people sat at the far end: an older man and woman, around my parents’ age, and a teenage girl. They immediately fell silent, which made me wonder if they’d been talking about me.
“Um, hi,” I said, feeling painfully self-conscious in my sweats. Nicholas was right, no pajamas here. Mr. Rochester was wearing a suit, and his wife had on a navy dress and pearls. Even the girl looked perfectly turned out in her prep school uniform. She smirked as her eyes ran over my outfit. I forced myself to take another step forward. “I’m Janie.”
Mr. Rochester was already rising out of his seat. He was imposing: easily six-five, with broad shoulders and a slight gut. He crossed the room in long strides, then reached out and clasped my elbows. “Jane! We’re all so glad you’re finally here. Welcome!”
It was hard to miss the strain in his voice, or the fact that Mrs. Rochester hadn’t joined him. She scrutinized me as if I was something she’d ordered that had arrived damaged, and she was considering returning it for a refund. “Thanks,” I managed.
“Please, have a seat.” He guided me around the table and held out the chair next to the girl, pushing it in once I’d sat down. “This is my daughter, Georgina; she’s just a year older than you. And my wife, Marion. No need to be formal, you can call me Richard.”
I almost said that “Richard” sounded pretty formal to me, but managed to catch myself in time. This didn’t seem like a crowd that appreciated humor. Marion Roc
hester inclined her head but didn’t say anything. Despite the hour, her hair was coiffed, makeup perfectly applied. Her skin was flawless, too, not a wrinkle in sight. I suspected that a talented plastic surgeon deserved credit for that.
“Hi everyone,” I muttered.
“Hello,” Georgina responded coolly, not meeting my eyes as she took a sip of orange juice. She would have been intimidating under any circumstances—model-tall and thin, with her mother’s sharp cheekbones, silky blonde hair, and enormous gray eyes. She even managed to make a hideous school uniform look like something every teenage girl in the country should rush out and buy.
“So.” Mr. Rochester cleared his throat. “What can the cook get you for breakfast, Jane?”
“It’s, uh, Janie,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. The cook? I thought. Seriously? “Anything is fine, really. Maybe some cereal?”
“You should really try an omelet—Grace makes the most amazing omelets. Doesn’t she, Georgie?”
“I told you not to call me that anymore, Dad,” Georgina said, rolling her eyes.
“Right, I keep forgetting how grown up you are now.” He winked at me. I tried to smile. Despite his efforts to lighten the mood, the atmosphere in the room had passed oppressive and was rocketing toward funereal.
“Jane, I realize it’s your first day here,” Marion said crisply, “but in the future, I trust that you’ll be on time for breakfast.”
“Of course,” I said weakly. “Sorry.”
“How could she have known?” Richard scoffed. “We weren’t even here to meet her last night.” He turned to me and said earnestly, “I really am sorry about that, but we had to go to this awful—”
“It was a very important benefit,” Marion interrupted in a voice that could chip ice.
“Still, I feel terrible about it,” he went on. “I know that your dad would have wanted us to greet you properly.” At the mention of my father, his eyes looked pained.
“It’s okay, really,” I said. “And an omelet sounds great.” I reached for the bread basket in the center of the table, narrowly avoiding knocking over a glass of juice. I grabbed a blueberry muffin and started picking at it, although I’d lost my appetite again.
For the next few minutes, the only sound was the clink of silverware against plates. I sat there, desperately uncomfortable. In spite of myself, I flashed back to breakfast at our house.
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Can you turn the radio down, hon? Mom said. As always, Dad had NPR blaring to be heard over the grind of our orange juicer. Janie, aren’t you showering before school?
Why bother?
Because you just went surfing, Mom said reasonably.
Yeah but mid-tide is at three, so I’m going back out then, I said. The waves are supposed to be epic today.
Cool. Can I come with? Dad asked.
Sure, I smirked. If you think you can keep up.
Big talk, Dad said. Remember who taught you, little grasshopper.
The pupil becomes the teacher, I retorted.
I don’t know why I even bother sweeping, Mom said, frowning at the pile of sand around my chair. I swear, we might as well live in a tent on the beach.
Sounds good to me, Dad said, holding out his fist for me to bump.
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The memory was almost too painful to bear, especially since this breakfast felt like something out of a stiff British period drama. To break the silence, I blurted out, “I met Nicholas last night. He seems like a really sweet kid.”
Mr. Rochester lit up. “Oh, good! He was so excited to meet you. Watch out, he’ll talk your ear off if you give him half a chance.”
“That’s okay. I like kids.” I took another bite of muffin, feeling better. I swallowed, then continued, “Does Eliza eat breakfast in the kitchen, too?”
Dead silence.
I looked up from my plate to discover them all staring at me. Marion’s fork had actually frozen halfway to her mouth. Georgina was slack-jawed. Even Richard looked like I’d just called him a terrible name.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Marion said, setting down her fork and abruptly pushing back her chair. “I really must get on with my day.”
She swept from the room without a backward glance.
I stared after her, perplexed. “Sorry, did I say something wrong? I just—”
“Who told you about Eliza?” Georgina spat, glaring at me.
Puzzled, I stammered, “Nicholas. He said she was his twin, and that she wanted to meet me . . .”
Richard’s whole face sagged and he slumped in his chair, his napkin gripped in his right fist. In a heavy voice, he said, “We lost Eliza last year. I’m afraid we’re all still in shock over it, Nicholas especially. He’s developed some . . . unique coping mechanisms.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” I pushed my plate away, remembering how Nicholas’s face had lit up when he talked about his sister. So this family knew about loss, too. And I’d managed to drive a knife into the wound in less than five minutes. No wonder they’d avoided my parents’ funeral, and didn’t seem completely delighted about taking me in—I was carting even more tragedy to their doorstep.
“You couldn’t have known,” Mr. Rochester said gently. “Your father and I hadn’t been in contact in some time, so . . . well, let’s just forget about it, okay?”
I managed a nod, although I didn’t dare look up again. I could still feel Georgina’s eyes drilling into my skull.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you girls had better hurry if you’re going to make it to school on time.”
“School?” I said, startled. “What, today?”
“Marion wants you to get into a routine as quickly as possible,” Richard said, although judging by his tone he didn’t necessarily agree. “We were extremely fortunate—the Hamill School, where Georgina goes, has agreed to accept you midyear.”
“Guess how much that cost them,” Georgina muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
“But . . . today?” My mind spun. Even on a full night’s sleep, the thought of walking into a strange school was terrifying, and I hadn’t even unpacked yet. “I’m not sure—”
“Your uniform arrived last night. I’ll have Alma bring it to your room.” Richard glanced at his watch, then said, “You better hurry, the car leaves at eight-fifteen. Have a wonderful day, girls.”
And with that, he left the room.
I gaped after him. He couldn’t be serious, right?
Apparently he was, because Georgina pushed back from the table next. As she passed my chair, she snapped, “I’m meeting someone before class. Don’t make me late.”
Then she was gone, too. I stared down at the muffin on my plate, which looked like a squadron of mice had been tearing at it. My stomach roiled, and for a second I was pretty sure I was going to throw up.
You don’t have time for that, I reminded myself. I had less than ten minutes to get dressed and find my toothbrush. I stumbled out of the chair and ran back to my room.
"You can't wear those."
Startled, I jerked my head up. Georgina was leaning against my bedroom door, her gaze fixed on an iPhone.
“Why not?” I demanded, struggling to tie the laces on my Vans with shaking fingers. I’d thrown on the uniform, brushed my teeth with my index finger, and knotted my hair in a sloppy ponytail. All things considered, I was feeling pretty pleased with my progress.
Without looking up she said, “There’s a dress code. No sneakers.”
I swallowed hard. Aside from flip flops, the only other shoes I owned were plain black pumps I’d bought for the funeral, and I’d ruined th
ose by walking in the surf afterward. Georgina was wearing a pair of brown leather loafers that probably cost a few hundred dollars. “I don’t have anything else.”
“Seriously?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat, trying to hide my embarrassment. I’d never needed fancy shoes before, certainly not for school. What kind of high school banned sneakers, anyway?
“What size are you?”
“Why?”
“Maybe I can loan you something.”
I hesitated. “I’m an eight.”
“Me, too.” Georgina smirked at her phone, then tapped on the screen as she said, “I’ll bring them down. The car’s already waiting.”
“Okay.” She still hadn’t made eye contact. I had a bad feeling that whoever Georgina was texting was hearing all about this. “Thanks.”
“Whatever.” She vanished down the hall.
I padded downstairs in stocking feet. The cold seeped through my thin white socks as I waited. I’d pulled my anorak on over my uniform; hopefully the Hamill School’s dress code didn’t apply to jackets.
I’d never worn a uniform before, and it was even more ugly and uncomfortable than I’d expected: a green and white tartan kilt, a plain white shirt, and a green neckerchief. I examined myself in the mirror by the door: my dark hair looked lank, and strands of it had already escaped the ponytail. There were deep circles under my eyes, and my skin was paler than normal. I looked like a beleaguered, overgrown Girl Scout.
Georgina swept into the hall, still gripping her phone in one hand. She dropped a pair of identical loafers at my feet. “Here. I was going to send these back anyway.”
I slid on the loafers, wincing as they pinched my feet. “Thanks,” I muttered. “These are great.”
“Sure,” she said breezily. “We can work on the rest later. Now move, we’re going to be late.”
The rest? I thought, following her to the black Lincoln Town Car that was parked in the driveway. A man in a dark suit stood beside it, holding open the rear door.
“This is Bob, he’s been our driver for ages,” Georgina said, waving a hand in his direction before sliding inside. “They hired a car to get you last night.”
Unearthly Things Page 2
