“Fee,” I correct, and her eyes grow even narrower.
“Hmm. Well, come on, then.” Her accent is fairly thick, and her voice is low. I have to lean in closer to hear her. She leads me past the staircase, through a suite of rooms with overstuffed crimson couches, fresh flowers, and fluffy crimson armchairs, until we reach a room that is markedly drabber. A large stove dominates the middle of it, and the walls are lined with cabinets and shining copper pots. “These are the servants’ areas,” Mabel explains. “The kitchen, the servants’ staircase leading up to the rooms in the attic. When you’re with Miss Poppy, you may use the grand staircase and the main house. But at all other times, it’s best you stick to these quarters.”
I try not to raise my eyebrows, but she isn’t looking at me anyway. She starts ascending the dark, winding servants’ staircase. We travel up five flights, until my knees are weak and I’m wheezing.
The door on the sixth floor opens up to a hallway of whitewashed walls, solid wood doors, and a ceiling so low I can reach up and touch it. “The servants’ living quarters,” Mabel explains. She stops in front of a room several doors down and opens it with a key from the heavy chain at her waist. “Your room,” she says, handing me the key. I step inside to see a narrow twin bed, a nightstand, a small fireplace, a desk, a dresser, and a sliver of a window.
“Acceptable?” Mabel asks.
I nod, unable to speak. My room at my aunt’s didn’t have a window. It was stuffy and always hot, and the light from the bare bulb in the ceiling made it irrevocably dreary. This room is clean and cheery.
She must think I’m disappointed, because she says, “You’ll get used to it.”
I nod again.
“You’ve missed dinner. I could have the cook prepare something for you and send it up,” she offers, but the twist in her lips makes it clear that it’s an offer I should refuse.
“I’m too tired to eat,” I lie. My stomach has been growling the past few hours.
She nods. “I’ll leave you to sleep, then. Miss Poppy is already sound asleep, poor thing. Master Charlie had to leave for business today, and she took it very hard.” Her voice transforms as she talks about Poppy, becoming softer, less pinched.
Charlie’s departure must have been the situation that made Albert so late this evening, I realize.
“She’ll be back from her ride at seven tomorrow morning,” Mabel continues, “and you’ll need to be downstairs to greet her.”
“Her ride?” I ask.
“Yes. Her horseback ride. She takes one every morning.”
“Even at a time like this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Mabel sighs, putting her hand on her hip. Clearly answering my question is a terrible burden. “She needs routine. She can’t be allowed to dwell on the situation.” She speaks with an authoritative, clipped voice, as if she is the one in charge of Poppy’s well-being.
“Is that what her brother thinks?”
“Of course it is!” she answers, her hand fluttering to her heart, clearly offended. “Now get to sleep. You’ll have to be presentable tomorrow.” She looks me up and down as if she doubts the possibility of that, and then shuts the door, sealing me off from the rest of the house.
I sink into the bed, kicking off my shoes and stretching out. I couldn’t sleep on the plane, too busy worrying about this new life I’m starting. About what I’m going to say to a girl who just lost both of her parents.
I remember the confusion and pain and horror of the weeks after my mother’s death, when I was put in a group home and a lawyer and the government were deciding my fate. I remember the nights spent staring at the wall of my tiny bedroom at my aunt’s house, trying to draw up every good memory of my mom that I had.
How on earth am I supposed to care for a girl who’s going through the same thing?
My mother’s voice doesn’t whisper in my ear now to calm me. And even though I tell myself I don’t want to hear her, terrified of what it means when I do, I wish I had some reassurance.
“Mama,” I whisper into the air, “you have to help me.”
I fall asleep with that prayer on my lips.
CHAPTER 2
Someone bangs on my door, and I startle up. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m in Scotland and another moment to realize that if I don’t answer the door, the pounding won’t stop.
I get up and fling it open to find the grim face of Mabel on the other side. “Miss Poppy is almost back from her ride. You must come meet her now.” She takes me in, from the top of my out-of-control curls to the frayed bottom hems of the jeans I didn’t bother to take off last night. “And for heaven’s sake, lass, try to look somewhat respectable,” she adds before whirling off down the hall.
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at her and rush to my suitcase, pulling out my black pants and a soft cream-colored sweater. They’re the nicest clothes I own, the ones my aunt begrudgingly helped me buy for my interview at the Buffalo Head Café. I throw them on, knowing that I’ll have nothing better to wear tomorrow.
There’s a mirror above the small sink in the corner of the room. I hurry to it, pulling a brush through my hair. It refuses to be tamed, however, and I do my best to wrestle it into a ponytail. I splash some water on my pale face and take a deep breath.
I can’t avoid it anymore. I have to go down and meet my fate.
I slip down the servants’ staircase and try to retrace my steps from last night to get back to the front entrance. I must make a wrong turn, though, because suddenly I’m in a room with the grandest grand piano I’ve ever seen and a gilded harp towering in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with dark, ancient books line the walls. I admire them for a moment before stepping closer to the piano, unable to help myself.
Mom had been on her way to becoming a concert pianist when she met my father and her whole life got derailed. When I was a baby, she drew piano keys on a large piece of cardboard, and one of my earliest memories is of her teaching me how to play a silent scale. Some nights, I would creep out of bed, peek out of the cracked door to the living room, and watch her sit in front of that piece of cardboard, her eyes closed as her fingers flew like whispers across the imaginary keys. It was the only time I saw her look so calm, as if that cardboard keyboard gave her utter peace, if only for a few hours.
When I was eight, Mom started working as a waitress at an upscale café in the South Congress neighborhood of Austin, near downtown. It was the nicest job she ever had, one that brought in more tips than she’d ever earned before. One day, she waited on an old woman, Mrs. Alvarez, who lived nearby and had a small piano. When she heard Mom could play, she immediately invited her over to practice on the baby grand. It would give her so much delight, Mrs. Alvarez insisted. So Mom brought me over to that little lime green bungalow, and for the first time, I played a real piano. It took me a few tries to get used to the feel of the keys, to feel comfortable pushing them down instead of brushing over them. But after a few months, I was playing Beethoven, Chopin, the old Scottish ballads Mom had taught me. My rhythm was completely off, and nothing sounded quite right, but I had never felt such joy.
Hearing my mother play that baby grand, I finally understood why the piano brought her so much peace, even in times when nothing else did. The music rushed from her fingertips, filling up the room with beauty. Beauty that made your breath catch in your throat, your eyes close, your whole world narrow down to the sound and the feel and the emotion of those notes.
I’m stuck in the daydream for several moments before I realize that I’m going to be late if I don’t stop staring at the piano and get a move on. I hurry out of the room, opening the nearest door, and almost bump into a maid. She’s around my age and wears a white lace cap that’s only slightly smaller than Mabel’s. We’re in another room with a huge wooden desk and even more bookshelves. An office, not the hallway I expected to find.
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“Watch it,” she mutters, turning around to look at me. “You the new governess, then? Or au pair or whatever it is?” She has wide brown eyes, and the hair pinned neatly under her cap is only a shade more brown than red: the lovely subtle color I used to wish mine was. A shade that wouldn’t make me stand out so much.
I nod and stick out my hand. “Fee.”
She takes it, shaking it firmly. “I’m Alice,” she says, her tone a little less harsh now. “Where are you trying to go?”
“I have to meet Poppy after her horseback ride.”
Alice sighs. “I better take you. This house is a bit of a maze if you don’t know it.”
She moves past me out into the library. I have to scurry to keep up with her as she trots briskly through the house, winding through several rooms until we reach a set of glass doors that open up to a view that takes my breath away. “Poppy’ll be down there, near the stables,” she says with a nod before heading back to her chores.
I step outside, trying to take it all in. Green space stretches out in front of me, surrounded by a tall perimeter of hedges and marble statues of bare-chested men and slightly more decent women. Judging by their ancient robes and the occasional trident, they’re gods and goddesses, beautiful and intimidating. A glistening dark green pool rests a few yards away, a large fountain in its center. Beyond the great lawn, a mountain looms, nearly completely covered with fog. I step out onto the wet, lush grass, the wind kinder than it was last night as it brushes against me and dances through the hedges. The land slopes gently down, and I hurry to catch up to Mabel, who’s already at the bottom of the hill.
I reach her just as I see a girl on a horse, the two of them pacing toward us. I straighten my shoulders and try to fix a smile on my face to cover my nerves.
Poppy is in that awkward stage we all go through: all long, skinny limbs and frizzy blond hair. She fixes me with an impressive scowl as she slips off the horse and hands the reins to the guy who must run the stables, the large wooden building to our left. He leads the horse away as Poppy examines me. “Who’s she?” she asks Mabel, who is trying not to smile at Poppy’s obvious disapproval of me.
“She’s your new governess, Miss Poppy. Fiona will be picking you up from school and tutoring you from now on.”
Poppy takes her gloves off, her scowl now trained on them. “Why can’t Charlie do it?” She means to sound dismissive, but I can hear the small prickle of disappointment in her voice.
Mabel reaches out and places a wrinkled hand on Poppy’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. It’s such a motherly gesture that I can’t help but frown in confusion. “Motherly” was about the last thing I expected this dour old woman to be.
She says softly, “Because Charlie’s had to go to Glasgow for a couple of weeks to deal with the paper, you know that. Now I know this isn’t ideal, but if you have any complaints, you only need to come to me and we’ll find you a better governess, all right?”
There’s the woman I expected. I try not to sneer at Mabel as Poppy turns her attention back to me. Mabel squeezes Poppy’s shoulder once more and then walks off, and Poppy and I are alone.
She crosses her arms and watches me.
I take a deep breath and try not to put an ounce of pity in my voice. Pity is the last thing she needs right now, when she’s so angry. “Look, I know this isn’t what you wanted. That it’s not even close. But I’m here for whatever you need.”
“I don’t need you,” she counters.
“It’d be pretty lonely here with only Mabel and the others to talk to.”
She shrugs. “I have friends. I’m fine.”
I’m fine. The two words that became my mantra after Mom died. Any question anyone asked me could be answered by those words. And every time I spit them out, they tasted more and more bitter.
I take in her tightly crossed arms and the firm line of her mouth. She’s not going to bend to me anytime soon. Not until she trusts me. And considering her whole world just got ripped out from underneath her, trust is something that is going to take a lot of time.
“Well, since I’m already here,” I say finally, “why don’t you show me your homework? Let me see what I can help you with.”
She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs, clomping in her riding boots up toward the house without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
I sigh and trudge up the soft green hill after her.
CHAPTER 3
Poppy and I spend the morning going over her homework and cautiously getting to know each other. We spread her assignments out in the fifth-floor room that has been designated as her study, right next to her bedroom, a place overwhelmed with pink and ruffles and glitter.
Poppy must be a girly girl. Or, at least, she might have been before her parents’ death twisted her into this sullen version of herself.
She doesn’t say anything as I examine the family portraits that clutter the top of her dresser: the family in ski gear on top of a pristine white mountain, the family in front of a gigantic Christmas tree, the family in front of the Eiffel Tower. I’m fascinated by the tall woman with the dyed blond pixie cut and calm smile in each of the photos. I’ve seen plenty of photos of Lily in the Daily Mail and on other gossip sites, and she’s elegant and striking from every angle. I can’t imagine her being friends with my mother, the woman with hair as wild and untamed as mine and no trace of makeup, who preferred long, flowing cotton skirts over the power-woman sheaths that seemed to have been Lily’s uniform.
It takes me a moment to realize that I recognize the tall boy in some of the more recent photos, the bored teenager standing next to his father. He must be Charlie, now twenty-two and head of the family. That curly red-brown hair and new-leaf green of his eyes is horribly familiar.
He’s the boy from the pub. The one who sat next to me by the fire and brushed off the girl who had every other guy eating out of the palm of her hand. The one whom I caught looking at me.
Oh my God. I was a total bitch to him. I used the voice Hex had taught me to combat mean girls and drunk boys in high school. He probably thinks I’m insane.
But what was he doing in town? He’s supposed to be in Glasgow, doing something with the family paper. Not drinking all alone in a pub a few miles away.
I feel a blush creeping up into my cheeks and keep my head ducked so that Poppy won’t see it.
A few hours later, we’ve gone through every subject and identified what Poppy needs to work on: history and math. I’ll have to brush up on my sixth-grade math skills—or, really, my eighth-grade math skills, since Poppy’s school is much more advanced than mine was—but history has always been one of my favorites. Mostly because my mother had such a wonderful way of making the past come alive through her stories. During her good spells, at least.
Mabel knocks on the door just as I’m beginning to tell Poppy the story of William Wallace and the Battle of Stirling Bridge against the English. Poppy is rolling her eyes at my every word, it seems like, but at least she’s listening.
“Lunch, Miss Poppy,” Mabel says, her eyes snapping to me. Poppy and I are lying on our stomachs, Poppy’s textbooks scattered around us, and it’s clear from her pinched look that the prim housekeeper doesn’t approve of such a slovenly method of learning.
Poppy pushes herself up and follows Mabel out into the hall. Neither of them looks back at me, but I get up and follow them anyway. We twist down the main staircase, with its perfectly polished wooden rail that I don’t dare touch in case I smudge it.
Mabel leads Poppy to the dining room, where a plate with a sandwich and apple slices is waiting for her in front of an overflowing bouquet centerpiece. She turns to me after Poppy is settled. “Follow me,” she says, starting out of the room.
I look back at Poppy, sitting alone and still at the large wooden table, surrounded by glittering silverware. She stares down at her plate, resolutely not looki
ng at me, but her blank expression stops me. “I’ll eat here with Poppy,” I say, my tone more forceful than I’d meant it to be.
Poppy glances up at me, her expression carefully guarded, but before Mabel can protest, she nods. The old bat can do nothing but harrumph, very loudly, and saunter off to fetch me a sandwich.
We eat our lunch in silence, silence that seems to grow louder and louder as the minutes drip by. I’m about to start talking about William Wallace again, just to fill the dead air, when Poppy speaks.
“Why did my mum pick you to be my governess?”
I keep chewing for a moment, buying some time.
I could tell her that our mothers were friends, but that would raise more questions, ones I don’t want to answer. How much do I want to reveal to this girl? My past is . . . complicated. Personal. And since I have my father’s last name, Smith, I don’t need to reveal my connection to this place to anybody. So I shrug. “I applied, and I guess she thought I was right for the job.”
Poppy snorts. “Well, she thought wrong. And I don’t need a governess anyway.”
I fix my eyes on hers. “My mom died when I was just a bit older than you.”
She looks surprised for a second. Then her guarded expression is back. “How?”
“An accident,” I lie.
“What about your father?” she asks.
I circle my hand around the metal chalice that is much too fancy for well water, the condensation dripping over my fingers. “Never knew him.”
She nods, considering this.
“So I know what you’re going through,” I say. “I know how mad you are, and I don’t blame you for it.”
She rolls her eyes. “You sound like my therapist.”
I have to laugh. “Yeah, I probably do. The state only gave me one session with a therapist, to evaluate me, but it was memorable. It helped a bit, I think.” Though it was mainly memorable because of the white-hot terror I had felt sitting in front of someone who might be able to see into my mind. Who might tell me that I was just as broken as I feared I was.
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