by Kim Foster
Rose is obviously the daughter of a fine family. But I wonder—who is she here at Greybourne?
“My name is Felicity,” I say. And then I feel like an idiot. Of course she already knew that.
“I am very excited to learn everything about you, Felicity,” she says, watching me carefully through clear blue eyes. And then those eyes flit down, taking in my outfit. “But—I imagine you need to freshen up from your journey.”
Her words are friendly enough, but the warmth in her voice does not exist in her face. “I’m sure you’ll want to be out of that … thing you’re wearing”—she casts a meaningful glance at my traveling dress—“and into your own clothing soon enough.”
I remain silent.
She looks past me. “Where is your trunk? I’d love to see your clothes. It’ll be such fun; perhaps we can share. You’re about my size. Well, maybe a little wider in the waist … but we can make do I’m sure….”
“I don’t have a trunk.”
She frowns, confused. It’s too much. Like she’s playacting. “Oh, you mean it’s to follow later.”
“No, I mean it’s not coming at all. I—I don’t have anything more.”
She pauses. “Oh well, what a pity.” Her eyes gleam, almost triumphantly.
She knew already, of course, even before she asked. She wanted to make me squirm, make me admit it out loud.
I command myself to keep my chin high, even as a hot flush burns my ears.
“Oh! You’re here already,” says a voice from the doorway. A young woman in a pinafore bustles in. Her chestnut hair is tied back in a neat bun. Her face is freshly scrubbed, a little older than mine. “I’m Jane and I’ll be your maid here at Greybourne, Miss Cole. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you up here so soon.” She glances at Rose. “Begging your pardon, Miss Pritchard, but … Miss Cole needs her bath now. I’m under strict orders—”
Rose waves a dismissive hand. “Of course she does. I shall see you at dinner, Felicity.” She emphasizes the word like she knows the very idea of it makes me uncomfortable.
Somehow, Rose has learned all about me. Who else knows I’m here? And then I remember—this is a house full of spies.
Jane takes hold of my arm and gently guides me toward the bathing room. “Come now, Miss Cole. Never you mind about her. Some of the other Candidates won’t take kindly to you, of course, but they’re not all as bad as Rose.”
“Candidates?”
“Yes. You know, those of you who are trainees. The ones who are competing to be Morgana agents. Hawksmoor has told you about all that, surely?”
I shake my head.
“Oh,” she says, and continues ushering me to the bathing room, without another word.
“Jane?”
“It’s not my place to speak about those matters, Miss Cole. You will learn it all eventually. For now, into the bath with you. Do you a world of good. You’ll be right as rain after.”
Jane leaves me alone in the bathroom and closes the door behind her. I put Rose out of my mind and turn my attention to the large claw-footed tub in the center of the room, filled to the top with steaming, perfumed water. My skin tingles at the sight. I’ve only ever experienced cold baths in a tin washing tub in the corner of our room back home—and that was rare enough.
I undress quickly and slip into the silky water. It is so delicious I might cry.
My skin shivers with goose bumps. I sink lower into the water and breathe deeply. All the exhaustion of the day melts away.
I reach for the fresh cake of soap and fluffy white washcloth that rest on the shelf straddling the tub. Never have I experienced such luxury. I wash away all the dirt and grime—layers of it from the market, from the prison …
Then I turn my attention to my fingernails, cleaning the grime out from under them. My breathing stops as I realize it’s not grime. It’s dried blood. Kit’s blood.
I bite my lip and tears slip down into the water. I close my eyes and focus on breathing, on washing. It’s time for me to put the horrors of the past several days behind me and turn my attention to the unfamiliar trials that surely lay ahead. I hope I’m strong enough to cope with whatever is coming next.
After a long while, I reluctantly leave the bath. I wrap myself in the fluffy towel I retrieve from a stack next to the bath and step back into the bedroom.
“Right,” says Jane, looking me up and down. “Let’s get you ready for dinner, shall we?”
I hesitate. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything near fine enough to wear—”
Jane waves a hand, quieting me. “That’s all been taken care of.”
She strides across the room to yet another interior door. Inside is a dressing room, with a gown of deep amethyst resting on a dress mannequin. I blink. A shelf of shoes occupies one side wall, stacks of scarves and gloves and hatboxes, another. A large jewelry box is propped open, filled with necklaces and bracelets and earbobs.
“Now, let’s see what would go nicely with those eyes …” Jane says, thumbing through the baubles.
“This is—this is all for me?”
Jane pauses to look at me, suppressing a grin. “While you were journeying from London, Hawksmoor sent word ahead, informing us of your coloring and your dress size. He’s very good at estimating these things. Our seamstress has been working all day on this gown. Your daywear and a few more frocks will be ready later.”
She continues rifling as I stand there dumbfounded. “Ah, here we are,” she says, selecting a few items. She then helps me into the gown. I’ve never worn such a shade before, but she assures me it’s perfect for my coloring. Jane dries my hair with heated irons. She brushes it until it’s silky, then curls and fastens it in what she says is the latest style. She chooses a pair of jeweled slippers and long satin gloves. When she’s done, she finally allows me to look in the mirror.
I gasp, hardly recognizing myself. My hair is glossy, piled on top of my head in perfect ringlets. And I can see what she meant about the color of the gown. My eyes take on a much more intense hue.
“All right,” Jane says. “Let’s get you downstairs. We’re only a little late at this point.”
My stomach gives a flutter. I wonder what will be waiting for me in the dining room. At least I’ll blend in now. Maybe nobody will take notice. I can quietly sip my soup. Or whatever it is they eat at these meals.
Jane turns back when I don’t immediately follow. “Miss, are you quite all right?”
I swallow. “I—”
“They say you come from Whitechapel. Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
She nods, knowingly. “Start on the outside.”
“Pardon?”
“The outside. You know, the outside fork. Start with that one. You’ll be just fine.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She starts to turn away, then hesitates. “And … be sure to break the bread into little morsels. Don’t just bite into the entire roll.”
“Oh. I shall … keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.”
—Lord Byron, Don Juan
On the way to the dining room, Jane tells me about my dining companions. “All the senior Candidates will be there. About twelve in total, including yourself, miss. Plus a few of the instructors, and the headmaster, Hawksmoor.”
I cling to the idea that I can slip in and remain unnoticed.
After many twists and turns, at last she leads me through to the dining hall. It’s a vast room, largely occupied by the longest dining table I have ever seen, and it’s filled with people in formal dress. Sconces flicker on the walls, and the table is laden with crystal goblets, candles, and the finest china. My heart is beating a quick rhythm. I want to hold on to Jane’s hand for support but I resist.
As I enter, Hawksmoor stands. He strides over and Jane melts away. “Ah, Miss Cole! Allow me to announce you.” He holds out his arm and I grasp it as he walks m
e to the table. “I would like to introduce Miss Felicity Cole, our newest pupil here at Greybourne.”
I somehow find the courage to hold my head high, in spite of my thumping heart.
There must be almost twenty people seated at the table. They all stand and begin welcoming me.
“How was the journey?” someone inquires.
“Are you settling in?” asks another.
Hawksmoor holds up a hand to quiet them. “All in due time,” he says. “First, let’s be seated. Dinner is served.”
He shows me to an empty seat at the far end of the table, close to the other pupils, young men and women around my age. He returns to his end of the table. I am served champagne—the very first time I have ever tasted it. I hesitate briefly, but then take a sip. Sweet bubbles tingle my tongue; the taste is like heaven.
While I sip the champagne, I steal surreptitious glances at the others. I recognize Rose, seated directly across from me, but the other boys and girls are strangers. Hawksmoor had told me on our journey, “Greybourne is unlike most institutions in many ways, not the least of which is segregation of the sexes. Or the lack thereof, I should say.”
“You mean boys and girls are mixed? In classes, too?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise. This is not how I assumed the upper classes operated.
“We find our purposes are best met by early and regular integration. We cannot afford to be squeamish or coy. All our trainees must be comfortable with the opposite sex. We are dealing with life and death, after all.”
I understood what he had said. It mattered little to me—where I came from, men and women mixed much more freely than they did in Society.
Those seated nearest me introduce themselves. On my left is Lucy Rutherford, a younger girl with strawberry blonde hair who watches me carefully. To my right is Hugh Torrington, a broad-shouldered, older boy with frown lines between his heavy eyebrows. Charlie Spooner sits beside Rose, across from me—all ginger hair and wide smiles.
Dinner is soon served. Footmen enter with salad and rolls, and move around the table deftly helping everyone, and ensuring our goblets are properly topped up. I stare down at my place setting; a bewildering array of silverware meets my gaze. Three forks? Two different spoons? And then I remember what Jane told me—Start with the outside fork—and I give silent thanks.
I tentatively pick it up. And then I wonder the best way to approach the salad. I’m not sure I’ve ever been given so many fresh, plentiful vegetables at one meal.
I notice nobody else seems to be having the same struggles. They’re all eating and chatting comfortably. I take a mouthful and it sticks in my throat.
As I attempt my next forkful, Lucy asks me a question. “Have you met Julian yet, Felicity?”
“Julian?”
A few other girls titter behind gloved hands, including Rose, who wears a smug smile.
“Why? Who’s Julian?” I ask in a whisper.
Lucy raises an eyebrow, but says nothing more.
“Do I need to be worried? What’s wrong with him?”
“Absolutely nothing,” say two of the girls dreamily, practically in unison.
Lucy laughs. “Oh, just wait. You’ll understand when you meet him,” she says knowingly.
I shift in my chair. I am fed up with surprises. A footman offers me a bowl of soup and I look down at it, frowning.
“Please, girls, you’re being ridiculous,” says Rose in her crystalline voice. “You’re making Felicity uncomfortable.” She turns her blue eyes on me and smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry. Mr. Blake is very well-born. And the most eligible bachelor in his circle. You have nothing to worry about—he won’t bother you a bit. I’m sure he won’t even notice you.” She stops abruptly. Someone giggles on her other side. “Oh dear,” she adds, opening her eyes theatrically wide and putting a hand over her mouth. “I hope you don’t take offense, Felicity. I merely meant to point out the advantages of being common.” Another pause. “And there I go again, saying the first thing that pops into my mind….”
I narrow my eyes, then smile sweetly back. The other girls go quiet. Someone coughs. A few faces turn to see how I’ll respond.
I adjust the napkin in my lap. “Of course I don’t mind,” I say to Rose, mildly. “And you’re quite right. There are worse things than being common.” I brighten my smile and flick a glance at some of the others. “You know, like being so stuck-up that everyone dislikes you. I mean, that would be awful, wouldn’t it?”
There’s a tense silence, during which Rose’s face goes an unattractive shade of purple, but she remains silent. I feel a surge of triumph, although I know it will be short-lived. I have made an enemy.
During the soup, Charlie—the ginger boy across the table—asks, “So, Felicity, how does it feel to be with the winning team, finally?”
“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“You know. The Morgana. Here at Greybourne.”
I look at him blankly. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“We’re the future. You must realize that,” adds Hugh impatiently.
“The … future?”
I look to Lucy, hoping she’ll clarify.
“He’s talking about the idea that the Morgana are destined to be in power.”
I stare at her.
“Well, perhaps some of us more than others,” says Hugh. He smirks unpleasantly at me and lifts his soup spoon. “Which is perhaps why we are not all going to make it here.”
Rose’s self-satisfied smile returns.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m still utterly confused about how things work here, how they will select from among the so-called Candidates. But I’m not about to ask now.
Hugh swallows his mouthful and continues. “At some future period, not very distant as measured by centuries,” he begins in an affected voice, reciting a memorized passage, “the civilized races of man will almost certainly exterminate and replace throughout the world the savage races.”
I recognize the quote instantly.
“Yes,” I begin carefully. “But when Mr. Darwin said that, it was within a larger statement. People often make the mistake of pulling those words out of context. It’s not that Darwin wanted that outcome, specifically—he simply believed it would someday occur.”
Hugh’s mouth opens slightly and his ears go pink.
I turn my attention to my own bowl, and sip at the most delicious soup I’ve ever tasted.
“This mock turtle soup is wonderful,” I say, hoping to change the subject. I’ve only had mock turtle soup once before and it was such a treat. The kind old lady in Plough Street shared a little with us two Christmases ago.
Someone at the table sniggers and I look up.
“It’s real turtle, Felicity,” Lucy says, quietly. “Not mock.”
I flush furiously.
A sudden sound at the dining hall doorway brings a merciful interruption.
“Good evening, everyone. Sincerest apologies for my intolerable lateness.” It’s a young man’s voice, deep and smooth, but the tone carries a hint of mischief.
All eyes go to the doorway and heads swivel as the newcomer strides in.
I recognize him—but just barely. The face is the same, only much cleaner. And his eyes, those intense blue eyes. It’s the stable hand I met in the carriage house. The one who challenged me. The one I … fought. I cringe at the memory.
But what is a stable boy doing here? He’s cleaned up, and dressed like an aristocrat in a black dress coat and white tie. He still wears the same cocky expression, only now it completely matches his appearance. With a tingle of nerves, I am suddenly aware just how handsome he is.
Hawksmoor stands and indicates an empty seat near him. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to join us, Mr. Blake. Thank you for deigning to honor us with your presence.”
I watch the young man with growing understanding as he strolls toward the dining table. The stable hand clothes, the dirt … it was all a disguise. Stupid. Of co
urse. I remember where I am.
A small sigh emanates from one of the girls on my side of the table.
“Ladies,” he says to us, half bowing. And then his eyes flick in my direction. And he winks.
Right at me.
Before I can react, he sits down at the far end of the table where I can no longer see him. My heart is skipping double time. Rose’s head whips toward me.
I dare a glance at the other girls. Lucy is beaming with surprised delight, but Rose is looking at me with barely contained rage.
Mr. Blake. So this is Julian.
At that moment Hawksmoor makes a toast. “Welcome to Greybourne Academy, Miss Felicity Cole.” He raises his glass. “I always like to toast with the immortal words of our founder, Christopher Marlowe: You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute … and now and then stab, as occasion serves.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Fear had long since taken root
In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit,
The ripe hate, like a wine.”
—Robert Browning, Sordello
The next day, my training begins. Jane wakes me at dawn, startling me by bringing me breakfast: eggs, toast, juice, and tea. I’m not sure I could ever grow accustomed to the idea of people actually serving me.
Still, the food smells wonderful and looks nourishing, so I dig in. Jane leaves me alone to eat and dress in the clothing she has laid out—a simple shift and hose, and flat, soft-soled slippers. The garments are completely different from what I wore last night. I can move in these clothes.
It’s a good start.
I lift my teacup, hoping the hot, sweet tea will soothe me. I don’t know what to expect from this training, and my nerves are on edge. I wonder if being around these people will help me figure out what has happened to me—and, more importantly, how I might rid myself of these Tainted abilities.
As I sip my tea my thoughts turn to Nate. Last night after dinner, I tried to communicate with him, but failed. I chew my lip. Perhaps now that I am rested and fed … maybe I will be more successful?
