by Katie Cross
A change in the trees slowed me to a walk. I shoved my skirts down and dropped the cloak, suddenly nervous I’d be seen. What a great first impression that would make, trotting up to school with my knickers blaring for all to see.
I’m Bianca Monroe, and I run in the woods with my skirts up. I also don’t know how to steep or pour tea.
Catching my fast breath, I peered through the thick foliage to see an unnatural color between the branches. The school.
My cloak drifted ahead of me in the breeze when I walked out of the deadfall and stopped at a black, wrought iron fence. A loose gate moved with a shrill cry in the wind.
The old manor was a gothic structure, made of shadows and aged stone that faded to light cream color. Ivy crawled across the front in brittle strands, shuddering in the wind. A steady stream of smoke drifted from two chimneys on the far right side. The late evening gloom overshadowed the sprawling beauty, leaving the manor both depressing and intriguing.
Twelve darkened windows marched across the second, third, and fourth floors. They must be student bedrooms. Five sat on either side of the front door on the ground level. Candles illuminated several glass panes with warm, buttery light. A wooden board introduced me to the school. It looked ancient and worn, like a standing citadel stained with shadow. A shudder spun down my spine.
Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.
After taking a deep breath, I pushed through the cool gate and strode forward. “Here we are,” I whispered, pulling in a bolstering breath. “Here we go.”
Confidence.
When I knocked on the thick wooden door it seemed to reverberate inside. A quick fall of steps came soon after, and when the door opened, an older woman with green eyes stood to welcome me. Flour dusted her apron, and her hair sat like a gray pillow on top of her head.
Her shrewd eyes narrowed.
“Bianca Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.” She opened the door wider. “Isadora just finished meeting with Miss Mabel. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
A few leaves scuttled into the warm entry ahead of me. The woman had to push against the wind to close the door.
“Your bags are up in your room already. My name is Miss Celia. I’m a teacher here.”
I stepped into a vestibule. The ceiling rose several floors, following the twirl of a wide staircase. A silver chandelier with dripping candles hung from the very top floor several stories above, illuminating the ground and walls of cream-colored stone. A crimson rug climbed along each stair, accenting the carved ivy leaves twisting through the railing. Skinny candles flickered from iron wall sconces and cast dancing shadows on the grainy wooden floor.
It was warm, at least. If not a bit old.
“Wait here.”
She disappeared down a hallway at the end of the entry, leaving me to feel small in the dominating presence of the room. When I turned my focus to listening, the distant clang and clatter of pots came to my ears first. A buttery smell filled the air, making my stomach growl.
“This is Camille. She’s a first-year like you. Camille, show Bianca up to her room, please.”
Miss Celia reappeared with a girl my age in tow. She had curly blonde hair held away from her face by a white headband. I assumed that the navy blue dress over a long white shirt fitting down to her wrists was the school uniform, as a few other girls walked by in similar blue dresses. A kind smile lit her face.
“Merry meet, Bianca!”
Miss Celia ushered us up the staircase with a frantic wave of her hands.
“Go on, go on!” she exclaimed. “It’s just about time to eat. Heaven knows I don’t have time for interruptions.”
Camille beckoned me to follow her as she started up the stairs, leaving me to trail behind. Miss Celia’s tirade faded into the background.
“Don’t mind Miss Celia,” Camille said with a roll of her hazel eyes. “She gets really stressed at mealtimes. She runs the kitchen and has for years. Her cinnamon buns are legendary, and so is her bread. Trust me.”
“Oh, that’s good to know.”
“Did you just get here?” she asked, as if my clothes and lack of know-how weren’t any indication.
“Yes.”
“You must be cold then! We’ll get you by the fire in the dining room soon. Miss Celia’s prepped a feast tonight that will warm you up faster than anything. It’s the Feast of the Competition!”
We approached the second floor. The stairway continued up, but the landing opened to a dark corridor filled with doors and a tarnished wood floor. A warm fire blazed at the end of the hall, where girls in similar blue dresses moved around.
“This is the third-year corridor. Don’t go in there!” Camille said, pulling me back when I stepped across the doorway. “They get really picky about first-years in their area. Especially Priscilla.” She lowered her tone and spoke behind her hand. “She gets really upset. Her dad is rich so she gets away with it.”
Camille grabbed my arm and spun me back toward the stairs. Our shoes clacked on the floor as we climbed. “The second-years are okay, but most of them spend time trying to get the attention of the third-years. They usually ignore us.”
We passed the second-year floor. Their common room sat right off the stairwell, filled with long tables, plush cushions on the high back chairs, and a wall of landscape portraits clearly done by students still struggling to find their talent. A burly second-year sent us a warning glare when we peered in.
“Second-years,” Camille said, then stuck her tongue out at the girl near the door and quickly ushered me toward the stairs again.
“Where are the classrooms?” I asked, studying a carved floral design on the stair bannister. It looked like the ropes of Letum ivy that hung in the forest in the summertime.
“On the first floor. So are the dining room and the library. The teachers live in cottages just outside the yard. Here it is!” Camille announced, spreading her arms out. “The first-year floor.”
My first impression told me it wasn’t anything to get excited about. We had to walk down a chilly corridor to reach the empty first-year common area. Although a fire burned in the grate, I saw no one enjoying the sweet warmth. I moved closer to it, grateful to feel my fingers thaw. Camille kicked aside a few wrinkled scrolls and plopped onto a straight-backed, firm sofa. It looked as comfortable as a pair of shoes that pinched.
“I think you’ll like it.” Her face turned down as she leaned forward, propping her head on her palm. “Well, it’s less dreary when the students are actually out here. Everyone is getting ready for the feast downstairs.”
“It seems really nice,” I said, lying through my teeth. The stone walls were cracked and stained with dust. Floorboards stuck up at random intervals; black—perhaps from years of soot—edged the walls. Homework tables occupied most of the free space, lined by benches instead of chairs. Books cluttered the shelves in obvious disarray. Camille snorted.
“Nice, sure. Not compared to the second-years. The third-years have the best of everything. Follow me.” She bid me to follow her down another hallway with a wave of her arm. I obeyed, pausing to gaze at a portrait of a woman with black hair and solemn eyes. A previous High Witch, no doubt.
“Your room will be right next to mine,” she said. “Leda and I came a little late too. We just got here a week ago, so I know how it feels to be in your shoes. Don’t worry. It’s not so bad here.”
Her hair bounced to a stop. She opened a door to reveal a tiny square of a room with bare, wooden walls and a handful of built-in shelves. A scarlet blanket covered the narrow bed and a desk sat below the window. Age cracks snaked through the window panes, allowing a whistle when a gust of wind hit the house. The slow plod of a new rainstorm hit the glass with a soothing, gentle hiss.
“Looks like your stuff came already.” Camille nudged my trunk with her toe. “That’s lucky. One of the second-years is still waiting for her stuff to come. I think her parents sent it with a bad spell. I don’t thin
k they’ll ever find it.”
A candle flame came to life as I stepped in. The shadows loomed like creatures dancing on the wall, making the room feel even more dismal and grim. I longed for the comfort of home, of familiarity.
Confidence in all things.
“When did school start?” I asked, hoping to distract my rising unease. Surely I’d lost my mind, coming to Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.
“Two weeks ago.” Camille sat on the end of my bed and let her legs swing. “But you haven’t missed much. Leda can help you catch up. She’s the smartest first-year because she likes to study, but she doesn’t really like people. You’ll meet her at dinner.”
She sounds delightful, I wanted to mutter, but bit my tongue. Despite what she said, the warmth in Camille’s tone told me Leda was a friend of hers.
A tinkling chime came from downstairs, so faint I thought I’d imagined it. Camille jumped to her feet.
“That’s dinner. We better get going. Miss Scarlett takes roll and she doesn’t like it when anyone is late.”
“Just follow me,” Camille whispered. We stood outside the dining room, peering in.
Six long wooden tables with benches filled the open area. A fireplace big enough to stand in warmed the room with crackling flames. Every spot at the tables was full, except for one in the back next to a girl with white-blonde hair, who appeared to be buried in a book.
“Are we going to get in trouble?” I asked.
“No, but I hate it when Miss Scarlett singles me out. She’s terrifying.”
Camille started into the room along the back wall at a cautious creep, and I followed close behind. The moment I stepped into the room every eye fell on me like metal to a magnet.
Fantastic. An entrance.
“Care to explain why you’re late, Miss Duncan?” A booming voice came from the front of the room. Camille halted with a wince.
“Y-yes, Miss Scarlett. Miss Celia asked me to show Bianca to her room before dinner.”
Camille stood at my side instead of retreating to her seat. I felt a moment of gratitude that she didn’t leave me standing in front of the school alone.
“You must be Bianca Monroe,” Miss Scarlett said, turning toward me. “I just heard of your coming. You’re a bit earlier than expected.”
“Yes, Miss Scarlett,” I straightened and looked right at her in the hopes of feeling more sanguine than I felt.
I arrived early because I lifted my skirts and ran here. Hope that qualifies me to fit in. If not, let me impress you with my secret talent at brewing the perfect tea.
Miss Scarlett stood in front of the fire at the top of the room. Her tall, broad shoulders, backlit by the flames, made her seem like a tree rising from the ground. Her reddish brown hair shone, pulled away from her face in a tight bun. Red bracelets dangled from her right wrist and sang when they touched. I couldn’t decipher whether she was friend or foe. She studied me with narrowed eyes.
“Welcome to Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.” When the silence stretched a beat too long she broke it, gesturing to the other side of the room with a hand. “Miss Bernadette will be your advisor.”
A slender woman in the corner stepped forward with a warm smile. Her short-cropped hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face.
“Merry meet, Bianca,” she called in a voice that sounded like wind chimes. “It’s always good to have a new student.”
A rush of relief flooded me. She seemed very kind. I smiled and nodded in return.
“Merry meet, Miss Bernadette.”
“Sit with Camille,” Miss Scarlett ordered, turning back to a scroll of parchment floating in the air next to her. “Miss Bernadette will find you later to go over the rules and expectations. Dinner starts promptly at six every evening. This is your warning. Do not be late again. Jackie Simmons?”
A voice called out from across the room, “Here!” Camille and I quickly made our escape.
“Miss Scarlett is a real stickler for rules,” Camille whispered. “Don’t let her see you break them.”
“Thanks for not leaving me on my own.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Camille motioned the girls on the back bench to scoot down, and they made room for me at the end. The girl with white hair looked up in surprise, her book now hidden in her lap from Miss Scarlett’s roving gaze. She had two different-colored eyes, light brown and olive green, set against pale skin.
Miss Scarlett cleared her throat to get our attention.
“Now that roll is complete, we will proceed with the feast. After that I will take the names of the third-years who want to join the annual Competition. Miss Celia, we are ready.”
A swinging door banged open, streaming platters and bowls piled high with a succulent array of food. Miss Celia stood at the back, orchestrating the placement of the trays that didn’t obey her magical commands to exactness. Once every dish found the right spot, they descended on the tables with a light clink.
“Oh,” Camille groaned with a hand on her stomach. “Look at all this food. I’m starving! I’m going to eat until I die, and then it’ll be a happy passing.”
The quiet anticipation in the room exploded. Camille grabbed a fork and stabbed into a nearby pile of roasted potatoes. “Get it while it’s still here, Bianca. Food goes fast. Trust me, you don’t want to miss a single bite of Miss Celia’s cooking.”
Leda didn’t move. In fact, she still didn’t surface from her book, even after the scrumptious fare arrived. Following Camille’s example, I surveyed the options. Fruit salad with a shiny glaze. Slivered green beans with flecks of almond and butter. A pork chop with apple gravy landed on my plate last. No wonder Miss Celia had been stressed. The food on all six tables would be enough to feed a small contingent of Guardians. I had no doubt, after glancing around, that this small horde of girls would take care of it.
“So, Bianca,” Camille said through a bite of strawberry tart. “Where do you come from?”
A gleaming wheat roll tumbled off her loaded plate, hitting a glass of light green winterberry lemonade. The sugared, minty smell drifted toward me.
“Bickers Mill.”
Her forehead wrinkled as she swallowed. “Where’s that?”
“Not far from here. Just outside the border of Letum Wood on the west. What about you?”
“Leda and I come from Hansham. It’s on the border near the Eastern Network. It’s a part of Letum Wood as well. I think it’s the most beautiful place in all of Antebellum, but I haven’t even been outside of the Central Network.” A sheepish blush covered her face, and she licked a little strawberry glaze off the end of one finger with a murmur of enjoyment. “Mmm. Delicious. Anyway, this is the farthest I’ve been from my aunts’ home.”
I noticed the way she said aunts’ home and wondered about her parents.
Letum Wood encompassed nearly all of the Central Network. Because of Letum Wood, most of our Network consisted of trees and gentle hills, a continuous emerald wave of farmland and woods. We were the largest of the five Networks, nestled in the middle, away from the harsh deserts of the West and the breezy coastline of the East. Below us, the Southern Network hibernated most of the year in snow. A rugged, domineering mountain chain separated the Northern Network from the rest of us. It had been years since the other Networks’ last contact with them.
Camille helped herself to a bite of pork chop slathered with baked apple wedges and motioned to the girl across the table.
“This is Leda, by the way. I mentioned her earlier.”
I didn’t tell her that I’d surmised it myself. Leda acted as if she hadn’t heard and kept her face in the book in front of her. Camille dished food onto Leda’s plate, most of which consisted of vegetables and fruit. No meat. The scrumptious fare went unnoticed.
“Nice to meet you too, I’m sure,” I muttered and bit into a crusty piece of brown bread smeared with tart raspberry preserves, my jumpy nerves almost forgotten under the tantalizing fragrance of the feast. The yeasty,
warm smell of Miss Celia’s fresh bread proved her talent at once. Camille hadn’t been exaggerating.
“We’ve been waiting for you to come for a while now,” Camille said.
I almost choked.
“What?”
She smiled her apology. “I just meant that we didn’t have a full first-year class, so we knew that one more girl would arrive soon. Miss Bernadette said Isadora has been looking.”
Camille turned to fight another girl for the butter plate before I could respond. Leda shifted, snatched a strawberry off her plate without moving her eyes from the text and popped it into her mouth. I studied the spine of her book. High Priests of the Southern Network. As if she felt my gaze, Leda slowly pulled the book down and peered over it, one eyebrow quirked high.
“How is it?” I asked, pointing to the book as if I hadn’t just been caught and didn’t feel stupid. Perhaps we had a mutual love of history.
“Bianca, do–” Camille whirled around, her hair whipping my cheek. “Oh, you’re talking to Leda, sorry. I didn’t mean to hit your face. My hair has a mind of its own. Do you want a fruit tart? They are simply my favorite. I love the sugary crust.”
Leda disappeared behind her book yet again.
“No, thank you,” I said, giving my brimming plate a quick glance. “I don’t have any room.”
Camille leaned toward a first-year with large eyes and even larger glasses, asking her the same question.
Using it as a chance to gain my bearings, I took inventory of the dining room. It was large, with scalloped edging running along the ceiling and a sprawling mantle with the same Letum ivy carved into the wood. Thirty-six girls, four teachers, and a calico cat perched near the fire. A typical size for a Network-run school. There were two doorways: the swinging door into the kitchen and the double doors that led to the main entryway.
Where is that old dragon Miss Mabel?
Camille spun around, a berry-stuffed croissant slathered with a fluffy cream in her hand.
