by Katie Cross
“What are you doing down here?” she asked, stepping into the library.
“Getting warm by the fire.”
Her eyes darted around, finally landing on the feather and leftover messenger paper on the table.
“Oh,” she said, her mouth rounding out. “I heard about your grandmother. That’s too bad.”
The droop of her lips looked so sincere that I could only stare at her. Her unexpected twists and turns made me feel like I ran a race in a hedge, with walls so high I never knew where to go next.
“Thanks.”
“How is she doing?” She took a few steps into the room and settled on a chair in the shadows near the fire, grasping a book. I barely caught the title before she covered it with her hand. Advanced Beauty Transformation.
Interesting.
“Fine,” I lied and then started to the door, the best route of escape.
Second rule of every confrontation: map out your area. Know how to get away, and how others can get in.
“Oh, Bianca?” She motioned to the chair next to her with a pat. “Why don’t you sit? We’ll have a little chat.”
“A little chat?”
“About school, of course,” she said. “You’re new, and I’ve been here for years. I can give you a few pointers.”
“Yes, I’m sure the last two years have made you an expert,” I said in a dry tone that she ignored.
“I wouldn’t say expert, but I certainly know what I’m doing.”
No doubt about that.
I lowered into the chair, keeping to the edge, trying to anticipate her trap. Priscilla set the book face down in her lap and folded her hands on top of it, turning to me with an inquiring gaze.
“How are things on the first-year floor? Is it still as shabby as I remember?”
“Yes,” I drawled, eyeing her. She smoothed out a line in her skirt.
“I noticed that you hang around Leda and Camille a lot.”
My eyes narrowed. I didn’t trust this Priscilla. I preferred the snarky, deceptive third-year I met when I first arrived. This polite little bundle could be nothing but angles.
“Yes,” I said, waiting. She studied me and, seeing something in my face, seemed to drop whatever plan she’d had before.
“Why are you doing this, Bianca?” she asked, trying to stare me down. “Are you trying to prove something as a first-year?”
The question struck a note of panic in me, but at least she wasn’t playing a game anymore. I remembered Elana asking me the same question during the first match.
I’m doing this because it’s my only chance to live. Whatever motivation you have, it’s not stronger than mine.
“Why are you?” I asked.
Priscilla hesitated, her eyes calculating.
“Because I want to be the best.”
An answer so blunt I couldn’t doubt it.
“You think learning from Miss Mabel will do that for you?”
“Don’t you?” she retorted immediately. “All of the greats of our time started in the Network school system and climbed their way to the top. Miss Mabel’s has a reputation for turning out students that do very well.”
No, I don’t think that. Greatness doesn’t develop because Miss Mabel runs the place.
“I think greatness depends more on you than on her,” I replied instead, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “It has nothing to do with outside influences.”
Priscilla pondered my words for a moment, then changed the subject.
“We must have something in common, you and I,” she said with a look that showed she was less than pleased about it. “I’m imagining it has something to do with our determination to win. But only one of us will.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Leave the Competition, Bianca,” she said. “At least spare yourself a little embarrassment. You’re no match for my education level.”
“Because I haven’t been so far?”
Her hands balled into fists. Good. I unnerved her a little. Her aspirations to Assistant were in danger from a first-year. I understood her desperation but that didn’t mean I felt any pity. If Priscilla really wanted greatness, she’d achieve it on her own. But that wasn’t what she wanted. Priscilla wanted the fastest road to power.
And who didn’t, really? Even I had felt the sweet tug of that desire before. Power to enact change. Power to keep my family and myself alive. Power was strength, and nothing compared to strength.
Perhaps we did have a few things in common.
“You’ve got more talent than I’d anticipated, I’ll admit,” she said slowly. “But I’ve been holding back, giving you a chance.”
“I noticed that during the second match,” I said, matching her cool tone. “When you headed for the herb table right behind Elana.”
She leaned forward into the light of the fire, illuminating the freckles that smattered her nose, cheeks, forehead, and neck. Her anxiety was made apparent by the pitch of her voice.
“I’m serious Bianca. Get out now. I won’t lose. Certainly not to a first-year. I’ve been planning for two years now.”
Well I’ve been planning for eleven.
I opened my mouth to reply but stopped. Since when did Priscilla have so many freckles? I remembered her face as almost flawless, like porcelain, when I first met her. The firelight during the second match showed a few, but not nearly what I saw now. They gave her skin an entirely different color and tone.
“What?” she snapped, straightening. “What are you staring at?”
“Your freckles,” I said. “I didn’t know you had so many. I could have sworn your skin was–”
Her hands flew to her face with a gasp. The movement drew my attention to the sleeves of her shirt, which bulged. A subtle puffiness around her cheeks and jaw stood out to me next, then a tightness of her dress around the ribcage. Her stockings rolled halfway down her calves, too small for her legs.
Priscilla had gained weight.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Now that she was in the light she looked bloated. She moved back into the shadows so quickly that the chair scraped the floorboards with a loud groan.
“I’m fine!” she said with a sharp bark, standing up and turning her back to me. “Just remember: I’m going to win.”
She escaped into the hallway with the slam of the library door behind her. I sank into a nearby chair and fell back, dissolving into laughter that, for the moment, made me forget the heavy burdens bearing on my chest.
Priscilla didn’t make it to breakfast that morning.
Miss Celia’s foul mood infiltrated the dining room. The entire school ate in silence, with Miss Scarlett looming in her usual spot near the fireplace, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes darting about, searching for rule-breakers like a hound after a hare. Her red bracelets jangled every now and then, a little reminder of her presence. Camille sent me a few miserable looks, but Leda stayed buried in a book. I had the distinct impression that she enjoyed the silence.
The gray spirit even affected Miss Bernadette, who set us to work copying vocabulary out of a book. Michelle brought us a tray of bread and cheese for lunch, saying that Miss Celia didn’t want any girls in the dining room. By the time Miss Bernadette released us for dinner, students threw themselves out of the classroom, unable to get to their freedom fast enough.
“Finally!” Camille cried, bursting out of the room. “I hate those miserable walls. Classrooms,” she shuddered, “they’re like torture chambers.”
I silently agreed. My head throbbed. Staying in the same room that long made me restless, and my legs itched in the heavy white stockings. I longed to peel them off.
“I thought it was a lovely day,” Leda said in an offhand way, anchoring half a dozen scrolls against her chest with her arm. “We took enough notes to keep me busy studying all weekend.”
“You’re mad,” I said, rubbing out the stiff muscles in my neck. “Really.”
“I thought I was going to die when she started
lecturing on the medicinal use of ginger root,” Camille groaned. The day had been wretched. In between the vocabulary and lectures, Grandmother’s ill health and mother’s lack of communication pressed on me. Every other minute I checked the window, hoping for a message that never came. Soon enough I would succumb to the despondent cloud myself.
“What have you done?” A shrill voice cried as we walked by the closed dining room doors and toward the main stairs. “The pastry filling was supposed to be made with raspberries!”
Rebecca walked out of the kitchen, her face splotchy and her apron smeared with fruit preserves.
“Miss Celia’s sitting on a devil’s back today!” she muttered, stalking past us into the hall. “I’ve never seen the like before.”
We backed against the wall to let her barrel past.
“What do you think is going on?” Camille asked. “The whole school has lost its mind.”
Leda just shrugged, watching Rebecca charge out the back door.
“I don’t know, but let’s stay away from Miss Celia.”
A group of third-years came up from behind, speaking in low voices. Leda signaled for us to slow down. Jade’s high-pitched voice registered soon enough, and I caught a glimpse of her pug nose and blonde hair out of the corner of my eye.
“Are you serious?” one third-year asked in a low whisper.
“Priscilla won’t come out of her room?”
“No!” Jade squealed in delight. “Not even for lunch, although she’s been eating enough for all of us lately.”
So much for friendship, I thought. Jade obviously bore ill will for losing the first match.
“She’s always talking about her perfect hair,” Jade continued. “Now it’s falling out! Hey, move it,” Jade snapped at us, like a dog herding cattle.
We dutifully moved away, allowing the three of them to push past. They moved into the third-year corridor from the stairs, laughing in loud whispers.
“What are they talking about?” Camille asked when they disappeared. “Priscilla’s hair is falling out?”
I continued up the stairs, my thoughts churning.
“Maybe she’s sick,” I said, then told them about our encounter in the library that morning.
“Sounds like she’s really stressed and has been eating too much,” Camille said. “I do that too. I get hungry when I’m stressed. I raided the pantry once before an algebra test.”
“Priscilla sick? Don’t give me hope,” Leda muttered. “Do you think that Ruby is right? She said Priscilla looked different when she ran into her the other night.”
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “But something is going on. How else would she have gained so much weight?”
“All that beautiful hair,” Camille sighed. “I hope it’s not permanent.”
The three of us peeled off to our separate rooms to get ready for dinner. I sat at my window until Camille knocked, staring out, waiting in vain.
The Winner
The first floor of the school had transformed.
I descended the stairs in mute awe, Leda at my side. Camille chattered with owl-eyed Isabelle a few steps behind until they both stopped with a gasp.
“What happened?” I whispered.
Lush green vines draped the walls of the entryway and twirled around the windows. Flowers hung from the chandelier in thick ropes, ending with a purple blossom. Brown branches wove through the bars along the staircase, making the entryway and staircase look like a jungle canopy.
“Are we expecting a visitor at the school?” Leda asked, plucking a flower off a wall of twisting green ivy. The petals disintegrated into a puff of smoke and the scent of honeysuckle floated by.
“Maybe Mr. Robert’s School for Boys is coming!” Camille exclaimed.
She darted around, smelling all the blooms she could get her hands on. For every flower she touched, another appeared somewhere else. More students began to congregate, drawn in by the happy squawks of the girls already there.
“Well!” Miss Bernadette cried, walking down the stairs. A flower fell into her long, white fingers and didn’t disappear in smoke. “This is a wonderful surprise. What’s the occasion?”
No one could answer her because none of us knew.
“Look,” Leda grabbed my arm. She pointed into the dining room. “It’s in there as well.”
We started down the stairs together, eager to arrive before the crowd. A verdant screen of leaves covered the dining room walls. Flowers the color of plums covered the ceiling and dropped throughout the room.
“It’s beautiful,” Camille whispered as we walked in. She spun around when a bloom fell and kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, it’s so wonderful it hurts!”
“I feel like I’m going to drown in foliage,” Leda said, dropping onto her usual spot on the bench and cracking open a book. But she didn’t start reading right away, instead gazing around as she sat back.
The whole school milled through the room, surveying the mulberry blossoms and exclaiming over the subtle, sweet smell. The clang and clank of the kitchen had settled. I resisted the urge to creep over and peer in to see if Rebecca or Michelle had made it out alive.
“Bianca Monroe! Bianca?”
The sharp sound of Miss Scarlett calling my name broke through the excited chatter. I whirled around.
“Bianca! Where are you?”
She pushed through the crowd and into the dining room with all the grace of a bull, moving a few girls aside. I stepped forward.
“I’m here.”
The room slowly quieted, girls craning around each other to find me. Miss Scarlett scanned the room, still searching.
“Bi–”
“Miss Scarlett, I’m here,” I said from behind her.
She spun around to find me.
“There you are.” Her breath came out in fast, erratic bursts. She turned and called into the entryway over her shoulder. “Marie, she’s in here.”
My heart plummeted into my stomach when a familiar pair of gray eyes hurried into the dining room.
“Mama?” I whispered.
She stopped in the doorway. Her reddened cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and tangled hair stole my breath. All the air left my body. I was weak and limp, unable to do anything but stand there.
“Bianca, there you are.”
She sounded breathless and tired. Tears filled her eyes. It felt so good to see her, but it was so frightening at the same time that I didn’t know what to do. The students parted to form a walkway, but I didn’t have the strength to move. My knees felt like jelly.
Miss Bernadette stepped into the dining room near Miss Scarlett, who leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Miss Bernadette’s flawless face went pale, and a hand flew to cover her mouth.
“Why are you here?” I managed to ask.
Mama swallowed, her voice faltering a little as she spoke.
“Your grandmother is very sick again. The apothecary says she won’t survive the night.”
A few girls gasped. I heard Camille give a startled cry. No one moved, including me. The dining room gelled into a nervous silence except for the low snap of the fire.
I stood there, not even sure I was breathing. The words ran through my mind again and again. It wasn’t until I spoke that I realized how fast my heart pounded.
“She’s going to die tonight?”
“We need to leave right away.”
No amount of preparation for this day could have stopped this feeling; it was as if someone had scooped my heart out. I put a hand to my chest to quell the ache. Yes. We had to leave now. Take action. Do something.
“Y-yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Do you need help packing?” Miss Scarlett asked, rigid as a board.
“No,” I said, starting forward, my legs beneath me again. “I can pack.”
Mama backed up, toward the dining room doors, carefully avoiding a few girls. “Please hurry, B. We must get back. She’s all alone.”
I stopped in the middle of the din
ing room. “B?” I whispered. Mother never called me anything but Bianca. Papa, and Papa alone, called me B. A creeping suspicion crawled up my spine.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “We need to go.”
“Why did you leave Grandmother alone?”
She fumbled for a response, and my instincts bristled again. Something’s wrong here.
“To come get you. Bianca, we don’t have time!”
I looked up to Miss Scarlett.
“What about the final match?”
A few girls murmured in ripples of disbelief.
“Surely you can’t be worried about the Competition at a time like this,” Miss Scarlett said with bland apathy. “Your grandmother is dying.”
“Can I compete when I return?”
“Does it matter?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said with resolve. A flicker crossed her eyes. The amount of indifference laced in her tone impressed me.
“No, you may not.”
The words infused me with panic. Without the position as Assistant, I had no chance. My life would end at seventeen. My mother would dwindle in death, alone, miserable, and in pain.
“You are worried about the Competition when your grandmother is dying?” Miss Scarlett asked, accenting each word. “You may never speak to her again. This is your last chance to see your grandmother.”
“I know.”
Several girls gasped. I heard the quiet murmur of words like heartless and cruel run through the crowd. Let them think what they wanted. For all I knew, they could be right.
“Bianca, I can’t believe this,” Mama whispered, stunned. A tear dropped down her beautiful cheek.
A warning ran through me again, like a shiver.
Something isn’t right.
Mama wouldn’t have left Grandmother to die alone. She would have sent a letter in response to mine. My heart raced. I hardly dared entertain the thought that kept coming to me.
Was this the third match?
“No,” I said, breaking the silence. The risk of error was enormous, but so were the stakes. “I won’t leave.”
A couple of girls turned their backs to me. The rest of the dining room broke out in outraged whispers.
“Bianca!” Camille hissed. “Are you crazy?”
