by Libba Bray
“Why didn’t she return it right away, then?” Felicity steps forward, challenging me, her gray eyes inches from mine.
Tricky, tricky. Make this good, Gem. “She didn’t want to embarrass you in front of everyone and make it obvious that you’d been careless with something so valuable, a gift from your father. So she was waiting for a private moment. You know how kindhearted Ann is.” A little Perils of Lucy. A little smacking Felicity with her own petulant story about dear old Father. All in all, not bad.
Miss Moore appraises me. There’s no telling whether she believes me or not. “Miss Bradshaw, is this true?”
Come on, Ann. Play along. Fight back.
Ann swallows hard, raises her chin to Miss Moore. “Y-y-yes. It is.”
Good girl.
I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself until I lock eyes with Felicity, who is glaring at me with a mix of admiration and hatred. I’ve won this round, but I know that with girls like Felicity and Pippa there will always be a next time.
“I’m glad that’s settled, Miss . . . ?” Miss Moore stares at me.
“Doyle. Gemma Doyle.”
“Well, Miss Gemma Doyle, it would seem that we are in your debt. I’m sure Miss Worthington would like to thank you both for retrieving her lost ring, wouldn’t you?”
For the second time tonight, Miss Moore surprises me, and I’m almost certain I see a satisfied smile pulling at the corners of her proper British mouth.
“She could have come forward sooner and not frightened us all so,” Felicity says by way of thank-you.
“Grace, charm, and beauty, Miss Worthington,” Miss Moore admonishes, waving a finger disapprovingly.
Felicity looks like a girl whose lollipop has just landed in the dirt. But then she’s all smiles again, the bitterness gone, pushed down deep.
“It would seem that I am in your debt, Gemma,” Felicity says. She’s goading me by being so informal with my name when I haven’t given her leave to do so.
“Not at all, Felicity,” I volley back.
“This ring was a gift from my father, Admiral Worthington. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Half the English-speaking world has heard of Admiral Worthington—a naval hero, decorated by Queen Victoria herself. “No, I can’t say that I have,” I lie.
“He’s very famous. He sends me all sorts of things from his travels. My mother runs a salon in Paris, and when Pippa and I are graduated, we’re going to Paris, where Mama will have us outfitted by the finest couturiers in France. Perhaps we’ll take you along as well.”
It’s not an invitation. It’s a challenge. They want to know if I have the means to keep up with them. “Perhaps,” I say. They don’t invite Ann.
“It’s going to be a wonderful season, though Pippa will probably get the lion’s share of attention.” Pippa beams at this. She’s so lovely that scores of young men will prod their relatives to introduce them. “You and I will simply have to be good sports about it.”
“And Ann,” I say.
“Yes, and Ann, of course. Dear Ann.” Felicity laughs, giving Ann a quick kiss on the cheek, which makes her blush again. It’s as if all is forgotten.
The clock strikes ten and Mrs. Nightwing makes an appearance at the doors. “Time for bed, ladies. I bid you all good night.”
Girls shuffle out in twos and threes, arms linked, voices and spirits high. The excitement of the evening lives on in a contagion of whispers that trickle from girl to girl. We’re going round and round in a maypole dance of stairs and more stairs, inching toward the maze of doors where our rooms lie.
I’m finally unable to hold back my irritation with Ann. “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”
“Why did you do it?” she asks. Is no one here capable of saying a simple “thank you”?
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
She shrugs. “What’s the point? There’s no winning against them.”
“There you are, Ann, darling.” Pippa comes up and takes Ann by the arm, slowing her down so that Felicity can slip in beside me. Her voice in my ear is confession-quiet.
“I shall have to think of a way to repay you for finding my ring tonight. We have a bit of a private club, Pippa, Cecily, Elizabeth, and I, but there might be room for you.”
“Aren’t I the lucky one? I’ll rush right out and buy a new bonnet for the occasion.”
Felicity’s eyes narrow, but her mouth never loses its smile. “There are girls who would give their eyeteeth to be in your position.”
“Fine. Then ask them.”
“See here, I’m offering you a chance to get on at Spence. To be a part of something and have the other girls look up to you. You might do well to think about it.”
“To be part of something the way you made Ann a part of something tonight?” I say. I look back at Ann, several steps below me now, her nose running again.
Felicity sees this. “It’s not that we don’t want Ann involved. It’s just that her life isn’t going to be like ours. You think you’re being so kind to her when you know very well that you can’t be friends with her on the outside. It’s much crueler to make her think otherwise, to lead her on.”
She’s right. I don’t trust her farther than I can run full-steam in a corset, but she is right. The truth is hard and unfair, but there it is.
“If I were interested in joining—which I’m not saying that I am—but if I were, what would I have to do?”
“Nothing yet,” she says, her face breaking into the sort of smile that doesn’t make me feel at ease. “Don’t worry—we’ll come to you.” She lifts her skirts and runs up the stairs, shooting past the rest of us like a comet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT’S THE SOUND THAT WAKES ME. MY EYELIDS FLUTTER open, fighting off the remnants of dreams. I’m lying on my right side, facing Ann’s bed. The door and whatever may be just inside it are down past my feet at the far end of the room. To get a good look, I’d have to move, sit up, roll over, and I’m not about to let on that I’m awake. It’s a five-year-old’s logic: If I can’t see it, it can’t see me. No doubt plenty of unfortunate people have wound up with their heads cut off by assuming the very same thing.
All right, Gem, no use getting frightened. It’s probably nothing. I blink and let my eyes adjust to the dark. Fingers of moonlight reach through the crack in the long velvet drapes and up the walls, nearly touching the low ceiling. Outside, a branch scratches against the windowpane with a squeak. My ears strain for some other noise, something in the room with us. There’s nothing else but the rhythm of Ann’s steady snoring. For a moment I think I must have dreamed it. And there it is again. The creaking of floorboards under careful steps that tells me this is not my imagination. I let my eyelids close to small slits so that I can pretend to be asleep but still see. No one takes my head without a fight. A figure looms closer. My tongue feels thick and dry in my mouth. The figure reaches out a hand and I’m up quickly, smashing my skull into the overhang just above my bed.
I hiss in pain, forgetting my visitor and placing a palm on my throbbing forehead.
A surprisingly small hand clamps over my mouth. “Do you want to wake the whole bloody school?” Felicity leans over me, the moonlight catching the planes of her face in such a way that she is all wide, hard angles and milky-white skin. She could be the face of the moon itself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my fingers rubbing across the goose egg–sized lump rising along my hairline.
“I told you we’d come for you.”
“You didn’t say it would be in the middle of the bloody night,” I say, matching her tone. There’s something about Felicity that makes me want to impress her, show her that I’m a match for her strength and she can’t win me so easily.
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
She speaks to me slowly, as she would a child. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”
My head still hurts from the bang. Ann is snoring
lightly, completely unaware that we’re having this conversation.
“Come back in the morning,” I say, flopping back against my pillow. I’m awake enough to know that whatever she wants to show me at this hour can’t be good.
“I won’t make this offer again. It’s now or never.”
Go back to sleep, Gem. This does not sound promising. It’s my conscience talking. But my conscience doesn’t have to spend the next two years making inane teatime chatter, bored to the point of catatonia. This is a challenge, and I’ve never said no to a challenge in my life.
“All right, then. I’m up,” I say. Then, just to make sure I don’t seem too soft, I add, “But this had better be good.”
“Oh, it will. I promise you.”
I find myself following Felicity out of my room, down the long corridor, past rooms of sleeping girls tucked away behind walls that house pictures of women from Spence’s past, grim-faced ghosts in white dresses whose somber mouths are tight in disapproval of this little escapade, but whose sad eyes all seem to say go. Go while you can. Freedom is brief.
When we get to the huge landing and the stairs leading down, I pause. “What about Mrs. Nightwing?” I say, glancing up the enormous stairs that extend to a fourth floor I can’t see in the dark.
“Don’t worry about her. Once she’s had her glass of sherry, she’s down for the night.” Felicity starts down.
“Wait!” I whisper as loudly as I can without waking anyone. Felicity stops, turns to me, that pale face taunting. Hips swaying, she inches back up to the stair just below me.
“If you want to spend your time here embroidering God Bless Our Home samplers and learning how to play lawn tennis in a corset and skirt, go back to bed. But if you want to have a bit of real fun, well . . .” And with that she trips lightly down the stairs and around the corner to the next set of stairs, where I can no longer see her.
Pippa meets us in the great hall. The huge fireplaces have all gone dark, with a few embers still crackling and spitting but no real warmth or light left. She’s been hiding behind a large fern. Now she pops out, eyes wide and agitated.
“What took you so long?”
“It’s only been a few minutes,” Felicity says.
“I don’t like waiting down here. All those eyes on the columns. It’s as if they’re watching me.”
In the dark, the marble sprites and nymphs take on a ghoulish quality. The room feels alive, taking note of our every move, counting every breath.
“Don’t be such a ninny. Let’s be brave girls, shall we? Where are the others?” As if on cue, two girls descend the stairs and join us. I’m introduced to Elizabeth, a tiny ratlike creature who offers an opinion only after everyone else has, and the pinch-faced Cecily, whose narrow upper lip curls when she takes in the sight of me. Martha, the tripper in the chapel, isn’t among them, and I realize she’s not part of the club; she only wishes she were. That’s why she was willing to trip Ann—to curry favor with them.
“Ready?” Cecily sneers.
What have I gotten myself into? Why don’t I simply say, All right, girls, it’s been lovely. Thanks ever so for the midnight gambol about the old palatial grounds. Wouldn’t have wanted to miss the way the parlor flares to life at night with a wonderful, nightmarish glow, but I’ll just be getting back to bed now. Instead, I follow them outside onto the back lawn, where the full moon bleeds yellow behind a thin, high bank of clouds. The bloody fog is still there and it’s frightfully cold. I’m dressed in only my nightgown. They’re clever girls with their blue velvet capes on.
“Follow me.” Felicity starts up the hill toward the chapel, the fog swallowing her whole in just a few steps. I fall in behind her and the others fall in behind me so that turning back is no longer an option. Suddenly I’m second-guessing my decision to follow the Mystery Sisters out onto the vast, foggy night all the way to the chapel doors.
“We have a tradition here at Spence,” Felicity says. “A little initiation ceremony for new girls who might prove worthy of our inner circle.”
“Can you really have an inner circle with only four people?” I ask, sounding braver than I feel. “Seems more like an inner square, doesn’t it?”
“You’re lucky to be here,” Cecily snaps.
Yes, I feel incredibly lucky to be standing out here in the freezing cold in only my nightgown. Some people might call it remarkably stupid, but I’m feeling quite optimistic.
“So, what is this secret initiation?”
Elizabeth looks to Felicity for permission to talk. “You only need to take something from the chapel.”
“As in steal something?” I ask, not liking where this is going one bit but feeling too far in to get out now.
“It’s not stealing. After all, it will never leave Spence. It’s just a way to prove that you are trustworthy,” Felicity says.
I have a few seconds to think and even though the most reasonable answer is to say I’m not interested and go back to bed, I say instead, “What do you want me to take?”
The clouds thin into wisps. Buttery moonlight spreads out and down. Felicity’s mouth opens, her tongue rubbing against her top teeth, feeling them. “The communion wine.”
“Communion wine?” I repeat.
Pippa makes a coughing noise in her throat before dissolving into giggles and I can see this is an impromptu request, an extra bit of daring on Felicity’s part.
Cecily looks aghast. “But Fee, that’s sacrilege!”
“Yes, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I begin.
“Really? I think it’s an excellent idea,” Felicity snaps. The admiral’s daughter doesn’t like it when her crew disobeys. “What about you, Elizabeth? What do you think?”
Elizabeth the puppet looks between her two masters, Felicity and Cecily. “Oh, I, I suppose—”
Pippa breaks in. “I think it’s a tip-top idea.”
I could almost swear I hear the trees whispering idiot. What have I gotten myself into?
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to go in there by yourself?” Felicity says.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, but I can’t very well say it. “What happens when Reverend Waite discovers the communion wine is missing? Won’t he be suspicious?”
A contemptuous “ha” escapes from Felicity’s mouth. “That drunkard will only suspect that he drank it himself. Besides, there are always Gypsy caravans around here this time of year. We can blame it on them if we have to.”
I don’t like this idea much. The chapel doors seem to have grown taller and more ominous since vespers. Despite my misgivings, I know I’m going in. “Where does he keep the wine?”
Pippa pushes me toward the doors. “Behind the altar. There’s a small cubbyhole.”
She slides the bolt back with all her strength. The doors creak open on the tomblike darkness inside.
“You can’t very well expect me to find it in the dark.”
“Feel your way,” Felicity says, pushing me inside.
I can’t believe that I’m here inside a dark, gloomy chapel ready to commit complete sacrilege by stealing. Thou shalt not steal. I seem to recall that as being one of God’s I’d rather you didn’t lest I have to smite you into ash commandments. Nor do I think it will help my case that I’m stealing what the Church believes is the holy blood of Christ. It’s not too late. I could still turn back and go to bed. I could, but I’d forever yield what power I have now to those girls.
Right. Get this over quickly, then. The light from the open door brightens up the vestibule, but the far end, where the altar and wine are, is in complete darkness. I start toward it and hear the door creaking closed, the light vanishing with the girls, the heavy thud of the wooden bolt being thrown on the outside of the door. They’re locking me in. Without thinking, I throw myself shoulder first into the door, hoping for enough time to push it open. It doesn’t give. And actually, it hurts quite badly.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Gem. What did I expect? How could I h
ave been taken in by that story about wanting me to be part of their private club? Ann’s voice swims in my head—what’s the point? There’s no winning against them. I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I’ve got to think.
There must be another way out of here. I only have to find it. All around me, the church seems to breathe with shadows. Mice scurry under pews, their claws scratching against the marble floor. My skin crawls at the thought. But the moon is strong. It falls through the stained-glass windows, bringing an angel to life, then the gorgon’s head, its eyes burning yellow in the dark.
I’m up and feeling my way from pew to pew, hoping I don’t run into furry rodents or worse. Every sound is magnified. The clicking of night crawlers. Creaking and groaning of wood in the wind. Silently, I berate myself for falling prey to such a nasty prank. It’s just a little initiation we have here at Spence—we like to torture each other. Beauty, grace, and charm my foot. It’s a school for sadists with good tea-serving skills.
Click-click. Creak.
Felicity’s probably no more related to Admiral Worthington than I am.
Click-click. Creak.
I don’t even want to go to Paris.
Click, creak. Cough.
A cough. I didn’t cough. And if I didn’t, then who did?
It takes just a second for this to sink down into my legs and now I’m stumble-running up the middle aisle as fast as I can manage. My foot finds the first step to the altar. I trip and land sprawled on the hard marble, the sharp edge biting into my leg. But I can hear footsteps running up behind me, so I’m on hands and knees, scrambling for what I see just behind the organ—a door, open just a crack. Feel the last step and I’m up on wobbly legs, running hard for the promise of what’s on the other side of that door. Reach out a hand and . . .
There’s something overhead. Dear God, I must be imagining things because something, someone, is flying over my head, landing with a thump in the space between the door and me. A hand clamps over my mouth, trapping my scream there. The other arm pulls me in, pins me tight.
It’s instinct that makes me bite the hand on my mouth. I’m unceremoniously dumped to the floor. And then I’m up on my feet again, leaping for the door. A hand snakes around my ankle, bringing me down hard till I see pinpricks of light behind closed eyes. I try to crawl away but my knee and head hurt too badly.
