by Libba Bray
She sniffs again, as if trying to convince herself that her nose has failed her. “Well, you may be seated.”
Shakily, I take my chair, looking up only briefly to see Felicity grinning from ear to ear. Cecily looks as if she could happily choke me in my sleep. Discreetly, Felicity passes me a note. I thought you were done for.
I scribble back, I did, too. I feel like the devil himself. How is your head? Pippa sees the surreptitious handing off of folded paper. She cranes her neck to see what’s being written and whether it could possibly be about her. Felicity shields the content of the note with the wall of her hand. Reluctantly, Pippa goes back to her lessons but not without first glaring at me with those violet eyes.
Swiftly, Felicity passes the note again just before Mademoiselle LeFarge looks up. “What’s going on back there?”
“Nothing,” Felicity and I say together, proving beyond a doubt that something is indeed going on.
“I shall not be repeating today’s lesson, so I sincerely hope that you are not taking frivolously the matter of writing it all down.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle,” Felicity says, all French charm and smiles.
When Mademoiselle’s head goes down again, I open the note Felicity has passed me. We’ll meet again tonight after midnight. Loyalty to the Order!
Inwardly, I groan at the thought of another sleepless night. My bed, with its warm woolen blanket, is more inviting than tea with a duke. But I already know I’ll be weaving my way through the woods tonight, eager to hear more of the diary’s secrets.
Pippa is passing her own note to Felicity when I glance over. It’s hard to admit it to myself, but I desperately want to know what’s in that note. Something hard and mean flits across the surface of Felicity’s face but it’s replaced just as quickly with a closemouthed smile. Surprisingly, she doesn’t respond to Pippa but passes the note to me, much to Pippa’s horror. This time, Mademoiselle LeFarge is up and moving down the aisle between our desks, so there’s nothing to do but slip the note between the pages of my book and wait until later to read it. When the hour is over, Mademoiselle LeFarge calls me to her desk once again. Felicity gives me a warning look on the way out. I shoot her my own look, which says, What do you expect me to do? Knowing that I still have her note burning a hole in my French book, Pippa wears an expression somewhere between fear and nausea. She starts to say something to me, but Ann closes the door, leaving me alone with Mademoiselle LeFarge and my own fast-beating heart.
“Miss Doyle,” she says, peering up at me warily, “are you quite sure the odor on your breath is from marmalade and not some other substance?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” I say, trying to expel as little breath as possible.
She suspects I’m lying but she can’t prove it. Disappointment weighs her down to a sigh. I seem to have that effect on people. “Too much marmalade is bad for the figure, you know.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. I’ll remember that.” That Mademoiselle LeFarge, she of the wide girth, thinks she is in any position to comment on figures is astounding, but I’m only hoping to escape with my head intact.
“Yes, well, see that you do. Men don’t care for plump women,” she says. Her candor has us both looking away. “Well, some men don’t.” Instinctively, she brushes a finger across the tintype of the young man in uniform.
“Is he a relation?” I ask, trying to be courteous. It’s no longer the whiskey that’s turning my stomach but my own guilt. Honestly, I like Mademoiselle LeFarge, and I hate deceiving her.
“My fiancé. Reginald.” She says his name with great pride, but also a hint of longing that makes me blush.
“He looks . . . very . . .” I realize I have no idea what to say about this man. I’ve never met him. He’s only a bad photograph. But I’ve already started. “Trustworthy,” I pronounce with difficulty.
This seems to please Mademoiselle LeFarge. “He does have a kind face, doesn’t he?”
“Most definitely,” I say.
“Best not hold you here. You don’t want to be late for Mr. Grunewald. Remember—be sparing with the marmalade.”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you,” I say, and stumble out the door. I am lower than a crustacean. I don’t even deserve to have a teacher like Mademoiselle LeFarge. And even so, I know I’m going to be out in the caves tonight, disappointing her in ways I hope she never discovers.
Pippa’s note peeks out of the edges of my French book. Slowly, I open it. Her perfect round script is cruel and mocking.
Let’s meet at the boathouse this afternoon. My mother sent new gloves, and I shall let you wear them. For pity’s sake, don’t invite her. If she tried to put her big ox hands inside, the gloves would be thoroughly ruined.
For the first time all day, I’m afraid I really will vomit, though it has nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with how deeply I hate them at this moment—Pippa, for writing the note, and Felicity for giving it to me.
As it turns out, Pippa won’t be going to the boathouse after all. The great hall is abuzz with the news—Mr. Bumble is here. Every girl at Spence, from six to sixteen, is crowded around Brigid, who is delivering the latest gossip to us in breathless fashion. She goes on and on about what a fine, respectable man he is, how beautiful Pippa looks, and what a grand match they are. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Brigid so animated. Who could have guessed that the old sourpuss was a secret romantic?
“Yes, but what does he look like?” Martha wants to know.
“Is he handsome? Tall? Does he have all his teeth?” Cecily presses.
“Aye,” Brigid says, knowingly. She’s relishing this—being the oracle for a bit. “Handsome and respectable,” she says again, in case we missed this salient quality the first time. “Oh, wot a luv’ly match our Miss Pippa has made. Let this be a lesson to you—if you take to heart all that Mrs. Nightwing and the others—including yours truly—impart, you could be where Miss Pippa’s headed. To the altar in a rich man’s carriage.”
It seems the wrong time to mention that if Mrs. Nightwing and the others, including Brigid, were so knowledgeable they might be altar-bound themselves. I can see by the dewy-eyed rapture on the girls’ faces that they are taking Brigid’s words to be gospel truth.
“Where are they now?” Felicity presses.
“Well.” Brigid leans in close. “I ’eard Mrs. Nightwing say they’d be touring the gardens, but—”
Felicity turns to the girls. “We could see the gardens from the window on the second-floor landing!”
Amid Brigid’s protests, there is a mad stampede up the stairs to the window. We older girls elbow our way past the younger girls, their petulant “no fair!”s no match for our sheer power and force. Within seconds, we’ve secured our position at the window and the others mash in behind us, straining for a view.
Out in the gardens, Mrs. Nightwing chaperones Pippa and Mr. Bumble along the path that weaves through the rows of roses and hyacinths. Through the open window, we have an unobstructed view of them standing awkwardly apart. Pippa is burying her face in a nosegay of red flowers that he must have brought her. She looks bored out of her mind. Mrs. Nightwing is prattling on about the different flora on the path.
“Could you make room for the rest of us, please?” a chubby girl demands, hands on hips.
“Shove off,” Felicity growls, deliberately using bad language to intimidate her.
“I’m going to tell Mrs. Nightwing!” the girl squawks.
“Do it and see what happens. Now shush—we’re trying to hear!”
Bodies squirm and press, but at least there’s no more whingeing. It’s so odd to see Pippa and Mr. Bumble together. Despite Brigid’s glowing report, he is, in fact, a fat, bushy-whiskered man, who is quite a bit older than Pippa. He looks off over Mrs. Nightwing’s head as if he’s above it all. As far as I can tell, there is nothing special about him.
Some of the younger girls have managed to crawl beneath us. They’re struggling up between our bodies and
the window like weeds toward the window’s light. We push against them, and they push back. We’re all on top of each other, trying to get a better look and to listen.
“Lucky Pip,” Cecily says. “She could marry a suitable chap and not even have to go through a season, having every man and his mother size her up for marriage.”
“I don’t think Pip would agree with you,” Felicity says. “I don’t think that’s what she wants at all.”
“Well, it’s not as if we can do what we want, is it?” Elizabeth says simply.
No one has anything to say to that. The breeze shifts toward us, carrying Mrs. Nightwing’s voice with it. She says something about roses being the flower of true love. And then they’re around a tall hedge, hidden from sight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT HE BROUGHT ME RED carnations? Do you know what that means in the language of flowers? Admiration! ‘I admire you.’ That will certainly win a girl’s heart.” Pippa is tearing the carnations apart one by one and sprinkling the colorful carnage over the cave floor.
“I think carnations are rather nice,” Ann says.
“I’m only seventeen! My season has barely begun. I intend to enjoy it, not be married off to the first poxy old barrister with money.” Pippa rips away the rest of the carnation in her hand, revealing a naked, nubby stalk.
I haven’t said a word. I’m still smarting from that nasty letter this afternoon and the fact that Felicity is wearing one of Pippa’s new gloves while Pippa wears the other, like badges of their friendship.
“Why is she in such a hurry to see you married?” Ann asks.
“She doesn’t want anyone to know . . .” Pippa stops, stricken.
“Doesn’t want anyone to know what?” I ask.
“What they’re getting before it’s too late.” She tosses the flower stem to the ground.
I have no idea what she means. Pippa is beautiful. And her family may be merchant class but they are well-to-do and respectable. Other than being vain, obnoxious, and subject to romantic delusions, she’s all right.
“What do you do when you’re with a suitor?” Ann asks. She makes little xs in the dirt with a beheaded carnation.
Pippa sighs. “Oh, it’s generally the same. You have to fawn over them. After they bore you to tears with some story about a legal case they argued, you have to lower your eyes and say something like ‘My, I had no idea the law could be so fascinating, Mr. Bumble. But when you put it that way, why, it’s just like reading a novel!’”
We fall over laughing. “No! You didn’t say that!” Felicity howls.
Pippa is losing her mopey air. “Oh, yes, I did! And how do you like this one.” She bats her lashes and adopts a sweet, shy demeanor. “Well, perhaps I could manage just one chocolate. . . .”
This has me laughing in spite of myself. We all know Pippa is a secret glutton.
“One chocolate?” Felicity screams. “My God, if he could see you put away an entire tray of toffees he’d be appalled! When you get married, you’ll have to hide them in your boudoir and stuff them down when he’s not looking.”
Pippa screeches and pretends to beat Felicity with the carnation stem. “You’re wicked! I most certainly am not marrying Mr. Bumble. Gracious, his name is Bumble! That’s a curse right there!”
Felicity runs just out of the carnation’s reach. “Oh, yes, you are going to marry him! He’s called on you four times now. I’ll bet your mother’s planning the wedding even as we speak!”
Pippa’s laugh dies. “You don’t really think so, do you?”
“No,” Felicity says quickly. “No, it was a bad joke, that’s all.”
“I want to marry my true love. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.”
Pippa looks so small suddenly, sitting there among her strewn petals, that I’ve almost forgotten how angry I am. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge anyway.
Felicity tilts Pippa’s chin upward with a finger. “And you will. Now, let’s call this meeting to order. Pip, why don’t you administer the sacrament?”
She brings out the whiskey again. I groan inwardly. But when it comes my way, I take my poison and find it’s not so bad if you take small sips. This time, I drink only till I feel warm and light, not beyond.
“We must have a reading from the diary of our sister, Mary Dowd. Gemma, will you do the honors this evening?” With a bow Felicity hands the diary to me. I clear my throat and begin:
“March 21, 1871
“Today we stood among the Runes of the Oracle. Under Eugenia’s guidance, we touched our fingers to them for an instant, receiving the magic. The sensation was overpowering. It was as if we could feel each other’s very thoughts, as if we were one and the same.”
Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Sounds naughty. Mary and Sarah are probably Sapphists.”
“What on earth is a Sapphist?” Pippa is already bored. She’s twirling the ends of her black ringlets round her ungloved finger, trying to achieve a more perfect curl.
“Must I tell you everything?” Felicity scoffs.
I have no idea what a Sapphist is either, but I’m not about to ask now.
“From the Greek Sappho, a lady poet who enjoyed the love of other women.”
Pippa stops twirling. “Whatever is the matter with that?”
Felicity lowers her head and gives Pippa a baleful look. “Sapphists prefer the love of women to men.”
I understand fully now, as does Ann, I gather, by the way she nervously straightens her skirts with her hands, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Pippa squints at Felicity as if she might read the meaning in her forehead, but slowly, a blush creeps up her neck into her cheeks and she’s gasping. “Oh, my heavens, you can’t honestly mean that . . . that they . . . like husband and wife . . . ?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Pippa is stunned into silence. The red does not fade from her face and neck. I’m embarrassed too, but I don’t want them to know it. “May I please continue?”
“The Gypsies came back today to make camp. When we saw the smoke from their fire, Sarah and I hurried to see Mother Elena.”
“Mother Elena!” Ann gasps.
“That lunatic with the ragged head scarf?” Pippa wrinkles her nose in distaste.
“Shhh! Go on,” Felicity says.
“She welcomed us warmly with herb tea and tales of her travels. We gave sweets to Carolina, who devoured them. To Mother we gave five pence. And then she promised to read the cards for us, as she has before. But no sooner had Mother placed Sarah’s cards in the familiar cross pattern than she stopped and shuffled them into a pile again. ‘The cards have a bad temper today,’ she said with a little smile, but in truth she seemed taken by a sense of foreboding. She asked to see my palm, snaking her sharp fingernail along the pathways of my hand. ‘You are on a dark journey,’ she said, dropping my hand like a hot stone. ‘I cannot see the outcome.’ Then, most abruptly, she asked us to leave as she needed to make her way through the camp to be sure things were well settled.”
Ann is peering over my arm, trying to read ahead. I pull the book away and end up dropping it, scattering the pages.
“Bravo, my lady Grace!” Felicity applauds.
Ann helps me cluster the papers together in my arms. She can’t stand having anything out of order. A patch of wrist is exposed. I can see the red cross-hatching of welts there, fresh and angry. This is no accident. She’s doing it to herself. She sees me looking and pulls hard at her sleeves, covering her secret.
“Come now,” Felicity chides. “What more will the diary of Mary Dowd reveal to us tonight?”
I grab a page. “Here we go,” I say. It’s not the same page, but that hardly matters to them.
“April 1, 1871
“Sarah came to me in tears. ‘Mary, Mary, I cannot find the door. The power is leaving me.’
“‘You are overwrought, Sarah. That is all. Try again tomorrow.’
“‘No, no,’ she wailed. ‘I hav
e tried for hours now. I tell you it is gone.’
“My heart was gripped with an icy cold. ‘Sarah, come. I’ll help you find it.’
“She turned on me with such fury that I scarcely recognized her as my friend. ‘Don’t you understand? I must do it myself or it’s not real. I cannot ride along on your powers, Mary.’ She began to cry then. ‘Oh, Mary, Mary, I cannot bear to think that I will never again touch the runes or feel their magic flowing through me. I cannot bear to think that I will be only ordinary Sarah from now on.’
“For the rest of the evening I could not rest or eat at all. Eugenia saw my misery and bade me sit with her in her own room. She says it is often that way—a girl’s power flares, then fades. The power must be nurtured deep in the soul, else it’s nothing more than grasping. Oh, diary, she confided that Sarah’s power is such, fleeting and unanchored. She says that the realms make the decision about who shall rise in the Order and learn all the ancient mysteries and who must stay behind. Eugenia patted my hand and confessed that the power is great in me, but I am lost to think of going forward without my dearest friend and sister.
“When Sarah came to me late this evening, I felt as if I would do anything to make things as they were before, with us close as sisters again and the magic of the realms within our reach. I told her so.
“‘Oh, Mary,’ she cried. ‘You’ve cheered me considerably. You know there is a way that we can be together always.’
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘I have a confession. I have visited the Winterlands. I have seen it.’
“I was shocked at this, it chilled me so. ‘But, Sarah, that is a realm we are not to know yet. There are things we should not see without the guide of our elders here.’
“Sarah got such a hard look in her eyes. ‘Don’t you see? Our elders want us to know only what they can control. They fear us, Mary. That is why Eugenia is taking the power from me. I have spoken to a spirit that wanders there. She told me the truth.’
“Her words seemed true, but I was afraid still. ‘Sarah, I’m afraid. To call up a dark spirit is to go against everything we’ve been taught.’
