by Libba Bray
I’d forgotten my lie. There is no way around it now. I shall have to confess. I pull the linens to my neck, make myself small in the bed. “The truth is, I haven’t actually tried to enter. Not since Pippa.”
Felicity’s glare could shatter glass. "You lied to us.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready.”
“You could have said as much,” Ann mutters, hurt.
“I am sorry. I thought it best.”
Felicity’s gray eyes are like the sharpest flint. "Do not lie to us again, Gemma. It will be a betrayal of the Order.”
I don’t like the way she says this, but I’m in no mood to argue now. I nod and reach for the brandy.
“When shall we go into the realms?” Ann asks.
“Shall we meet at midnight?” Felicity half begs. "Oh, I cannot wait to see it all again!”
“I’m in no condition tonight,” I say. They can hardly argue with that.
“Very well, then,” Felicity says, sighing. "Rest.”
“What is it?” Ann asks, reading my expression.
“It’s probably nothing, really. I was just thinking that the last thing I remember before falling under was Miss McCleethy’s face. She was looking at me in the most curious way, as if she knew all my secrets.”
A devilish grin lights up Felicity’s full mouth. "You mean the fairrr but exacting Miss McCleethy,” she says, imitating our new teacher’s strange brogue. This makes me laugh in spite of everything.
“If she’s an old friend of Nightwing’s, she’s doubtless a hideous prig who will make our lives a misery,” I say, still giggling.
“I am glad to see that you seem in better spirits, Miss Doyle.” It’s Miss McCleethy herself at my door. My heart falls through the floor of my stomach. Oh, no. How long has she been standing there?
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I say in a squeak of a voice.
I am almost certain she’s overheard everything, for she holds my gaze a moment too long, till I’m forced to look away, and then she says simply, without any enthusiasm, “Well, I am glad to hear it. You should take some exercise. Exercise is the key. Tomorrow I shall take all my girls out to the lawn for archery.”
“What a splendid idea! I cannot wait to begin,” Felicity says too brightly, hoping to cover any overheard unpleasantness with a fresh coat of charm.
“Have you some experience with the bow and arrow, Miss Worthington?”
“A trifling amount,” Felicity demurs. In truth, she is excellent.
“How marvelous. I’d wager you ladies have all manner of surprises ready for me.” A curious half smile tugs at the corners of Miss McCleethy’s taut mouth. “I look forward to our becoming friends. My previous pupils have found me to be rather jovial, despite my reputation as a hideous prig.”
She’s heard everything. We’re done for. She shall hate us forever. No, she shall hate me forever. Jolly good start, Gemma. Bravo.
Miss McCleethy inspects my desk, lifting my few belongings there—the ivory elephant from India, my hairbrush—for closer examination. “Lillian—Mrs. Nightwing has told me of your unfortunate involvement with your former teacher Miss Moore. I am sorry to hear that she misused your trust so.”
She gives us that penetrating stare again. “I am not Miss Moore. There will be no stories, no impropriety. I will not tolerate disruption in the ranks. We shall follow the letter of the law and be the better for it.” She takes in our pale faces. “Oh, come now, you all look as if I’ve sentenced you to the guillotine!”
She attempts a laugh. It is not winning or warm. "Now, I do believe we should allow Miss Doyle to rest. They’re serving eggnog in the parlor. Come and tell me of yourselves and let’s be good friends, hmmm?”
Like a great bird spreading her gray wings, she puts her hands on Felicity’s and Ann’s backs, ushering them toward the door. I’m left to suffer the curse alone.
“Good night, Gemma,” Ann says.
“Yes, good night,” Fee echoes.
“Good night, Miss Doyle. Sleep well,” Miss McCleethy adds. “Tomorrow dawns ere we know it.”
“I’m sorry I shall miss the archery,” I say.
Miss McCleethy turns back. “Miss it? You’ll do no such thing, Miss Doyle.”
“But, I thought . . . given my condition . . .”
“There’ll be no time for weakness on my watch, Miss Doyle. I shall see you tomorrow on the range, or you shall lose conduct marks.” It feels less like a statement than a challenge.
“Yes, Miss McCleethy,” I say. I have decided: I do not like Miss McCleethy.
I can hear happy laughter floating up from the parlor. No doubt Felicity and Ann have told Miss McCleethy their entire histories by now. They’re probably all thick as thieves, sitting round the fire, sipping the froth from the eggnog, while I’ll still be known as the ghastly, ill-mannered girl who called Miss McCleethy a prig.
My stomach aches anew. Blasted inconvenience. What do young men have to mark their entry into adulthood? Trousers, that’s what. Fine, new trousers. I despise absolutely everyone just now.
In time, the brandy makes me warm and drowsy. The room grows narrower with each heavy blink. I slip into sleep.
I am walking through the garden. The grass is sharp and prickly, scratches my feet. I’m near the river, but it is shrouded in mist.
“Closer,” comes a strange voice.
I inch forward.
“Closer still.”
I am at the river’s edge, but I can see no one, only hear that eerie voice.
“So it’s true. You have come. . . .”
“Who are you?” I say. "I can’t see your face.”
“No,” comes the voice. "But I have seen yours. . . .”
CHAPTER NINE
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AT TEN MINUTES TO three o’clock, we report to the great lawn. Six targets have been placed in a line. The brightly colored eyes in the center seem to mock me—Go on, hit us if you think you can. All during breakfast, I had to endure tales of the splendid night I missed with the absolute dearest Miss McCleethy, who wanted to know simply every little thing about the girls.
“She told me that the Pooles were descendants of King Arthur himself!” Elizabeth trills.
“Gemma, she tells the most wonderful stories,” Ann says.
“Of Wales and the school there. They had dances practically every other week, with actual men present,” Felicity says.
Martha speaks up. “I pray that she will prevail upon Mrs. Nightwing to let us do the same.”
“Do you know what else she said?” Cecily asks.
“No. For I was not there,” I answer. I’m feeling rather sorry for myself.
“Oh, Gemma, she did ask about you as well,” Felicity says.
“She did?”
“Yes. She wanted to know all about you. She didn’t even seem to mind that you’d called her a prig.”
“Gemma, you didn’t,” Elizabeth says, wide-eyed.
“I wasn’t the only one,” I say, glaring at Felicity and Ann.
Felicity is undisturbed. “I’m sure you’ll become friends in time. Oh, here she is now. Miss McCleethy! Miss McCleethy!”
“Good afternoon, ladies. I see we are ready.” Miss McCleethy strides across the lawn like the Queen herself, giving us clipped instructions on the proper technique for holding the bow. The girls clamor for her attention, begging to be shown correct form. And when she gives a demonstration, her arrow finding the center of the target straightaway, everyone applauds as if she has shown the path to heaven itself.
Arrows are given out to the first group of girls.
“Miss McCleethy,” Martha calls out, worried. “Are we to use real arrows, then?”
She holds the arrow’s sharp metal tip away from her as if it were a loaded pistol.
“Yes, shouldn’t we use rubber-tipped ones?” Elizabeth asks.
“Nonsense. You will be perfectly fine with these, so long as you don’t aim at each other. Now, who is fir
st?”
Elizabeth steps up to the line that has been chalked in the dead grass. Miss McCleethy coaxes her into position, guiding her elbow back. Elizabeth’s arrow falls with a thud, but Miss McCleethy has her practice again and again, and on the fourth try, she manages to graze the bottom of the target.
“That’s progress. Keep trying. Who is next?”
The girls jockey to be second. I confess that I also want Miss McCleethy to like me. I vow to do my very best, to win her over and erase last night’s unfortunate encounter. As Miss McCleethy makes her way down the line, moving from girl to girl, I silently practice my approach.
This is very exciting, Miss McCleethy, for I’ve long wanted to be an archer. How clever you are, Miss McCleethy, to have thought of this. I do so like your suit, Miss McCleethy. It is the epitome of taste.
“Miss Doyle? Are you with us?” Miss McCleethy is standing beside me.
“Yes, thank you,” I say. Nervously, I take my bow and arrow in hand and take my stand at the line. The bow is much heavier than I anticipated. It pulls me forward into a hunch.
“Your form needs work, Miss Doyle. Stand tall. Don’t slouch. There. Arm back. Come now, you can pull harder than that.”
I strain to draw the string back till I’m forced to let it go with a grunt. The arrow does not sail so much as it whimpers in the air before lodging itself straight in the ground.
“You must aim higher, Miss Doyle,” she says. "Retrieve!”
My arrow is covered in muddy snow. Arrows puncture the ground everywhere—except for Felicity’s. Hers manage to strike some portion of the target most of the time.
“Got it,” I say, stating the obvious with a smile that is not returned. Use your charm, Gemma. Ask her something. “Where do you come from, Miss McCleethy? You’re not English,” I say, attempting a conversation.
“I am a citizen of the world, I suppose. Bring it up like so.”
I struggle to raise my arrow into position. It will not cooperate. "I am from Bombay.”
“Bombay is very hot. I could scarcely breathe while there.”
“You’ve been to Bombay?”
“Yes, briefly, to visit friends. Here, keep your elbow close to your side.”
“Perhaps we have friends in common,” I say, hoping for a way into Miss McCleethy’s good graces. “Do you know the Fairchilds—”
“Hush, Miss Doyle. Enough talk. Concentrate on your mark.”
“Yes, Miss McCleethy,” I say. I let go. The arrow skitters across the soggy grass.
“Ah, you had it, but then you hesitated. You must strike without hesitation. See the target, the objective, and nothing else.”
“I do see the target,” I say impatiently. "I simply can’t hit it.”
“Are you going to walk away wounded and prideful or are you going to practice until you can accomplish your task?”
Cecily beams to see me upbraided. I raise the bow again. “I am not wounded,” I mutter under my breath.
Miss McCleethy puts her hands over mine. “Very good. Now, concentrate, Miss Doyle. Listen to nothing but yourself, your own breathing. See the center until you cannot see it at all. Until you and the center are joined and there is no center.”
My breath comes out in cold puffs. I’m trying to think only of the target, but my mind will not be quiet. When was she in India? Whom did she visit? Did she love it as I do? And why doesn’t she like me? I stare at the center of the target until it’s blurry.
See the objective and nothing else.
Do not hesitate.
Until there is no center.
The arrow flies with a sharp, whipping sound. It strikes the very bottom of the canvas and lodges there, quivering.
“Better,” Miss McCleethy allows.
To the right of me, Felicity aims, pulls back, and shoots a perfect bull’s-eye. The girls cheer wildly. Felicity stands beaming, a warrior princess.
“Excellent, Miss Worthington. You are very strong. I am an admirer of the strong. Why do you think you are able to shoot so well?”
Because she trained under a huntress in the realms, I think.
“Because I expect to win” is Felicity’s solid answer.
“Well done, Miss Worthington.” Miss McCleethy marches across the green, pulling wayward arrows from the grass and the bottoms of the targets as she addresses us all. “Ladies, you cannot waver in your dedication to anything. What you want can be yours. But you must first know what it is you want.”
“I don’t want to be an archer,” Cecily whines quietly. “My arm aches.”
Miss McCleethy continues her lecture. "Let Miss Worthington be an example to us all.”
“Fine, then,” I mumble. I’ll be like Felicity—all action and very little thought. Angry, I raise my bow and let go my arrow.
“Gemma!” Ann shouts. In my haste, I didn’t notice Miss McCleethy passing before my target. Quick as a fly, she puts up a hand to stop the arrow that would surely penetrate her skull. She gasps in pain. Blood pools on her white glove. The girls drop their quivers and arrows and rush to her aid. I follow dumbly behind. She’s on the ground, pulling at her glove. There’s a neat hole in her palm. It isn’t deep but it is bloody.
“Give her a handkerchief!” someone yells.
I offer mine. Miss McCleethy takes it, shooting me a cold, angry look.
“I—I am so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t see you.”
“Do you see anything, Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy says, wincing.
“Should I fetch Mrs. Nightwing?” Felicity asks, putting her back to me.
Miss McCleethy fixes me with a glare. “No. Continue with your practice. Miss Doyle may help me dress the wound. As penance.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, helping her to her feet.
We walk in silence. When we reach the school, she has me fetch bandages from Brigid, who can’t resist a lecture about how it’s God’s punishment on Miss McCleethy for teaching us something as “unnatural” as archery.
“She ought to be teachin’ skill with the needle or those luvly li’l wa’ercolors, if you ask ol’ Brigid, though no one ever does, and more’s the pity. Here’s your bandages. Mind you put ’em on tight.”
The dressing in hand, I race back to Miss McCleethy, who has washed her hand and is using a tea towel to stop the bleeding.
“I’ve brought the bandages,” I say, offering them. I don’t know what to do.
Miss McCleethy regards me as if I’m the village idiot. "I shall need you to dress the wound, Miss Doyle.”
“Yes, of course,” I say. "I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve never—”
Miss McCleethy interrupts. “Place it across my palm and wrap it completely around my hand, that’s it. Now cross over and repeat. Ahhh!”
I’ve pushed too hard on the wound. "Sorry. I’m sorry,” I say. I continue, securing the bandage by tucking in the edge.
“Now, Miss Doyle, if you would be so good as to fetch me another glove to replace this one. They are in my wardrobe in the top drawer on the right,” she orders. “No dawdling, Miss Doyle. We’ve a lesson to resume.”
Miss McCleethy’s room is modest and clean. Still, it feels strange to be beyond the baize door where the teachers live. I feel as if I am trespassing on sacred ground. I open the mahogany doors of the large wardrobe and find the top right drawer. The gloves are where she said they’d be, in a neat line, orderly as soldiers. I make a selection and take one last look around the room to see if there are any clues to the mystery that is our new teacher. What is notable is how little there is. No personal touches. Nothing to suggest anything about her. Hanging in the wardrobe are tasteful suits, skirts, and blouses in gray, black, and brown, nothing that would draw attention. Her bedside table holds two books. One is the Bible. The other is poetry by Lord Byron. There are no photographs of family or friends. No paintings or sketches—odd for an artist. It is as if Miss McCleethy has come from nowhere and belongs to no one.
I am just about to leave when I spy it: t
he case that Miss McCleethy insisted upon carrying herself the night she arrived. It’s sleeping there, just under the bed.
I shouldn’t. It would be wrong.
I close the door to her room quietly and pull the case from its hiding place. There’s a latch. Most likely it is locked and so that will be the end of it. My fingers tremble at the latch, which opens, I’m surprised to discover, quite easily. There is very little inside: an advert for a bookseller’s, the Golden Dawn, in London. An odd ring of gold and blue enamel with two serpents intertwined round the band. Stationery and a pen set.
A scrap of paper falls to the floor and beneath the bed. Panicked, I am down on all fours looking for it. I reach my hand under the bed skirt, pull it out. It is a list: Miss Farrow’s Academy for Girls. The MacKenzie School for Girls in Scotland. Royal College of Bath. Saint Victoria’s. Spence Academy for Young Ladies. They’ve all been crossed off save for Spence. I slip the paper back into the case as best I can, hoping that nothing looks amiss, and tuck the whole thing under the bed again, safe and sound.
“If that is your idea of not dawdling, Miss Doyle, I should hate to see you when you are less than quick,” Miss McCleethy admonishes when I return.
I do not anticipate that Miss McCleethy and I shall ever become friends now. She pulls the new glove on quickly, wincing as it slides over her injured hand.
“I am sorry,” I offer again.
“Yes, well, do try to be more careful in the future, Miss Doyle,” she snaps in her strange burr.
“Yes, Miss McCleethy,” I say, unable to stifle a yawn. Miss McCleethy’s eyes narrow at my rudeness. "Forgive me. I’ve not been sleeping well.”
“More exercise is what you need. Moving about in the brisk air is wonderful for the constitution and for sleep. At Saint Victoria’s, I insisted my girls take walks and breathe in the sea air no matter what the weather. If it rained, we wore our macintoshes. In the snow, we wore our coats. Now, let’s return to the lawn, if you please.”
It is possible that Miss McCleethy hasn’t a bone of humor in her body. And I have just become her least favorite pupil. Suddenly, Christmas cannot come soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN
THE EVENING STARTS WITH A TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS pageant in the ballroom. It is less a formal play than it is a dramatic reading of Christmas stories in costumes pulled from trunks stored in one of Spence’s many unused rooms. Rushing through the halls, laughing on the stairs is an odd assortment of high-spirited girls of all ages dressed as shepherds, angels, fairies, fauna, and flora. One little girl has gotten into the wrong trunk. She flits about like a ballerina, all the while wearing a threadbare pirate’s coat and ragged trousers. Ann is Christmas Past in a long brown tunic tied at the waist with a silver sash. Felicity looks like a medieval princess in a lovely red velvet gown with gold braid on the sleeves and hem. She insists she’s Christmas Yet to Come, but really, I think she’s found the best gown of all and decided to call it whatever she wishes. I am Christmas Present in a green robe, a crown of holly atop my head. I feel a bit like a lumbering tree, though Ann assures me that I look “appropriately seasonal.”
