Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “It’s a wonder Miss McCleethy didn’t take your head today. She looked as if she could have,” Ann says as we make our way to dinner past a clump of gossiping fairies and a wise man or two.

  “I didn’t do it intentionally,” I protest, straightening my mother’s amulet—my amulet—at the base of my throat. I’ve polished the hammered metal until it gleams. “She’s strange. I don’t care for her at all,” I say. "Don’t you think she’s odd?”

  Felicity glides across the rugs like the princess she is. "I think she is just what Spence needs. Refreshingly frank. I quite like her. She asked all sorts of things about me.”

  “Just because she paid you a compliment, you’ve decided she’s your friend,” I protest.

  “You’re jealous because she singled me out.”

  “That isn’t true,” I scoff, though I suspect it is a bit. Felicity seems to have become Miss McCleethy’s favorite already with very little effort, while I shall be lucky if she says good morning to me. “Do you know that she has a list of schools in a secret case she keeps hidden beneath her bed?”

  Felicity raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know about that?”

  I’m going pink. "It was open.”

  “Nonsense! You were snooping!” Felicity taunts. She hooks her arm through mine; Ann takes the other. “What else was there? Tell!”

  “Not much. A ring with snakes on it; it looked very old. An advert for a bookseller’s called the Golden Dawn. The list.”

  Two younger girls try to push past. They’ve got wicked smiles and angel dresses. Felicity yanks the soft wings of the closer girl, nearly toppling her. "We’ve got rank. To the back of the line with you.”

  Terrified, the younger girls scamper behind us.

  “What else was in the case?” Ann demands.

  “That is all,” I say.

  “That is all?” Felicity echoes in disappointment.

  “You’ve not heard everything about the list,” I say. “Every school on it had been crossed off except for Spence. What do you make of that?”

  Felicity dismisses it. "Nothing. She has an accounting of the schools where she’s sought employment. Nothing terribly odd about that.”

  “You’re out of sorts because she doesn’t like you,” Ann says.

  “Did she say she doesn’t like me?” I ask.

  Felicity twirls, letting the hem of her gown sweep out. “She doesn’t have to. It’s obvious. And you did try to impale her. That didn’t help your case much.”

  “I tell you, it was an accident!”

  The two young angels are back. They manage to squeak into the dining room ahead of us. “Why, you little demons!” Felicity growls. The girls shriek as they run, thrilled by their newfound audacity.

  It is a Christmas tradition for Mrs. Nightwing to hold a last supper before the girls drift away for the holidays. Apparently, it is also a tradition for there to be a celebration in the great hall afterward, with sherry for the teachers and warm cider for the rest of us. I could become drunk on the beauty of the room alone. A fire blazes in the huge stone hearth. Our tree, a fat, jolly evergreen, sits in the center of the room, branches outstretched like a welcoming host. Mr. Grunewald, our music teacher, has been pressed to play the cello for us, which he does with surprising agility for a man of nearly eighty.

  We’ve Christmas crackers to pull. A quick tug on the ribbons and they burst open with a sharp popping sound, startling everyone half to death. I’ve not quite figured out why this is considered such fun. Carols are sung. The candles on the tree are lit and admired. Gifts are presented to our teachers. There’s a French recitation for Mademoiselle LeFarge. A song for Mr. Grunewald. There are poems and cookies and toffees. But for Mrs. Nightwing, we girls have emptied our pockets. The room clears as Cecily walks through the room carrying a large hatbox. As eldest girl, she has the honor of bringing the gift to our headmistress.

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Nightwing,” she says, presenting the box.

  Mrs. Nightwing places her glass on a small side table. “My, what ever can this be?”

  She removes the top and pushes aside the stiff paper, pulling out a marvelous felt hat festooned in shiny black plumage. It was Felicity who arranged for the gift, naturally. Heartfelt “aahs” escape from our mouths. There is a sense of wonder and merriment in the room as Mrs. Nightwing places the elaborate hat upon her head.

  “How do I look?” she asks.

  “Like a queen!” one girl shouts.

  We applaud and raise our cups. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Nightwing.”

  For a long moment, Mrs. Nightwing seems undone by sentiment. Her eyes are moist, but her voice, when it finally comes, is sure as always. “Thank you. It is a most sensible gift and I’m sure I shall enjoy it greatly,” she says. With that, she removes the hat and tucks it gingerly into its paper cradle. She secures the lid and pushes the box under the table, out of sight.

  Our cups refilled, Ann, Felicity, and I steal away, crouching on the floor beside the tree. The earthy smell of the branches makes my nose run, and the warm cider brings a flush to my cheeks.

  “For you,” Felicity says, placing a small velvet pouch in my hand.

  Inside is a lovely tortoiseshell comb. "It’s beautiful,” I say, embarrassed by the extravagance. “Thank you.”

  “Oh!” Ann exclaims, opening hers. I recognize it. It is a brooch of Felicity’s that Ann has admired. No doubt Felicity has a new one to take its place, but Ann is thrilled. She pins it to her costume immediately.

  “Here,” Ann says shyly. She passes us two gifts wrapped in newspaper. She’s made us each an ornament, delicate lace angels like Pippa’s.

  It is my turn now. I’ve no skill with the needle, as Ann has, and I haven’t the funds to match Felicity. But I can offer something special.

  “I’ve something as well,” I say.

  “Where is it?” Ann asks. Behind her, the lamps do their dance, sending will-o’-the-wisps of light to haunt the walls.

  I lean forward, whispering, “Meet me here at midnight.”

  They are on me at once, squealing with delight, for we are going back to the realms at last.

  A loud cackle erupts. It’s a laugh I’ve never heard. Perhaps that is because it belongs to Mrs. Nightwing. She sits among the teachers, who are all quite merry by now.

  “Oh Sa—Claire, you have undone me,” Mrs. Nightwing says, hand patting her chest as if to stop the laugh there.

  “As I recall, it was you who started the trouble,” Miss McCleethy says, smiling. “You were quite bold then, I remind you.”

  Girls rush in like water through a split log, their busy questions pushed along by the current of their insatiable curiosity. “What is it?” they demand. "Do tell us!”

  “Did you not know your headmistress was quite the mischief maker?” Miss McCleethy says, dangling the carrot. “And a romantic, as well.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Nightwing chides, sipping another glass of sherry.

  “Do tell us,” Elizabeth implores. The others join in a chorus of “Yes, please!”

  When Mrs. Nightwing offers no protest, Miss McCleethy continues her tale. "We were at a Christmas dance. Such glorious favors they had. Do you remember, Lillian?”

  Mrs. Nightwing nods, eyes closed. “Yes. Cards with thick red tassels. Lovely, lovely.”

  “There were many gentlemen in attendance, but of course, we all had our hearts set on a particular man with dark hair and the most elegant figure. He was so very handsome.”

  Mrs. Nightwing says nothing, only has more sherry.

  “ ‘That is the man I shall marry,’ your headmistress announced to all of us, bold as you please. We laughed, but in a moment, she took my arm and paraded past—”

  “I did not parade. . . .”

  “. . . and dropped her dance card very artfully at his feet, pretending not to notice. Of course, he came after her. And they danced three in a row till the chaperones intervened.”

  We are delighted by this.
>
  “What happened then?” Felicity asks.

  “She married him,” Miss McCleethy answers. “That very Christmas.”

  Mr. Nightwing? I forget that Mrs. Nightwing was once married, was once a girl herself. I try to picture her young and laughing, talking with her friends. Nothing comes. I can only see her as she is now, the pouf of graying hair, the spectacles, the severe manner.

  “That is terribly romantic,” Cecily says, swooning.

  “Yes, terribly,” we all agree.

  “It was quite bold of you, Lillian,” Miss McCleethy says.

  A cloud passes over Mrs. Nightwing’s face. "It was folly.”

  “When did Mr. Nightwing die?” I whisper to Felicity.

  “I don’t know. I’ll pay you a pound to ask about him,” she whispers back.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Not that badly.”

  “A pound, you say?” It’s Ann.

  Felicity nods.

  Ann clears her throat. "Mrs. Nightwing, has Mr. Nightwing been gone from us long?”

  “Mr. Nightwing has been with the angels for twenty-five years,” our headmistress says, without looking up from her glass. Mrs. Nightwing is a woman of but forty-eight, fifty perhaps. That she’s been a widow for half her life seems a pity.

  “He was a young man, then?” Cecily prods.

  “Yes. Young, young,” she says, staring into the pale red sherry.

  “We’d been married for six very happy years. One day . . .” She trails off.

  “One day?” Ann prompts.

  “One day, he left for work at the bank.” She stops, takes a sip. “And I never saw him again.”

  “What happened?” Elizabeth gasps.

  Mrs. Nightwing seems startled, as if we’ve asked her a question she doesn’t understand, but then the answer comes slowly. “He was run down by a carriage on the street.”

  A terrible silence descends, the kind that accompanies the sort of unexpected bad news you can do nothing to change or improve. I think of Mrs. Nightwing as the impenetrable fortress that is our headmistress. Someone who can control anything. It’s hard to think that she cannot.

  “How awful for you,” Martha says at last.

  “Poor Mrs. Nightwing,” Elizabeth chimes in.

  “That is so very sad,” Ann says.

  “Let’s not become sentimental. It was a very long time ago. Forbearance. That is the thing. One must learn to lock unpleasant thoughts away and never think on them. Else we should spend our lives crying ‘Why?’ into our handkerchiefs and accomplish nothing.” She drains her glass. The chink in the armor has been mended. She is Nightwing again. “Now. Who has a Christmas story to share with us?”

  “Oh, I do,” Elizabeth trills. “It is a chilling tale about a ghost named Marley with a long chain—”

  Miss McCleethy interrupts. “Do you mean A Christmas Carol by Mr. Dickens? I believe we are all familiar with that one, Miss Poole.”

  There is giggling at Elizabeth’s expense. “But it is my favorite,” she says, pouting.

  Cecily chirps, “I’ve a lovely story, Mrs. Nightwing.” Of course she does.

  “Ah, splendid, Miss Temple.”

  “Once there was a girl who was as good a girl as could be found. Her character was above reproach. In all matters, she was discreet and kind and genteel and mannerly. Her name was Cecile.”

  I believe I know where this story leads.

  “Unfortunately, Cecile was tormented by a cruel savage of a girl named Jemima.” She has the nerve to look at me when she says this. “Hateful as she was, Jemima taunted the poor sweet Cecile, speaking falsehoods and turning some of her dearest friends against her.”

  “How terrible,” Elizabeth tuts.

  “Through it all, Cecile remained kind and virtuous. But the strain proved too great for her, and one day, the dear girl fell deathly ill, driven to her sickbed by Jemima’s relentless cruelty.”

  “I do hope that Jemima gets her just deserts,” Martha says with a sniff.

  “I hope that Cecile meets an untimely end,” Felicity whispers to me.

  “What happened then?” Ann asks. It is very much her sort of story.

  “Everyone came to know what a horrible girl Jemima was at heart, and they shunned her ever after. When the prince heard of Cecile’s kindness, he brought his doctor to make her well and fell madly in love with her. They were married, while Jemima wandered the countryside as a sightless beggar, her eyes having been torn out by wild dogs.”

  Mrs. Nightwing looks confused. “I don’t quite see how this is a Christmas story.”

  “Oh,” Cecily adds quickly. "It takes place during the season of our Lord’s birth. And Jemima comes to realize the error of her ways, begs for Cecile’s forgiveness, and goes to work in a country parish, sweeping floors for the vicar and his wife.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Nightwing says.

  “Must be difficult seeing to the sweeping, as she’s lost her eyes,” I grumble.

  “Yes,” Cecily says brightly. “Her suffering is great. But that’s what makes it such a fine Christian story.”

  “Splendid,” Mrs. Nightwing says, her tongue a bit thick. “Shall we have a song? It is Christmas, after all.”

  Mr. Grunewald sits at the piano and plays an old English tune. Some of the teachers sing along. Several girls get up to dance. Miss McCleethy doesn’t. She’s staring right at me.

  No, she’s looking at the amulet. When she catches me watching her, she gives me a broad smile, as if we’ve never had a quarrel and are old friends.

  “Miss Doyle,” she calls, beckoning me with her hand, but Ann and Felicity are upon me.

  “Come on, let’s dance,” they insist, pulling me to my feet and far away.

  The evening passes like a happy dream. The excitement proves too much for many of the younger girls. Nestled against each other, they sleep by the fire, angel wings crushed under the limp, plump arms of their dear friends, sugarplum and holly crowns askew in the tangle of their hair. In a far corner sit Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy, heads bent in conference. Miss McCleethy speaks in an intent whisper, and Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head.

  “No,” our headmistress says, her voice made louder by the sherry. "I cannot.”

  Miss McCleethy places her hands gently over Nightwing’s, murmuring things I can’t hear.

  “But think of the cost,” Mrs. Nightwing answers. Her eyes catch mine for a moment, and I look quickly away. In a moment, she rises unsteadily to her feet, placing a hand on the back of her chair till she finds her footing.

  Long after the lamps have been dimmed, the fires have fizzled out, and all are safely in bed, Ann and I meet Felicity down in the great hall. The last glowing embers in the enormous stone hearth cast an eerie glow over the cavernous room. The Christmas tree seems an ominous giant. In the center stand the marble columns decorated with fairies, centaurs, and nymphs. The sight gives me a shudder, for we know they are more than carvings. They are living things imprisoned there by the magic of the realms, the place we are ready to see and feel and touch once more—if we can.

  “Don’t forget that you owe me a pound,” Ann tells Felicity. Her teeth are chattering.

  “I shan’t,” Felicity answers.

  “I’m afraid,” Ann says.

  “So am I,” I say.

  Even Felicity has lost her usual bluster. "Whatever happens, we do not leave without each other.” She doesn’t say the rest: like you left Pip . . . left her to die.

  “Agreed,” I say. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "Give me your hands.”

  We join hands and close our eyes. It has been so long since we’ve entered the realms. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to make the door of light appear. But soon, I feel the familiar tingle on my skin, the warmth of the light. I open one eye, then the other. There it is, shimmering before us: the glorious portal into the other world.

  Felicity and Ann wear their awe on their face
s.

  “I don’t know what we’ll find there,” I say before we start.

  “There is only one way to find out,” Felicity answers.

  I open the door and we step through into the realms.

  The trees rain flowers that tickle our noses. The grass is still the green of eternal summer. To our right lies the gurgling river. I can hear the faint song that floats up from its depths and forms silver rings on the surface. And the sky! Like the most gorgeous sunset on the happiest of days. My heart feels as if it shall burst. Oh, I have missed this place! How could I ever have thought of leaving it?

  “Oh!” Felicity cries. Laughing, she twirls round and round, her palms out and open to the orange sky. "It’s so beautiful!”

  Ann steps to the river. She stoops and gazes at her reflection, smiling. “I’m so beautiful here.” And indeed she is. She is Ann as Ann would look with no cares, no fear or meekness, no need to fill her emptiness with cakes and scones.

  Felicity runs her fingers over a willow tree that shifts, like water rippling, and becomes a fountain. “That’s extraordinary. We can do anything here. Anything!”

  “Watch!” Ann calls. She cups a blade of grass in her palms, closes her eyes. When she opens her hands, a ruby pendant lies glittering there. "Help me put it on!”

  Felicity locks the clasp. The thing shines against Ann’s skin like a rajah’s treasure.