A Great and Terrible Beauty

Title.

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By the next morning, our nighttime experiments in power and magic have begun to take

their toll. Our faces are pasty and pale, our lips cracked. My mind's in a fog, and I'm so

tired that I can barely speak in English, let alone French, which presents problems in

Mademoiselle LeFarges class. It doesn't help that I've stumbled in, nearly late.

Mademoiselle LeFarge chooses to make a game of my tardiness. Now that I am her prize

student, a shining example of her superior teaching skills, she's inclined to be playful

with me. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Doyle. Quelle heure est-il?"

I know the answer. It's on the tip of my tongue. Something about the weather, I think. If

only I had enough magic left over to help me make it through her class. But sadly, I'm

going to have to sail through under my own paltry steam.

"Er… the weather is…" Bloody hell. What is the French word for rain? Le rain? La rain?

Is the rain masculine or feminine? It's such a bother that it must be masculine. "Le

weather est le rainy," I say, mangling the last bit, though the le makes it sound more

French.

The girls giggle, which only convinces Mademoiselle LeFarge that I'm making fun of her.

"Mademoiselle Doyle, this is a disgrace. Just two days ago, you proved yourself an

exemplary student. Now, you have the audacity to mock me. Perhaps you'll fare better in

a room of eight-year-olds." She turns her back on me, and for the remainder of the class,

it's as if I don't exist.

Mrs. Nightwing has noticed our pallor. She forces us to take a walk in the gardens,

thinking the cool air will put roses in our cheeks. I take the opportunity to tell my friends

about my run-in with Brigid last night.

"So Circe is Sarah Rees-Toome. And she's alive." Felicity shakes her head, incredulous.

"We've got to find that photograph," I say.

"We tell Mrs. Nightwing we're searching for a lost glove. She lets us search high and low.

We scour the rooms one by one," Ann suggests.

Pippa groans. "It will take us a year."

"Let's each take a floor, shall we?" I say.

Pippa gives me her large doe eyes. "Must we?"

I push her toward the school. "Yes."

After an hour of searching, I still haven't found it. I've paced the third floor so many

times, I'm sure I've worn the carpets thin. With a sigh, I stand in front of the existing class

photographs, willing them to talk, to tell me something about where I might find what's

missing. The ladies do not oblige me.

I'm drawn to the photograph from 1872, with its rippled surface. Gently, I remove it from

the wall and turn it over. The back of the photograph is smooth, not ruined at all. Turn it

back over and there's the wavy front. How can that be? Unless it's not the same

photograph at all.

Hurriedly, I tug at the corners of the photograph, as if I'm pulling back a carpet. There is

another photograph behind the one in the frame. A buzzing starts in my ears. Eight

graduating girls sit grouped on the lawn. In the background is the unmistakable outline of

Spence. At the bottom, in fine print, it reads Class of 1871. I've found it! Names are

written along the bottom in a cramped hand.

Left to right—Millicent Jenkins, Susanna Meriwether, Anna Nelson, Sarah Rees-

Toome…

My head bobs. My finger traces up to Sarah. She turned her head at the moment the

picture was snapped, leaving a blurred profile that's hard to read. I squint but can't really

make out much.

My finger moves on to the girl next to her. My mouth goes dry. She's looking directly

into the camera with her wise, penetrating eyes—eyes I've known my whole life. I look

for her name, though I already know the one I'll find, the one she abandoned and left to

die in a fire years before I was even born. Mary Dowd.

The girl staring back at me from that class of 1871 is Mary Dowd—my mother.