Chapter 4

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"There's the school now, sir," the driver shouts.

We've been riding for an hour across rolling hills dotted with trees. The sun has set, the

sky settling into that hazy blue of twilight. When I look out my window, I can't see

anything but a canopy of branches overhead, and through the lacework of leaves, there's

the moon, ripe as a melon. I'm starting to think that our driver must be imagining things,

too, but we crest a hill and Spence comes into glorious view.

I had expected some sweet little cottage estate, the kind written about in halfpenny papers

where rosy-cheeked young girls play lawn tennis on tidy green fields. There is nothing

cozy about Spence. The place is enormous, a madman's forgotten castle with great, fat

turrets and thin, pointy spires. It would take a girl a year just to visit every room inside,

no doubt.

"Whoa!" The driver stops short. There's someone in the road.

"Who goes there?" A woman comes around to my side of the carriage and peers in. An

old Gypsy woman. A richly embroidered scarf is wrapped tightly about her head and her

jewelry is pure gold, but otherwise, she is disheveled.

"What now?" Tom sighs.

I poke my head out. When the moonlight catches my face, the Gypsy woman's face

softens. "Oh, but it's you. You've come back to me."

"I'm sorry, madam. You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"Oh, but where is Carolina? Where is she? Did you take her?" She starts to moan softly.

"Come on now, missus, let us by," the driver calls. "There's a good lady."

With a snap of the reins, the carriage jostles forward again as the old woman calls after

us.

"Mother Elena sees everything. She knows your heart! She knows!"

"Good lord, they've got their own hermit," Tom sneers. "How very fashionable."

Tom may laugh but I can't wait to get out of the carriage and the dark.

The horse draws us under the stone archway and through gates that open onto lovely

grounds. I can just make out a wonderful green field, perfect for playing lawn tennis or

croquet, and what looks like lush, overgrown gardens. A little farther out lies a grove of

great trees, thick as a forest. Beyond the trees sits a chapel perched on a hill. The whole

picture looks as if it's been standing this way for centuries, untouched.

The carriage bounces up the hill that leads to Spence's front doors. I arch my neck out the

window to take in the full, massive scope of the building. There's something jutting up

from the roof. It's hard to make it out in the fading light. The moon shifts from under a

bank of clouds and I see them clearly: gargoyles. Moonlight ripples over the roof,

illuminating bits and pieces—a sliver of sharp tooth, a leering mouth, snarling eyes.

Welcome to finishing school, Gemma. Learn to embroider, serve tea, curtsy. Oh, and by

the way, you might be demolished in the night by a hideous winged creature from the

roof.

The carriage jangles to a stop. My trunk is placed on the great stone steps outside the

large wooden doors. Tom raps with the great brass knocker, which is roughly the size of

my head. While we wait, he can't resist giving his last bit of brotherly advice.

"Now, it is very important that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station

while at Spence. It's fine to be kind to the lesser girls, but remember that they are not

your equals."

Station. Lesser girls. Not your equals. It's a laugh, really. After all, I'm the unnatural one

responsible for her mother's murder, the one who sees visions. I pretend to freshen my hat

in the brass reflection of the knocker. Any sense of foreboding I feel will probably

disappear the minute the door opens and some kindly housekeeper takes me in with a

warm embrace and an open smile.

Right. Give the door another good, solid bang to show I'm a good, solid girl, the kind

every eerie boarding school would love to claim as its own. The heavy oak doors open,

revealing a craggy-faced, thick-waisted bulwark of a housekeeper with all the warmth of

Wales in January. She glares at me, wiping her hands on her starched white apron.

"You must be Miss Doyle. We expected you a half hour ago. You've kept the headmistress

waiting. Come on. Follow me."

The housekeeper bids us wait for a moment in a large, poorly lit parlor filled with dusty

books and withering ferns. There is a fire going. It spits and hisses as it devours the dry

wood. Laughter floats in through the open double doors and in a moment, I see several

younger girls in white pinafores shuffling through the hall. One peeks in, sees me, and

goes on as if I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture. But in a moment she's back with

some of the others. They swoon over Tom, who preens for them, bowing, which sets

them to blushing and giggling.

God help us all.

I'm afraid I may have to take the fireplace poker to my brother to silence this spectacle.

Fortunately, I'm spared from any murderous impulses. The humorless housekeeper is

back. It's time for Tom and me to make our goodbyes, which consist mainly of the two of

us staring at the carpet.

" Well, then. I believe I'll see you next month on Assembly Day with the other families."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Make us proud, Gemma," he says at last. No sentimental reassurances—I love you; it's

all going to be just fine, you'll see. He smiles once* again for the adoring crowd of girls

still hiding in the hallway, and then he's gone. I am alone.

"This way, miss, if you please," the housekeeper says. I follow her out to a huge, open

foyer where an incredible double staircase sits. The stairs branch off both left and right. A

bit of breeze from an open window shakes the crystals of a chandelier above me. It's

dazzling. Gobs of exquisite crystals strung along metal crafted into elaborate snakes.

"Watch yer step, miss," the housekeeper advises. "Stairs is steep."

The stairs rope up and around for what seems like miles. Over the banister, I can see the

black-and-white marble tiles making diamond patterns on the floor far below. A painting

of a silver-haired woman in a dress that would have been the height of fashion some

twenty years ago greets us at the top of the stairs.

"That's Missus Spence," the housekeeper informs me.

"Oh," I say. "Lovely." The portrait is enormous—it's like having the eye of God watch

over you.

We move on, down a long corridor to a set of thick double doors. The housekeeper

knocks with her meaty fist, waits. A voice answers from the other side of the doors,

"Come in," and I'm ushered into a room with dark green wallpaper in a peacock feather

pattern. A somewhat heavy-set woman with piles of brown hair going gray sits at a large

desk, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on her nose.

"That will be all, Brigid," she says, dismissing the warm and embracing housekeeper. The

headmistress goes back to finishing her correspondence, while I stand on the Persian rug,

pretending I'm absolutely fascinated by a figurine of a little German maid carrying

buckets of milk on her shoulders. What I really want to do is turn around and bolt for the

door.

So sorry, my mistake. I believe I was supposed to report to another boarding school, run

by human beings who might offer a girl some tea or at least a chair. A mantel clock ticks

off the seconds, the rhythm lulling me into a tiredness I've been fighting.

Finally, the headmistress puts down her pen. She points to a chair on the other side of the

desk. "Sit."

There is no "please." No "would you be so kind." All in all, I'm feeling as welcome as a

dose of cod-liver oil. The beast attempts a beatific look that could be mistaken for a bout

of painful wind.

"I am Mrs. Nightwing, headmistress of Spence Academy. I trust you had a pleasant

journey, Miss Doyle?"

"Oh, yes, thank you."

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

"Brigid saw you in comfortably?"

"Yes, thank you."

Tick, tick, tick, tock.

"I don't usually admit new girls at such an advanced age. I find it is harder for them to

grow accustomed to the Spence way of life." There's one black mark against me already.

"But under the circumstances, I feel it our Christian duty to make an exception. I am

sorry for your loss."

I say nothing and fix my gaze on the silly little German milkmaid. She's smiling and

rosy-cheeked, most likely on her way back to a small village where her mother is waiting

for her and there are no dark shadows lurking.

When I don't respond, Mrs. Nightwing continues. "I understand that custom dictates a

mourning period for at least a year. But I find that such persistent reminders are not

healthy. It keeps us centered on the dead and not the living. I recognize that this is

unconventional." She gives me a long look over the top of her glasses to see if I will

object. I don't. "It is important that you get on here and be on equal footing with the other

girls. After all, some of them have been with us for years, far longer than they've been

with their own families. Spence is rather like a family, one with affection and honor, rules

and consequences." She emphasizes this last word. "Therefore, you will wear the same

uniform everyone else wears. I trust this will be acceptable to you?"

"Yes," I say. And though I feel a bit guilty about abandoning my mourning weeds so

soon, in truth I'm grateful for the chance to look like everybody else. It will help me to

remain unnoticed, I hope.

"Splendid. Now, you will be in the first class with six young ladies also of your age.

Breakfast is served promptly at nine o'clock. You will have instruction in French with

Mademoiselle LeFarge, drawing with Miss Moore, music with Mr. Grunewald. I shall

direct your lessons in deportment. Prayers are said at six o'clock each evening in the

chapel. In fact"—she glances at the mantel clock—"we shall be leaving for the chapel

very shortly. Dinner follows at seven. There is free time in the great hall afterward, with

all girls in bed by ten." She attempts one of those confessional smiles, the sort usually

seen in reverent portraits of Florence Nightingale. In my experience, such smiles mean

that the real message—the one hidden by manners and good posture—will need to be

translated.

"I think you shall be very happy here, Miss Doyle."

Translation: That is an order.

"Spence has turned out many wonderful young women who've gone on to make very

good marriages."

We don't expect much more from you. Please don't embarrass us.

"Why, you might even be sitting here in my position someday."

If you turn out to be completely unmarriageable, and you don't end up in an Austrian

convent making lace nightgowns.

Mrs. Nightwing's smile wavers a bit. I know that she's waiting for me to say something

charming, something that will convince her that she hasn't made a mistake in taking in a

grief-stricken girl who seems completely unworthy of Spence's training. Come on,

Gemma. Throw her a bone—tell her how happy and proud you are to be part of the

Spence family. I only nod. Her smile disappears.

"While you're here, I can be a solid ally, if you follow the rules. Or the sword that cuts

you into shape if you do not. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, Mrs. Nightwing."

"Excellent. Let me show you around, and then you may dress for prayers."

"Your room is here." We're on the third floor, making our way down a long hall with

many doors. Photographic portraits of Spence's various classes hang on the walls—grainy

faces even harder to see in the dim light of the few gas lamps. Finally we come to a room

at the end on the left. Mrs. Nightwing opens the door wide to reveal a cramped, mustysmelling

room that could optimistically be described as cheerless and realistically be

called drab. There's a water-stained desk, a chair, and a lamp. Iron beds hug the left and

right walls. One bed looks lived in, with a neatly tucked quilt. The other, my bed, fits

tight in a nook under a steep eave that could probably break my skull if I sit up too

quickly. It's a dormer room, one that juts out over the side of the building like an

afterthought—perfect for an afterthought of a girl, added to the roster at the last possible

moment.

Mrs. Nightwing rubs a finger over the top of the desk and frowns upon discovering dust

there. "Of course, we do give preference to those girls who are returning to us this year,"

she says by way of apology for my new home. "But I think you'll find your room cheery

and quite serviceable. There is a marvelous view from the window."

She's right. Standing in front of it, I can see the moonlit back lawn, the gardens, the

chapel on the hill, and a great wall of trees.

"It is a lovely view," I say, trying to be both cheery and serviceable.

This appeases Mrs. Nightwing, who smiles. "You'll share a room with Ann Bradshaw.

Ann is most helpful. She is one of our scholarship students."

That's a nice way of saying "one of our charity cases," some poor girl packed off to

school by a distant relative or given a scholarship by one of Spence's benefactors. Ann's

quilt is tucked in straight and smooth as glass, and I wonder what her situation is, or

whether we'll get on well enough for her to want to tell me.

The wardrobe is ajar. A uniform hangs there—a flared white skirt; a white blouse with

lace insets along the bib and puffed sleeves tapering to fitted cuffs; white boots with

hooks and laces; and a dark blue velvet cape with a hood.

"You may dress for prayers. I'll give you a moment." She closes the door, and I slip into

the uniform, fastening the many small buttons. The skirt is too short but otherwise it is a

comfortable fit.

Mrs. Nightwing notices the gap at the bottom, frowns. "You're quite tall." Just what a girl

wants to be reminded of. "We'll get Brigid to add a ruffle to the hem." She turns and I

follow her out.

"Where do those doors lead?" I ask, pointing to the darkened wing on the opposite side of

the landing where two heavy doors stand sentry, secured by a large lock. It's the kind of

lock needed to keep people out. Or hold something in.

Mrs. Nightwings brows furrow, her lips go tight. "That is the East Wing. It was destroyed

in a fire years ago. We don't use it anymore, so we've closed it off. Saves on heating.

Come along."

She swings past me. I start after her, then glance back, my eyes falling to the bottom of

those locked doors, where there's a one-inch crack of light. It may be the lateness of the

day and the long journey, or the fact that I'm growing accustomed to seeing things, but I

could swear that I see a shadow move along the floor behind the doors.

No. Begone.

I refuse to let the past find me here. I have to get hold of myself. So I close my eyes for

just a second and make myself a promise.

There is nothing there. I am tired. I will open my eyes and see only a door.

When I look, there is nothing..