Chapter 5

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Down in the parlor again, there are roughly fifty girls assembled, all in their velvet capes.

Night rolls in, bathing the room in a purplish light. Murmuring voices, broken by the

occasional giggle or laugh, echo off the low ceilings and fall around me like glass. A

tolling church bell announces that it's time to leave the school and walk the half mile or

so up the hill to the chapel.

I steal a quick look to see if I can find some girls my age. Huddled together at the front of

the line are a handful of girls who look to be sixteen or seventeen. They stand, heads

together in conference, laughing over some private joke. One of them is incredibly

beautiful, with dark brown hair and an ivory face that could be from a cameo pin. She's

possibly the loveliest girl I've ever seen. There are three others who all seem somewhat

alike—well groomed, with aristocratic noses, each wearing an expensive comb or brooch

to distinguish her and flaunt her position.

One girl catches my eye. She seems different from the others. Her white-blond hair is

arranged neatly in a bun, as young ladies must wear their hair, but even so, it seems a bit

wild, as if the pins won't really hold it. Arched eyebrows frame small, gray eyes in a face

so pale it's almost the color of an opal. She's amused at something and she tosses her head

back and laughs heartily, without trying to stifle it. Even though the dark-haired girl is

perfect and lovely, it's the blonde who gets the attention of everyone in the room. She's

clearly the leader.

Mrs. Nightwing claps her hands and the murmuring dies out in ripples. "Girls, I'd like

you to meet the newest student of Spence Academy. This is Gemma Doyle. Miss Doyle is

joining us from Shropshire and will be in first class. She has spent most of her life in

India, and I'm sure she would be happy to tell you stories of their many quaint customs

and habits. I trust you'll show her a proper Spence welcome and acquaint her with the

way things are done here at Spence."

I am dying a thousand cruel and unusual deaths as fifty pairs of eyes take me in, size me

up like something that should be hanging over a fireplace in a gentleman's den. Any

hopes I'd had of blending in and not being noticed have just been killed by Mrs.

Nightwing's little speech. The blond girl cocks her head to one side, evaluating me. She

stifles a yawn and goes back to gossiping with her friends. Perhaps I'll blend in after all.

Mrs. Nightwing pulls her cape tight at her neck and points the way with an outstretched

arm. "Let's go to prayers, girls."

The other girls file out the door as Mrs. Nightwing barrels over to me with a girl in tow,

"Miss Doyle, this is Ann Bradshaw, your new roommate. Miss Bradshaw is fifteen and

also in first class. She will accompany you this evening to make sure you get along."

"How do you do?" she says, her dull, watery eyes revealing nothing. I think of her snug

quilt and don't expect her to be a fun-loving sort.

"Pleased to meet you," I reply. We stand awkwardly for a second, neither one of us saying

a word. Ann Bradshaw is a doughy, plain girl, which is doubly damning. A girl without

money who was also pretty might stand a chance at bettering her station in life. Her nose

runs. She dabs at it with a shabby lace handkerchief.

"Isn't it terrible to have a cold?" I say, trying to be cordial.

The blank stare doesn't change. "I don't have a cold."

Right. Glad I asked. We're off to a rousing start, Miss Bradshaw and I. No doubt we'll be

like sisters by morning. If I could turn around and leave this instant, I would.

"The chapel is this way," she says, breaking the ice with that bit of scintillating

conversation." We're not supposed to be late to prayers."

We walk at the back of the group, heading up the hill through the trees toward the stoneand-

beam chapel. A low mist has come up. It settles over the grounds, giving the whole

place an eerie quality. Up ahead, the girls' blue capes flutter in the night air before the

thickening fog swallows everything but the echoes of their voices.

"Why did your family send you here?" Ann asks in a most off-putting manner.

"To civilize me, I suppose." I give a little laugh. Look, see how jolly I am? Ha-ha. Ann

doesn't laugh.

"My father died when I was three. My mother had to work, but then she took sick and

died. Her family didn't want to take me in but they didn't want to send me to the

workhouse, either. So they sent me here to train as a governess."

It's astonishing, this honesty. She doesn't even flinch. I'm not quite sure how to respond.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say when I find my voice again.

Those dull eyes take me in. "Are you really?"

"Well… yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because people usually just say that to be rid of someone. They don't really mean it."

She's right, and I blush. It is something to say, and how many times did I have to endure

people saying the same thing about my own situation? In the fog, I trip over a thick tree

root sticking up from the trail and let loose with my father's favorite curse.

"Blast!"

Ann's head shoots up at this. No doubt she's the prudish sort who'll run off to Mrs.

Nightwing every time I glance cross-eyed at her.

"Forgive me, I don't know how I could have been so rude."

I say, trying to undo the damage. I certainly don't want to be lectured my first day.

"Don't worry," Ann says, looking around for eavesdroppers. As we're at the back of the

pack, there are none. "Things around here aren't quite as proper as Mrs. Nightwing makes

them out to be."

This is certainly intriguing news. "Really? What do you mean?"

"I really shouldn't say," she answers.

The peal of the bell drifts over the fog along with hushed voices. Other than that, it's very

still. The fog is really something. "This would be a fine place for a midnight walk," I say,

trying to seem jovial. I've heard that people like jovial girls. "Perhaps the werewolves

will come out to play later."

"Except for vespers, we're not allowed to go out after dark," Ann answers, matter-offactly.

So much for joviality. "Why not?"

"It's against the rules. I don't like it at night much." She pauses, wipes at her runny nose.

"Sometimes, there are Gypsies in the woods."

I think of the old woman at my carriage earlier. "Yes, I believe I met one. Called herself

Mother something…"

"Mother Elena?"

"Yes, that's it."

"She's stark raving mad. You want to steer clear of her. She might have a knife and stab

you in your sleep," Ann says, breathlessly.

"She seemed harmless enough…"

"You never really know, do you?"

I don't know if it's the fog or the bells or Ann's creepiness but I'm walking a bit faster

now. A girl who sees visions paired with one who's a walking tour guide of things that go

bump in the night. Perhaps this is Spence's little way of matchmaking.

"You're in first class with me."

"Yes," I say, "Who are the others?"

She ticks off the names one by one. "And Felicity and Pippa." Ann stops, suddenly on

edge.

"Felicity and Pippa. Those are lovely names," I say cheerfully. It's such an insipid

comment that I should be shot for it, but I'm dying to know more about these two girls

who are going to be in our class.

Ann lowers her voice. "They're not lovely. Not at all."

The bell finally stops ringing, leaving a strange, hollow hush in its absence. "No? Part

girl, part wolf? Do they lick their butter knives?"

Ann not only doesn't find me amusing, but her eyes take on a cold, hard look. "Be careful

around them. Don't trust—"

From behind us, a husky voice cuts her off. "Talking too much again, Ann?"

We whip around to see two faces emerging from the mist. The blonde and the beauty.

They must have lagged behind and sneaked up on us. The smoky voice belongs to the

blonde. "Don't you know that's a most unbecoming trait?"

Ann's jaw hangs open, but she doesn't answer.

The brunette laughs and whispers something in the blonde's ear, which makes her launch

into that full, ripe smile again. She points to me. "You're the new girl, aren't you?"

I don't like the way she says this. New girl. As if I might be some sort of insect that hasn't

been given a classification yet. Hideous corpus, female. "Gemma Doyle," I say, trying not

to flinch or look away first. It's a trick my father used when he haggled over a price. Now

I'm haggling over something undefined but more important—my place in the pecking

order at Spence.

There is a second's pause before she turns away from me and holds Ann with a chilly

gaze. "Gossip is a very bad habit. We don't indulge bad habits here at Spence,

Mademoiselle Scholarship," she says, giving the last two words a nasty emphasis. A

reminder that Ann isn't of the same class and shouldn't expect the same treatment. "You

have been warned."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Doily," she says, linking arms with the brunette, who bumps my

shoulder hard as they pass us.

"Terribly sorry," she says, and bursts out laughing. If I were a man, I'd flatten her. But I'm

not a man. I'm here to be a lady. No matter how much I loathe it already.

"Come on," Ann says in a shaky voice once they're gone. "It's time for prayers." I don't

know if she means in general or strictly for herself.

We scurry across the threshold of the quiet, cavernous chapel and take our seats, our

footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Arched wood-beamed ceilings soar a good fifteen

feet above us. Candelabras line the sides of the church, casting long shadows over the

wooden pews. Stained-glass windows line the walls, colorful advertisements for God,

pastoral scenes of angels doing angelic sorts of things—visiting villagers, telling them

good news, petting sheep, cradling babies. There is the odd panel with a severed gorgon's

head, an angel in armor standing next to it, brandishing a sword dripping blood. Can't say

that I've heard that particular Bible story—or want to, really. It's a bit gruesome so I turn

my attention to the altar where a vicar stands, tall and thin as a scarecrow.

The vicar, whose name is Reverend Waite, leads us in prayers that all begin with "O

Lord" and end with our somehow not being worthy—sinners who have always been

sinners and will forever more be sinners until we die. It isn't the most optimistic outlook

I've ever heard. But we're encouraged to keep trying anyway.

I have to watch Ann and the others to see when to kneel, when to rise, and when to mouth

along to the hymn. My family is vaguely Anglican, like everyone else, but the truth is that

we rarely went to church in India. On Sundays, Mother took me for picnics under hot,

cloudless skies. We'd sit on a blanket and listen to the wind whip across dry land,

whistling to us.

"This is our church," she'd say, combing fingers through my hair.

My hearts a tight fist in my chest while my lips form words I don't feel. Mother told me

that most of the English only prayed with heart and soul when they needed something

from God. What I want most from God is to have my mother back. That isn't possible. If

it were, I'd pray to anyone's god, night and day, to make it so.

The vicar sits and Mrs. Nightwing stands. Ann moans slightly under her breath.

"Oh, no. She's going to make a speech," she whispers.

"Does she do this every vespers?" I ask.

"No," Ann says, giving me a sidelong glance. "She's doing it for your benefit."

Suddenly, I can feel every pair of eyes glaring at me. Well, this should get me off to a

rousing start with everyone.

"Ladies of Spence Academy," Mrs. Nightwing begins. "As you know, for twenty-four

years, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as one of England's finest finishing schools. While

we can and will teach you the necessary skills to become England's future wives and

mothers, hostesses and bearers of the Empire's feminine traditions, it will be up to each of

you to nurture and feed your souls, and to apply yourselves with grace, charm, and

beauty. This is the Spence motto: Grace, charm, and beauty. Let us all rise and say it

together."

There is a great rustling as fifty girls stand at attention and recite the pledge, chins tilted

upward toward the future. "Thank you. You may be seated. For those girls who have

returned to us this year, you shall set the example for the others. For those who are new to

us"—Mrs. Nightwing scans the chapel till she finds me next to Ann—"we expect nothing

less than your very best."

Thinking this is our dismissal, I rise from the pew. Ann pulls on my skirt.

"She's just begun," she whispers.

And, indeed, Mrs. Nightwing astonishes me by prattling on about virtue, the wellmannered

girl, suitable breakfast fruits, the unfortunate influence of Americans on British

society, and her own fondly remembered school days. Time has no meaning. I feel as if I

have been left in the desert to die and am waiting eagerly for the vultures to begin their

work and end my misery.

Candle shadows stretch long over the walls, making our faces look haunted and hollow.

The chapel is hardly a comforting site. It's ghostly. Certainly not someplace I'd want to be

alone after dark. I'm shivering at the thought of it. At last, Mrs. Nightwing finishes her

long-winded address, which makes me utter my own silent prayer of gratitude. Reverend

Waite reads a benediction and we're dismissed for dinner.

One of the older girls stands at the door. When we reach her, she sticks out her foot and

sends Ann sprawling to the floor. Her eyes dart past us where they find Felicity and Pippa

a few heads behind.

I give Ann my hand and help her to her feet. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she says, giving the same straight-ahead stare that seems to be her only

expression.

The girl steps around her. "You really should be more careful." The others stream past us,

casting glances at us, giggling.

"Grace, charm, and beauty," Felicity says as she breezes past. I wonder what she would

look like if someone were to cut off all her hair in her sleep. My first evening at prayers

has not made me into a particularly charitable girl.

Outside, the mist has thickened into a gray soup that settles around our legs. Down the

hill lies the hazy outline of the enormous school, broken by thin slivers of lights from the

various windows. Only one wing remains completely dark. I figure it to be the East Wing,

the one destroyed by the fire. It sits, curled and quiet as the gargoyles on the roof, as if

waiting. For what, I don't know.

Movement. To my right. A black cloak running through the trees, disappearing into the

mist. My legs have gone rubbery.

"Did you see that?" I ask, voice shaking.

"See what?"

"Out there. Somebody running about in a black cape."

"No. It's the fog. Makes you see things."

I know what I saw. Someone was waiting there, watching us.

"It's cold," Ann says. "Let's walk faster, shall we?"

She steps briskly ahead of me, letting the fog consume her till she's only a blue spot, a

shadow of a girl, fading into nothing..