“No,” Ann answers.
“Did you change your hair, then?”
Ann shakes her head.
“Well, it’s an improvement, whatever it is.” This makes the rest of the girls titter. Cecily goes right back to her bacon.
Felicity puts her spoon down hard. “You’re very rude, Cecily. Did you know that? I think it would be best if you just didn’t say anything else today.”
Cecily opens her mouth to reprimand Felicity, but no words come. She can barely speak above a whisper. Her hands fly to her throat.
“Cecily, what’s the matter?” Elizabeth hands her some water.
“Cat’s got her tongue,” Felicity says, smirking.
“Fee, you have to give Cecily her voice back at some point,” Pippa chides as we make our way to French.
Felicity nods. “I know. But you must admit—it is an improvement.”
Mademoiselle LeFarge has a particularly sadistic smile on her face when we arrive. It doesn’t bode well.
“Bonjour, mes filles. Today we will have a conversation to test your French.”
A conversation class. I am the absolute worst at this, and I wonder how long I can make myself unnoticeable.
Elizabeth raises a hand. “Mademoiselle, our Cecily has lost her voice.”
“Has she? That was very sudden, Mademoiselle Temple.”
Cecily tries again to speak but it’s useless. Ann gives her a small smile and Cecily looks positively terrified. She buries her nose in her book.
“Very well,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “Mademoiselle Doyle, you shall go first.”
I’m in for it now. Please, please, please let me keep up. My stomach is aflutter. This may be the day that Mademoiselle LeFarge gives me the boot down to the lower classes. She bats a question about the Seine into my court, waits for my response. When I open my mouth, we are all astonished. I’m speaking French like a Parisian, and I find I know a great deal about the Seine. And France’s geography. Its monarchy. The Revolution. I’m feeling so clever that I want to go on for the whole of the period, but finally Mademoiselle LeFarge recovers from her shock, breaking her own rules in the process.
“That was remarkable, Mademoiselle Doyle! Truly remarkable,” she gasps in English. “As you can see, ladies, when you are willing to apply yourselves, the results speak for themselves! Mademoiselle Doyle, today you shall receive thirty good-conduct marks—a record for my class!”
Someone should probably close Martha’s, Cecily’s, and Elizabeth’s mouths before the rains come and drown them like turkeys.
“What do we do now?” Pippa whispers as we take our seats for Grunewald’s instruction.
“I think it’s Ann’s turn,” I say.
Ann’s face falls. “M-me? I d-d-don’t know. . . .”
“Come on, then. Don’t you want everybody to know what you can do?”
She furrows her brow. “But it won’t be me, will it? It will be the magic. Like your French.”
This brings a blush to my cheeks. “I did get a bit carried away. But you can truly sing, Ann. It will be you at your very best.”
Ann is skeptical. She chews nervously on her lips. “I don’t think I can.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of the short, squat Austrian. Mr. Grunewald in usually in one of two tempers—foul and fouler. Today, he surpasses himself, sliding right into foulest.
“Cease the incessant chatter!” he barks, raking a hand through his thinning white hair. One by one, we’re called to the front of the class to practice the same hymn. One by one, he criticizes us nearly to death. Our vowels are too flat. Our mouths are not open sufficiently. I crack on a high note and he lets out with a sharp “Ack!” as if he’s being tortured. Finally, it’s Ann’s turn.
She’s timid at first. Mr. Grunewald shouts and grumbles, which doesn’t help. I’m practically willing Ann to let her voice fly. Sing, Ann. Come on! And then, she does. It’s like a bird leaving the nest, soaring high and free. We’re all quiet and awed. Even Mr. Grunewald has stopped counting. He stares with a look of utter joy on his face.
I’m so proud of her. How could my mother not want us to use this magic? How could she think we weren’t ready for it?
When she finishes, Mr. Grunewald applauds. The man whose hands have never joined together to make a clapping sound is applauding Ann. Every girl joins in. They see her differently now, as somebody. And isn’t that what everyone wants? To be seen?
We bask in the glory of our day until evening comes. That’s when we can feel the last of the magic draining from our bodies, leaving us all a bit worn out. Mrs. Nightwing appraises Pippa during our free time.
“Miss Cross, you’re looking a bit tired this evening.”
“I am rather tired, Mrs. Nightwing.” Pippa blushes. Mrs. Nightwing has no idea what’s going on while she sleeps off her sherry.
“Best get to bed straightaway for your beauty sleep. You want to look your best when Mr. Bumble comes to call tomorrow.”
“Ugh, I’d forgotten he’s coming to call,” Pippa laments as we trudge up to bed.
Ann stretches her arms overhead in a catlike movement. “Why couldn’t you dispense with him? Just tell him you’re not interested.”
“That should go over very well with my mother,” Pippa scoffs.
“We could go back into the realms and make you hideously ugly,” Felicity says.
“I think not!”
We’ve reached the landing. The ceiling is smudged where the gaslights have deposited their grime. Funny how I’ve never noticed that before.
“All right, then. Say goodbye to Sir Perfection and become a barrister’s wife,” Felicity says, sneering.
Pippa’s lovely face is all worry, but the frown lines smooth. There’s a new determination to her brow. “I could simply tell him the truth. About my epilepsy.”
The walls are sooty too. So much I haven’t noticed.
“He’s to come for a visit tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” Pippa says.
Felicity nods. “Then let’s send him packing, shall we?”
With a yawn, I pass the all-too-familiar photographs, those half-erased women. But it’s a night for seeing things for the first time. In its severe black frame, one of the photographs has begun to buckle and ripple behind the glass. Probably the damp. It’s sliding toward ruin. But there’s something else. When I look closer I can see the smudgy outline on the wall where a fifth portrait once hung.
“That’s odd,” I say to Ann.
“What?” She yawns.
“Look here on the wall. See the mark. There was another photograph.”
“So there was. What of it? Perhaps they got tired of it.”
“Or perhaps it’s the missing class of 1871—Sarah and Mary,” I say.
Ann drifts off to our room, stretching and yawning. “Fine. You look for it, then.”
Yes, I think. Perhaps I will at that. I don’t believe there was no photograph.
I think it was removed.
My sleep is fitful, filled with dreams. I see my mother’s face in the clouds, soft and fair. The clouds blow apart. The sky changes. It swells into a gray beast with holes for eyes. Everything goes dark. The little girl appears. The white of her pinafore, the exotic dress underneath it, stand out in the darkness. She turns around slowly and it starts to rain. Cards. It’s raining tarot cards. They catch fire as they fall.
No. I don’t want this dream.
It’s gone. I’m dreaming of Kartik again. A hungry dream. Our mouths are everywhere at once. The kissing is feverish and hard. His hands rip at the fabric of my nightgown, exposing the skin of my neck. His lips rake the curve there, taking small nips that almost hurt but mostly inflame. We’re rolling together, a wheel of hands and tongues, fingers and lips. A pressure builds inside me till I think I might come apart from it. And when I feel I can’t take another moment of it, I wake with a start. My nightgown is damp against my body. My breath is shallow. I place my hands rigidly beside me and do not move for a very long time, until at last I sleep and do not dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE