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 stone-and-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-of-factly.
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.