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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 therea 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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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 alikewell 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 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.
