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“Miss Temple, perhaps you will demonstrate the proper curtsy for us?”

Without ado, Cecily Temple, She Who Can Do No Wrong, settles to the floor in a long, slow, graceful arc that seems to defy gravity. It is a thing of beauty. I am hideously jealous.

“Thank you, Miss Temple.”

Yes, thank you, you little demon beast. May you marry a man who eats garlic with every meal.

“Now, let us—” Mrs. Nightwing is interrupted by loud banging. She closes her eyes tightly against the noise.

“Mrs. Nightwing,” Elizabeth whines. “How can we possibly concentrate on our form with such a terrible racket coming from the East Wing?”

Mrs. Nightwing is in no humor for our complaining. She takes a deep breath and clasps her hands at her waist, her head held high.

“We shall carry on, like England herself. If she could withstand Cromwell, the Wars of the Roses, and the French, surely you may overlook a bit of hammering. Think how lovely the East Wing shall be when it is completed. We shall try again—steady! All eyes are upon you! It won’t do to scurry to Her Majesty like a timid church mouse.”

I often imagine what sort of position Nightwing might seek out were she not currently torturing us as headmistress of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. Dear Sirs, her letter might begin. I am writing to inquire about your advert for the position of Balloon Popper. I have a hatpin that will do the trick neatly and bring about the wails of small children everywhere. My former charges will attest to the fact that I rarely smile, never laugh, and can steal the joy from any room simply by entering and bestowing upon it my unique sense of utter gloom and despair. My references in this matter are impeccable. If you have not fallen into a state of deep melancholia simply by reading my letter, please respond to Mrs. Nightwing (I have a Christian name but no one ever has leave to use it) in care of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. If you cannot be troubled to find the address on your own, you are not trying your very best. Sincerely, Mrs. Nightwing.

“Miss Doyle! What is that insipid smile you’re wearing? Have I said something that amuses you?” Mrs. Nightwing’s admonishment brings a flush to my cheeks. The other girls giggle.

We glide across the floor, trying our best to ignore the hammering and the shouts. The noise isn’t what distracts us. It is the knowledge that there are men here, one floor above us, that keeps us jittery and light.

“Perhaps we could see the progress they’ve made, Mrs. Nightwing? How extraordinary it must be,” Felicity Worthington suggests with a sweetness bordering on pure syrup. Only Felicity would be so bold as to suggest this. She is too daring by half. She is also one of my only allies here at Spence.

“The workmen do not need girls underfoot, as they are already behind schedule,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “Heads up, if you please! And—”

A loud bang sounds from above. The sudden noise makes us jump. Even Mrs. Nightwing lets out a “Merciful heavens!” Elizabeth, who is nothing more than a nervous condition disguised as a debutante, yelps and grabs hold of Cecily.

“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing!” Elizabeth cries.

We look to our headmistress hopefully.

Mrs. Nightwing exhales through disapproving lips. “Very well. We shall adjourn for the present. Let us take the air to restore the roses to our cheeks.”

“Might we bring our paper and sketch the progress on the East Wing?” I suggest. “It would make a fine record.”

Mrs. Nightwing favors me with a rare smile. “A most excellent suggestion, Miss Doyle. Very well, then. Gather your paper and pencils. I shall send Brigid with you. Don your coats. And walk, if you please.”

We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be.

“Walk!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.

CHAPTER TWO

THE LONG EXPANSE OF THE EAST WING STRETCHES OUT like the skeleton of a great wooden bird. The framing is in place, but the men spend most of their effort on restoring the dilapidated turret that joins the East Wing to the rest of the school. Since the fire that ravaged it twenty-five years ago, it has been nothing more than a beautiful ruin. But it shall be resurrected with stone and brick and mortar, and it promises to be a magnificent tower—tall and wide and imposing—once it is complete.

Since January, swarms of men have come from the neighboring villages to work in the cold and damp, every day but Sunday, to make our school whole again. We girls are not allowed near the East Wing during its reconstruction. The official reason given for this is that it is far too dangerous: we might be hit by an errant beam or impaled by a rusty nail. The various ways in which we could meet a terrible end have been detailed so thoroughly by Mrs. Nightwing that every hammer stroke makes the nervous among us as jumpy as a bagful of cats.

But the truth is that she doesn’t want us near the men. Her orders have been clear on this point: We are not to speak to the workers at all, and they are not to speak to us. A careful distance is maintained. The workers have pitched their tents a half mile from the school. They are under the watchful eye of Mr. Miller, their foreman, while we are never without a chaperone. Every care has been taken to keep us apart.

This is precisely what compels us to seek them out.

Our coats buttoned up against the still-formidable March chill, we walk quickly through the woods behind Spence with our housekeeper, Brigid, huffing and puffing to keep pace. It is not kind of us to walk faster than necessary, but it is the only way to have a few moments of privacy. When we race up the hill and secure a spot with a commanding view of the construction, Brigid lags far behind, affording us precious time.

Felicity thrusts out a hand. “The opera glasses, if you please, Martha.”

Martha pulls the binoculars from her coat pocket, and they are passed from girl to girl, to Felicity’s waiting hands. She puts them to her eyes.

“Very impressive, indeed,” Felicity purrs. Somehow, I do not think she means the East Wing. From where we sit, I can see six handsomely formed men in shirtsleeves hoisting a giant beam into place. I’m sure that had I the opera glasses, I could see the outline of their every muscle.

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