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They are speaking of pregnancy. At eleven years old, I can barely imagine such a concept. At eleven years old, it’s not a fear that would have ever occurred to me.
But it’s a fear that’s very real in my parents’ minds.
“You will be in this school until you are a woman grown,” my father announces with finality. “In that time, Theodora, you will remain the good girl you have always been. You will not throw your attention on everybody that seeks it. You will not date, as others in your classes might do. You will not kiss or touch boys or give yourself to them in any way. You must promise me, Theodora. Promise me you will do what is right, even if it’s difficult. It is the only thing I ask of you.”
I try to swallow, but the marble egg in my throat is so big that I can only swallow with a big, loud gulp. The noise is almost too loud. My father’s eyes narrow.
“Promise me. Now.”
I promise, I try to say. The words remain stuck. I look at him in panic.
I know he wants me to speak, but I can’t. I wish I could. I would make him his promise, and I would tell him the other things stuck in my throat.
I’m not a whore. I’m just a girl. I was doing nothing wrong. I only spoke of books with Zachary Blackwood. I did nothing wrong. He spoke to me first. I’m not a whore, and I never will be.
“Say. It,” he bites out.
His arm shoots out, gripping my arm so tightly that a noise of pain squeezes its way out of my throat. I force my voice out after it. “I promise, Papa.”
My voice is barely above a whisper. But it’s enough for my father. He lets me go, shoving me away from him like a disgusting thing.
“Good. Break this promise, Theodora, and I will punish you for it for the rest of your life.”
Onmyfirstdayat Spearcrest, I stand with the other Year 7 students outside the assembly hall, waiting for the induction assembly. I don’t look at the other students; I stand still and straight, waiting for the teachers to tell us to go inside.
My braids are so tight that my head hurts. My uniform is like stiff armour around my body, my brand-new shoes pinching my feet.
The teachers open the doors, and we file into the assembly hall. The floorboards shine underneath our feet, and the navy-blue seats face an enormous stage. Over it stands a carved arch covered with portraits that looks just like the iconostases in Russian cathedrals.
Mr Ambrose opens the assembly. He welcomes us to Spearcrest with a speech about academic excellence, about the importance of education and scholarly pursuits. He talks about knowledge being not only the food of the brain but the food of the soul.
When he speaks, I feel as though he’s talking only to me.
After the assembly, we are given our campus maps and timetables. Outside, teachers help students, pointing them in the direction of different buildings and paths.
The sun is bright in the deep blue sky—it still feels like summer even though it’s the start of autumn.
Students form little groups. I hear them talk.
“Oh, are you also in Miss Bailey’s form? Let’s go together.”
“We’re going to the main building, are you going the same way?”
“My form room is in the art building too, I’ll go with you.”
I look down at the papers in my hand. I’m in Professor Mecardo’s form in the main building. I open my campus map, looking at the tiny illustrated buildings and paths. They all look so small on the map, but in reality, Spearcrest is enormous, almost a small city of its own.
“Hello, Theodora.”
I look up, although I already recognise the voice that spoke to me. Not the voice, but the tone of the voice.
Well-spoken, intense, a little bleak.
Zachary’s school uniform is impeccable, his face as serious as it was the last time I saw him. Instead of holding his timetable and map in his hands like the other students, he carries them in a smart brown folder.
“Would you like me to help you find your way around?” he asks.
I recoil from him as if I’ve been hit, taking two quick steps back. My stomach churns. My father left for Russia more than a week ago. There’s no way he could be in Spearcrest—he’s not even in England.
