Reluctantly I handed over my cell phone and my precious iPod. I was beginning to dislike Mrs. Hartle and her rules.
“Now, as you unfortunately arrived so late, the girls have already gone to supper. You do not have time to change before you join them. Come!”
She stood up abruptly, and I guessed that sending me into supper looking like an absolute mess was punishment for being late. I shivered, and not from cold.
Mrs. Hartle led me through a confusing maze of paneled corridors hung with gloomy paintings, and we finally reached the dining hall. It was a chilly, vaulted room set up with long rows of tables and wooden benches. A high table ran across a raised platform, where the teachers sat. They were nearly all women, and most of them were wearing formal academic gowns. It all looked depressingly like something from a hundred years ago.
The murmur of conversation died instantly as Mrs. Hartle stepped forward. The students rose to attention, a mass of privileged girlhood from eleven to eighteen years old. They were all wearing the school uniform of dark gray and maroon—a sickly kind of bloodred color—and they all looked alike, with their shiny hair and clear complexions.
“Thank you, girls,” said Mrs. Hartle. “Please be seated. But before you continue with your supper, I would like to introduce a new student. This is Evie Johnson, who joins us as a scholar.”
She might as well have waved a placard saying, SHE’S NOT PAYING TO BE HERE; SHE’S NOT REALLY ONE OF US. I looked up at the rows of well-groomed girls, as my hair dripped onto the tiled floor.
“Hi.”
My voice sounded like a lost echo. The students stared back in silence, all two hundred of them, judging, assessing, rejecting. The faintest snicker of laughter rippled around their polished ranks.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best to welcome Miss Johnson,” said the High Mistress smoothly. “Good night, ladies.”
She marched out of the room. After what seemed like an eternity, a girl with curly brown hair stood up and said, “There’s a place here.” I walked down the long rows of watching girls and slipped gratefully into a seat opposite her. As I sat down, a rush of gossip broke out.
“Quiet, please!” scolded a low, harsh voice. I looked up at the teachers’ table and saw a thin woman with a pinched face and tightly scraped-back hair. She was clapping her hands together to bring the room to order. “We do not eat like hooligans. Please continue your supper quietly.”
The noise subsided into whispered conversations. I took a spoonful of something from a serving dish on the table, though I felt too tired to eat. The curly-haired girl who had called me over gave me an encouraging smile. I flashed a smile back at her and tried to force some food down.
“Hi, Evie,” she said across the table. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Fitzalan.”
“‘Hi, Evie, I’m Sarah,’” mimicked the girl sitting next to her. She was the ice-princess type, with perfect features and smooth blond hair. An indefinable air of money hung about her. “Are you collecting another waif and stray to add to your collection, Sarah darling?”
“Oh, shut up, Celeste,” Sarah retorted.
The girl called Celeste looked at me and said sweetly, “Do you always turn up to school covered in mud?” Two fair preppy girls on the other side of Celeste snickered as though she had said something funny.
“I got wet coming from the station,” I said quietly.
“Oh, my God.” Celeste gasped in mock horror. “You actually came on the train?”
“Some people do use public transportation, Celeste,” said Sarah. “Not everyone goes around in gas-guzzling, chauffeur-driven cars.”
Celeste turned her gaze on Sarah and said innocently, “Really? It must be awful. Remind me never to try it.”
A bell rang out shrilly, making me jump. The girls quickly finished eating, then stood up. Sarah nodded to me to do the same. A long prayer was recited by the thin-faced teacher. After echoing, “Amen,” dutifully, the girls began to file out of the room. I followed them, hoping that Sarah would show me where to go. Just as I got to the door a sharp voice called me back.
“Evie Johnson!”
I turned around. The teacher who had said the prayer was beckoning me over to her. Her black academic gown hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. It gave her the air of a severe nun, ready to pounce on the tiniest breach of discipline.
“Um…what is it…Miss…er…?” I asked.
“My name is Miss Scratton,” she answered. “I am in charge of the girls in the senior division. I’d like you to meet someone. Helen!”
I looked around and saw a tall, fair girl on the other side of the dining hall, setting out some little coffee cups on trays. She came over reluctantly when Miss Scratton called her name.
“Helen has been at Wyldcliffe for a year now and is our other scholarship student,” explained Miss Scratton. “You will be in the same class and the same dormitory.”
“Hi,” I said, but Helen didn’t reply.
“Perhaps you don’t know yet, Evie, that scholarship girls are expected to perform some small duties as a token of gratitude and commitment to the school. You will help Helen set out the coffee trays for the mistresses after supper, tidy up the hymn books after choir practice, that sort of thing. Helen will show you what to do.”
I looked at her in surprise. I hadn’t expected to have to do chores. No wonder the girls had laughed. For one crazy second I was tempted to say, Stuff your scholarship, and walk out. But there was nothing waiting for me back at home. No Dad. No Frankie. No home. Nothing but the deep blue sea.
“Fine,” I lied. “Sure. No problem.”
“Excellent,” said Miss Scratton crisply. “When you have finished here you will go straight to bed, as the bell is rung early on Sunday nights. So get on with your work now, Evie, and make sure you do it well. There’s no place for slackers at Wyldcliffe.”
Miss Scratton whisked away, her black gown billowing around her.
I glanced at Helen. Her hair was so fair it was almost silvery white, and she had delicate features and clear, light eyes. She looked delicate, as though a strong wind would blow her away, but her expression was heavy and sullen. Perhaps she was just shy, I thought. At least we were in the same boat—maybe we could be friends. “Thanks for helping me out, Helen.” I smiled. “What do I do?”
She didn’t smile back. “Set out the cups on the trays. The mistresses will collect them later. You need spoons, cream, and sugar. And don’t break anything.” Her voice was low and husky, as if she were not used to speaking much.
“So, I’m in the same dorm as you,” I said. “That’s great.”
Silence.
I tried again: “Don’t you think all this doing-chores stuff is a bit over the top?” I joked, rattling the cups and saucers carelessly onto my tray. “You know, like Cinderella, only with about two hundred ugly stepsisters. What else do they expect us to do? Sleep in the cellar?”
“I wish they did,” Helen said with unexpected anger. “It would be better than…” She flashed me a strange look. Was it sympathy—or pity? But when she spoke, it was in an expressionless voice. “It’s in the rules. Just deal with it.”
I sighed. I guessed I was going to hear a lot more about the rules in the next few days. We finished up with the coffee things, and Helen began walking rapidly out of the dining hall. “Wait!” I called, chasing after her. “Aren’t you going to show me the way to the dorm?”
“Oh, all right,” she replied ungraciously. “Come with me.”
She strode down the deserted passage. There was no sign of anyone, apart from a couple of teachers in their dark gowns. The passage wound its way back to the main hall and the marble stairs. These stairs intrigued me. The marble must have been incredibly heavy, yet the stairs seemed to float upward in an elegant curve. I placed my hand on the iron banister and looked up.
“Is that where the dorms are?” I asked.
“Yeah. Third floor.”
Our feet echoed on the cold stone as we climbed hi
gher. I was out of breath by the time we reached the top of the stairs. Yet another long corridor, lined with heavy doors, stretched away on both sides of the steps. I glanced back over the banister at the pattern of the black-and-white tiles in the hall below. How easy it would be to fall, and go crashing down like a doll.
“Come on,” said Helen, striding ahead.
“So are we right at the top of the building now?”
“There’s an attic above this floor, but it’s shut up.”
Muffled voices echoed behind the paneled doors. I read the signs on the doors: DRAKE, NELSON, CHURCHILL, WELLINGTON…. They were strangely warlike for a snooty girls’ academy.
“Are these the names of the dorms?”
Helen nodded. “This is ours,” she said. “Cromwell.”
I was glad that the day was coming to an end at last. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. I didn’t know that there was still one more ordeal ahead of me.
Three
I
followed Helen into the room, looking over her shoulder to see if Sarah would be in the dorm too. She wasn’t there, though, and my heart sank as I recognized Celeste lounging on one of the beds.
Helen walked over to her own bed and flung herself down. She dug a small book from under her pillow and began to read, ignoring everyone else.
I glanced around uncertainly, wondering which bed would be mine. The room was rather bare and cold, though it had obviously been quite grand once upon a time, with a big arched window and a fancy kind of window seat.
The two girls who had been sitting with Celeste at supper were curled up on it. One had baby blue eyes and a childish stare, and the other looked cold and unwelcoming.
“Meet Sophie and India,” drawled Celeste, waving her hand lazily in their direction. “Did you have fun doing chores for the mistresses, Evie? How sweet that Helen has someone to help her to scrub the floors at last.”
I noticed Helen hunch into a tighter ball on her bed.
“Yeah,” I drawled back. “We had great fun. Now, which is my bed? I’d like to unpack.”
“Oh, we did that for you already,” Celeste said with an innocent smile. The girls by the window smirked at each other. “That’s your bed in the corner.”
There were five beds, with thin drapes that could be pulled around for a little privacy, like in a hospital ward. Someone had shut the drapes around the bed in the corner, so I walked over and pulled them open, then stepped back in horror.
The bed was shrouded in black silk and surrounded by tall, funereal candles. Rose petals lay scattered over the pillow, like drops of crimson blood, and a photograph of a wide-eyed teenage girl hung over the bed, staring out at me, watching me. My clothes had been dumped and kicked on the floor. I spun around to confront Celeste.
“What’s this all about?”
Her smile had vanished. “It’s about the fact that you aren’t welcome. The last person who slept in that bed was my cousin Laura. She died. I don’t suppose they told you that, did they?”
“N-no.”
“You’re only here because her place in the school became free. The idiots who are in charge wanted it to look like they were doing their Christian duty by letting you come to Wyldcliffe. But if Laura hadn’t died, you wouldn’t be here.” Celeste’s voice trembled with anger. “Just looking at you makes me feel sick.”
“But it wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “I’m really sorry about your cousin, but I think—”
“I don’t care what you think, Johnson. We don’t want you here, and we’re going to make sure you don’t last long. Don’t forget—you’re sleeping in a dead girl’s bed. And I hope she haunts your every breath.”
Celeste marched out, followed by her little gang. I felt as though I had been slapped in the face. For a second I stood frozen with shock, then anger welled up inside me.
“What the—?”
A bell sounded in the corridor. Helen got up and made for the door, clutching a small bag of toiletries.
“You’d better get changed. The second bell will ring soon for lights-out.” She avoided my eyes and hurried away.
Seething with fury, I snatched up the candlesticks and the yards of black stuff and threw them onto Celeste’s bed. But I couldn’t get the photograph down from the wall. Oh, brilliant, I thought, now I have to sleep with a freaky picture of a dead girl staring down at me every night. That was all I needed.
I couldn’t believe that my first day at Wyldcliffe had been so disastrous. Celeste was being crazily unfair. Oh, I knew that grief did strange things to people, but it still hurt. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I could almost hear Frankie’s voice in my head saying, Poor Celeste, we should be very kind to her.
Frankie knew all about grief. She had lost her only daughter, Clara, fifteen years ago, one cruelly bright spring morning. Clara Johnson. My mother.
She had drowned when I was a baby, swimming in the dark waves that rolled in from the Atlantic and pounded the shore at home. People who remembered Mom said that I was like her: long red hair, pale skin, and sea-gray eyes. I didn’t have a single memory of her, not even the sound of her voice, so darling Frankie had done everything she could to replace her dead daughter for me. And now I might lose Frankie too. I guess I knew how Celeste felt.
“I promise,” I said under my breath, “I’ll try to be kind to her.” But my words were empty. However much I might try to sympathize with Celeste, I knew we would never be friends.
I started to pick up my crumpled clothes. My old blue sweater was still rolled around the bits of glass from Mom’s photo. I unwrapped the bundle, careful not to touch the shattered pieces and stared down in amazement.
The photograph was in an unbroken frame. The glass was completely flawless, as though it had never been damaged, and the bloodstain on my mother’s face had vanished.
For one moment I thought I must have imagined the whole thing: the dark lane, the boy, the horse—but I couldn’t have; I was still wearing his handkerchief as a bandage. I tore it off, and there it was: a thin mark of dried blood running across my right palm. That proved it. I really had cut myself. I had seen the broken glass. And now the glass wasn’t broken anymore.
Impossible.
Helen walked back into the room. She pulled the drapes all the way around her bed, shutting me and everything else out. I decided to do the same.
I lay down and heard Celeste and her friends trooping back from the bathroom, giggling and whispering. Then a bell rang out and the lights snapped off. A few more whispers; then everyone settled down to go to sleep. But I couldn’t rest.
Impossible, impossible, impossible…
Celeste’s outburst faded into insignificance. It wasn’t her threats that kept me awake, or the image of the dead girl, Laura, gazing down on me. It was thinking about the boy whose existence had briefly collided with mine. Had he mended the glass in some mysterious way? No, that was absurd, ridiculous.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him, though. Who was he? Where had he come from? As I tried to fall asleep, I remembered his intense gaze, his smile, the shadows under his eyes…. I remembered the gentle touch of his hand as it brushed my face and the coolness of his breath on my skin. However much I tried to drive him from my thoughts, I seemed to hear his voice in my head, laughing. We’ll meet again…again…again….
Eventually I found sleep, but not rest. I dreamed lurid, fevered dreams, until one last dream came in which the terrible gray sea rose over the moors and smashed Wyldcliffe into oblivion with one mighty wave.
I awoke and bolted up, panting and sweating. For a second I struggled to remember where I was. Of course. The school. The dorm. The four other girls lying asleep so near me. I pushed back the white drape to try to get more air, then had to stop myself from crying aloud. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen a girl with long red hair and a pale, frightened face. I whipped around to look at her, then sank back, trembling. How stupid of me. It had only been my own unearthly reflec
tion in a long mirror that was fixed to the opposite wall. I clamped my eyes shut, but there was no way I could get back to sleep.
The feeling crept over me, like rising fog, that I was being watched. There was someone else in the room apart from the five of us; I was sure of it. I strained to listen. There was the softest echo of someone singing a lullaby, as though long-ago and faraway. I heard light footsteps, a cough, and the pages of a book being turned. Someone was there, hidden by the deep shadows.
Another impossibility. I tried to shrug it off. I was just nervous, unsettled about being in a strange place. It was probably someone in the next dorm or on the floor below. Sounds got distorted in a big old house like this; that was all.
That first night I didn’t know any better than to blame it on my imagination. On that first night I didn’t know who was watching over me. I didn’t know that her life was tangled with mine: my guardian, my sister, my other self. I couldn’t guess that I would get to know her, discover her secrets, and even read the pages of her private journal.
I lay awake all night long, until the pale sun emerged like a ghost from the grave.
Four
THE JOURNAL OF LADY AGNES, SEPTEMBER
13, 1882 My news is that dearest S. is back from his travels at last, after months of wandering abroad with his tutor, Mr. Philips. We did not expect to see him again until Christmas, but he arrived at the Hall last night and came here in his father’s carriage early this morning. This has been a wonderful surprise in our humdrum routine. I feel as though life has taken me by the shoulders and given me a thorough shaking and that now I am ready for any challenge.
It was so good to see my childhood friend again! At first, though, I was a little shy. He has grown remarkably tall and handsome, and made me feel quite babyish with his tales of Paris and Constantinople and Vienna— I who have scarcely been out of Wyldcliffe’s lonely valley. But very soon we were chattering like magpies. He still has the same eager air, the same desire to share everything with me, the same intense blue gaze. Although our mothers are only very distantly related by marriage, he is closer to me than any cousin could be; truly the brother I never had.