Rebel Angels - Page 10/158

Brigid's candle turns the staircase into a dance of shadow and light. I fly on tiptoe down the hall and take refuge behind a potted fern resting on a wooden stand, watching them from the cover of those mammoth leaves. Brigid leads the way, but Miss McCleethy stops at the landing. She gazes at everything as if she has seen it before. What happens next is most curious indeed. At the imposing double doors that lead to the fire-damaged East Wing, the woman stops, flattening her palm against the warped wood there.

In straining to see, my shoulder bumps the potted fern. The stand wobbles precariously. Quickly, I put out a hand to steady it, but already, Miss McCleethy peers into the darkness.

"Who's there?" she calls out.

Heart pounding, I tighten myself into a ball, hoping the fern will disguise me. It won't do to be caught sneaking about the halls of Spence in the dead of night. I can hear the creaking of the floorboards signaling Miss McCleethy's approach. I'm done for. I shall lose all my good conduct marks and be forced to spend an eternity writing out Bible passages in penance.

"This way, Miss McCleethy, if you please," Brigid calls down.

"Yes, coming," Miss McCleethy answers. She leaves her perch by the doors and follows Brigid up and around the staircase till the hall is dark and silent once again save for the rain.

My sleep, when it comes, is fitful, poisoned by dreams. I see the realms, the beautiful green of the garden, the clear blue of the river. But that is not all I see. Flowers that weep black tears. Three girls in white against the gray of the sea. A figure in a deep green cloak. Something's rising from the sea. I cannot see it; I can see only the faces of the girls, the cold, hard fear reflected in their eyes just before they scream.

I wake for a moment, the room fighting to take shape, but the undertow of sleep is too powerful and I find myself in one last dream.

Pippa comes to me wearing a garland of flowers on her head like a crown. Her hair is black and shining as always. Strands of it fly about her bare shoulders, so dark against the paleness of her skin. Behind her, the sky bleeds red into thick streaks of dark clouds, and a gnarled tree twists in on itself, as if it's been burned alive and this is all that remains of its once proud beauty. "Gemma," she says, and my name echoes in my head till I can hear nothing else. Her eyes. There's something wrong with her eyes. They're a bluish white, the color of fresh milk, circled by a ring of black with one small dot of black in the center. I want to look away, but I can't.

"It's time to come back to the realms . . . ," she says, over and over, like the gentlest lullaby. "But careful Gemma, my darling . . . they're coming for you. They're all coming for you."

She opens her mouth with a terrible roar, exposing the sharp points of her hideous teeth.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN MORNING FINALLY COMES, I AM SO TIRED that my eyes feel as if they are coated in sand. I've a foul taste in my mouth, so I gargle a bit of rosewater, spitting it as delicately as possible into the washstand. What I cannot rid myself of is the horrible image in my head, the one of Pippa as a monster.

It was only a dream, Gemma, only a dream. It is your remorse come to haunt you. Pippa chose to stay. It was her choice, not yours. Let it go.

I give my mouth one more rinse, as if that could possibly cure me of my ills.

In the dining room, the long rows of tables have been set for breakfast. Winter floral arrangements of poinsettias and feathery ferns in silver vases dot every fourth place setting. It is lovely, and I find myself forgetting the dream and remembering that it is Christmas.

I join Felicity and Ann as we stand wordlessly at attention behind our chairs, waiting for Mrs. Nightwing to lead us in grace. There are bowls of preserves and great slabs of butter beside our plates. The air is perfumed with the wood-sweet smell of bacon. The waiting is torture. At last, Mrs. Nightwing stands and asks us to bow our heads. There is a mercifully short prayer and we are allowed to take our places at the table.

"Have you noticed?" Martha says in a stage whisper. She is one of Cecily's loyal followers and has begun to dress like her and even to resemble her a bit. They share the same practiced, coy laugh and a tendency to smile in a way that is meant to look demure but only seems as if they have bitten off too much bread and cannot swallow.

"Noticed what?" Felicity asks.

"We've a new teacher," Martha continues."Do you see? She's sitting beside Mademoiselle LeFarge."

Mademoiselle LeFarge, our plump French instructor, sits with the other teachers at a long table set apart. She has been seeing a detective from Scotland Yard, an Inspector Kent whom we all like very much, and since their courtship began, she has taken to wearing brighter colors and more fashionable dresses. Her newfound gaiety, however, has not extended to excusing my deplorable French.