Miss Mabel's School for Girls (2 page)

She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for my response, shattering any hope of an easy escape.

Never lie to a Watcher,
Papa’s voice returned.
Most of the time they already know how you are going to respond. The test is in your emotions, and you can really only control how you use them.

Elaborating on all the possible life benefits of attending Miss Mabel’s tempted me, but she’d know I didn’t really care. Trivialities, I reminded myself. Isadora may already know the answer to her question, but she might not.

A bargain I couldn’t ignore.

I finally settled on the one answer I knew would be true.

“I want to work with Miss Mabel.”

We sat in silence for several minutes. The snap of the fire filled the background. I stirred my cup. Most girls probably had a ready answer for that one. Perhaps I’d been learning how not to set out tea.

“Yes,” Isadora said, taking a sip of her tea with a quiet chuckle that didn’t sound humorous. “You certainly don’t lack motivation, do you?”

She looked out the window again. I pulled the tiny silver spoon from my tea and set it next to the cup. My hands still shook, so I folded them in my lap instead of taking a drink, braiding them into a ball of icy fingers. I wondered if she’d notice if I didn’t take a sip. After her reaction, the taste probably wasn’t worth it.

Isadora opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. I began to wonder if I could stand a silence so loud.

“My job is to interview prospective students to see if they would be a good fit for Miss Mabel’s School for Girls,” she said, turning away from me. “It’s a difficult education to complete, with a demanding schedule, and isn’t meant for everyone. That’s why the High Priestess of the Network requires you to qualify.”

My knuckles tightened until my hands blanched to a shade of white. This was it. She would turn me down, say I wasn’t the right kind of girl. My whole life and future hung in the balance. It would be quick as a guillotine but infinitely more painful.

High stakes are what you get,
I reminded myself,
when you have a lot to lose.

I wished I’d worn my hair in a bun instead of loose on my shoulders. But I couldn’t act myself by pretending to be something I wasn’t, so my hair remained down where I liked it.

“I’ve met a lot of students, but never in my life . . .” She faltered. Her fidgeting and blank stares began to unnerve me. Wasn’t this a witch of great magical knowledge and power?

She set the china cup down with a resolute clank.

“I’m going to let you in, Bianca, but I do so with one warning.”

Her creaky, anxious voice took away any chance to feel relief. I waited, holding my breath, while she stared into my eyes.

“Don’t underestimate her.”

I didn’t need to ask whom she meant. The name hung in the air between us like an anvil on a fraying string.

Miss Mabel.

We stared at each other. I wondered just what she saw about me, what facets of my personality, and what motives she understood that I didn’t. Before I drew up the courage to ask, Isadora turned away again, as if she couldn’t stand to look at me, and took another sip of her tea.

My right wrist burned. I grabbed it, which gave only a moment of relief.

When I pulled my hand away, a black circle of ancient, minuscule words lay on the inside of my wrist. The circlus. Without it, the magic surrounding the boundaries of Letum Wood that housed Miss Mabel’s School for Girls wouldn’t allow me in.

My stomach flipped.

I did it.

My chest sank, heavy with fear and weak with relief. I suppressed the rush of panic, banishing it to the corners of my mind. No panic here, just confidence.

I spent years preparing for this. It won’t frighten me now.

I was a terrible liar. Attending Miss Mabel’s School for Girls did frighten me, but so did staying home, forfeiting my only chance at freedom.

Isadora seemed to recover her wits with surprising speed. She sat up, set her napkin on the table, and straightened her wobbly legs.

“Have you said goodbye to your mother?”

“Yes,” I said, wincing inside. The fear in her eyes haunted me. Mama didn’t want me to go, not like this.
There has to be another way,
she whispered to me last night, tears in her eyes that she never shed.
I don’t like this, Bianca. What if something happens to you?
I hated leaving her.

But I still did it. Because I had to.

Nothing bad will happen,
I promised her.
I can do this. I know I can.

Isadora nodded once. “Very well, come. Let’s continue your education. I can see that Mabel will be quite . . . pleased to have you.”

Grateful to get out of the close little parlor, I walked past the window to see a figure moving out from behind a tree. Mama stood amongst the dark woods with her queer gray eyes, her ebony hair restless in the wind. 

“Merry part, Mama,” I whispered. The memory of Papa’s voice ran through my head as I stared at her, my homesick heart already raw and throbbing.

Mabel is the one of the cleverest witches in the Central Network. She’s the only one that can remove your curse. You must remember: Mabel does no favors. Be careful, B.

Your life depends on it.

•••

Isadora led me through her house to a rickety back porch where a torch illuminated the ground. A single trail ran from a set of wooden stairs, disappearing into trees and deadfall beyond. The gray and muted brown leaves matched my simple brown dress. Winter robbed Letum Wood of color, leaving it stark and ugly.

“Well, keep to the trail.” Isadora cast a look at the sky. “It looks like rain, so you better hurry. It’s at least an hour’s walk to the school from here.”

“Thank you.”

I pulled the hood of my cloak over my long black hair and took a few steps forward. Every minute of my life led to this moment.
Fate may be a fickle mistress,
I thought, glancing at the sky,
but she isn’t entirely unforgiving.

Isadora called to me, stopping me in my tracks. 

“Did you know they are taking volunteers for the Competition tonight?”

I kept my hood up and my eyes on the ground so she couldn’t read my expression. 

“Yes,” I said. “I heard that rumor.”

I left before she could ask more, evaporating in the mist of Letum Wood.

Merry Meets

T
he tree branches rattled together in hollow knocks from the wind, and a few brittle leaves fluttered past my legs as I started. A chill bit through my black cloak, wrapping me in a crisp blanket of cool air. Once I’d put some space between us, I looked back. Only an empty porch and extinguished torch remained.

Glad to leave the interview behind, I whispered a special incantation, one Papa found just for me. The folds of my skirt lifted up, like an invisible hand was drawing a pair of drapes, until they stopped around my waist. My frilly white knickers, lovingly sewn by Grandmother’s arthritic hands, revealed themselves to all of Letum Wood. No one would be here on the trail, but I cast my eyes around just in case.

Clear.

I took off at a steady jog, holding my cape so it wouldn’t tangle in my legs. My muscles warmed to the movement with little preamble, and I gave them room to fly. The forest soared past, a whiz and whir of spindly branches and old moss. The familiar staccato rhythm of my heart soothed me; all of my anxiety melted into the cool earth. I pounded down the path.

A storm threatened to break with every gust of wind that hurried me along. My thoughts spun, recalling the smell of lavender tea in Mama’s cup, the down pillow I left behind, and the garden of spices in front of our little cottage that Grandmother loved so much. The melancholy caw of a crow reminded me that I was alone. 

A change in the trees slowed me to a walk. I shoved my skirts down and dropped the cloak, suddenly nervous I’d be seen. What a great first impression that would make, trotting up to school with my knickers blaring for all to see. 

I’m Bianca Monroe, and I run in the woods with my skirts up. I also don’t know how to steep or pour tea.

Catching my fast breath, I peered through the thick foliage to see unnatural color between the branches. The school.

My cloak drifted ahead of me in the breeze when I walked out of the deadfall and stopped at a black, wrought iron fence. A loose gate moved with a shrill cry in the wind. 

The old manor was a gothic structure, made of shadows and aged stone that faded to light cream color. Ivy crawled across the front in brittle strands, shuddering in the wind. A steady stream of smoke drifted from two chimneys on the far right side. The late evening gloom overshadowed the sprawling beauty, leaving the manor both depressing and intriguing.

Twelve darkened windows marched across the second, third, and fourth floors. They must be student bedrooms. Five sat on either side of the front door on the ground level. Candles illuminated several glass panes with warm, buttery light. A wooden board introduced me to the school. It looked ancient and worn, like a standing citadel stained with shadow. A shudder spun down my spine.

Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.

After taking a deep breath, I pushed through the cool gate and strode forward. “Here we are,” I whispered, pulling in a bolstering breath. “Here we go.”

Confidence.

When I knocked on the thick wooden door it seemed to reverberate inside. A quick fall of steps came soon after, and when the door opened, an older woman with green eyes stood to welcome me. Flour dusted her apron, and her hair sat like a gray pillow on top of her head.

Her shrewd eyes narrowed.

“Bianca Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“Come in.” She opened the door wider. “Isadora just finished meeting with Miss Mabel. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

A few leaves scuttled into the warm entry ahead of me. The woman had to push against the wind to close the door. 

“Your bags are up in your room already. My name is Miss Celia. I’m a teacher here.”

I stepped into a vestibule. The ceiling rose several floors, following the twirl of a wide staircase. A silver chandelier with dripping candles hung from the very top floor several stories above, illuminating the ground and walls of cream-colored stone. A crimson rug climbed along each stair, accenting the carved ivy leaves twisting through the railing. Skinny candles flickered from iron wall sconces and cast dancing shadows on the grainy wooden floor. 

It was warm, at least. If not a bit old.

“Wait here.”

She disappeared down a hallway at the end of the entry, leaving me to feel small in the dominating presence of the room. When I turned my focus to listening, the distant clang and clatter of pots came to my ears first. A buttery smell filled the air, making my stomach growl.

“This is Camille. She’s a first-year like you. Camille, show Bianca up to her room, please.”

Miss Celia reappeared with a girl my age in tow. She had curly blonde hair held away from her face by a white headband. I assumed that the navy blue dress over a long white shirt fitting down to her wrists was the school uniform, as a few other girls walked by in similar blue dresses. A kind smile lit her face.

“Merry meet, Bianca!”

Miss Celia ushered us up the staircase with a frantic wave of her hands.

“Go on, go on!” she exclaimed. “It’s just about time to eat. Heaven knows I don’t have time for interruptions.”

Camille beckoned me to follow her as she started up the stairs, leaving me to trail behind. Miss Celia’s tirade faded into the background.

“Don’t mind Miss Celia,” Camille said with a roll of her hazel eyes. “She gets really stressed at mealtimes. She runs the kitchen and has for years. Her cinnamon buns are legendary, and so is her bread. Trust me.”

“Oh, that’s good to know.”

“Did you just get here?” she asked, as if my clothes and lack of know-how weren’t any indication.

“Yes.”

“You must be cold then! We’ll get you by the fire in the dining room soon. Miss Celia’s prepped a feast tonight that will warm you up faster than anything. It’s the Feast of the Competition!”

We approached the second floor. The stairway continued up, but the landing opened to a dark corridor filled with doors and a tarnished wood floor. A warm fire blazed at the end of the hall, where girls in similar blue dresses moved around.

“This is the third-year corridor. Don’t go in there!” Camille said, pulling me back when I stepped across the doorway. “They get really picky about first-years in their area. Especially Priscilla.” She lowered her tone and spoke behind her hand. “She gets really upset. Her dad is rich so she gets away with it.”

Camille grabbed my arm and spun me back towards the stairs. Our shoes clacked on the floor as we climbed. “The second-years are okay, but most of them spend time trying to get the attention of the third-years. They usually ignore us.”