Miss Mabel's School for Girls (36 page)

“The red scales,” she said, announcing the next card and placing it to the left. “It means you’ll execute justice on this line.”

I thought of my curse, of Miss Mabel.
Justice,
I thought, overwhelmed by a sudden desire to have that power.
What a sweet word.
A few candles flared high and sputtered out, drowning the library in a low blanket of light. Jackie shot me a sharp look, her eyes narrowed.

“What an odd rush of wind. What’s next?” I asked, trying to distract her. A few girls on the other side of the room let out annoyed cries as they re-lit the burned out candles, restoring the light in the room. Jackie hesitated, her hand hovering over the deck, then grabbed the next card.

“The High Priest of Spears.”

A man with dark, nearly black, skin wearing a fur-lined cloak and a heavy crown stared back at me. He balanced four spears in one hand. Not all of them were sharp. A lion with a full mane roared from next to him. I knew what this card meant.

“He only has one eye,” Jackie pointed out. Camille recoiled in disgust. “That indicates determination, purpose. But the four spears represent the four directions of the earth. When these are brought together in one purpose under the High Priest of Spears, war always ensues.”

He sat next to the Guardian, a dark omen, to be sure. Jackie didn’t hesitate. She moved onto the next card, clearly ready to be done with me. I didn’t blame her. 

“The High Priestess.”

She overturned a card with a beautiful, flowing woman in a white gown. Jackie’s face, which had taken on momentary relief when she drew the beneficial card, fell back into concern. Camille exclaimed over the long folds of the dress, untouched by the darkness that seemed so apparent to Jackie and me.

“A woman of tenacity and strength but, when wearing the mourning robes of white, signifies passage, death, and grieving. Taken with the card of justice, it could mean that death satisfies the uneven scales.”

It felt as if a light bird pecked at my heart, eating it one piece at a time. Death would bring no justice to my grandmother, my mother, or myself. I looked away from the beautiful face of the High Priestess with a knot in my stomach.

“The next?” I asked, my voice a croak.

“The raven,” she announced. We exchanged a look, and my thoughts fell back to the idle drawing I’d made. A drawing that may not have been so idle. I made a mental note to look at it again later. “Ravens mean . . . death, doom. Betrayal by friends or enemies.”

Teachers.

“The last one,” she said, pulling the card out without needing encouragement, “is the fool.”

All of us stared at it in surprise.

“The fool?” I asked, gazing up at her. Her forehead furrowed into deeper lines. She lifted her shoulders in a half shrug. “What does that mean?”

The painting on the card showed a young witch walking along a path riddled with snakes that had coiled up to bite his ankles. He looked up, oblivious to the danger at his feet, a mocking smile on his face.

“It could indicate a purposeful blindness to the dangers. Looking away because you don’t want to see what’s really there,” Jackie said, fidgeting.

“Denial?”

“Yes,” she said with an exhale, looking between the three cards. Her eyes lifted to mine, to the cards, and back to mine. “I have to admit, Bianca. This reading may be beyond me. I’m not really sure what to make of it. The line on the left is confusing.” She motioned to the scales, the High Priestess, and the fool. “There’s no one united purpose in these three cards. But over here,” she motioned to the cards on the right. The Guardian, The High Priest of Spears, and the raven. “These all indicate war and fighting.”

Her chocolate eyes peered into mine.

“Are you fighting with someone?” she asked.

Yes. Dear Miss Mabel holds my life in her hands.

I pasted on a sweet smile, hoping to dispel the gloom, wishing I could take all of this back.

“Just my homework.”

“Whatever you end up deciding,” Camille said, pointing to the pile on the right and meeting my eyes. “Don’t choose this way! It looks dangerous. If you choose the other way, you’ll just be confused. I’d much rather have that.”

Camille’s light-hearted tone was forced. I could tell by the distressed look in her eyes that she’d caught on but tried to put a positive spin on it. Jackie chuckled under her breath and swept the two piles together.

“Yes, Bianca. Confusion is much better than war!”

Is it?
I wanted to ask, but held my tongue.

Jackie shuffled the cards back into the deck, obliterating any evidence that the two paths existed. I asked her a question about her grandmother and soon the dark reading was forgotten, lost in our laughter as she told us stories of growing up with a Diviner.

By the time the three of us went to dinner, I could pretend I’d forgotten what Jackie had said, tucking it into the back of my mind, safe, forgotten, and far away. We dove with relish into Miss Celia’s chicken pot pie, lost in a discussion about whether of not Camille would make a good Diviner.

Brianna's Birthday

M
iss Mabel’s voice wafted into the classroom the next day. I looked up, startled out of a summary I was writing on silent curses, not even aware that Miss Mabel was in the attic. Nor had I realized how quiet it had become in the school. A couple of white messenger envelopes sat underneath my bedroom door. I recognized Camille’s handwriting on one of them. They must have been trying to get ahold of me, but I’d been too absorbed in homework to notice.

Setting aside the papers and textbooks that cluttered my desk, I rose from the chair and headed towards her office, grabbing the messages from my friends as I went. Miss Mabel stood at the window, looking down on the yard. Girlish shrieks and laughter from the students playing below filtered through the open window.

“They just started the birthday party for Brianna. She’s turning eighteen today. Or was it seventeen? Oh, I don’t really care.”

I peered past her to the queue of girls playing games in the grass. The storm from the night before left a crisp blue sky in its wake. The sun was warm enough that the air would be tolerable for an hour or two, but most of the girls still wore their cloaks. They hovered in small congregations, talking and giggling like jabbering birds.

“Isn’t she a lovely girl?” Miss Mabel continued. “Such dark brown hair. It’s almost as long as yours. Look, her friends made her a crown of white flowers. They’re learning about simple transformation spells this week and doing quite well.”

A pang of resentment stabbed me. Anything would be better than sitting up here, cooped in the attic’s four walls, answering questions I didn’t care about. I couldn’t enjoy the happy scene. The cloying tone in Miss Mabel’s voice set me on edge. She was up to something.

Her gaze narrowed.

“Wouldn’t it be a shame if someone cast a curse on the birthday girl? It would certainly ruin her day, wouldn’t it?”

My heart stuttered.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “It would.”

“All that beautiful curly hair of hers. Wouldn’t it be awful if it became a head full of snakes at her party?”

I paused in shock. She wouldn’t.

Miss Mabel turned and met my gaze with an easy smile, as if she’d read my mind. Her eyes seemed to say,
Yes, I would. And I plan to. So you better get to work.

Panicked, I scrambled forward and leaned out the window, searching for Brianna through the crowd. Camille, Jackie, and a few other first-years had formed a circle with a group of second-years. The third-years watched from a distance, stuck on their usual haughty perch like preening birds. Hadn’t Brianna shown up to her own party? Where was she?

Augustus stood in the tree line in case he was needed, awkward in the midst of so many teenagers. Miss Celia, red-faced and frazzled, shouted directions to Michelle as she followed behind a giant cake in the shape of a blood red heart.

Leda stood alone, a book in hand and a look of intense concentration on her face. Then she turned to find me in the window and met my eyes in fear. My panic doubled.

Where was Brianna?

Her full hair gave her away when her friends worked to push her into the middle of the human ring. She finally assented with a shy blush, standing alone in the center. Nothing in her hair gave me any indication that Miss Mabel had set the curse, but I wasn’t optimistic enough to think she hadn’t.

My brain sped through every option. If it had to do with hair, it would be a vanity curse. Or would it be an adjustment curse? No, that was only for tailoring and sewing.

“Oh dear,” Miss Mabel exclaimed, “do I see something moving?”

Brianna’s hair shifted, rearranging itself into small ropes. The students started a low, harmonic chant, the beginning of a blessing circle meant for birthdays.

“Tick, tick,” Miss Mabel whispered with a grin.

I whispered the counter-curse for a well-known retribution curse under my breath and watched in relief as Brianna’s hair calmed back into its individual curls. Then I combed the crowd to find no one any wiser.

My time to feel relief fell short.

Leda caught my eye and motioned to Camille with a jerk of her head. Camille opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. She shook her head and tried again, puzzled. She stepped away from the circle, seeking Leda, her eyes wide and her face blooming cherry red.

A wave of fury rushed over me. Miss Mabel had cast a curse on one of my best friends.

“What a fun little party,” she murmured.

I watched Camille’s every move for clues as Leda rushed to her side. There were so many possibilities, and I didn’t know how to narrow them down from so far away.

Miss Mabel used a weakness or exploited a strength with everything she did, so I took a wild guess and whispered the tongue-tied counter-curse. As soon as I did, words poured out of Camille like a dam releasing floodwater. She prattled in relief, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

“Well done, Bianca,” Miss Mabel crooned. “You have an uncanny talent for counter-curses. I’m most impressed. You countered the curse I warned you about and one I didn’t. Congratulations.”

She stepped away from the window. My heart raced as I stared at the carefree scene below. Brianna stood with her hands folded in front of her, a lovely, appropriately shy smile on her face as the students finished her blessing and Miss Celia produced the rouge cake.

“Go have fun at the party, Bianca,” Miss Mabel said from the doorway. “It looks like a great time.”

Her low chuckle echoed in the room as she departed, disappearing into her personal quarters and leaving me at the office window, staring down, trying to pull myself together. Oh, how I hated her. I had to remind myself that she still held ultimate power over the curse, over my life, and until the moment that changed I’d have to hate her in silence.

I backed away until I hit the wall and sank to the floor, not sure how many more tests I could endure.

It Won't Kill You

I
rapped on Leda’s door with my knuckles, reassured by the movement of a shadow under her door.

“Are you awake?” I asked. She called out for me to enter, and I slipped inside.

The smell of syrup and melted butter breezed into the room with me. Leda stood at her desk, an organized thoroughfare of parchment, scrolls, books, and feathers. A few childish drawings from her younger siblings filled her wall, perfectly aligned and centered over her bed.

“Looks just like you,” I said, pointing to one such picture that depicted a girl with a tan dress and no hair.

“They never draw my hair,” she said with a rueful sigh. “It’s so light they just say the paper counts. They ran out of blue crayon, so they drew a tan dress.”

I chuckled under my breath.

“Do you miss your family?” I asked.

To my surprise, she had to think about the question before she responded.

“Yes, and no. I don’t miss hiding in the closet to get some privacy or watering down the soup to make sure everyone gets enough. I thought, when I came to school, that I’d love the quiet. But sometimes I hate it, like it’s too much.”

Her face flushed a little when she looked at me.

“Anyway,” she quickly said, whirling away to stuff her bag with essentials for school that morning. She didn’t like to be unprepared. “I guess I do miss them sometimes.”

Sensing her hesitancy at discussing something so personal, I changed the subject. “Where’s Camille?”

“Probably still asleep,” she said with a roll of her eyes. A braided rug, lopsided and bulging, covered the chilly wooden floor. The tidy, efficient room seemed warm and cozy, something I never felt in the attic. I would decorate my room, but that would make it feel too permanent, like I meant to stay. “We’ll grab her on the way down. Let’s go.”

Camille met us in the hall, her eyes still swollen and bleary.

“Hi,” she mumbled, rubbing one eye and yawning, her usual headband drooping over one ear. The three of us headed down the stairs for breakfast, where platters of steaming scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and high stacks of thin, rolled cakes met our eager eyes.