The Sweetest Dark (5 page)

Chapter Six

Here is the list of weapons I counted in the headmistress's serene golden chamber:

The candles from the chandelier.

The poker and its stand by the fireplace.

The pink-daisied porcelain lamps, which had been unlit, on the secrétaire and side cabinet and reading table.

Every single oil painting, remarkably flammable.

The curtains.

The crystal vases.

The bronze-framed mirror.

The glass face of the clock.

The inkwell.

And, of course, the letter opener on her desk, made of hard, sharp bone.

Hattie Boyd once held a letter opener she'd snatched from a nurse's hand to the jugular vein of Mrs. Buckler, the most vicious matron in Moor Gate. She held it there until she was promised one of the beef-and-potato pasties being served to the staff for supper. It cost her a blackened eye and two entire months in the isolation cell in the basement.

A few days before they managed to kill her for good, Hattie confided to me that that pasty was most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

Chapter Seven

My eyes opened the next morning to a prism of sunlight stretched across my face and down my pillow. I groaned and rolled away from it, smelling feathers and brine. And … something fruity. Oranges?

I sat up, caught in that hazy state of not-yet-ready-to-be-awake, but the sun was bright, and about a second later there was a tapping on my door, which creaked open to reveal a housemaid.

“Good morning, miss. I'm Gladys. I've brought your fresh water.”

And so she had, carrying a filled pitcher up what had to be at least three flights of stairs. She moved to the bureau and set it there by the basin, then turned to me, still bundled in my quilt.

I swiped a mess of hair from my lashes and smiled at her tentatively. No one had ever brought me an entire pitcher of water before.

She was older than I, about twenty I would guess, with a skinny, angular frame and an apron so severely starched it looked like the edges could slice cheese. She did not smile back.

“Food's not allowed in the students' rooms, miss.” Gladys aimed her gaze pointedly at something by my side.

I looked down. There
was
an orange—a real one, fat and colorful—nestled right up against my pillow.

It had not been there last night. It had not. I would have felt it, smelled it. Certainly it hadn't come with me from Blisshaven. I'd emptied my case down to the stitches.

Yet in an act of inexplicable sorcery, the orange was here now.

I remembered abruptly my dream, that touch to my face, how it had seemed so pleasurable and so real … like a gift.

“I—” I glanced up again at the maid; there was no mistaking now the rancor behind her eyes. Here was someone who was not especially pleased to consider me her peer. “I must have unpacked it last night and forgotten about it,” I lied. “So sorry. It won't happen again.”

She returned to the door. “Breakfast begins in a half hour. I'm to show you the way, so I'll be back before then.”

“Right. Thank you.”

The door clicked shut without a response.

I sat there for a moment, then picked up the orange, rolling it between my palms. Never once had any form of my madness produced food from empty air; someone had given me this. Last night. As I slept. And even though I hadn't dreamed of music, there was no question in my mind about who it had been.

The tower door had no lock, no bolt. If Jesse worked for the school, as I suspected, he probably knew the castle like the back of his hand. But why would he risk such a thing? I could only imagine what Mrs. Westcliffe would do were she to come across her coachman sneaking into pupils' rooms.

My
room, rather. I'd likely set an Iverson record for Most Hastily Arranged Expulsion.

If it
had
been Jesse. If my mind hadn't snapped, and I hadn't carried the orange with me from London after all. In the clear light of day, it was difficult to envision even the mysterious Jesse venturing all the way up here just to leave me fruit.

An odd bit of folklore rose to the surface of my thoughts, something I'd read years ago in a battered, dusty book I discovered tucked in a cupboard at the Home. I'd always read every book I could find, and this one was about monsters, so old the pages had crumbled against my fingers:

Do not Eat the Food of the Fay. Do not Drink their Wine. You give Yourself to Them with every Sip, every Swallow. They shall Darken your Blood until you Desire only Dark. Only what Pleasures They may Bestow.

I shivered in the morning sunlight. I brought the orange to my lips in a deliberate hard kiss, meant to hurt. The rind hinted of bitter but the scent was still sweet.

“What am I to make of you?” I muttered into it. “Are you Dark?”

I will be delicious,
was all the orange seemed to reply.

Dark or not, I was starving. But I didn't own a clock or a watch, and I didn't know how long a half hour might truly be. Gladys seemed like the kind of person who'd be delighted to tell anyone she could about how she'd discovered the new scholarship girl half dressed, with orange juice dribbled down her chin.

I stored the orange in the depths of the bureau, then opened the drawers containing my two clean outfits and sighed, wondering which would embarrass me less.

I decided on the one
without
the rip in its skirt. It was Sunday, after all.

There was a small looking glass upon the bureau, pushed off to the side by the stack of textbooks and papers I hadn't yet examined. I was accustomed to slipping in and out my clothes without being able to see myself. We'd had a standing mirror in the dorm of the Home, but with fifty girls to a room, all of us bound to the same schedule, good ruddy luck getting in front of it to dress.

I honestly wasn't used to seeing my own reflection. It was with a little jolt of surprise that, when I bent my neck to stick another pin into my hair, I saw a corner of a girl doing the same nearby.

I dropped my hands, curious, and picked up the frame. Yes, there I was. Hair of indeterminate color—but at least I'd gotten it up into its roll—eyes of indeterminate color. Eyelashes, eyebrows, reddish lips. Complexion, not the perfect peachy silk of a debutante but something more like … like stone, really. I tipped my head this way and that, critical. My complexion was probably my best feature, I decided, mostly because my skin was unblemished and uniformly marble pale.

I returned the glass to its place. I looked exactly like what I was, a slum girl from the city, where hearty meals were rare and the sun was a stranger.

I was ready when Gladys gave her next knock. I smoothed my hands along my hair one last time and followed her down the stairs.

...

I heard them before I saw them: high, chattering voices swelling and fading above the unmistakable clatter of flatware against china. The doors to the dining hall were open as we approached. I glimpsed a space deep and wide with pastel plastered walls and yellow spears of sunlight falling in precise angles from windows unseen. Chandeliers glittered with crystal. Tables gleamed with food. And girls in gowns of every hue were seated in chairs along the tables, rows and rows of rainbow girls, some beaded, some ruffled, gobs of lace.

As Gladys led me closer to the entrance, the vivid colors and increasing noise reminded me of nothing so much as a flock of parrots, swept into the castle to dine upon kippers and tea.

I would learn later that this confusion of colors was unique to the weekends at Iverson. For every other day of the week, we all wore the same uniform in the same style, crisp white shirtwaists paired with long, straight, dark-plum skirts and black-buttoned shoes. No doubt then we resembled a rather stilted colony of penguins, milling here and there in our ladylike shortened steps.

Gladys paused by the doors, and so did I. She seemed disinclined to take me forward, and as I wasn't particularly inclined to
go
forward I merely stood there, allowing the voices and the delirious aroma of hot fresh breakfast to wash over me, looking at all those elite-of-the-empire girls and wishing I was anywhere,
anywhere,
else on earth. Even Moor Gate.

I dropped my gaze to the folds of my skirt. I'd accidently chosen the one with the rip in it, after all. They were both plain brown twill; we'd all worn brown at the orphanage, because it didn't show dirt.

The toes of my boots stuck out, light and dark with scuffs.

“Miss Jones,” said a voice right in front of me.

Mrs. Westcliffe. No tear in her gown. The tips of her black leather pumps shone like glass against a discreet pleated hem.

I lifted my eyes.

“Late again,” the headmistress noted, with that pinch to her mouth.

I glanced back quickly at Gladys, but she'd vanished without a word.

Thanks ever so much. You bony cow.

“I beg your pardon,” I mumbled. I had the dismal feeling I was going to be using that phrase quite a lot in my time here.

“Breakfast begins at precisely eight-thirty every morning. Do make a note of it.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs. Westcliffe sighed. “Very well. Let's find your table, shall we? Seating is assigned for all meals, barring teas. Follow me.”

I did. And as soon as I took my very first step into the hall, all the girlish, parroty chatter choked into absolute silence. I suppose that was the moment the other students realized I wasn't merely some disgraced scullery maid popped out of uniform, but instead someone who was
going to be seated at a table,
which meant—horrors!—one of them.

By my fifth step, a new sound had taken over the hall: the hiss of a hundred whispers escaping cupped hands, punctuated with giggles. It rose with every group we passed, heads turning, and by then Mrs. Westcliffe had apparently recognized her mistake, for her back grew very stiff and her heels began to strike the floor as hard as castanets.

I weighed at least three tons. Three tons of sluggish lead and shame clunking step by step in my scruffy orphan boots into the sumptuously decorated hell that was this dining hall, and what a terrible wonder that the ground did not crack apart and swallow me whole.

We ended up before a table that had a conspicuously empty chair at the far end. The students filling all the other seats gazed up at us with sparkling, hungry eyes.

“Good morning, ladies. May I introduce to you Miss Eleanore Jones, late of London. She will be in your tenth-year classes with you. I trust you will all bid her a very gracious Iverson welcome and will do your best to ensure that she feels quite at home with us.”

“Yes, Mrs. Westcliffe,” they chorused as one, sweet as sugar.

There were seven of them. They smiled seven identical smiles, and the message behind each was identical, as well. It read:
bloodbath.

The giggling at a table of younger girls across the chamber sharpened into laughter. The headmistress threw them a frowning look.

“Lady Sophia. I will leave it to you to make the round of introductions.”

“Yes, Mrs. Westcliffe,” responded a flaxen-haired, glacier-eyed young woman who clearly was used to being cast in the lead. She stood, revealing a frock of rose chiffon that matched the color in her cheeks to an uncanny degree. She aimed her frightening smile straight at me. I bared my teeth back at her.

Lady Sophia knew her game. Her lashes lowered, demure. “You may rely on me, Headmistress.”

“So I presumed. Enjoy your breakfasts. Oh, and, Lady Sophia, may I ask also that you escort Miss Jones to the chapel when the meal is concluded? She is unfamiliar as yet with the school grounds.”

“Of course, Mrs. Westcliffe.”

“Thank you.” She gave a nod to the table. “Ladies.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Westcliffe,” chirped the chorus, precisely on cue.

We all watched as she clipped toward the laughing table. As soon as she was out of hearing range, I felt Sophia's ice-blue gaze return to me.

“Eleanore, is it? That's quite a mouthful of a name for someone so …”

“Plain,” sniggered the girl in the chair next to her, round-faced and bug-eyed, with oily, wavy black hair escaping its bun.

“I was going say
penniless,
” countered Lady Sophia smoothly. “But as you like, Mittie. Oh, Eleanore, this is the Honourable Mittie Bashier, of the Doyden Bashiers, of course. And on down the table we have Lady Caroline Chiswick, Lillian St. Clair, Beatrice Hart-Stewart—the Hart-Stewarts, undoubtedly you've heard of
them
—Stella Campbell, and Malinda Ashland. Ladies, Eleanore … dear me. It appears I've forgotten your surname already. Smith, or something like that?”

“Call me anything you like,” I answered, pulling out my chair. “I certainly understand how someone with such an abnormally tiny head would struggle to remember even the most undemanding facts. It must be quite a burden for you.”

There was a collective intake of breath. I reached for the platter of bacon and toast nearest me. My fingers trembled only a little as I picked up the silver serving tongs.

Bitch,
snarled the beast in my heart, and it might have meant me.

“My,” breathed Lady Sophia, after only the barest moment of suspension. She sank gracefully back into her seat. “How nearly effortlessly you managed that. Hardly any spittle! Let us beware, girls. It appears the mudlark has claws.”

I swallowed my bite of buttery toast. “Claws, and more.”

“Indeed. I'm sure all the passing sailors and whatnot admired your pluck, Eleanore, but
here,
” she lifted her teacup and took a sip, staring straight ahead, “we abide by rules you will find quite unfamiliar. We are, after all, daughters of the
civilized
class, nothing like your own.”

“What an interesting definition you must have of the word
civilized.
”

Lady Sophia's lips formed a derisive curl, but before she could respond, a handbell was rung from the teachers' dais. Girls began pushing back their chairs.

“Time, ladies,” called out Mrs. Westcliffe, still holding the bell. Her tone stretched high and thin; she knew she was attempting to herd cats. “Off to services! Miss Faraday! Miss Turner! Put down your spoons, thank you very much. Yes, Miss MacMillan, I see you there. Walk on.
Walk,
I said. We are gentlewomen, one and all. We do not rush, but let us not keep the good reverend waiting!”

My tablemates had nearly all left. Mittie smirked at me before moving off; Sophia paused to dab her mouth with her napkin, then offered me her shark's smile. “A pity you arrived so late. I do hope you had enough to eat.”

“Yes, quite.” I smiled back at her.

...

The lovely thing about brown, and about brown twill in particular, isn't merely that it doesn't show dirt. It also disguises grease spots quite well.

Although I admit the pockets of my skirt did smell suspiciously like bacon until I thought to rinse them out again.