Shana Abe - The Sweetest Dark

Oh, God. There was definitely something wrong with me.

“Keep up, gel.” Mr. Hastings had stopped before a new door, a much more modern one than the ancient iron-and-oak pair blockading the main entrance. He waited until I crept closer, nodded, then knocked hard twice against the painted wood.

“Enter,” came a female voice from the room beyond.

Hastings opened the door, motioned for me to go ahead.

It was clearly the headmistress’s chamber. I’d seen enough of Director Forrester’s office to recognize the subtle signals of adult power, although it was accomplished much more elegantly here: the bookcases filled with important tomes, their lettering a gilded gleam along flawless spines. Long, creamy lace curtains framing the windows—no dust on these—beautiful enough to be bridal veils. Vases of lilies perfuming the air, a low crackling fire in the hearth. A chandelier of brass and wax candles throwing glints of honeyed illumination. A ticking clock.

A wide polished desk of cherrywood with two wing chairs before it and a more imposing one behind with a woman seated in it, her head bent, writing.

“Thank you, Mr. Hastings,” she murmured, without glancing up from her work.

I heard the door close behind me. I stood where I was without moving, without even loosening my grip on my hat and case.

The clock continued to tick. The woman continued to write. Her hair was confined to a strict ebony twist, not a strand out of place, something I never managed to accomplish with my own.

A ring flashed on her hand. Instinctively I knew—and hated that I knew—that it was a green sapphire, one-and-one-quarter carats, with a band of platinum.

I realized then that I felt queasy. The light was too slick, the scent of the lilies nearly overwhelming. I swayed a bit on my feet and dug my fingers deeper into the straw of my hat.

It’s all a mistake, I thought. She’ll look up, she’ll look at me and tell me it’s all been a mistake, I’m too peculiar, I’m not wanted here after all. I’ll have to find my way back to the station. I’ll have to speak to Jesse again and hear that music, and what if he touches me—

The woman’s head lifted. She was older than the absolute black of her hair had suggested. Her features were finely lined; the corners of her lips had wrinkled into puckers.

“Miss Jones. You are quite late.”

“I beg your pardon,” I replied automatically, although a spot of resentment began a sudden burn in my chest, dispelling some of the nausea. What was I supposed to have done? Pushed at the train with my bare hands to force it faster?

Perhaps she noticed my instant of rebellion. Perhaps not. Her eyes seemed to narrow, but it might have been merely the poor light.

“You may be seated.”

I moved to the wing chair nearest me, sinking like a child deep into the leather.

“I am Mrs. Westcliffe, the headmistress of Iverson.”

I tried to inch up higher in the chair. “How do you do?”

“How do you do. I’d like to commence our relationship by speaking with you plainly. I trust you won’t mind. You’re a rather different sort of student than we typically host here at the school. Your records indicate that you are not without intelligence, so you will perceive this fact for yourself soon enough. I have no wish to alarm you or to shame you, but, apart from the servants, you will not find a peer here at Iverson.”

I thought of the divine Chloe and her less-than-divine laughter.

“Oh,” I said, sinking back again.

“The Iverson School for Girls attracts young women from the most elite families across the empire. We are considered the foremost educational opportunity for such young women, and hence it is imperative our reputation remains unsullied. I want to assure you that I will personally do whatever I must to protect my students and this school from any hint of impropriety.”

She paused, gazing at me. It was pretty clear where she thought any hints of impropriety would be coming from.

“I understand,” I said.

“We are also fortunate enough to enjoy the patronage of the Duke of Idylling himself, whose own social connections are, of course, unimpeachable.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Westcliffe shot me an abruptly beady look. “It is due to the duke that you are here before me now. His allowance for the castle and its grounds includes the proviso that, for any given semester, at least one scholarship student must be in attendance, preferably one from out of the area so as to lessen tensions amongst the locals. Whatever my misgivings about your previous circumstances, I find myself perfectly in accord with the duke’s wishes. Honest charity is never to be frowned upon, nor are intentions of the purest nature.”

She paused again, waiting, so I added another, “Of course.”

It seemed to mollify her; the beady look softened. “Your classes will be identical to those of every other pupil in your year. In this respect, at least, you will be equal. What you learn here will be up to you, Miss Jones. But I will add frankly that graduation and a magnanimous letter of recommendation from this school will place you at the top of any governess list in proper British society, and with good reason.”

“Thank you,” I said, because I was not without intelligence, and by then I’d learned my cue.

Mrs. Westcliffe inclined her head, a gracious queen in her gilded realm.

Governess. I wanted to sigh out loud, but it was an enormous boon, I knew. Most girls from Blisshaven went straight to the workhouses when they were too old for schooling. They became the necessary hands populating the vast city factories: ropemaking, sewing machines, beer.

Or they became willing bodies for the streets. More money, less time. Less life expectancy, too, usually.

“On to more-practical matters. A schedule of your courses awaits you in your room, along with any required texts. You have been allocated six uniforms, five for everyday classes and one for more-formal school functions. I presume you have the sum of your belongings in that case? And that you have presentable garments for the weekends?”

“Yes, ma’am.” If you wish to call a pair of threadbare skirts and darned stockings presentable .

“Students are permitted a single item of personal jewelry with the uniform. Something discreet, naturally. A cameo brooch. A filigree pin, a pearl. Possibly a small watch, should the chain drape well enough. Some of the girls have taken to wearing gold bangles. It’s a slightly vulgar fashion, I feel, but as long as it is only one bangle and you show it to me first so that I may be certain it is appropriate, that may suffice, as well.”

“Yes, Mrs. Westcliffe,” I said gravely. “I shall show you any bangle I wish to wear first.”

“Excellent. As tomorrow is Sunday, all that will be required of you is to attend services in the chapel. After that, you may explore the grounds at your leisure. It will give you time to learn the castle, as well.” She rose to her feet, and I did the same. “I feel we are to get on, Miss Jones. I hope I am not mistaken.”

She stuck out her hand, surprising me—I thought I’d just get a royal dismissal. Her grip on my fingers was both chill and firm.

“Almeda will show you to your room. Allow me to be the first to say welcome to you, Eleanore Jones. Welcome to Iverson.”

...

I learned that night that the loveliest, most lonely sound in the world is that of the sea striking the shore. It rocked me into slumber, echoing my drowsing pulse.

The room assigned to me had clearly never been meant to serve as a bedchamber. It consisted of the upper floor of one of the towers, with a high ceiling and curved walls that made the bed jut out awkwardly no matter where I moved. There was no rug and no fireplace. Come winter, the tower would be an icebox, but at least there was a pile of quilts at the foot of the bed.