Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 31

I am too afraid to peer in, so I put my ear to the crack, just as Mrs. Nightwing says,"I shall take care of it. It is my charge, after all."

With that, Miss McCleethy steps through the door, catching me.

"Eavesdropping, Miss Doyle?" she asks, her eyes flashing.

"What is it? What's the matter?" Mrs. Nightwing demands.

"Miss Doyle! What on earth!"

"I--I am sorry, Mrs. Nightwing. I heard voices."

"What did you hear?" Mrs. Nightwing asks.

"Nothing," I say.

"You expect us to believe you?" Miss McCleethy presses.

"It's true," I lie. "The school is so empty and I was having trouble sleeping."

Miss McCleethy and Mrs. Nightwing exchange glances.

"Get on to bed, then, Miss Doyle," Mrs. Nightwing says. "In the future, you should make your presence known at once."

"Yes, Mrs. Nightwing," I say, nearly running to my room at the end of the hall.

What were they speaking of? Must begin what?

With effort, I remove my boots, dress, corset, and stockings, till I am down to my chemise. There are exactly fourteen pins in my hair. I count them as my trembling fingers remove each one. My coppery curls roll down my back in a sigh of relief. It's no good. I'm far too jittery to think of sleep. I am in need of a distraction, something to ease my mind. Beneath her bed, Ann keeps a stack of magazines, the sort that offer advice and show the latest fashions. On the cover is an illustration of a beautiful woman. Her hair is adorned with feathers. Her skin is creamy perfection and her gaze manages to be both kind and pensive, as if she's staring off into the sunset while also thinking of bandaging the skinned knees of crying children. I do not know how to accomplish such a look. I find myself with a new fear: that I shall never, ever be this lovely.

I sit at the dressing table, staring at myself in the mirror, turning my face this way and that. My profile is decent. I've a straight nose and a good jaw. Turning to the mirror again, I take in the freckles and pale brows. Hopeless. It isn't as if there's something horrific about me; it's just that there's nothing that stands out. No mystery. I am not the sort one would picture on the cover of penny magazines, gazing adoringly into the distance. I am not the sort who is pined for by admirers, the girl immortalized in song. And I cannot say that it doesn't sting to know this.

When I attend dinners and balls--if I attend any, that is-- what will others see in me? Will they even notice? Or will sighing brothers and dear old uncles and distant cousins of other cousins be forced to dance with me out of some sense of politeness because their wives, mothers, and hostesses have forced them into it?

Could I ever be a goddess? I brush my hair and arrange it across my shoulders as I've seen in daring posters for operas in which consumptive women die for love while looking achingly beautiful. If I squint and part my lips just so, I could be mistaken for alluring, perhaps. My reflection wants something. Gingerly, I push down the shoulder straps of my chemise, baring flesh. I shake my hair slightly so that it goes a bit wild, as if I were a wood nymph, something untamed.

"Excuse me," I say to my reflection,"I don't believe we've met. I am . . ." Pale. That's what I am. I pinch roses in my cheeks and start over, adopting a low snarl of a voice. "Who is it that roams my woods so freely? Speak your name. Speak!"

Behind me, there is the clearing of a throat, followed by a whisper."It is I, Kartik." A tiny yelp escapes from my throat. I jump up from my dressing table and immediately trip on the edge of it, falling on the rug and bringing the chair down with me. Kartik steps from behind my dressing screen, his palms up in front of his chest.

"Please. Don't scream."

"How dare you!" I gasp, running for my cupboard and the robe that hangs there. Oh, God, where is it?

Kartik stares at the floor. "I . . . It wasn't my intention, I assure you. I was there, but I dozed off, and then . . . Are you . . . presentable?"

I've found the robe but my fingers cannot possibly work in such a state. The robe is buttoned all wrong. It hangs at an odd angle. I cross my arms to minimize the damage. "Perhaps you do not know, but it is unforgivable to hide in a lady's room. And not to announce yourself whilst she is dressing . . ." I fume."Unforgivable."

"I am sorry," he says, looking sheepish.

"Unforgivable," I repeat.

"Should I go and come back?"

"As you are already here, you may as well stay." Truthfully, I am glad to have company after my unfortunate encounter earlier. "What is it that is so urgent it requires you to scale a wall and hide behind my dressing screen?''