The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 19

Her eyes sweep the room and seem to rest on every girl, bequeathing each of us with an unseen mantle. My earlier urge to giggle vanishes, and a heaviness settles over me like a late spring snow.

“April is nearly upon us; May beckons. And for some of our girls, the time will soon come to leave us.”

Beside me, Ann rubs absently at the scars on her arm. I put my hands in hers.

“Every year, we host a small tea to honor our graduates. This year, we shall not.”

A low rumble of shock reverberates in the small chapel. The girls lose their grins. Elizabeth looks as if she might cry. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Cecily whispers, horrified. “Would she?”

“Quiet, quiet, please.” Mrs. Nightwing’s words echo. “It is my great pleasure to tell you that this year, we shall not host a tea but rather a ball.”

A surge of excitement ripples through the girls from pew to pew. A ball!

“It is to be a masked ball, a jolly spectacle of costume, held on May Day for patrons and parents. No doubt you have already begun to dream of fairy wings and noble Indian princesses. Perhaps there will be among you a pirate or Nefertiti or a stately Queen Mab.”

Another ripple of girlish exhilaration disturbs the calm of the chapel.

“I shall make a splendid Queen Mab,” Felicity says. “Don’t you think?”

Cecily’s outraged. “Why, Felicity Worthington, that was to be my costume.”

“Not anymore it isn’t. I thought of it first.”

“How could you have thought of it first when I did!”

“Ladies! Grace, strength, beauty!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts over the din, reminding us of the Spence motto as well as our manners. We settle like a flower garden after a sudden tempest of wind. “I’ve another surprise. As you know, our Miss McCleethy has been away these months attending to urgent personal matters. I am pleased to say that her obligations elsewhere are at an end, and she will be returning to us soon. I’ve a letter, which I shall read aloud.” She clears her throat. “‘Dear Ladies of Spence, I do hope this letter finds you well. Spring should be shining on our dear school. It must be a lovely sight, and I hope to enjoy it soon. Mrs. Nightwing has asked if I might permanently accept the position vacated by Miss Moore, and I am happy to say that I have accepted. It was not my intention to stay on at Spence, but it seems I am needed there, and I go wherever duty calls. It is my fervent hope to see you all by month’s end. Until then, I wish you well with your studies and the best of luck with the porridge.’”

This is followed by laughter, as Spence’s porridge is notoriously awful.

“‘And for those leaving us soon to take their places in the world, I would ask them to remember their obligations as well as their dreams. Fondly, Your Miss McCleethy.’”

The gust has blown through: The girls fall into merry chatter again. Though I am excited too, I am not entirely at ease. I can’t help feeling that this last bit is directed at me, an arrow flying straight from the hard bow of Miss McCleethy’s desire to have the Order resume their place within the realms.

The last I saw of Claire Sahirah McCleethy was at Christmastime in London. She pretended to forge an alliance with the Rakshana and tried to force me to take her into the realms. Once I bound the magic to myself, she expected me to return the power to the Order, to join with them on their terms. When I refused, she warned me not to make enemies of them. And then she was gone. Mrs. Nightwing told the girls of Spence little about her absence. Now she’s coming back, and I wonder what it bodes for me.

We pour out the chapel’s ancient oak doors in twos and threes, talking breathlessly of what is to come.

“I am glad to hear Miss McCleethy’s returning. That is welcome news, indeed,” Cecily says.

“We should prepare a song or poem to welcome our Miss McCleethy home,” Elizabeth trills. Her voice offends my ears at this hour.

Martha’s joined the fray. “Oh, yes! I rather like Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

“I c-c-could sing for her,” Ann offers. She’s trailing just behind.

For a moment, no one speaks. “Oh, Elizabeth, you’ve a lovely voice. Why don’t you sing for our Miss McCleethy?” Cecily coos, as if Ann never said a word. She reminds me of a bee, seemingly in the business of honey but with a rather nasty sting.

“Yes, do,” Martha quickly agrees.

“Then it is settled. Martha and I shall read a sonnet. Elizabeth, you shall sing. Fee, perhaps you’d prepare with us?”