Immortal (2 page)

Reaching the top step, I pushed open the carved oak door. There was no sign of the girls. They had vanished into the cavernous building. The dimly lit entrance hall stood empty and silent. Faded school trophies were displayed in cabinets, and firelight flickered in a huge hearth. At the far end of the hall a wide marble staircase wound upward. A landing ran around each of the upper floors, and it was almost dizzying to look up so high. The whole place was like nothing I had ever seen before, except in museums. I walked across the tiled floor to the fireplace and tried to get warm.

This is it
, I thought.
My new life
. This was the famous Wyldcliffe Abbey School. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I would try to make the most of it. I wouldn’t complain, I would study hard and make Dad proud.

“You must be Evie Johnson,” said an expensive-sounding voice. I spun around and saw a tall, elegant woman walking out of the shadows into the firelight.

“Yes, I am.” I smiled, smoothing down my wet hair. I guessed that good manners would be a big thing at Wyldcliffe, so I held out my hand and said, “How do you do?”

The woman ignored my outstretched hand and my smile. She paused and scanned my face intently, then frowned.

“You’re late. We don’t tolerate unpunctuality at Wyldcliffe.”

“Oh, I couldn’t help…,” I began, but her look warned to me to stop. I felt myself squirming under her cold gaze, as though she knew that I had been lingering in the rain with a stranger. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” she replied coolly. “I am Celia Hartle, the High Mistress of Wyldcliffe. Now follow me. Leave your luggage here. The caretaker will deal with it.”

So this was the principal. I hoped the other teachers would be slightly more human.

She led the way down a dark corridor to the left, then paused by a door that had a sign in black letters reading HIGH MISTRESS. We entered an elegant study with paneled walls, furnished with books and paintings and antique furniture. Mrs. Hartle sat behind an impressive desk, and I sat on a hard chair opposite her. She seemed to examine me again before announcing, “I was not in favor of accepting you into the school.”

Oh, great
, I thought. She didn’t want me here. This was a perfect start.

“The term has already commenced,” she went on, “and it will be difficult for you to catch up with the advanced level of work in the senior division of the school. It will be even more difficult for you to learn our ways, our traditions. Wyldcliffe is not like other schools. This establishment is not merely about academic success. It trains young women for a place in society. In recent years, the number of scholarship places has been very limited.” She paused, and I knew she was expecting me to say how grateful I was, that I would be humble and good and meek, the perfect charity girl in a school full of young ladies. I wanted to snap back with redheaded fury, I don’t want to be in your crummy school either. I want to go home! But I managed to keep quiet.

Mrs. Hartle sighed and continued, “The school governors, however, thought that in your circumstances they could not refuse assistance.”

Dad had told me there was an old clause in the school’s constitution “to make provision for the distressed daughters of the officers of Her Majesty’s armed forces.” In other words, free tuition for a motherless girl with a father in the army and not much money.
Well, I’m distressed, all right,
I thought with a grim smile.

“You have been fortunate to qualify for a scholarship. Make sure that you deserve it!” She looked me over with distaste, taking in my muddy clothes and my stringy wet hair. Her eyes rested for a fraction of a second on the blood-spotted handkerchief that was still tied around my hand, then darted to the silver chain around my neck.

“Jewelry is not permitted in school.”

Instinctively I clasped the necklace that Frankie had given to me during my last visit to the nursing home. She had pressed it into my hand, unable to speak, her face twisted by the stroke that had nearly killed her. It was an old-fashioned trinket of intricately worked silver, with a bright crystal at its heart. I didn’t think it was valuable, but Frankie had wanted me to have it, and that made it precious.

“But Frankie, my grandmother, gave—”

“I am sure your grandmother would want you to obey the Wyldcliffe rules,” Mrs. Hartle interrupted disapprovingly. I quickly pushed the necklace out of sight under my shirt.

“That’s better. I might as well add that the use of personal phones, radios, and such is also forbidden. At Wyldcliffe we do not wish our girls to be overwhelmed by the gadgets of so-called popular culture, nor to be addicted to the mindless modern habit of communicating without meaning. You will give me any such devices for safekeeping, and they will be returned to you at the end of term.”

Reluctantly I handed over my cell phone and my precious iPod. I was beginning to dislike Mrs. Hartle and her rules.

“Now, as you unfortunately arrived so late, the girls have already gone to supper. You do not have time to change before you join them. Come!”

She stood up abruptly, and I guessed that sending me into supper looking like an absolute mess was punishment for being late. I shivered, and not from cold.

Mrs. Hartle led me through a confusing maze of paneled corridors hung with gloomy paintings, and we finally reached the dining hall. It was a chilly, vaulted room set up with long rows of tables and wooden benches. A high table ran across a raised platform, where the teachers sat. They were nearly all women, and most of them were wearing formal academic gowns. It all looked depressingly like something from a hundred years ago.

The murmur of conversation died instantly as Mrs. Hartle stepped forward. The students rose to attention, a mass of privileged girlhood from eleven to eighteen years old. They were all wearing the school uniform of dark gray and maroon—a sickly kind of bloodred color—and they all looked alike, with their shiny hair and clear complexions.

“Thank you, girls,” said Mrs. Hartle. “Please be seated. But before you continue with your supper, I would like to introduce a new student. This is Evie Johnson, who joins us as a scholar.”

She might as well have waved a placard saying, SHE’S NOT PAYING TO BE HERE; SHE’S NOT REALLY ONE OF US. I looked up at the rows of well-groomed girls, as my hair dripped onto the tiled floor.

“Hi.”

My voice sounded like a lost echo. The students stared back in silence, all two hundred of them, judging, assessing, rejecting. The faintest snicker of laughter rippled around their polished ranks.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best to welcome Miss Johnson,” said the High Mistress smoothly. “Good night, ladies.”

She marched out of the room. After what seemed like an eternity, a girl with curly brown hair stood up and said, “There’s a place here.” I walked down the long rows of watching girls and slipped gratefully into a seat opposite her. As I sat down, a rush of gossip broke out.

“Quiet, please!” scolded a low, harsh voice. I looked up at the teachers’ table and saw a thin woman with a pinched face and tightly scraped-back hair. She was clapping her hands together to bring the room to order. “We do not eat like hooligans. Please continue your supper quietly.”

The noise subsided into whispered conversations. I took a spoonful of something from a serving dish on the table, though I felt too tired to eat. The curly-haired girl who had called me over gave me an encouraging smile. I flashed a smile back at her and tried to force some food down.

“Hi, Evie,” she said across the table. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Fitzalan.”

“‘Hi, Evie, I’m Sarah,’” mimicked the girl sitting next to her. She was the ice-princess type, with perfect features and smooth blond hair. An indefinable air of money hung about her. “Are you collecting another waif and stray to add to your collection, Sarah darling?”

“Oh, shut up, Celeste,” Sarah retorted.

The girl called Celeste looked at me and said sweetly, “Do you always turn up to school covered in mud?” Two fair preppy girls on the other side of Celeste snickered as though she had said something funny.

“I got wet coming from the station,” I said quietly.

“Oh, my God.” Celeste gasped in mock horror. “You actually came on the train?”

“Some people do use public transportation, Celeste,” said Sarah. “Not everyone goes around in gas-guzzling, chauffeur-driven cars.”

Celeste turned her gaze on Sarah and said innocently, “Really? It must be awful. Remind me never to try it.”

A bell rang out shrilly, making me jump. The girls quickly finished eating, then stood up. Sarah nodded to me to do the same. A long prayer was recited by the thin-faced teacher. After echoing, “Amen,” dutifully, the girls began to file out of the room. I followed them, hoping that Sarah would show me where to go. Just as I got to the door a sharp voice called me back.

“Evie Johnson!”

I turned around. The teacher who had said the prayer was beckoning me over to her. Her black academic gown hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. It gave her the air of a severe nun, ready to pounce on the tiniest breach of discipline.

“Um…what is it…Miss…er…?” I asked.

“My name is Miss Scratton,” she answered. “I am in charge of the girls in the senior division. I’d like you to meet someone. Helen!”

I looked around and saw a tall, fair girl on the other side of the dining hall, setting out some little coffee cups on trays. She came over reluctantly when Miss Scratton called her name.

“Helen has been at Wyldcliffe for a year now and is our other scholarship student,” explained Miss Scratton. “You will be in the same class and the same dormitory.”

“Hi,” I said, but Helen didn’t reply.

“Perhaps you don’t know yet, Evie, that scholarship girls are expected to perform some small duties as a token of gratitude and commitment to the school. You will help Helen set out the coffee trays for the mistresses after supper, tidy up the hymn books after choir practice, that sort of thing. Helen will show you what to do.”

I looked at her in surprise. I hadn’t expected to have to do chores. No wonder the girls had laughed. For one crazy second I was tempted to say,
Stuff your scholarship
, and walk out. But there was nothing waiting for me back at home. No Dad. No Frankie. No home. Nothing but the deep blue sea.

“Fine,” I lied. “Sure. No problem.”

“Excellent,” said Miss Scratton crisply. “When you have finished here you will go straight to bed, as the bell is rung early on Sunday nights. So get on with your work now, Evie, and make sure you do it well. There’s no place for slackers at Wyldcliffe.”

Miss Scratton whisked away, her black gown billowing around her.

I glanced at Helen. Her hair was so fair it was almost silvery white, and she had delicate features and clear, light eyes. She looked delicate, as though a strong wind would blow her away, but her expression was heavy and sullen. Perhaps she was just shy, I thought. At least we were in the same boat—maybe we could be friends. “Thanks for helping me out, Helen.” I smiled. “What do I do?”

She didn’t smile back. “Set out the cups on the trays. The mistresses will collect them later. You need spoons, cream, and sugar. And don’t break anything.” Her voice was low and husky, as if she were not used to speaking much.

“So, I’m in the same dorm as you,” I said. “That’s great.”

Silence.

I tried again: “Don’t you think all this doing-chores stuff is a bit over the top?” I joked, rattling the cups and saucers carelessly onto my tray. “You know, like Cinderella, only with about two hundred ugly stepsisters. What else do they expect us to do? Sleep in the cellar?”

“I wish they did,” Helen said with unexpected anger. “It would be better than…” She flashed me a strange look. Was it sympathy—or pity? But when she spoke, it was in an expressionless voice. “It’s in the rules. Just deal with it.”

I sighed. I guessed I was going to hear a lot more about the rules in the next few days. We finished up with the coffee things, and Helen began walking rapidly out of the dining hall. “Wait!” I called, chasing after her. “Aren’t you going to show me the way to the dorm?”

“Oh, all right,” she replied ungraciously. “Come with me.”

She strode down the deserted passage. There was no sign of anyone, apart from a couple of teachers in their dark gowns. The passage wound its way back to the main hall and the marble stairs. These stairs intrigued me. The marble must have been incredibly heavy, yet the stairs seemed to float upward in an elegant curve. I placed my hand on the iron banister and looked up.

“Is that where the dorms are?” I asked.

“Yeah. Third floor.”

Our feet echoed on the cold stone as we climbed higher. I was out of breath by the time we reached the top of the stairs. Yet another long corridor, lined with heavy doors, stretched away on both sides of the steps. I glanced back over the banister at the pattern of the black-and-white tiles in the hall below. How easy it would be to fall, and go crashing down like a doll.

“Come on,” said Helen, striding ahead.

“So are we right at the top of the building now?”

“There’s an attic above this floor, but it’s shut up.”

Muffled voices echoed behind the paneled doors. I read the signs on the doors: DRAKE, NELSON, CHURCHILL, WELLINGTON…. They were strangely warlike for a snooty girls’ academy.

“Are these the names of the dorms?”

Helen nodded. “This is ours,” she said. “Cromwell.”

I was glad that the day was coming to an end at last. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. I didn’t know that there was still one more ordeal ahead of me.

Three

I

followed Helen into the room, looking over her shoulder to see if Sarah would be in the dorm too. She wasn’t there, though, and my heart sank as I recognized Celeste lounging on one of the beds.

Helen walked over to her own bed and flung herself down. She dug a small book from under her pillow and began to read, ignoring everyone else.

I glanced around uncertainly, wondering which bed would be mine. The room was rather bare and cold, though it had obviously been quite grand once upon a time, with a big arched window and a fancy kind of window seat.