Ravencliffe (Blythewood series) (10 page)

“This is Etta,” I told him. “We were at the Triangle factory together, and Miss Sharp and Miss Corey discovered she’s a . . .”

“Fianais,” Gillie said, his eyes flashing a violent shade of acid green. The gentle woodland breeze turned into a stiff gale. “Aye, I can see that.”

I looked down at Etta and saw that she was staring wide-eyed at Gillie. Hell’s Bells! I’d only discovered by chance last year that Gillie wasn’t entirely human. He was a Ghillie Dhu, a sort of woodland elf that protected the creatures of the woods, rescued lost girls, and, I’d begun to suspect, controlled the weather. He’d told me that Dame Beckwith knew what he was, but I didn’t think the rest of the Order did.

The other girls—Myrtilene with her nose in the air, Susannah and Mary struggling to keep up with all their bags and hatboxes (and Myrtilene’s, too, I suspected)—were approaching, looking curiously between Gillie and ourselves. Would Etta give Gillie’s identity away?

“Is this the valet?” Myrtilene sniffed. “Why, he’d have to stand up twice to cast a shadow!”

A sudden gust blew Myrtilene’s hat clear off her head and sent it, dead pheasant and all, soaring over the river, which had become suddenly choppy as the ocean.

“He’s not a valet,” Etta declared. “He’s a”—I tried to catch her eye, but she went on—“caretaker.”

She invested the word with a significance that went far beyond a job title. Gillie’s eyes simmered a mellow green. “Aye, lass, that’s what I am and I’m proud of it. I promise to take good care of ye and keep ye from all harm.”

Etta had given him his proper name, but without revealing his magical nature to the other girls—certainly not to Myrtilene, who, having given up on retrieving her hat from the river, gave Gillie a dismissive glance and addressed a point a few inches above his head.

“I’m pleased as punch y’all are getting reacquainted, but are you fixing to load up our baggage?”

Gillie looked at Myrtilene as though he’d like to chuck her many bags into the river along with her, but instead he hauled one of Helen’s trunks onto his shoulder.

“I’ll come back for yers,” he said to Myrtilene. “You can wait here with it or come up to the coach. Only . . .” He eyed the river. Although the day was bright and clear, fog was gathering over the water, creeping toward the shore. A fog that hadn’t been there before and that I was pretty sure was of Gillie’s making. “I wouldna tarry too long beside the water. Ye never know what might be lurkin’ in the fog.” He gave me a wink as he passed by me. “Or what might come out of it.”

12

BY THE TIME
Gillie had carried all our trunks up to the top of the station the fog had dissipated and it was once again a fine, clear day. So fine that Gillie had brought the open-air trap instead of the gloomy coach I’d ridden in last year. Etta sat in the back with her new friends Susannah and Mary, chattering as cheerily as the birds flitting through the sycamores above our heads.

“She certainly has adapted quickly,” Helen said quietly. I thought I detected a slight tone of resentment in her voice. Helen, after all, had had to adapt to quite a lot in the last few months.

“I think it’s part of being a fianais,” I whispered back. I glanced anxiously at Myrtilene sitting on the other side of Helen to make sure she wasn’t listening, but she was busy trying to pin a new hat on her head—this one festooned with artificial cherries and a dead sparrow—so I went on. “Part of being a witness makes her very sensitive to other people and gives her the ability to ask people just the right questions to open them up.”

“Hmph,” Helen sniffed. “Where I come from we call that the art of polite conversation . . . although I suppose Etta didn’t learn that on the Lower East Side. I’m glad she’s making friends,” she added grudgingly. “We won’t have to worry about her.”

“We still need to keep an eye on her to make sure she’s safe. If van Drood realizes at any point that the changeling has taken Ruth’s place he’ll come looking for Ruth and Etta.”

“We’d know if that had happened, though. Mr. Marvel and Mr. Omar will be watching the Hellgate Club, and Mr. Greenfeder has promised to bring in his friends at the police force if he thinks anything has gone amiss.”

“I still wish we could have done something for those girls,” I said.

Helen sniffed. “You can’t go around saving everyone. Most of those girls are there because they made the wrong choices.”

“How can you say that, Helen? Ruth was kidnapped!”

“She wouldn’t have been kidnapped if she hadn’t been meeting a man she hardly knew at Coney Island. Honestly, I think it’s appalling how girls act these days—even Blythewood girls. Look at this new crop with their newfangled dances. Do you know that there’s one called the Turkey Trot? I heard that some young women were fired from their jobs for doing it on their lunch hour. Imagine going around acting like a bird in public!”

“Helen, we go to a school that trains us to hunt like falcons.” I shifted uncomfortably to ease the ache in my shoulder blades. “Innocent young girls are being kidnapped from the streets of New York and being held against their will in places like the Hellgate Club. Kid Marvel says there are magical beings hiding all over the city, and Omar told us that the Order has been exploiting people like him for centuries. But you’re affronted by a dance called the Turkey Trot?”

“It sounds undignified,” she replied, ignoring all my other points. “And I don’t like these new girls coming in and changing things before they even know what it means to be a Blythewood girl. I don’t like—”

“Change?” I asked more gently, slipping my hand over hers. Helen’s home life had changed beyond recognition. Of course she wanted Blythewood to stay the same.

“No.” Helen sighed, squeezing my hand. “I expect I don’t. Ah, but look, we’re almost there.”

We’d passed through the tall iron gates inscribed with the motto
Tintinna Vere, Specta Alte
—Ring true, aim high—and were climbing the hill. As we did, the bells began to toll, ringing us home. I saw Helen’s face rinsed clean of all the worries and fears of the last few months. Etta, Susannah, and Mary fell silent to listen. Even Myrtilene stopped fussing with her hat and stretched her long neck to catch the first glimpse of Blythewood as we crested the hill.

There it was! As magical as I’d remembered, the worn centuries-old stone glowing gold in the bright sunshine, the bell tower rising against the blue mountains in the distance like a proud battlement standing guard over the valley. The solid castle walls radiated safety and protection just as the bells spoke of home, but the bells evoked something else in me. They seemed to vibrate in my blood. While I felt the longing for Blythewood that the bells were meant to engender in all of our Order, also it came with an unbearable sadness.

Raven had once told me that the bells of Blythewood aroused a sorrow in the Darklings for all they had lost. I felt that sorrow now. It felt like being
cast out
. And I knew that if I were unveiled as a Darkling and sent away from Blythewood I’d feel this sorrow every day of my life. It was the sorrow my mother had felt, I saw now, that had compelled her to keep an engraving of the castle on her bedside table.

I looked away from the castle and caught Etta’s eyes fastened on me. They were wide and brimming with tears. What a burden it must be to feel so deeply what others felt! I gave her a brave smile, hoping to spare her my pain and she, not fooled at all, said, “You will be all right, Avaleh, I promise.”

“Of course Ava will be all right,” Helen said. “We’re back at Blythewood, where nothing has changed in centuries. Look, there’s Daisy! She’s gotten here early to get us a good room.”

I doubted that had been Daisy’s sole purpose in coming early. She was wearing a sash—the mark of a warden—and I recalled that she’d said in one of her rare, brief letters that she would be taking a job this term. It was usually something scholarship girls did, and I wondered if Daisy’s father, a prosperous Kansas City merchant, had suffered a reversal in fortune. Whatever her motive, it was delightful to see Daisy standing in the thick of the arriving girls, making order out of chaos. In just the time it took us to reach the circular driveway I saw her order Georgiana to remove her luggage from the front steps, tell a chauffeur to move his Rolls-Royce, and rescue a new girl’s hat from being plucked from her head by an escaped falcon.

“I see one of the Dianas has lost her falcon already,” I said, recalling that the Dianas came early to school and spent their first three days and nights “waking” their birds to train them. “Is that a new falcon?” I asked, admiring the elegant white hunting bird. “I don’t remember it from last year.”

“That’ll be Georgiana Montmorency’s gyrfalcon,” Gillie, who’d come around to help us out of the trap, said. “Mr. Montmorency bought special a pair of fine gyrfalcons for her and Miss Driscoll. They’re both Dianas this year.” From his tone, it was clear how he felt about Georgiana and Alfreda being selected—a choice that doubtless had more to do with their fathers’ donations to the school than their talent as huntresses.

“Of course Georgiana’s a Diana,” Myrtilene said as she edged in front of everyone to be the first to disembark. “We Montmorencys are born sportswomen and natural leaders. Why, I’ve been riding to the hounds since—”

Myrtilene’s discourse on Montmorency excellence was cut short by Georgiana’s falcon diving straight at her head and plucking the dead sparrow from her hat.

“I told you to control that bird,” Daisy scolded as she came toward the trap, but when she saw Helen and me she threw up her hands and called our names. Helen pushed past the affronted Myrtilene and dove into Daisy’s open arms, pulling me with her. I was surprised at how strong Daisy’s arms were—and at how good it felt to be enclosed within them. Maybe Etta was right; I
would
be all right here.

“I thought you two would never get here!” Daisy cried, stepping back to look at us. “I’ve got so much to tell you!”

“You can start by telling us why you’re a warden,” Helen said. “I know it’s not because you’re on scholarship. Didn’t your father just open up a new store in Saint Louis?”

“Really?” I asked, sounding peevish to my own ears. “Why didn’t you write and tell me that?”

“Why, I didn’t think it was the sort of thing you’d be interested in,” Daisy replied simply. “But Helen kept writing and asking me questions—”

“I was raised to show a polite interest in my friends’ affairs,” Helen interrupted. “As I am doing now by inquiring why you have become a warden. Is it because they’ve substituted this attractive purple-and-green sash for that hideous plaid one?”

I noticed now that the sash Daisy wore wasn’t the same as the one Sarah Lehman had worn last year. Daisy’s had some sort of motto on it as well that did not appear to be the school’s motto.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Daisy laughed. “It’s purple and green because those are the colors of the suffragist movement. I’ve spent the summer campaigning for women’s votes. The Kansas legislature is voting on the referendum in November. I really ought to be home in Kansas picketing, but Dame Beckwith convinced me that I could do more good here—and she let me switch the warden sash for a ‘Votes for Women’ one. Here—” She dug into her pocket and handed me and Helen each a tin badge with the “Votes for Women” slogan and green-and-violet ribbons. “You can wear them with your sashes.”

“What do you mean
our
sashes?” Helen asked, her voice suddenly icy.

“Oh, didn’t I say? I suggested to Dame Beckwith that she make you both wardens, too. I thought it would help with Helen’s . . . er . . .” she cupped her hand around her mouth and stage whispered, “
tuition expenses
. You’ll even be paid a stipend that you can use for pocket money. Mr. Appleby and I agree that a woman should make her own money and be independent—”

“How very thoughtful of you, Daisy,” Helen, who had been turning nearly the same violet shade as her new badge throughout Daisy’s speech, interrupted in a sugary voice, “to remember me in my impoverished state. But why, pray tell, have you volunteered Ava? She’s still rich.”

“Oh,” Daisy beamed, “that’s the best part. Since we’re all wardens we get our first pick of rooms on any floor. I chose our old room for us. I thought you’d like that, Helen. What will all the other . . . er . . . alterations you’ve had to endure.”

For a moment I thought Helen might throttle Daisy, but instead she crushed her to her bosom and, eyes shining, said, “That’s perfect, Daze. That’s exactly what I need.”

In the next few hours I saw how right Daisy had been to get us our old room back. It was true that Blythewood had not changed for centuries. The very castle had been brought stone by stone from the Order’s first abbey in Scotland; the men’s monastery was still there serving as our brother school, Hawthorn. The events of last spring, though—the shadow demons’ attack on the castle and the return of the long-lost Sir Miles Malmsbury and Nathan’s sister from Faerie—had jarred the school off-kilter, as if one of the ancient cornerstones had been yanked out of its foundations. Daisy filled us in as we made our way up to the fourth floor of the South Wing.

“First of all, Sir Miles and Miss Frost got married.”

“No!” Helen cried. “Do you mean to say that Euphorbia Frost is now
Lady
Malmsbury?”

“Oh no, Sir Malmsbury has renounced his title. He says that among the lychnobious people such class distinctions are considered primitive. He and Miss Frost—who has chosen to keep her maiden name in the spirit of progressivism—will be teaching a class on the tolerance and understanding of cultural differences of nonhuman species.”

“That
is
a change,” Helen said. “Last year she was pinning and pickling lampsprites.”

“It’s a good change,” I added, thinking to myself that if the Order was beginning to accept the lampsprites, perhaps they would someday accept the Darklings.

“Not everyone thinks so. Miss Swift threatened to quit if she couldn’t use lampsprite feathers in her arrows after Sir—I mean, Mr.—Malmsbury explained that the lampsprites consider the use of their feathers as weapons a desecration of their most sacred beliefs. The lampsprites came up with an ingenious compromise. They offered to collect stray bird feathers from the forest for Miss Swift. Featherbell came up with the idea,” Daisy added proudly. Featherbell was the lampsprite Daisy had rescued last year.

“Featherbell?” Helen asked. “Are you still . . . in touch?”

It was a little hard to imagine how Daisy could have corresponded with a creature who communicated telepathically by dispersing the powder from her wings.

“I saw her as soon as I got back. She had a lot to tell me—as did I her.” Helen turned bright pink. “I still haven’t told you—oh, you there, new girl, you can’t block the hall with those trunks. I don’t care if your father owns the Knickerbocker Bank—”

We left Daisy remonstrating with a nestling who appeared to have brought the entire contents of Ladies’ Mile with her and proceeded to our old room at the end of the hall. While I was relieved to have our old room back, I saw now that the disadvantage was that we were surrounded by nestlings. Loud nestlings.

“Were we this . . .
boisterous
last year?” I asked Helen as we threaded through a clot of giggling girls.

“I have never been
boisterous
,” Helen replied, scowling at a girl practicing a dance step in the middle of the hall. “I don’t know what the Council was thinking this year. Clearly they’ve lowered their standards. And we’ll have to be ‘in charge’ of this lot. I’m not sure I like Daisy taking the liberty of volunteering us to be wardens.”

I was pretty sure that what Helen didn’t like was the fact she needed the money from the job. “But don’t you see,” I said, “it will give us the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on Etta.”