ripples from my hair. When I turned back to Miss Lilyvale, she took my arm companionably and we quit the dormitory for the stairs, muddied evening sunlight trickling through the high, grimy exterior windows. The cracks of blue had retreated whilst I slept, beaten back by regiments of austere cloud banks. I watched a great line of girls emerging from a wing of classrooms, marching in pairs towards the open timber doors we approached.
“The housekeeper will leave two sets of uniforms on your bed this evening,” Miss Lilyvale informed me. “For tonight, you need not worry about your dress, but afterwards be sure to keep yourself cleanand well presented. Oh!” Miss Lilyvale brightened. “Taylor! Steele, this is your bedmate, Sarah Taylor.”
The girl who had broken off from the line was twelve, with a moon face which was so beautiful I had no notion whether she should be congratulated or censured for taking matters a trifle too far. Her lips were rosy, her hair a sleek raven black, and the navy of the Lowan Bridge uniform served only to make her own blue orbs shine the brighter. She reached out with her palm down as if she were a noblewoman accepting obeisance—which was not entirely unfair and then again rather tiresome.
“How do you do?” said I. “I am happy to meet you.”
“Yes,” said she, in a strangely lazy drawl, “very likely.”
This was less than promising, but the queue of schoolgirls had nearly entered the dining hall, so we hastened into the cavern from which the rich aroma of stew emanated. The huge chamber could have been a Viking hall, from bare flagstones to immense rafters. Miss Lilyvale walked to a dais at the end of the room; there the remaining teachers were assembled, including—to my dismay—Vesalius Munt. His staff was otherwise made up of females, a bevy of dull pigeons clad in stone and fawn and charcoal and ash. A great black cauldron was perched on sturdy iron before this assembly, with a matronly cook standing next to it.
When Taylor and I sat, to my astonishment I beheld the mutton stew already ladled into a bowl, and a respectable portion at that. Several platters had been set along the roughhewn table, piled high with rustic bread, and mugs of steaming black coffee sent bittersweet curlicues to the distant ceiling.
“Is . . . is this usual?” I marvelled. Taylor had made no move to lift the pewter spoon, so I folded my hands in my lap.
“What?” she returned peevishly.
“Is the fare always so good? It smells divine.”
“Well,
that
of all things doesn’t matter in the
slightest
,” she retorted languidly.
This was peculiar, and likewise was it cause for a pulse of concern that none of the girls appeared happy about the fare; they regarded their bowls with slightly less dismay than I had once levelled at my cousin’s genitalia. Before I could ask why, Mr. Munt rose from his chair and raised his hands elegantly skyward as we folded our fingers together.
“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,” Mr. Munt called out in sonorous tones. “May He create in us humble gratitude for this nourishment, and may this fine meal strengthen our bodies that we may serve our Lord with greater steadfastness every day. Amen.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand,” the girl across from me muttered after we had repeated the closing word of the prayer. She had a thin, sallow face and limp ash-coloured hair.
“Oh,
do
hush, Fox, your efforts at humour are
dreadful
,” Taylor crooned snidely.
“Now!” Mr. Munt exclaimed. “The time has come for our daily Reckoning. I adjure you as I always do to be thorough, and above all truthful, for the narrow path to purity lies solely in confession. First, Miss Werwick reports that the advanced Latin class did miserably poorly on their surprise examination. Let them stand and explain themselves.”
A block of twenty or so girls rose, looking as if they had been asked to face the Spanish Inquisition.
“If
“The housekeeper will leave two sets of uniforms on your bed this evening,” Miss Lilyvale informed me. “For tonight, you need not worry about your dress, but afterwards be sure to keep yourself cleanand well presented. Oh!” Miss Lilyvale brightened. “Taylor! Steele, this is your bedmate, Sarah Taylor.”
The girl who had broken off from the line was twelve, with a moon face which was so beautiful I had no notion whether she should be congratulated or censured for taking matters a trifle too far. Her lips were rosy, her hair a sleek raven black, and the navy of the Lowan Bridge uniform served only to make her own blue orbs shine the brighter. She reached out with her palm down as if she were a noblewoman accepting obeisance—which was not entirely unfair and then again rather tiresome.
“How do you do?” said I. “I am happy to meet you.”
“Yes,” said she, in a strangely lazy drawl, “very likely.”
This was less than promising, but the queue of schoolgirls had nearly entered the dining hall, so we hastened into the cavern from which the rich aroma of stew emanated. The huge chamber could have been a Viking hall, from bare flagstones to immense rafters. Miss Lilyvale walked to a dais at the end of the room; there the remaining teachers were assembled, including—to my dismay—Vesalius Munt. His staff was otherwise made up of females, a bevy of dull pigeons clad in stone and fawn and charcoal and ash. A great black cauldron was perched on sturdy iron before this assembly, with a matronly cook standing next to it.
When Taylor and I sat, to my astonishment I beheld the mutton stew already ladled into a bowl, and a respectable portion at that. Several platters had been set along the roughhewn table, piled high with rustic bread, and mugs of steaming black coffee sent bittersweet curlicues to the distant ceiling.
“Is . . . is this usual?” I marvelled. Taylor had made no move to lift the pewter spoon, so I folded my hands in my lap.
“What?” she returned peevishly.
“Is the fare always so good? It smells divine.”
“Well,
that
of all things doesn’t matter in the
slightest
,” she retorted languidly.
This was peculiar, and likewise was it cause for a pulse of concern that none of the girls appeared happy about the fare; they regarded their bowls with slightly less dismay than I had once levelled at my cousin’s genitalia. Before I could ask why, Mr. Munt rose from his chair and raised his hands elegantly skyward as we folded our fingers together.
“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,” Mr. Munt called out in sonorous tones. “May He create in us humble gratitude for this nourishment, and may this fine meal strengthen our bodies that we may serve our Lord with greater steadfastness every day. Amen.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand,” the girl across from me muttered after we had repeated the closing word of the prayer. She had a thin, sallow face and limp ash-coloured hair.
“Oh,
do
hush, Fox, your efforts at humour are
dreadful
,” Taylor crooned snidely.
“Now!” Mr. Munt exclaimed. “The time has come for our daily Reckoning. I adjure you as I always do to be thorough, and above all truthful, for the narrow path to purity lies solely in confession. First, Miss Werwick reports that the advanced Latin class did miserably poorly on their surprise examination. Let them stand and explain themselves.”
A block of twenty or so girls rose, looking as if they had been asked to face the Spanish Inquisition.
“If
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