shrieks from some of the more high-spirited girls. It’s only a stagehand at work, but it has had the desired effect. The witch rubs her hands together and confesses her diabolical plan to fatten the children and roast them in her grand oven. This gives everyone the chills, and I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.
There is a sudden nip in the air, a damp cold that works its way into the marrow. Has someone opened a window? No, they are all shut tight against the rain. The draperies don’t move to suggest a draft.
Miss McCleethy walks the perimeter of the room, her hands folded in front of her like a priest in prayer. A slow smile spreads across her face as she takes in the whole of us. Something amusing has happened on the stage. The girls laugh. It sounds distorted and faraway to me, as if I am underwater. Miss McCleethy puts a hand on the back of a girl sitting on the end; she bends to hear the child’s question with a smile, but beneath those thick, dark brows her eyes find mine. Though it is cold, I have begun to perspire as if I am feverish. I have a mad desire to run from the room. In fact, I’m feeling ill.
Felicity’s whispering something to me but I can’t hear the words. The whisper itself has a horrible din, like the dry wings and scratching legs of a thousand insects. My eyelids flutter. A roaring fills my ears, and I am falling hard and fast through a tunnel of light and sound. Time stretches out like a band. I am aware of my own breathing, the flow of blood in my veins. I’m caught in the grip of a vision. But this is like no vision I’ve ever had. It is much more powerful.
I’m near the sea. Cliffs. Smell the salt. Sky’s a reflection, whitecap clouds churning above, an old castle on a hill. Happening fast. Too fast. Can’t see . . . Three girls in white jump about the cliffs absurdly fast. The salt, tangy on my tongue. Green cloak. A hand raised, a snake, sky churning, clouds braiding black and gray. Something else. Something’s—oh, God—something’s rising. Fear, at the back of my throat like the sea. Their eyes. Their eyes! So afraid! Open now. See it rising from the sea. Their eyes a long, silent scream.
Feel my blood pull me back, away from the sea and the fear.
I hear voices.
“What is it? What happened?” “Stand back, give her
air.” “Is she dead?”
I open my eyes. A cluster of concerned faces looms over me. Where? What are they? Why am I on the floor?
“Miss Doyle . . .”
My name. Should answer. Tongue’s thick as cotton.
“Miss Doyle?” It’s Mrs. Nightwing. Her face swims into focus. She waves something foul beneath my nose. Horrible sulfur odor. Smelling salts. Makes me groan. I roll my head to escape the smell.
“Miss Doyle, can you stand?”
Like a child, I do as I’m told. I see Miss McCleethy across the room. She hasn’t moved from her spot.
Startled gasps and whispers float by.
“Look. There. How shocking.”
Felicity’s voice rises over the others. “Here, Gemma, take my hand.”
I see Cecily whispering to her friends. Hear the whispers. “How appalling.” See Ann’s troubled face.
“What . . . what happened?” I ask. Ann looks down shyly, unable to answer.
“Here now, Miss Doyle, let’s see you to your room.” Only when Mrs. Nightwing helps me to my feet am I able to see the cause of the gossip—the large red stain spreading across my white skirt. I have begun to menstruate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRIGID TUCKS THE HOT WATER BOTTLE BENEATH the covers against my belly. “Poor dear,” she says. “It’s always such a bother. I’ve ’ad me troubles with the curse. And ’avin’ to be on about my duties through it all. No rest for the weary, I can tell you that.”
I am in no humor to hear about our long-suffering housekeeper’s aches and pains. Once she starts, there’s
There is a sudden nip in the air, a damp cold that works its way into the marrow. Has someone opened a window? No, they are all shut tight against the rain. The draperies don’t move to suggest a draft.
Miss McCleethy walks the perimeter of the room, her hands folded in front of her like a priest in prayer. A slow smile spreads across her face as she takes in the whole of us. Something amusing has happened on the stage. The girls laugh. It sounds distorted and faraway to me, as if I am underwater. Miss McCleethy puts a hand on the back of a girl sitting on the end; she bends to hear the child’s question with a smile, but beneath those thick, dark brows her eyes find mine. Though it is cold, I have begun to perspire as if I am feverish. I have a mad desire to run from the room. In fact, I’m feeling ill.
Felicity’s whispering something to me but I can’t hear the words. The whisper itself has a horrible din, like the dry wings and scratching legs of a thousand insects. My eyelids flutter. A roaring fills my ears, and I am falling hard and fast through a tunnel of light and sound. Time stretches out like a band. I am aware of my own breathing, the flow of blood in my veins. I’m caught in the grip of a vision. But this is like no vision I’ve ever had. It is much more powerful.
I’m near the sea. Cliffs. Smell the salt. Sky’s a reflection, whitecap clouds churning above, an old castle on a hill. Happening fast. Too fast. Can’t see . . . Three girls in white jump about the cliffs absurdly fast. The salt, tangy on my tongue. Green cloak. A hand raised, a snake, sky churning, clouds braiding black and gray. Something else. Something’s—oh, God—something’s rising. Fear, at the back of my throat like the sea. Their eyes. Their eyes! So afraid! Open now. See it rising from the sea. Their eyes a long, silent scream.
Feel my blood pull me back, away from the sea and the fear.
I hear voices.
“What is it? What happened?” “Stand back, give her
air.” “Is she dead?”
I open my eyes. A cluster of concerned faces looms over me. Where? What are they? Why am I on the floor?
“Miss Doyle . . .”
My name. Should answer. Tongue’s thick as cotton.
“Miss Doyle?” It’s Mrs. Nightwing. Her face swims into focus. She waves something foul beneath my nose. Horrible sulfur odor. Smelling salts. Makes me groan. I roll my head to escape the smell.
“Miss Doyle, can you stand?”
Like a child, I do as I’m told. I see Miss McCleethy across the room. She hasn’t moved from her spot.
Startled gasps and whispers float by.
“Look. There. How shocking.”
Felicity’s voice rises over the others. “Here, Gemma, take my hand.”
I see Cecily whispering to her friends. Hear the whispers. “How appalling.” See Ann’s troubled face.
“What . . . what happened?” I ask. Ann looks down shyly, unable to answer.
“Here now, Miss Doyle, let’s see you to your room.” Only when Mrs. Nightwing helps me to my feet am I able to see the cause of the gossip—the large red stain spreading across my white skirt. I have begun to menstruate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRIGID TUCKS THE HOT WATER BOTTLE BENEATH the covers against my belly. “Poor dear,” she says. “It’s always such a bother. I’ve ’ad me troubles with the curse. And ’avin’ to be on about my duties through it all. No rest for the weary, I can tell you that.”
I am in no humor to hear about our long-suffering housekeeper’s aches and pains. Once she starts, there’s
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