closely fitted suit, the bright eyes, the upturned lips, and the palpable vivacity exuding from her.
“You look unusually cheery this morning,” she remarks, roaming her eyes from ankles to hair, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“Because it’s a wonderful morning.” Carriveau beams, skipping down the stairs.
She’s the first one in the kitchen, and as she fusses around the room gathering bread, a plate, and a knife, she hums a song to herself, oblivious to the fact that she acquires a spectator halfway through the second verse.
“Since when do you have toast for breakfast?”
Miss Ansell’s voice makes her jump.
“It’s not for me.” She drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “It’s for the new girl.”
“Oh, aye? And when did we start doing that?” Miss Ansell folds her arms, her hands almost completely covered by the long sleeves of her baggy purple sweater.
Carriveau doesn’t reply.
“She’s a very pretty little thing, isn’t she?” The Deputy Housemistress continues to needle her colleague. “In fact, I reckon she looks a fair bit like our old Kaitlyn Simmons. You agree?”
Carriveau replies with a dispassionate shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Miss Ansell chortles, slumping against the countertop. “You must think I’m daft. I haven’t seen you this chipper since—”
Carriveau smacks the butt of the knife down on the counter. “That’s enough!” she barks at the Deputy Housemistress. “I’m in a good mood, that’s all. There’s no need to ruin it.”
Miss Ansell edges nearer, peering up at Carriveau’s taut mouth. “Is that a new shade of lipstick I see on those angry lips?” She moves away from the counter, ready to make her own breakfast. “Watch yourself, Vivienne.”
When she says Carriveau’s name, it sounds harsh and angular: Vih-vee-uhn. To hear it squawked at her that way makes Carriveau feel like a naughty little girl being reprimanded by her British nanny.
“ Vivienne, s’il te plaît ,” she purrs out her own name, her heavy accent and soft inflection making each syllable sound warm and smooth.
Vi.vjen.
In the next moment, Rylie enters the kitchen. Arriving before any of the other girls—having rushed through her morning routine for that very reason—she’s clearly cut some corners with her appearance. Her shirt’s only half tucked in, her skirt’s twisted sideways, her cardigan’s buttoned improperly, and her hair is bound in a messy braid.
Carriveau—her good mood restored by the teen’s arrival—suppresses laughter. Rylie’s hair is sticking up on top, two big tufts bunched near her crown, having nearly missed inclusion into the braid altogether. The sides are twisted, wrenched carelessly into chunks and tugged back to form the outer strands at the top of the off-center braid, which itself is so loose that some of the shorter sections of hair are already falling out of it.
“Is that the best you could do?” Carriveau beckons her over for a closer inspection.
“Does it look terrible?” Rylie supposes that it must. “This was my third attempt.”
Carriveau spins her around, checking to see if it can be salvaged. “Have you never braided your own hair before?”
“I’ve never braided any hair. I had to Google it.”
“ Tu es si mignonne .” Carriveau pats her shoulder, amused that a seventeen-year-old girl could get this far in life without learning such a simple thing. “You’re so cute.”
With that, she presses a kiss against Rylie’s head, as she’d done to the girl named Varlow last night when they were making cookies. Then, she pulls a chair out at the table.
“Sit, eat, and I’ll fix it for you.” She sets the freshly popped toast in front of Rylie and fetches condiments from the fridge. “What do you like on your toast?”
“Jam?”
Carriveau grabs two jars—one grape, the other strawberry—and leans over the table, pushing them in front of Rylie. In doing so, she gives the
“You look unusually cheery this morning,” she remarks, roaming her eyes from ankles to hair, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“Because it’s a wonderful morning.” Carriveau beams, skipping down the stairs.
She’s the first one in the kitchen, and as she fusses around the room gathering bread, a plate, and a knife, she hums a song to herself, oblivious to the fact that she acquires a spectator halfway through the second verse.
“Since when do you have toast for breakfast?”
Miss Ansell’s voice makes her jump.
“It’s not for me.” She drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “It’s for the new girl.”
“Oh, aye? And when did we start doing that?” Miss Ansell folds her arms, her hands almost completely covered by the long sleeves of her baggy purple sweater.
Carriveau doesn’t reply.
“She’s a very pretty little thing, isn’t she?” The Deputy Housemistress continues to needle her colleague. “In fact, I reckon she looks a fair bit like our old Kaitlyn Simmons. You agree?”
Carriveau replies with a dispassionate shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Miss Ansell chortles, slumping against the countertop. “You must think I’m daft. I haven’t seen you this chipper since—”
Carriveau smacks the butt of the knife down on the counter. “That’s enough!” she barks at the Deputy Housemistress. “I’m in a good mood, that’s all. There’s no need to ruin it.”
Miss Ansell edges nearer, peering up at Carriveau’s taut mouth. “Is that a new shade of lipstick I see on those angry lips?” She moves away from the counter, ready to make her own breakfast. “Watch yourself, Vivienne.”
When she says Carriveau’s name, it sounds harsh and angular: Vih-vee-uhn. To hear it squawked at her that way makes Carriveau feel like a naughty little girl being reprimanded by her British nanny.
“ Vivienne, s’il te plaît ,” she purrs out her own name, her heavy accent and soft inflection making each syllable sound warm and smooth.
Vi.vjen.
In the next moment, Rylie enters the kitchen. Arriving before any of the other girls—having rushed through her morning routine for that very reason—she’s clearly cut some corners with her appearance. Her shirt’s only half tucked in, her skirt’s twisted sideways, her cardigan’s buttoned improperly, and her hair is bound in a messy braid.
Carriveau—her good mood restored by the teen’s arrival—suppresses laughter. Rylie’s hair is sticking up on top, two big tufts bunched near her crown, having nearly missed inclusion into the braid altogether. The sides are twisted, wrenched carelessly into chunks and tugged back to form the outer strands at the top of the off-center braid, which itself is so loose that some of the shorter sections of hair are already falling out of it.
“Is that the best you could do?” Carriveau beckons her over for a closer inspection.
“Does it look terrible?” Rylie supposes that it must. “This was my third attempt.”
Carriveau spins her around, checking to see if it can be salvaged. “Have you never braided your own hair before?”
“I’ve never braided any hair. I had to Google it.”
“ Tu es si mignonne .” Carriveau pats her shoulder, amused that a seventeen-year-old girl could get this far in life without learning such a simple thing. “You’re so cute.”
With that, she presses a kiss against Rylie’s head, as she’d done to the girl named Varlow last night when they were making cookies. Then, she pulls a chair out at the table.
“Sit, eat, and I’ll fix it for you.” She sets the freshly popped toast in front of Rylie and fetches condiments from the fridge. “What do you like on your toast?”
“Jam?”
Carriveau grabs two jars—one grape, the other strawberry—and leans over the table, pushing them in front of Rylie. In doing so, she gives the
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