A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(13)

I think of the old woman at my carriage earlier. “Yes, I believe I met one. Called herself Mother something . . .”

“Mother Elena?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“She’s stark raving mad. You want to steer clear of her. She might have a knife and stab you in your sleep,” Ann says, breathlessly.

“She seemed harmless enough. . . .”

“You never really know, do you?”

I don’t know if it’s the fog or the bells or Ann’s creepiness but I’m walking a bit faster now. A girl who sees visions paired with one who’s a walking tour guide of things that go bump in the night. Perhaps this is Spence’s little way of matchmaking.

“You’re in first class with me.”

“Yes,” I say. “Who are the others?”

She ticks off the names one by one. “And Felicity and Pippa.” Ann stops, suddenly on edge.

“Felicity and Pippa. Those are lovely names,” I say cheerfully. It’s such an insipid comment that I should be shot for it, but I’m dying to know more about these two girls who are going to be in our class.

Ann lowers her voice. “They’re not lovely. Not at all.”

The bell finally stops ringing, leaving a strange, hollow hush in its absence. “No? Part girl, part wolf? Do they lick their butter knives?”

Ann not only doesn’t find me amusing, but her eyes take on a cold, hard look. “Be careful around them. Don’t trust—”

From behind us, a husky voice cuts her off. “Talking too much again, Ann?”

We whip around to see two faces emerging from the mist. The blonde and the beauty. They must have lagged behind and sneaked up on us. The smoky voice belongs to the blonde. “Don’t you know that’s a most unbecoming trait?”

Ann’s jaw hangs open, but she doesn’t answer.

The brunette laughs and whispers something in the blonde’s ear, which makes her launch into that full, ripe smile again. She points to me. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

I don’t like the way she says this. New girl. As if I might be some sort of insect that hasn’t been given a classification yet. Hideous corpus, female. “Gemma Doyle,” I say, trying not to flinch or look away first. It’s a trick my father used when he haggled over a price. Now I’m haggling over something undefined but more important—my place in the pecking order at Spence.

There is a second’s pause before she turns away from me and holds Ann with a chilly gaze. “Gossip is a very bad habit. We don’t indulge bad habits here at Spence, Mademoiselle Scholarship,” she says, giving the last two words a nasty emphasis. A reminder that Ann isn’t of the same class and shouldn’t expect the same treatment. “You have been warned.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Doily,” she says, linking arms with the brunette, who bumps my shoulder hard as they pass us.

“Terribly sorry,” she says, and bursts out laughing. If I were a man, I’d flatten her. But I’m not a man. I’m here to be a lady. No matter how much I loathe it already.

“Come on,” Ann says in a shaky voice once they’re gone. “It’s time for prayers.” I don’t know if she means in general or strictly for herself.



We scurry across the threshold of the quiet, cavernous chapel and take our seats, our footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Arched wood-beamed ceilings soar a good fifteen feet above us. Candelabras line the sides of the church, casting long shadows over the wooden pews. Stained-glass windows line the walls, colorful advertisements for God, pastoral scenes of angels doing angelic sorts of things—visiting villagers, telling them good news, petting sheep, cradling babies. There is the odd panel with a severed gorgon’s head, an angel in armor standing next to it, brandishing a sword dripping blood. Can’t say that I’ve heard that particular Bible story—or want to, really. It’s a bit gruesome so I turn my attention to the altar where a vicar stands, tall and thin as a scarecrow.

The vicar, whose name is Reverend Waite, leads us in prayers that all begin with “O Lord” and end with our somehow not being worthy—sinners who have always been sinners and will forever more be sinners until we die. It isn’t the most optimistic outlook I’ve ever heard. But we’re encouraged to keep trying anyway.

I have to watch Ann and the others to see when to kneel, when to rise, and when to mouth along to the hymn. My family is vaguely Anglican, like everyone else, but the truth is that we rarely went to church in India. On Sundays, Mother took me for picnics under hot, cloudless skies. We’d sit on a blanket and listen to the wind whip across dry land, whistling to us.

“This is our church,” she’d say, combing fingers through my hair.

My heart’s a tight fist in my chest while my lips form words I don’t feel. Mother told me that most of the English only prayed with heart and soul when they needed something from God. What I want most from God is to have my mother back. That isn’t possible. If it were, I’d pray to anyone’s god, night and day, to make it so.

The vicar sits and Mrs. Nightwing stands. Ann moans slightly under her breath.

“Oh, no. She’s going to make a speech,” she whispers.

“Does she do this every vespers?” I ask.