A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(26)

“One could argue that it’s romantic to die for love. Of course, then you’re dead and unable to take that honeymoon trip to the Alps with all the other fashionable young couples, which is a shame.”

“But she’s doomed by a curse, isn’t she?” Ann says. “It’s not love. It’s beyond her control. If she leaves the tower, she will die.”

“And yet she doesn’t die when she leaves the tower. She dies on the river. Interesting, isn’t it? Does anyone else have any thoughts? Miss . . . Doyle?”

I’m startled to hear my own name. My mouth goes dry instantly. I furrow my brow and stare intently at the picture, waiting for an answer to announce itself. I can’t think of a blessed thing to say.

“Please do not strain yourself, Miss Doyle. I won’t have my girls going cross-eyed in the name of art.”

There’s a burst of tittering. I know I should be embarrassed, but mostly, I am relieved not to have to make up an answer I don’t have. I retreat inside myself again.

Miss Moore walks around the room, past a long table holding partially painted canvases, tubs of oil paints, stacks of watercolors, and tin cups full of paintbrushes with bristles like straw. In the corner, there’s a painting propped on an easel. It’s a nature study of trees and lawn and a steeple, a scene we can see echoed through the bank of windows in front of us. “I think that the lady dies not because she leaves the tower for the outside world, but because she lets herself float through that world, pulled by the current after a dream.”

It is quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of feet shuffling under desks, Ann’s nails drumming softly on the wood as if it were an imaginary piano.

“Do you mean she should have paddled?” Cecily asks.

Miss Moore laughs. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Ann stops drumming. “But it wouldn’t matter whether she paddled or not. She’s cursed. No matter what she does, she’ll die.”

“And she’ll die if she stays in the tower, too. Perhaps not for a long time, but she will die. We all will,” Miss Moore says softly.

Ann can’t let it go. “But she has no choice. She can’t win. They won’t let her!” She leans forward in her seat, nearly out of it, and I understand, we all do, that she’s no longer talking about the lady in the picture.

“Good heavens, Ann, it’s just a silly poem,” Felicity gibes, rolling her eyes. The acolytes catch on and add their own cruel whispers.

“Shhh, that’s enough,” Miss Moore admonishes. “Yes, Ann, it’s only a poem. Only a picture.”

Pippa is suddenly agitated. “But people can be cursed, can’t they? They could have something, an affliction, that’s beyond their control. Couldn’t they?”

My breath catches in my throat. A tingle starts in my fingertips. No. I won’t be pulled under. Begone.

“We all have our challenges to bear, Miss Cross. I suppose it’s all in how we shoulder them,” Miss Moore says gently.

“Do you believe in curses, Miss Moore?” Felicity asks. It seems a dare.

I am empty. A void. I feel nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary Dowd or whoever you are, please, please go away.

Miss Moore searches the wall behind us as if the answer might be hiding there among her pastel watercolor still lifes. Red, ripe apples. Succulent grapes. Light-dappled oranges. All of them slowly rotting in a bowl. “I believe . . .” She trails off. She seems lost. A breeze blows through the open windows, overturning a cup of brushes. The tingling in my fingers stops. I am safe for now. The breath I’ve been holding whooshes out in a rush.

Miss Moore rights the brushes. “I believe . . . that this week we shall take a walk through the woods and explore the old caves, where there are some truly astonishing primitive drawings. They can tell you far more about art than I can.”

The class erupts in cheers. A chance to get out of the classroom is joyous news indeed, a sign that we have more privileges than the younger classes. But I’ve got a sense of unease, remembering my own trip to the caves and the diary of Mary Dowd still in the back of my wardobe.

“Well, it’s far too beautiful a day to be stuck here in this classroom discussing doomed damsels in boats. You may start your free period early, and if anyone asks, you are merely observing the outside world for artistic inspiration. As for this,” she says, scrutinizing her sketch, “it needs something.”

With a flourish, Miss Moore draws a neat mustache on the Lady of Shallot. “God is in the details,” she says.

Except for Cecily, who strikes me more and more as a secret goody-goody, we’re giggling over her boldness, happy to be naughty with her. Miss Moore’s face comes to life with a smile, and my unease slips away.



When I rush full-speed into my room to retrieve Mary Dowd’s diary, I run headlong into the back of Brigid, who is supervising the training of a new upstairs maid.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I sputter with as much dignity as I can, considering that I’m flat on the floor with my skirts up to my knees. Running into the broad Brigid is a bit like flinging myself into the side of a ship. There’s a ringing in my head and I fear I may go deaf from the crushing force of her.

“Sorry? Aye, and you should be,” Brigid says, yanking me to my feet and straightening my hem to a modest level. The new maid turns away, but I can see her slender shoulders bobbing from her stifled laughter.