A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(84)

“That was remarkable, Mademoiselle Doyle! Truly remarkable,” she gasps in English. “As you can see, ladies, when you are willing to apply yourselves, the results speak for themselves! Mademoiselle Doyle, today you shall receive thirty good-conduct marks—a record for my class!”

Someone should probably close Martha’s, Cecily’s, and Elizabeth’s mouths before the rains come and drown them like turkeys.



“What do we do now?” Pippa whispers as we take our seats for Grunewald’s instruction.

“I think it’s Ann’s turn,” I say.

Ann’s face falls. “M-me? I d-d-don’t know. . . .”

“Come on, then. Don’t you want everybody to know what you can do?”

She furrows her brow. “But it won’t be me, will it? It will be the magic. Like your French.”

This brings a blush to my cheeks. “I did get a bit carried away. But you can truly sing, Ann. It will be you at your very best.”

Ann is skeptical. She chews nervously on her lips. “I don’t think I can.”

We’re interrupted by the arrival of the short, squat Austrian. Mr. Grunewald in usually in one of two tempers—foul and fouler. Today, he surpasses himself, sliding right into foulest.

“Cease the incessant chatter!” he barks, raking a hand through his thinning white hair. One by one, we’re called to the front of the class to practice the same hymn. One by one, he criticizes us nearly to death. Our vowels are too flat. Our mouths are not open sufficiently. I crack on a high note and he lets out with a sharp “Ack!” as if he’s being tortured. Finally, it’s Ann’s turn.

She’s timid at first. Mr. Grunewald shouts and grumbles, which doesn’t help. I’m practically willing Ann to let her voice fly. Sing, Ann. Come on! And then, she does. It’s like a bird leaving the nest, soaring high and free. We’re all quiet and awed. Even Mr. Grunewald has stopped counting. He stares with a look of utter joy on his face.

I’m so proud of her. How could my mother not want us to use this magic? How could she think we weren’t ready for it?

When she finishes, Mr. Grunewald applauds. The man whose hands have never joined together to make a clapping sound is applauding Ann. Every girl joins in. They see her differently now, as somebody. And isn’t that what everyone wants? To be seen?



We bask in the glory of our day until evening comes. That’s when we can feel the last of the magic draining from our bodies, leaving us all a bit worn out. Mrs. Nightwing appraises Pippa during our free time.

“Miss Cross, you’re looking a bit tired this evening.”

“I am rather tired, Mrs. Nightwing.” Pippa blushes. Mrs. Nightwing has no idea what’s going on while she sleeps off her sherry.

“Best get to bed straightaway for your beauty sleep. You want to look your best when Mr. Bumble comes to call tomorrow.”

“Ugh, I’d forgotten he’s coming to call,” Pippa laments as we trudge up to bed.

Ann stretches her arms overhead in a catlike movement. “Why couldn’t you dispense with him? Just tell him you’re not interested.”

“That should go over very well with my mother,” Pippa scoffs.

“We could go back into the realms and make you hideously ugly,” Felicity says.

“I think not!”

We’ve reached the landing. The ceiling is smudged where the gaslights have deposited their grime. Funny how I’ve never noticed that before.

“All right, then. Say goodbye to Sir Perfection and become a barrister’s wife,” Felicity says, sneering.

Pippa’s lovely face is all worry, but the frown lines smooth. There’s a new determination to her brow. “I could simply tell him the truth. About my epilepsy.”

The walls are sooty too. So much I haven’t noticed.

“He’s to come for a visit tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” Pippa says.

Felicity nods. “Then let’s send him packing, shall we?”

With a yawn, I pass the all-too-familiar photographs, those half-erased women. But it’s a night for seeing things for the first time. In its severe black frame, one of the photographs has begun to buckle and ripple behind the glass. Probably the damp. It’s sliding toward ruin. But there’s something else. When I look closer I can see the smudgy outline on the wall where a fifth portrait once hung.

“That’s odd,” I say to Ann.

“What?” She yawns.

“Look here on the wall. See the mark. There was another photograph.”

“So there was. What of it? Perhaps they got tired of it.”

“Or perhaps it’s the missing class of 1871—Sarah and Mary,” I say.

Ann drifts off to our room, stretching and yawning. “Fine. You look for it, then.”

Yes, I think. Perhaps I will at that. I don’t believe there was no photograph.

I think it was removed.



My sleep is fitful, filled with dreams. I see my mother’s face in the clouds, soft and fair. The clouds blow apart. The sky changes. It swells into a gray beast with holes for eyes. Everything goes dark. The little girl appears. The white of her pinafore, the exotic dress underneath it, stand out in the darkness. She turns around slowly and it starts to rain. Cards. It’s raining tarot cards. They catch fire as they fall.