Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(18)

The girls were allowed to tailor the school “uniform” to their figure and taste, but they were expected use the same color and fabric to keep things “even” for the less fortunate girls whose families had status, but not much else. Mrs. Winter called those girls “social cautionary tales,” and instructed me to avoid them. The girls were watching the carriage door, waiting for the Winter footman to open it and reveal… me. This was my first public appearance as Cassandra Reed. And if I wasn’t mistaken, my breakfast was going to make an encore appearance. I sucked an unsteady breath, clutching my hand to my waist. I felt a firm hand clamp over my shoulder.

“Radicem fortes,” Mrs. Winter murmured.

“I don’t know much Latin,” I whispered back. “Or any at all, really.”

“It’s the Brandywine family motto. It means, ‘Strong roots hold.’”

“But I don’t have roots here.”

“No, but you have something better,” Mrs. Winter countered. “My support. Now, get out of the carriage before the other girls get the impression that you are afraid. Like dogs and bees, adolescent girls scent fear.”

“Could you give me a little push, please?” I asked, wincing when the gentle nudge I expected was replaced by a stinging magical jolt to my backside.

“Thank you,” I murmured through a wince as my expensive shoes hit the ground.

The building seemed to loom even larger from the ground and I couldn’t help but marvel up at the sheer scope of the stone fa?ade. Mrs. Winter hooked her arm through mine, hurrying me along, all the while looking perfectly at ease.

I tugged at the high blue collar that seemed to be tightening around my throat. Madame DuPont had stayed away from exotic laces and embellishments for my wardrobe, keeping to curlicue piping, high collars and the occasional pointed sleeve. Today’s selection was a creamy blue with white-and-blue striped edging at the lapels and matching silk gloves. I might have felt elegant and impressive, but the gloves were damp from the sweat gathering in my palms. Impressive girls surely had dry palms.

Mrs. Winter led me through a wide foyer, set with black-and-white floor tiles and faded emerald trim. A large, dark-stained double staircase led to the second floor, where I could hear the echo of an older woman’s voice as she lectured on the properties of ground moonstone. An oversized frosted glass window bathed the foyer in light, silhouetting a dark, slim figure standing on the landing with her hands folded in front of her.

Mrs. Winter curtsied, but just barely. She nodded toward the formidable-looking woman, who was around Mrs. Winter’s age, but wore her iron grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her moss-colored dress was also severely simple, with frog enclosures that kept the crisp collar closed at her throat.

“Cassandra Reed, this is Headmistress Lockwood,” Mrs. Winter said, gesturing to the woman. “Headmistress Lockwood, this is my niece, Cassandra Reed. Your latest pupil.”

Headmistress Lockwood offered an enigmatic smile, the sort that involved stretching your lips over your teeth without actually revealing any of them. “We shall see.”

Without another word, Headmistress Lockwood turned on her heel and walked up two more flights of stairs. Mrs. Winter and I followed, carefully negotiating the stairs in our heavy skirts, on the hope, I supposed, that Headmistress Lockwood actually wanted us to follow. Headmistress Lockwood left the door to her office open, and Mrs. Winter had the grace to take a few deep, recuperative breaths before entering that dimly lit chamber.

I, on the other hand, stopped at the door. What was waiting for me on the inside? Would I have to pass some sort of test? An initiation? Would I have to cast a spell? Drink a potion? Mrs. Winter had tutored me, but her instruction was mostly theory. What if I was turned away from the door before I took my first class? I realized, to my shock, that possibility frightened me far more than the possibility of being exposed as a Snipe upstart fraud. As much as I missed the simple life I’d had as a servant, I wanted to study at Miss Castwell’s. I wanted to know how and why I was able to do magic. I wanted to live life as a magical being. And I couldn’t do that unless I crossed through the door.

I was just in time to hear Headmistress Lockwood’s voice, rounded and burred by a distinct Northern accent. “This is highly irregular, Aneira. Surely, you expected some questions on my part.”

Headmistress Lockwood sat in a heavy, ornately carved chair behind her desk. Mrs. Winter was seated in the leather club chair. She did not look pleased. “Questions, yes. My old friend and mentor casting aspersions on a member of my own family? No. I am telling you, Dora, the girl is of my bloodline and has powerful magic. What more – beyond the substantial donation my husband and I make to this school each year – do you need to admit her?”

I pretended I hadn’t heard that, focusing on the strange furnishings in Headmistress Lockwood’s office with its dark green wallpaper and heavy grey curtains. Every wall was covered in portraits of students past, dating back to the 1600s, when the pre-Restoration institute was only known as Miss Castwell’s School for Young Ladies. Several specimens of exotic plants stood on special stands under bell jars. I leaned close to examine the glowing gold petals of one particularly odd-looking plant. I reached up to touch the glass, the golden flower, whose lovely foliage immediately darkened to brown, reptilian scales.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the Headmistress said, without looking up at me. I glanced down at the golden flower, whose lovely foliage immediately darkened to brown, reptilian scales. The flower expanded and split, revealing row after row of tiny fangs amongst the stamens. The unhinged jaw snapped up, smacking against the glass in its haste to get to my fingertip. I shoved both hands behind my back, straightening and stepping away from the stand. Having missed its opportunity to eat my hand, the plant returned to its charming, shimmering state.