Miss Mabel's School for Girls (The Network Series #1)
Katie Cross
Acknowledgments
Miss Mabel’s School for Girls started in the fall of 2012 while my husband and I hiked through a forest that later inspired Letum Wood.
Every time we ran the trails, an eerie feeling followed me. Surely, I thought, a witch lives here. She had an alluring presence, and seemed to always be watching. I never met her.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I had a feeling that something great had started. Months later this witch found her way onto the page on a writing whim, and my journey with Bianca and Miss Mabel began.
Since then, Miss Mabel’s School for Girls has come a long way. To my editors, Robin and Catherine, your insight and guidance was truly a book-saver. Thank you for polishing and shining and buffing. You taught me about the art of writing, and helped me believe in myself.
Cory Clubb, you are the best cover designer in the world and possibly the most patient man alive. Musers, you’ll always have my heart. Thanks for your guidance and listening ear. Dizzle, the best web-hoster-blog-fixer-ever thanks for showing me the path on the interwebs.
Jason Anderson, Stephen Cross, LaDonna Cole, Kelsey Keating, Stephanie Karfelt, Dennis Clough, and all the readers on Fanstory who made the journey of the first draft with me, thank you for beta-reading and believing in Bianca, and me, from the beginning.
To the loyal followers at KCrossWriting, thanks for your insight and feedback, and straightening me out when I got myself crooked, which we all know was far too often. To my family, thanks for your unrelenting support – Mim (best friend and financial guru), Mikey, Courtney, Grandma, Grandpa (you’re always in my heart), DJ, JaiHo, Cindy-Mom, Father Stephen, and Dahrling.
Husband, love your face. Thanks for taking care of the pandas on the days I had to frantically write and edit myself into a tizzy, and then tolerating me when I spazzed out over plot lines and lacking characterization.
You rock.
Isadora's Interview
I stared at the lavender flowers on the white china and willed my heart to stop pounding. Papa’s advice whispered through my head like the balm of a cool poultice, settling my nerves.
Don’t be afraid, Bianca. The old woman will perceive your personality no matter what you do or say. You can’t hide information from a Watcher. Let her remain in control of the conversation and things will be easier.
“You said that your family is from Bickers Mill?” The old woman, Isadora, startled me from my thoughts with her question. “That’s not very far from here.”
“Yes,” I said, turning around to face her. “I grew up in a cottage outside the village.”
Don’t think about how important this is.
That wouldn’t be too difficult. She only determined the rest of my life.
Isadora smiled in a distant way, as if she were lost in thought and only keeping up with the conversation to be kind. She was a stringy old woman, with a curved back and foggy, pistachio-colored eyes, although one of them looked more blue than green.
“Your grandmother is sick, isn’t she?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said, swallowing past it. She studied me while I continued. “The apothecary said she may not have much longer to live.”
“Well, I’m glad you were able to come here today so that I did not have to come to you. Living near the school helps me keep this part of Letum Wood safe for the students. Now that school has started, I don’t like to leave.”
“I’m sure they appreciate your work as a Watcher,” I said, circling back around to face the tea set. Confidence, I told myself. Even if she can see into your soul and it isn’t very organized.
My hands trembled when I set the fragile cups and saucers on the antique silver tray. Was that right? No, the teacups went on the plates. Or did they? Was I supposed to set out a fork for the little cakes? Or tongs? Or nothing at all? An interview I’d prepared for my entire life, and a tea set flummoxed me. This was a promising beginning. Deciding to leave the cups off the plate, I set them off to the side, lifted the tray and turned to serve the tea.
Isadora moved away from the window with a hobbled step while I approached the little table. Her quaint cottage at the edge of the trees aged with a quiet grace, decorated in an opulence that made me nervous, afraid I’d take one step too far in any direction and break something, like the witches’ bottles hanging from one wall by strings of twine. A simple nudge and they’d fall, shattering, the whispers of their bottled incantations rising into the air like a mist.
Despite her reputation as one of the most powerful witches in our world, Isadora lived a discreet life in the midst of her porcelain tea sets, of which she had many, and her white curtains. A buttery loaf of bread gleamed nearby, smelling of warm yeast and flour.
“Is this part of Letum Wood dangerous?” I asked, taking measured steps so I didn’t rattle the china. Letum Wood, the weather, my chances of survival at the school, I would have picked any of these topics for conversation. Anything to avoid the silence that meant she searched my soul, hoping to understand the secrets of my mind.
“It can be a frightening place,” Isadora said, lowering into a wooden chair. “But not when I’m watching.”
For all my precautions in getting there, the tray landed on the table with an ungracious clunk, and I murmured a nervous apology.