Miss Mabel's School for Girls (The Network Series #1)(4)

A change in the trees slowed me to a walk. I shoved my skirts down and dropped the cloak, suddenly nervous I’d be seen. What a great first impression that would make, trotting up to school with my knickers blaring for all to see.

I’m Bianca Monroe, and I run in the woods with my skirts up. I also don’t know how to steep or pour tea.

Catching my fast breath, I peered through the thick foliage to see unnatural color between the branches. The school.

My cloak drifted ahead of me in the breeze when I walked out of the deadfall and stopped at a black, wrought iron fence. A loose gate moved with a shrill cry in the wind.

The old manor was a gothic structure, made of shadows and aged stone that faded to light cream color. Ivy crawled across the front in brittle strands, shuddering in the wind. A steady stream of smoke drifted from two chimneys on the far right side. The late evening gloom overshadowed the sprawling beauty, leaving the manor both depressing and intriguing.

Twelve darkened windows marched across the second, third, and fourth floors. They must be student bedrooms. Five sat on either side of the front door on the ground level. Candles illuminated several glass panes with warm, buttery light. A wooden board introduced me to the school. It looked ancient and worn, like a standing citadel stained with shadow. A shudder spun down my spine.

Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.

After taking a deep breath, I pushed through the cool gate and strode forward. “Here we are,” I whispered, pulling in a bolstering breath. “Here we go.”

Confidence.

When I knocked on the thick wooden door it seemed to reverberate inside. A quick fall of steps came soon after, and when the door opened, an older woman with green eyes stood to welcome me. Flour dusted her apron, and her hair sat like a gray pillow on top of her head.

Her shrewd eyes narrowed.

“Bianca Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“Come in.” She opened the door wider. “Isadora just finished meeting with Miss Mabel. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

A few leaves scuttled into the warm entry ahead of me. The woman had to push against the wind to close the door.

“Your bags are up in your room already. My name is Miss Celia. I’m a teacher here.”

I stepped into a vestibule. The ceiling rose several floors, following the twirl of a wide staircase. A silver chandelier with dripping candles hung from the very top floor several stories above, illuminating the ground and walls of cream-colored stone. A crimson rug climbed along each stair, accenting the carved ivy leaves twisting through the railing. Skinny candles flickered from iron wall sconces and cast dancing shadows on the grainy wooden floor.

It was warm, at least. If not a bit old.

“Wait here.”

She disappeared down a hallway at the end of the entry, leaving me to feel small in the dominating presence of the room. When I turned my focus to listening, the distant clang and clatter of pots came to my ears first. A buttery smell filled the air, making my stomach growl.

“This is Camille. She’s a first-year like you. Camille, show Bianca up to her room, please.”

Miss Celia reappeared with a girl my age in tow. She had curly blonde hair held away from her face by a white headband. I assumed that the navy blue dress over a long white shirt fitting down to her wrists was the school uniform, as a few other girls walked by in similar blue dresses. A kind smile lit her face.

“Merry meet, Bianca!”

Miss Celia ushered us up the staircase with a frantic wave of her hands.

“Go on, go on!” she exclaimed. “It’s just about time to eat. Heaven knows I don’t have time for interruptions.”

Camille beckoned me to follow her as she started up the stairs, leaving me to trail behind. Miss Celia’s tirade faded into the background.

“Don’t mind Miss Celia,” Camille said with a roll of her hazel eyes. “She gets really stressed at mealtimes. She runs the kitchen and has for years. Her cinnamon buns are legendary, and so is her bread. Trust me.”

“Oh, that’s good to know.”

“Did you just get here?” she asked, as if my clothes and lack of know-how weren’t any indication.

“Yes.”

“You must be cold then! We’ll get you by the fire in the dining room soon. Miss Celia’s prepped a feast tonight that will warm you up faster than anything. It’s the Feast of the Competition!”

We approached the second floor. The stairway continued up, but the landing opened to a dark corridor filled with doors and a tarnished wood floor. A warm fire blazed at the end of the hall, where girls in similar blue dresses moved around.

“This is the third-year corridor. Don’t go in there!” Camille said, pulling me back when I stepped across the doorway. “They get really picky about first-years in their area. Especially Priscilla.” She lowered her tone and spoke behind her hand. “She gets really upset. Her dad is rich so she gets away with it.”

Camille grabbed my arm and spun me back towards the stairs. Our shoes clacked on the floor as we climbed. “The second-years are okay, but most of them spend time trying to get the attention of the third-years. They usually ignore us.”

We passed the second-year floor. Their common room sat right off the stairwell, filled with long tables, plush cushions on the high back chairs, and a wall of landscape portraits clearly done by students still struggling to find their talent. A burly second-year sent us a warning glare when we peered in.