Miss Mabel's School for Girls (The Network Series #1)(7)

“What?”

She smiled her apology. “I just meant that we didn’t have a full first-year class, so we knew that one more girl would arrive soon. Miss Bernadette said Isadora has been looking.”

Camille turned to fight another girl for the butter plate before I could respond. Leda shifted, snatched a strawberry off her plate without moving her eyes from the text and popped it into her mouth. I studied the spine of her book. High Priests of the Southern Network. As if she felt my gaze, Leda slowly pulled the book down and peered over it, one eyebrow quirked high.

“How is it?” I asked, pointing towards the book as if I hadn’t just been caught and didn’t feel stupid. Perhaps we had a mutual love of history.

“Bianca, do–” Camille whirled around, her hair whipping my cheek. “Oh, you’re talking to Leda, sorry. I didn’t mean to hit your face. My hair has a mind of its own. Do you want a fruit tart? They are simply my favorite. I love the sugary crust.”

Leda disappeared behind her book yet again.

“No, thank you,” I said, giving my brimming plate a quick glance. “I don’t have any room.”

Camille leaned towards a first-year with large eyes and even larger glasses, asking her the same question.

Using it as a chance to gain my bearings, I took inventory of the dining room. It was large, with scalloped edging running along the ceiling and a sprawling mantle with the same Letum ivy carved into the wood. Thirty-six girls, four teachers, and a calico cat perched near the fire. A typical size for a Network-run school. There were two doorways: the swinging door into the kitchen and the double doors that led to the main entryway.

Where is that old dragon Miss Mabel?

Camille spun around, a berry-stuffed croissant slathered with a fluffy cream in her hand.

“Oh, Leda, guess what I found for you! It’s your favor–”

She stopped with a little sigh. Leda had given up on the book and stared at the table instead, a glazed look in her eyes. Camille turned to me and held the pastry up.

“Do you like chocolate and strawberry? I don’t think Miss Celia should have put blueberries in the sauce, but it still tastes okay.”

“No, thank you. Is something wrong with Leda?” I asked. Camille followed my gaze to her odd friend and then waved her hand with a high pitched laugh.

“Oh, she’s fine. Just–”

Leda snapped to attention, blinking several times. She shook her head.

“Thinking,” Camille finished with a fixed smile. “She likes to think. A lot. Don’t mind her. Are you sure you don’t want the croissant?”

I refused it again with a shake of my head.

“No, thank you. Can you tell me–”

“Miss Mabel doesn’t come to meals,” Leda said, brushing her white blonde hair away from her face with a careless flap of her hand. “In fact, she doesn’t show up very much at all. At least not so far this year. School started two weeks ago, and we have yet to meet her.”

My fork fell to the table with a loud clatter. How did she know what I was about to ask? I quickly retrieved it. “Butter on my fingers,” I said with a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

Camille shot Leda a sharp look, which faded into her sweet smile as soon as she saw I was watching.

“Miss Mabel is very busy, I’m sure, as High Witch over the school and Coven leader for this part of Letum Wood,” Camille said with a stiff voice. “A feast with teenagers is far from priority.”

My eyes drifted past Leda, falling on a banner stretching across the broad hearth that said, ‘Feast of the Competition.’ Garland crept around its edges, ornamented with cranberries and strung with twine and deep red ribbon.

A girl with strawberry blonde hair called from a few places down the bench.

“We’re taking bets on how many volunteers there will be and who the final winner is. What are your guesses, Camille?” she asked.

Camille straightened with a proud swell of her chest, obviously gratified to be included.

“Priscilla,” she said with confidence. “And I think four will be the final number of Competitors.”

The rest of the table broke out in a chorus of agreements. The girl with strawberry blonde hair wrote her answers on a scroll, then turned away, pointedly ignoring Leda.

“The third-year you told me about?” I asked Camille.

“Yes,” she said, spearing a caramelized carrot with a stab. “Everyone knows that Priscilla is going to win. She’s so smart. You’ve heard of the Competition before, haven’t you?”

My stomach fluttered at the question. Heard of it? Every year of my life.

“Yes, I have. My village likes to hear about the Competition after it’s done. What is Miss Bernadette like?” I asked, hoping to deter Camille onto something more mundane. Thinking about the Competition killed my appetite, and I still had piles of food to try.

Leda’s eyes flickered briefly to me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip and her eyebrow lifting in suspicious question.

Leda’s going to be a hard one to fool.

Camille, to my luck, proved easy to distract.

“I love Miss Bernadette,” she said with a dreamy breath. “She’s just lovely, isn’t she? She’s so kind and patient. She’s even been helping me with geometry after class. I’m terrible at math.”