tables running lengthwise down the center of a hardwood floor. Skylights perforating the ceiling would have brightened the place enormously had they not been covered in cardboard. Instead, dim light issued from oil lamps dangling from chains and dotting the tabletops.
At the back, three groups of school desks, a dozen at least, were arranged in rough circles. A stern-looking man slipped into the room, and with a nod from Mister Pérouse locked the door. He crossed to consult a young girl who’d obviously been supervising the students in his absence; his tweed jacket, matching pants, and bowler hat could’ve easily been rented at Ma’s shop. One by one, the kids sitting or standing there noticed our entrance. Conversations hushed. Pencils and books hung forgotten in hands that had stopped tidying up. Pink irises shone as they all openly stared.
“Good morning, children.” Mister Pérouse waited until he had everyone’s attention. “How go the lessons? Diction? Vocabulary? Memory-drills? I trust you’ve all had a productive night.”
A babble of replies, all positive, filled our ears. At the sound of so many voices, Harley lifted his head, and looked blearily at our surroundings.
“Ma?” he croaked.
I reached up and absentmindedly patted my brother’s cheek while trying not to goggle at the other kids. Bright eyes ringed with dark circles were worn all around; hair slicked colorless with grease; skin the hue of old lard. To someone accustomed to unique outfits, bright fabrics, elaborate headwear, the sameness of their features, the sloppiness of their clothes, was breathtaking. Here it was dull tartan dresses for the girls, short pants and collared shirts for the boys. On the far wall, boxy jackets hung neglected on hooks, dust lying thick across their shoulders. No jewelry to speak of. No hats.
“Good,” Mister Pérouse continued, his breath fogging in the chill air. “We’ve been blessed with six new souls today—and if all goes well Jacques and Théo should return with more. For now, Doctor Jeffries, I’ll trust you to amend your lessons to accommodate five extra pupils. Initiate them quickly: these children have been unschooled for far too long.”
“I know what I’m doing, Anton.”
Mister Pérouse conceded the point with a tilt of his head, but still proceeded with his instructions. “No field trips until they are made familiar with the curriculum, d’accord? Bon. Now, as for the rest of you, allow me to introduce Harold et Adelaide.”
My heart stopped at the names. I was sure he knew us better than that.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, shivering with more than cold. Ma taught me always to be polite, especially when correcting someone’s mistake. “That’s Harley and I’m Ada.”
Mister Pérouse’s only reaction was to adjust his hold on Harl, and place a heavy hand on my shoulder. “The sun is well up, children. Help get Harold ready for bed. The Haven is his home now: make him welcome. Adelaide, this way.”
My feet were rooted to the floor as Harl was passed from Mister Pérouse to a boy a year or two older than me. Everything about him was lanky: limbs, earlobes, unkempt fringe. He carried my brother in arms that looked like bone sheathed in tissue, too weak even for such a light burden. But when he smiled his teeth were overly long. Sharp and white. The cleanest things in the room.
A panel stood open in the far wall, not so much a door as a breach in the room’s symmetry. Mister Pérouse drew me through it, then I was led down a narrow hallway. Small electric lights nestled in wall sconces, illuminating little but a series of old photographs—all depicting my guide standing proudly beside class after class of the Haven’s students. His steps were assured even in the darkness between lamps; I knew he could run these corridors blindfolded, if necessary. I stumbled in the black, and was pathetically grateful for the bulbs’ small haloes. I needed their comfort.
It’s weird how, in moments of panic, our minds focus on absurdities. Though my pulse raced and my throat cramped from holding back tears, I found myself wondering why they’d used plastic lights shaped like candlesticks; why they’d topped them with glass flames. Why not use real candles? And if they could see fine without them, why turn the things on? Except to allow black-and-white children, their faces so like the ones I’d just met they could have been one and the same, to follow me with their eyes as we sped past. They watched, expressionless, organized and catalogued in their wooden frames,