By my fifth step, a new sound had taken over the hall: the hiss of a hundred whispers escaping cupped hands, punctuated with giggles. It rose with every group we passed, heads turning, and by then Mrs. Westcliffe had apparently recognized her mistake, for her back grew very stiff and her heels began to strike the floor as hard as castanets.
I weighed at least three tons. Three tons of sluggish lead and shame clunking step by step in my scruffy orphan boots into the sumptuously decorated hell that was this dining hall, and what a terrible wonder that the ground did not crack apart and swallow me whole.
We ended up before a table that had a conspicuously empty chair at the far end. The students filling all the other seats gazed up at us with sparkling, hungry eyes.
“Good morning, ladies. May I introduce to you Miss Eleanore Jones, late of London. She will be in your tenth-year classes with you. I trust you will all bid her a very gracious Iverson welcome and will do your best to ensure that she feels quite at home with us.”
“Yes, Mrs. Westcliffe,” they chorused as one, sweet as sugar.
There were seven of them. They smiled seven identical smiles, and the message behind each was identical, as well. It read: bloodbath.
The giggling at a table of younger girls across the chamber sharpened into laughter. The headmistress threw them a frowning look.
“Lady Sophia. I will leave it to you to make the round of introductions.”
“Yes, Mrs. Westcliffe,” responded a flaxen-haired, glacier-eyed young woman who clearly was used to being cast in the lead. She stood, revealing a frock of rose chiffon that matched the color in her cheeks to an uncanny degree. She aimed her frightening smile straight at me. I bared my teeth back at her.
Lady Sophia knew her game. Her lashes lowered, demure. “You may rely on me, Headmistress.”
“So I presumed. Enjoy your breakfasts. Oh, and, Lady Sophia, may I ask also that you escort Miss Jones to the chapel when the meal is concluded? She is unfamiliar as yet with the school grounds.”
“Of course, Mrs. Westcliffe.”
“Thank you.” She gave a nod to the table. “Ladies.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Westcliffe,” chirped the chorus, precisely on cue.
We all watched as she clipped toward the laughing table. As soon as she was out of hearing range, I felt Sophia’s ice-blue gaze return to me.
“Eleanore, is it? That’s quite a mouthful of a name for someone so …”
“Plain,” sniggered the girl in the chair next to her, round-faced and bug-eyed, with oily, wavy black hair escaping its bun.
“I was going to say penniless,” countered Lady Sophia smoothly. “But as you like, Mittie. Oh, Eleanore, this is the Honourable Mittie Bashier, of the Doyden Bashiers, of course. And on down the table we have Lady Caroline Chiswick, Lillian St. Clair, Beatrice Hart-Stewart—the Hart-Stewarts, undoubtedly you’ve heard of them—Stella Campbell, and Malinda Ashland. Ladies, Eleanore … dear me. It appears I’ve forgotten your surname already. Smith, or something like that?”
“Call me anything you like,” I answered, pulling out my chair. “I certainly understand how someone with such an abnormally tiny head would struggle to remember even the most undemanding facts. It must be quite a burden for you.”
There was a collective intake of breath. I reached for the platter of bacon and toast nearest me. My fingers trembled only a little as I picked up the silver serving tongs.
Bitch, snarled the beast in my heart, and it might have meant me.
“My,” breathed Lady Sophia, after only the barest moment of suspension. She sank gracefully back into her seat. “How nearly effortlessly you managed that. Hardly any spittle! Let us beware, girls. It appears the mudlark has claws.”
I swallowed my bite of buttery toast. “Claws, and more.”
“Indeed. I’m sure all the passing sailors and whatnot admired your pluck, Eleanore, but here,” she lifted her teacup and took a sip, staring straight ahead, “we abide by rules you will find quite unfamiliar. We are, after all, daughters of the civilized class, nothing like your own.”
“What an interesting definition you must have of the word civilized.”
Lady Sophia’s lips formed a derisive curl, but before she could respond, a handbell was rung from the teachers’ dais. Girls began pushing back their chairs.
“Time, ladies,” called out Mrs. Westcliffe, still holding the bell. Her tone stretched high and thin; she knew she was attempting to herd cats. “Off to services! Miss Faraday! Miss Turner! Put down your spoons, thank you very much.