Thorns in the Shadow

By Erica Sehyun Song

It is 1893, and fifteen-year-old Lucille Rinehart secretly yearns for freedom from a strict society. While attending a private academy for girls, Lucille thinks she knows her inevitable fateto marry an honourable man. But when curiosity leads her to sneak off with her best friend, Rose, to visit a mysterious gypsy, Lucille begins to wonder if her destiny is not what she thinks.

She returns home a few days later to attend a ball hosted by her parents, only to be snatched off the street by a powerful man who wants to use her as a pawn to satisfy a grudge against her family. But just as she manages to escape, a girl presses a choker into her handand it seems the necklace has special powers. As bizarre events begin occurring, Rose acts strangely and Lucille is plagued by visions and a haunting voice. When she finally returns to school, a twist of fate soon has her bonding with three rivals who share the same uncertain future. Now all they have to do is determine who they can trust as a complex mystery begins to unfold.

In this exciting young adult tale, a teenage girl and her unlikely friends embark on a magical journey to solve their destiny where they discover danger, challenges, and most importantly, themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480807570

Erica Sehyun Song

Erica Sehyun Song attends Singapore American School, and is a member of the Flute Association Singapore. She is the author of The Pax Valley.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Erica Sehyun Song.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0756-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0758-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0757-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908807

Archway Publishing rev. date: 6/4/2014

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

About the Author

For you

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Acknowledgements

This book wouldn’t have been possible without the help of those who saw me through and cheered me on until the end. Thank you to the following:

Jeanette Hayes, Matilda Bui, Ellie Brown, Sophie Gerrits, Katie Darling, Sophia Retief, Shanae Bailey, Emily Hwang, and Natalie Harris, for brightening up the lessons and making me laugh.

My fellow CHEKR benchers – Clare Dunraven, Hana Kumar, Kim Wong, and Rebecca McNamara – for making us seem more like a family than friends. You guys are awesome!

Tinkerbelle, for never failing to put a smile on my face.

And especially my family, for the never-ending support. I love you.

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Chapter 1

February 1893 …

The dreams were back.

When I first told people I was having strangely vivid dreams, they either laughed or called me delusional. They said that all dreams are vivid, and despite how real they may feel, they are never true.

But I knew mine were different.

The dreams I had were so realistic – they were too realistic to be called a figment of my imagination. When I woke up after having those dreams, I had to convince myself that what happened really did not happen.

But most of the time, doubt still lingered in my head.

These vivid dreams I had were obviously different from my usual dreams. How did I know? They were always presented in a purple hue. People told me that the fact they were in purple should make them seem less realistic.

But somehow the purple hue only made it more believable.

The dreams were not nightmares that featured creatures of hell crawling after me, but neither did they show sunny days and rainbow-coloured skies. They were sometimes cryptic, with strangers showing me the way through unfamiliar territory. I did not feel uncomfortable around them, but neither was I willing to accept an invitation to tea.

Sometimes, they showed me people I knew, but they looked different. I could never pinpoint why or how, but I just knew it.

But tonight, the dreams were a little different.

They showed me a group of women huddled together, old and young, mumbling together in hushed voices. The women stayed still as the scenery changed. First, it was the summit of a mountain; next, it was somewhere underground. The scenery flashed every few seconds, making my head spin. And although their voices were messy, I could easily discern one word: chosen.

I brooded over it. If it had been any other dream, I would have ignored it. But it was one of those dreams. One of those purple dreams. One of those dreams that had an unusual tendency to come true.

Chosen.

The word spun in my head, whispered by hundreds of different voices.

I knew I was chosen.

But chosen for what?

Before I could think of an answer, the scene presented before me faded away. The purple light melted into the familiar darkness of my shared room. I no longer watched the huddle of mysterious women; I was lying on my bed.

The mattress squeaked as I rolled over. What was I chosen for?

I did not know, but I was not eager to find out.

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The stars twinkled high above and reflected onto the cold window. I blew on the frosty glass and watched my breath fog up. I traced my initials across the cold glass, the condensation trickling down the pane.

Rose sat by the dressing table. Picking up her brush, she worked it through her golden waves, which splashed down her shoulders in the candlelight. She took a section of her hair and pinned it away from her delicate face.

I turned to stare back out the window. The landscape of the Westerfield Academy for Young Ladies could barely be seen in the scarce light. A silhouette of a small bird wandered around on the windowsill. It chirped, flapped its wings, and took off.

Ready?

I spun, and Rose gestured for the door. Even though we were merely going down to the kitchen to play a little prank, and the sun had not yet risen, she still managed to look utterly flawless.

Always, I answered.

We tiptoed out of the room and into the dim corridor. A cluster of sconces lit the corridor, and the light guided us to the top of the stairs. Rose and I started down from the fifth floor, carefully avoiding all the creaky spots.

As we reached the fourth landing, there was the sound of hushed whispers. From the other side of the corridor, long shadows stretched and wavered across the floor. They were undoubtedly getting closer.

Quick, hide! Rose ordered.

I darted behind a window seat and drew the velvet curtains around me. She tried to scramble in after me, but I shoved her away. Go find your own hiding spot! I hissed. "The seat is not wide enough to hold me and that whale you call a nightgown." Also, we were better off if whoever was coming caught one of us – and by one of us, I meant Rose.

Thank you, Lucille, she snapped.

You are very welcome.

Is someone there? a voice called out.

No, I replied, earning a sharp kick from Rose.

Be quiet, will you? You sound as if you are choking.

"Really? Perhaps it is because I am."

I thought I heard Rose roll her eyes. At the same time, the murmuring grew louder. I squirmed into a more comfortable position; this would be a while.

Is someone there? the voice repeated.

What if we were mad men? I said. Would they still bother to call out so boldly? And even though we are not, how do they know we are students?

Keep it down. You will get us in trouble, Rose replied.

I smiled. No, just you.

Miss Henry? the same voice called out. Is that you?

Have fun, I whispered.

Footsteps whispered on the ground as the people hurried over. Miss Henry, what are you doing out here so early? a different voice said.

Oh, it is nothing to worry about, Rose quickly stepped back and leant on me. Did she think I was going to try to escape?

I was pressed up against the cold glass of the window. It was a tight fit, and I soon felt my whole leg turn numb. This better be over soon, or else that girl would regret this.

Please tell us, Miss Henry. It sounded more like an order than a request.

Well, to be honest, I was just going for a walk because I could not sleep. Lucille is a loud snorer. I jabbed her back, making her gasp out loud. And did you know that she talks in her sleep? She sometimes even curses. I shoved her where I thought her shoulder blades were. "But then again, she is Lucille."

Miss Rinehart does not seem like the type to do those sorts of things, one of the voices said. I could hear Rose fuming.

Yes, well, you have obviously not heard her sleep.

We do apologise, Miss Henry. If you do not mind, we shall get going.

Footsteps retreated. As soon as they were gone, I forced my leg out from under me and crawled out of the space. Rose looked exceptionally pleased with herself.

I do not snore or speak in my sleep, I snapped.

She arched a perfect eyebrow. "Well, you do curse."

We turned and continued our way downstairs. When we arrived, Rose looked around the corridor to ensure that nobody was watching us. Let us go, she whispered. Grabbing the lacy hem of our nightgowns, we ran towards the kitchen, eager to start our joke.

Arriving at the locked doors, I produced a skeleton key from my pocket.

Are you ever going to tell me where you got that?

I obviously bought it from our headmistress.

Really?

Of course not!

The kitchen door swung open, and we ran in. As soon as I closed the doors behind us, darkness washed over us. There was a clatter and a hiss before a single flame illuminated Rose’s sharp jaw. Even with the lack of light, her sapphire-blue gaze managed to pierce through me and send shivers down my spine.

She held up a hand to cover the flame and used it to ignite enough candles to splash the whole kitchen in a warm glow. I took two candles at a time and placed them around the kitchen. By the time we were done, the sun had started to rise.

Hurry before we lose time, she said.

I took the glass pitcher labelled Year Eleven. It was filled with a red liquid. Rose and I wandered about the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers. We grabbed random seasonings and poured them into the drink.

She dipped her finger into the pitcher and had a taste. She made a face. Perhaps it is slightly too strong.

I shrugged, and we moved about, swapping the contents of the salt and sugar jars while stealing chocolate from the cabinet. I was wiping a piece of the stray sweet from my chin when there was the sound of approaching footsteps.

Rose froze and dumped the unfinished chocolate into a nearby candelabrum. Quick, blow out the candles and hide!

Looking around, I noticed a small stool next to the counter. I carried it over and placed it under the door handle, jamming it in place. I helped Rose blow out the remaining candles, engulfing us in darkness once again.

By now, the footsteps were louder. Rose grabbed my arm and pulled me under the counter, where we had a full view of the door. I stared at the crack under the door. A bright light spilt across the floor and two stubby feet appeared.

The rattling struck around in the silence like gunshots. The person muttered something and inserted a key into the lock. Two clicks. A thousand possible excuses blurred in my mind. Rose was painfully squeezing my shoulders. The round handle twisted to one side. I held my breath and braced myself. But nothing happened.

There was another rattle as the person tried to shake the door open, but the stool seemed to hold the door in place. Stupid doors! The two feet reluctantly disappeared and clumped down the corridor.

Rose and I stayed under the shelter of the counter, waiting. The time ticked by in my head, growing louder each second until I thought my head would burst. Is she—?

Shh! Rose hissed and clamped a hand over my mouth.

I bit her hand, and she yelped but she withdrew it. To pass the time, I counted the number of grains in the wood. When I lost count, I started humming music pieces inside my head. I must have fallen asleep at one point, because a while later, Rose was telling me to wake up.

We crawled out from the confined space, and I stretched my arms over my head. It was slightly lighter outside, but we had done it.

Our plan is complete. Rose flashed me a wicked smile.

Yes, now let us go.

Not wanting to get caught, we put everything back exactly where we had found it and finished gobbling down the chocolate. Rose and I blindly stumbled to the door while trampling on each other’s feet and bashing into objects.

I fumbled with the lock in the semi-darkness and eventually managed to snap it open. We creaked the door open and gazed around the corridor. It was empty. Go.

We took off from the kitchen, not bothering to be discreet anymore. We slammed the door behind us and hastily ran up the stairs as our feet pounded heavily on the polished ground. We did not stop until we reached the top landing, and once we did, I sank down to catch my breath. Rose joined me on the top step after a while.

What time is it? I whispered so as not to wake up the other girls residing in the east wing. The top two floors of the Westerfield Academy held shared suites in both wings. The third floor was for staff, while the first two held classrooms and shared facilities.

Rose stared at me from beneath her dark lashes and smiled. Time to celebrate.

It turned out that celebrating meant catching up with sleep. It felt as if I had only closed my eyes for a few seconds when I heard the servants knocking awake the other girls.

Rose sighed in frustration from her bed. The mattress shifted as she rolled over onto her side and whacked a pillow over her ears and face. Lucille, please make them go away! she moaned, her voice muffled.

Do you think I am a divine being sent from the celestial realm to guard you from the harsh punishment of rousing from your slumber?

Is that a yes?

I am surrounded by idiots.

The knocking on our door started and pounded through my head even when the person stopped. Miss Henry, Miss Rinehart. It is time to wake up, someone said from the other side of the door.

All right, thank you, I replied, we are awake. You may leave now.

I do not think so, Miss.

Just go away, Rose muttered towards the door.

If you are not awake, I shall have to report to Mrs Berkley.

Freya Berkley was the headmistress of the Westerfield Academy. I did not know exactly how old she was, but I knew that most strangers were intimidated by her imposing figure, sharp eyebrows, and harsh eyes. Her personality was more or less the same.

Fine, go ahead and—

I hurled my pillow at Rose’s face and jumped out of bed. Being reported to Mrs Berkley would never be worth anything.

If you have me reported to Mrs Berkley, I swear that I will not hesitate to tell her about all of your past misdeeds and suggest bathroom-cleaning duty.

I yanked open the door to come face to face with a freckle-faced maid. I think she was a new one – either that, or the school had reallocated the wings.

Good morning, I said as cheerfully as possible.

Good morning, Miss …?

Rinehart. Lucille Rinehart.

Well, good morning, Miss Rinehart. I trust that Miss Henry is awake as well?

No, came Rose’s voice from her bed.

The maid grinned which took off at least five years from her features. This made me realise that she was not actually that much older than me. Were all the maids like this? Disguised behind the mask of stress?

Who are you? I asked bluntly and inwardly cursed myself. That was not very polite of me. My bad temper must have been seeping into my mouth.

Her grin widened. My name is Abby; I have been reassigned wings.

Just what I thought.

Short for Abigail? I asked.

No, short for Tabitha. My surprise and confusion must have shown on my face, for she said, I get that a lot.

What an unusual nickname for Tabitha.

Abby blushed slightly. Um, morning prayers start soon. Please be prompt. Goodbye. Then she turned on her heel and moved on to the next suite.

When I closed the door, Rose started to clap slowly from her sitting position. Well done again. You have managed to make a fool of yourself.

I rolled my eyes and washed my face with the scalding water on the bathing stand. It instantly drove away the last fog of sleep that had lingered behind. Why do you think that she would nickname herself Abby instead of something else? It is so …

Weird?

Bold.

Rose snorted as she changed into her school dress. The reason she changed her name is obviously because her name is of class.

What do you mean? I asked as I smoothed a stocking up my leg.

Tabitha is such a common name among the ladies and their daughters, while Abby is a normal nickname with the poor. She is most likely ashamed of the fact that her name contradicts her status in life, so she decided on the nickname of Abby. Or perhaps she used to belong to a wealthy family but they lost their social status.

Lady Leatherby’s first name is Abigail, I pointed out. I am most certain that she is not a commoner.

Yes, but Lady Leatherby goes by Abigail; she does not have the need to reduce her name to Abby.

I sighed. What is the difference?

Abigail sounds so much more sophisticated than Abby, do you not think so?

I brushed my brown hair to avoid saying anything. For the next few minutes as we got ready, we stayed silent. I told myself that Rose had only been joking and that she had not truly meant what she said, but a small part of me laughed at my ignorance.

Are you ready, Lucille?

I nodded.

As we glided down the stairs, the lively chatter of girls drifted up from the gleaming foyer. Once we arrived at the base of the steps, we stood by the other girls our age as we waited for morning prayers, though we did not intermingle with the girls.

The chapel was located on the steady hill behind Westerfield. It was between a scenic lake and a dense forest. During evening prayers, smoke rose from the Gypsy camp concealed by the trees. We did not mind them; we did not bother them, and they did not bother us. See? It was a pact. No harm done.

Aside from the fact that Mrs Berkley and their leader, Stefan, always got into hysterical fights over small issues, everything was completely fine. Everybody was happy.

The doors leading to the foyer were majestically thrown open, and Mrs Berkley strode in proudly, her chin pointing towards the heavens and the other teachers trailing dutifully behind her. At once, all one hundred girls in the gleaming foyer dismissed whatever conversation they were having.

After Mrs Berkley announced something, she and the other teachers herded us together before exiting the school building and heading for the steep slope. Rose and I fell back with the other older girls.

Soon, Permelia Woods and her two echoes, who had been lagging behind, caught up with us. So, how are you two this fine morning? she asked with a glint in her eyes.

Rose raised an eyebrow sceptically, linked her arm through mine, and dragged me up the grassy slope. The sweet fragrance of bluebells, apple blossoms, and Casa Blanca lilies wafted through the spring air. Colourful flowers were in bloom and swayed in time with the wind.

After treading carefully on the grass and flowers, we entered the spacious chapel and took our usual seats. Members of staff sat at the front, the youngest girls sat right behind them, and the oldest girls sat at the back. We eleven girls of late fifteen and early sixteen took our seats on the pews which were third from the back. Reverend Thomas Watson took his place at the front of the stained-glass chapel and waited for us to fall silent.

With a gesture of his pasty hands, Reverend Watson signalled for us to stand. We each took up a hymnal, and the sound of pages being flicked filled the chapel. An eerie quiet descended once everyone was on the right page. Mr Toby Houston struck a note on the grand organ, and we all hummed in perfect harmony before Mr Houston played the hymn.

After the song, the reverend passed us the sign to sit, and we all exchanged our hymnals for a copy of the Bible. Reverend Watson’s voice started off, sounding sure and strong as he read a short passage, our eyes quickly darting back and forth to see where he was up to.

Miss Rinehart, please continue.

Sally Preston and Mathilda Greene snickered loudly, earning warning looks from the members of staff. I ignored them. ‘Pride goes before destruction and a stiff spirit before fall.’ More snickers echoed. ‘Better it is to have a gentle spirit with the poor than to take part in the rewards of war with men of pride.’

Permelia and her two echoes burst out laughing, dropping their Bibles onto the hard ground. Immediately, Reverend Watson stood next to the trio, who were sitting across from my pew. Ladies, do you wish to share whatever is very amusing?

No, thank you, Reverend Watson, Permelia answered, tears running down her rosy cheeks.

At once, Mrs Berkley was out of her pew and marching down the aisle like an unstoppable army. She dragged the three girls out of their seats and into the aisle with everyone watching them. Ladies, you shall explain your unacceptable behaviour outside. And with that, she marched off with the girls towards the front door.

Once the door slammed shut, Reverend Watson cleared his throat and sailed to the back of the church to stand in his usual place. Without thanking me, he continued the passage without picking on anyone else to read.

Rude, I whispered to Rose. He really must work on his manners. They are absolutely appalling.

After we murmured our prayers and sung one last hymn, we were on our way back to the main school building for our lessons. While Rose and I were halfway down the hill, an old Gypsy woman stepped out from the safety of the dense trees. I recognised her instantly.

Mother Tsura? Whatever are you doing here?

She turned her head slowly, and I cringed on the inside. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot, and she was desperately gripping onto her necklace, making her knuckles turn bone white. She took a step towards me, and I immediately took a step back.

Mother Tsura? Are you all right?

She slowly shook her head as if awakening from a trance. The milkiness of her eyes cleared slightly as she stared boldly at me. Be careful.

Mata, we were so worried! a deep voice shouted.

Stefan stepped from the shelter of evergreen leaves and was followed shortly by two of his men. The three of them regarded Rose and me coolly.

I presume you belong to the Westerfield Academy?

Is Mother Tsura all right? I asked.

Mother Tsura is none of your business! he snapped.

I put my hands up in a defensive position. I am sorry, but I was just asking.

You are better off with your mouth shut!

Stefan placed an arm around his mother and desperately tried to tow her away. The other two men regarded me warily as Mother Tsura pointed at me, her mouth set into a tight and worried grimace.

Be careful, Lucille Rinehart.

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Chapter 2

How does Mother Tsura know your name, Lucille? Rose whispered to me as we sat in our French classroom, waiting for our teacher to walk in. Crystals and lace covered the room, and a painting of the Loire Valley covered a large portion of the far wall.

I do not know. This is only the second time I have ever spoken to Mother Tsura. The first time was under Mrs Berkley’s gaze when she was having another ridiculously hysterical argument with Stefan over the distribution of snow.

Snow?

Yes, snow. They were fighting over snow.

Just as Rose opened her mouth to add something, Madame Delphine Bleu breezed into the room. Her silk skirts swished around her ankles with soft sighs, and she carried with her the heavenly scent of fresh flowers. "Ah, bonjour."

Bonjour, Madame Bleu, the eleven of us greeted her in unison.

Madame Bleu smiled angelically and then trained her steely eyes on the three troublemakers from the deep, fiery pits of hell.

Miss Woods, Miss Greene, and Miss Preston, I am not particularly happy about your behaviour this morning in the chapel, she chastised them.

Permelia batted her eyelashes innocently. I do so apologise, Madame Bleu, but it was because Mathilda had told me a horrendously mean joke.

Everybody gasped in shock and stared at Mathilda.

Permelia, Mathilda hissed as she flushed from all the unwanted attention.

Miss Greene, is that true?

Mathilda stared at our French teacher with wide eyes. They shone as if they were overflowing with unshed tears. No, Madame! I swear! It was not me!

It is a sin to lie.

Which is why I am not lying, Madame!

Madame Bleu tapped her chin and considered what had just been said. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sally the Tag-Along relax slightly in her chair. She was probably relieved by the fact that Permelia and Mathilda had not blamed the shame on her.

Madame Bleu, what if we told you that it was Sally?

Never mind.

"What? What are you rattling about, Permelia? I did not start anything! It was you! All the bad things which have happened here at this school are because of you, Permelia. You caused them all. So, Rose and I were not being blamed for the pranks. Good. Madame, I promise over my dead body that it was not me!"

We all gasped at Sally’s use of language, although we were more excited than shocked by her inappropriate use of words. Her eyes widened at her mindless rattling and she mumbled apologies to our French teacher. Madame Bleu gently massaged her temple in slow circles as if trying to rid the event from her mind. Everything was still for a long time, and no one dared to break the silence. Finally, she exhaled and opened her eyes.

I hope you shall learn.

For the rest of French, Madame Bleu called each of us up to ensure that our accents and grammar had not turned sloppy. To my great relief, mine had stayed perfectly accurate and precise. Being forced to catch up on something at the Westerfield Academy could be the earthly equivalent of hell.

Frankly, this school was so militant sometimes.

While we were studying Jean Nicholas Arthur Rimbaud, Rose secretly blew onto a sheet of paper before carefully folding it in half.

Madame, may I please have a drink of water? she asked once she put her hand up.

"Oui, my darling."

She stood up gracefully like a swan with the paper held casually in two of her fingers. Then, much less gracefully, she stumbled with a surprised yelp and grabbed the edge of my table for support. She looked up and quickly slipped the note under my notes.

Oh, I am terribly sorry, Lucille, she gasped and fanned herself as her cheeks glowed tomato red.

It is all right, I replied and helped her up despite the fact that I knew just how fake her little fall was.

When Madame Bleu was scrawling something across the blackboard with a piece of stubby chalk, I opened the note and read Rose’s neat handwriting:

L,

Let us meet Mother Tsura tonight.

She shall be fun to talk with since she has fortune-telling powers.

—R

I scribbled a quick reply and folded the note neatly back in half. I checked to see if Madame Bleu still had her back to us. She did. Without making a sound, I leant over to my left and placed the note just under Rose’s pile of classwork.

Rose floated back in a while later, her thirst apparently quenched. She resumed her seat and immediately caught sight of the note. She rolled down her left glove and folded up the paper thrice more before putting it down her arm and rolling the glove back up. She caught me looking and grinned mischievously.

She might as well have concealed it using a hoop skirt.

As Madame Bleu continued to drone on about the French poet, I mindlessly took down notes. At eleven twenty, Madame Bleu dismissed us and we headed over for needlepoint with Miss Louise McCaw. After a torturous hour on how to tell the difference between each thread, Rose and I eagerly raced up to our suite to put our items away and came back down just in time to hear a deafening scream from the dining hall.

We stared at each other with grins and wide eyes, the same thought being processed through our brains. We quickly composed ourselves before following the torrent of girls to see what was going on, although we already had a good idea.

We pushed open the doors and saw that in the centre of the mess stood Aveline Vickery along with her friend Paige Wilcox. Aveline’s icy blue eyes hardened as she screamed for Mrs Paxton. The always grumpy cook hobbled up to the Queen of Drama Queens and braced herself.

Mrs Paxton, I demand to know what brand of juice this is! She grabbed hold of her glass of juice and shook it hard. Garnet droplets fell onto the floor, and her platinum blonde hair stood on end. It is beyond drinkable!

Mrs Paxton gently eased the glass from her bone-white knuckles and sniffed delicately. She pinched her nose. "Oh dear, this is not your juice. Well, it is, but it has been adulterated."

A-a-adult—

Adulterated, Elvira Spencer interrupted.

Adulterated? What does that mean? Aveline asked as confusion marred her flawless face.

Dictionaries exist for a reason, Vickery.

Miss Spencer, you do not refer to other young ladies by their last name, Mrs Paxton warned.

Elvira rolled her eyes but stayed silent.

Sixteen-year-old Aveline’s face burned scarlet, and she clenched and unclenched her fists. Rose was biting the inside of her cheeks. She looked concerned for Aveline, but I knew better. She was trying to hold in her laughter.

Oh dear, that must have been horrible, Aveline, Paige Wilcox said much louder than necessary. How terrible it must have been for you to suffer the torture of drinking that horrible concoction.

"Miss Wilcox, we shall not use the violent word in my grounds. Mrs Berkley snapped. And do not push your luck of fighting for attention."

Right to the heart.

My apologies, Mrs Berkley, Paige mumbled.

Pardon? Speak louder, Miss Wilcox.

My apologies, Mrs Berkley,

Ladies, I would very much prefer it if you stopped dawdling and resumed your places before I deduct any privilege points. A hundred privilege points were required by the end of the school year for a student to move onto the next year. When nobody moved, Mrs Berkley gave us withering looks. Ladies, I do not wish to repeat myself; however, it appears as if I have not made myself clear enough.

That got us all moving. We shuffled our feet along the polished floor and sat along our usual dining tables. I tucked my chair in and sat up straight with my back against it by the year eleven table. The eleven of us at the table could have passed as perfect statues.

Once Mrs Berkley had resumed her seat at the staff’s table, Elvira and her friend Constance Turner leant across the table and rested their heads in their hands. Vickery, how was the juice?

At this, Aveline’s eyes sparked. "Was it you who contaminated the juice, Elvira? What did you put in it? Dirt? Actually, I bet you spat in it!"

Although this may be hard to believe, I never touched your precious little juice. But I really wish I did.

You have absolutely no right to do that.

Elvira tossed back her mane of silky black hair and laughed. No right? I am the oldest out of the eleven of us. I shall do as I please.

However, Elvira, it is against the rules to commit such a crime, Henrietta said. Henrietta was best known for her natural talent with sports. Her strawberry-blonde hair looked nearly pink with her heavily tinted curls.

Since when is switching the contents of two bottles a crime, Johnson?

It is in Westerfield, Isobel Lennox reminded as she prepared to defend her friend.

Oh, is it now? Permelia asked.

Yes, it is, Rose answered. But from the twinkle in her eyes, I knew that she was only joining the heated argument for fun.

Ladies, please, there is no reason to argue, Mathilda said with a goofy grin, making her face resemble some sort of squashed orange.

Yes, there is no reason to argue, Sally echoed.

Ladies, I think that we better quiet down.

"What makes you think that we should do that, Rinehart?"

"Well, it is obviously not because Mrs Berkley shall deduct privilege points from the way she is glowering at us," I drawled. We stole small glances at our headmistress, who did not appear impressed with our whispering and terrifying table etiquette.

We all reluctantly pulled away from our hunched positions over the table and continued to eat as if nothing had happened.

Vickery, please pass the butter, Elvira said. She was holding a piece of thin bread. Aveline pretended that she was deaf and continued to hold conversation with Paige. Elvira pasted a smile and forced her words through tightly clenched teeth. "Aveline, please pass the butter."

Aveline cocked her head. I fear I have gone deaf, Paige, for all I hear is your marvellous voice, yet I can feel someone spitting down the back of my neck. Do you hear anything?

No, nothing at all, Aveline.

Elvira grabbed the slab of butter which Aveline was purposely offering herself a generous amount of. Thank you, dearest Aveline.

I do believe that snatching is quite rude.

Elvira arched an eyebrow, and her expression showed that she did not care. I do apologise for my impeccable behaviour. Her smile was malevolent.

Impeccable behaviour? What a laugh.

There was a muted thud from