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Ann beams."Fee loaned me her cape."

"Lovely," I say, trying to ignore the use of Felicity's nickname. Felicity has never let me borrow anything, and I can't help feeling a prick of jealousy that the two of them will have the holiday together.Advertisement

Felicity fiddles with Ann's clothing, smoothing out wrinkles. "I shall have Mama take us to her club tomorrow for lunch. It is one of the best women's clubs, you know. We must tell Gemma of our master plan. She'll have to play her part in it."

I am already sorry for whatever is to come.

"I am taking it upon myself to reinvent Ann for the holidays. No more of this sad mouse of a girl, this scholarship student. She'll fit in as if she's to the manner born. No one will be the wiser."

Ann pipes up on cue. "I am to tell her mother that I am descended from Russian royalty, and that only recently did my great-uncle, the Duke of Chesterfield, find me here at Spence and inform me of my late parents' bequest." Taking in the sight of pudgy, very English-looking Ann, I ask,"Do you think that wise?"

"I got the idea from the ruby last night. I thought, what if we were to spin our very own illusion?" Felicity says. "What if we play a little game?"

"What if we are found out?" Ann frets.

"We won't be," Felicity says."I shall tell the ladies at the club that before the death of your parents, you received musical training from a world-famous Russian opera singer. They will be thrilled to hear you sing. Knowing how they are, they'll all fight to have you sing at their dances and dinners. You'll be the prize exhibit, and the whole time, they'll have no idea you're poor as a church mouse."

There is something feral in Felicity's grin.

"I shall probably disappoint them," Ann mumbles.

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"You must stop that this instant," Felicity chides. "I'm not doing all this work on your behalf so that you can go and undo it."

"Yes, Felicity," Ann says.

Umbrellas opened against the rain, we step outside, where we can have a moment alone. None of us wants to say what we're really feeling, that it shall be torture to wait to enter the realms. Having tasted the magic, I cannot wait to try it again.

"Dazzle them," I say to Ann. We embrace lightly, and then the driver is calling over the cascade of rain.

"Two days," Felicity says.

I nod. "Two days."

They skitter off for the carriage, kicking up mud as they do.

Mademoiselle LeFarge is seated in the great hall when I enter. She's got on her very best wool suit and is reading Pride and Prejudice .

"You look lovely," I say."Er, tres jolie !" "Merci beaucoup," she says, smiling. "The inspector is calling for me shortly."

"I see you are reading Miss Austen," I say, grateful that she has not upbraided me for my terrible French.

"Oh, yes. I do enjoy her books. They're so romantic. It's very clever of her to end always on a happy note--with a betrothal or wedding."

A maid knocks."Mr. Kent to see you, miss."

"Ah, thank you." Mademoiselle LeFarge puts away her book. "Well, Miss Doyle, I shall see you in the new year, then. Have a happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, Mademoiselle LeFarge."

"Oh, and do work on your French over the holiday, Mademoiselle Doyle. It is a season of miracles. Perhaps we shall both be granted one."

Within hours, Spence is nearly deserted. Only a handful of us remain. All day long, girls have been leaving. From my window, I've watched them step out into the cold wind for the carriage ride to the train station. I've watched their goodbyes, their promises to see each other at this ball or that opera. It's a wonder they carry on so with tears and "I'll miss you's" since it seems as if they will scarcely be apart.

I've the run of the place, and so I spend some time exploring, climbing steep stairs into thin turrets whose windows give me a bird's-eye view of the land surrounding Spence. I flit past locked doors and dark, paneled rooms that seem more like museum exhibits than living, breathing places. I wander until it is dark and past the time when I should be in bed, not that I think anyone shall

be searching for me.

When I reach my own floor, I am stopped cold. One of the enormous doors to the burned remains of the East Wing has been left ajar. A key juts from the lock. In the time I've been here, I've never seen these doors unlocked, and I wonder why they should be opened now, when the school is empty. Nearly empty.

I creep closer, trying not to make a sound. There are voices coming from inside. It takes me a moment, but I recognize them: Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy. I cannot hear them clearly. The wind pushes through like a bellows, sending puffs of words out to me: "Must begin." "London." "They'll help us." "I've secured it." pqdm.com