Read Online Rebel Angels by Libba Bray - Free Book Online Page A

“Miss it? You’ll do no such thing, Miss Doyle.”
    “But, I thought . . . given my condition . . .”
    “There’ll be no time for weakness on my watch, Miss Doyle. I shall see you tomorrow on the range, or you shall lose conduct marks.” It feels less like a statement than a challenge.
    “Yes, Miss McCleethy,” I say. I have decided: I do not like Miss McCleethy.
    I can hear happy laughter floating up from the parlor. No doubt Felicity and Ann have told Miss McCleethy their entire histories by now. They’re probably all thick as thieves, sitting round the fire, sipping the froth from the eggnog, while I’ll still be known as the ghastly, ill-mannered girl who called Miss McCleethy a prig.
    My stomach aches anew. Blasted inconvenience. What do young men have to mark their entry into adulthood? Trousers, that’s what. Fine, new trousers. I despise absolutely everyone just now.
    In time, the brandy makes me warm and drowsy. The room grows narrower with each heavy blink. I slip into sleep.
    I am walking through the garden. The grass is sharp and prickly, scratches my feet. I’m near the river, but it is shrouded in mist.
    “Closer,”
comes a strange voice.
    I inch forward.
    “Closer still.”
    I am at the river’s edge, but I can see no one, only hear that eerie voice.
    “So it’s true. You have come. . . .”
    “Who are you?” I say. "I can’t see your face.”
    “No,” comes the voice. "But I have seen yours. . . .”

CHAPTER NINE
    THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AT TEN MINUTES TO three o’clock, we report to the great lawn. Six targets have been placed in a line. The brightly colored eyes in the center seem to mock me—
Go on, hit us if you think you can
. All during breakfast, I had to endure tales of the
splendid
night I missed with the
absolute dearest
Miss McCleethy, who wanted to know
simply every
little thing
about the girls.
    “She told me that the Pooles were descendants of King Arthur himself!” Elizabeth trills.
    “Gemma, she tells the most wonderful stories,” Ann says.
    “Of Wales and the school there.
They
had dances practically every other week, with actual men present,” Felicity says.
    Martha speaks up. “I pray that she will prevail upon Mrs. Nightwing to let us do the same.”
    “Do you know what else she said?” Cecily asks.
    “No. For I was not there,” I answer. I’m feeling rather sorry for myself.
    “Oh, Gemma, she did ask about you as well,” Felicity says.
    “She did?”
    “Yes. She wanted to know all about you. She didn’t even seem to mind that you’d called her a prig.”
    “Gemma, you didn’t,” Elizabeth says, wide-eyed.
    “I wasn’t the only one,” I say, glaring at Felicity and Ann.
    Felicity is undisturbed. “I’m sure you’ll become friends in time. Oh, here she is now. Miss McCleethy! Miss McCleethy!”
    “Good afternoon, ladies. I see we are ready.” Miss McCleethy strides across the lawn like the Queen herself, giving us clipped instructions on the proper technique for holding the bow. The girls clamor for her attention, begging to be shown correct form. And when she gives a demonstration, her arrow finding the center of the target straightaway, everyone applauds as if she has shown the path to heaven itself.
    Arrows are given out to the first group of girls.
    “Miss McCleethy,” Martha calls out, worried. “Are we to use real arrows, then?”
    She holds the arrow’s sharp metal tip away from her as if it were a loaded pistol.
    “Yes, shouldn’t we use rubber-tipped ones?” Elizabeth asks.
    “Nonsense. You will be perfectly fine with these, so long as you don’t aim at each other. Now, who is first?”
    Elizabeth steps up to the line that has been chalked in the dead grass. Miss McCleethy coaxes her into position, guiding her elbow back. Elizabeth’s arrow falls with a thud, but Miss McCleethy has her practice again and again, and on the fourth try, she manages to graze the bottom of the target.
    “That’s progress. Keep trying.