The Darkness Dwellers Page 5

  “You must have patience, Mrs. Underwood,” Amelia Beauregard counseled as she peeled the woman’s fingers from her arm. “Poise cannot be purchased overnight. Ivy wasn’t gifted with grace, but neither are most girls. She simply needs more practice. I find the curtsy comes more naturally once the bottom is bruised from falling.”

  I watched Ivy giving it an honest effort and wondered why she would bother. She was dressed in the same gray yoga outfit as the other girls, but her black nails, hair, and eyeliner were all evidence of an undercover Goth girl. Every time she fell, a tiny skull on the end of a chain bounced out of the top of her sports bra. She seemed to be the only real person in the group of bland Barbies.

  “She looks kind of interesting,” I told Betty.

  Amelia Beauregard laughed, and Mrs. Underwood followed suit, though it was clear she had no idea what was amusing.

  “No one under thirty is interesting,” Amelia Beauregard corrected me. “The most you can hope for is inoffensive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Underwood, I must tend to these young ladies. Come,” she ordered as if we were a pair of corgis.

  Amelia Beauregard’s office was painted Wedgwood blue and furnished in the manner of a Victorian sitting room, with overstuffed chairs and tasteful objets perched everywhere the eye might land. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a rather severe-looking gentleman in a 1940s-style three-piece suit.

  “Please, have a seat,” said Madame, and Betty and I chose a settee upholstered in ivory silk. I saw the old woman glance down at my legs, which were crossed at the knee and fidgeting wildly, and shake her head. I looked over at Betty and noticed that hers were crossed daintily at the ankle, just like Madame Beauregard’s. I felt myself blush as I corrected my pose. Two maids entered the room, one carrying an enormous silver tower stacked with finger sandwiches and cakes. The other servant bore a tray with tea and cream.

  I pointed at the painting above the fireplace. “Who’s the guy in the picture?” I asked, trying to make pleasant conversation as the maids set to work serving the food.

  “The gentleman is my father, Humphrey Beauregard III. His friends and family knew him as Trip. You may refer to him as Mr. Beauregard. He founded this institute almost one hundred years ago.”

  “He looks like a very serious man,” Betty noted.

  “He was,” Amelia confirmed. “He was a serious man with serious ideas. Unlike the weak-willed parents of today, he didn’t believe in coddling children. The young are dangers to themselves, he would tell me. Unless their wild instincts are tamed, they risk bringing shame upon themselves and their families. My father saved generations of New York girls from social suicide. I, too, was rescued by his institute.” She glanced up at the portrait. “I shudder to imagine what Papa might have said if one of his girls had ever been caught spying on elderly ladies.”

  “We apologize for what happened in the Marble Cemetery,” Betty said as I took the opportunity to pile my plate high with finger sandwiches. “We don’t usually do things like that.”

  “We were just curious about the lilies,” I jumped in. “Was the person who died a friend of yours?”

  This time, it was Betty who looked horrified. “Ananka!” she whispered.

  Surprisingly, Amelia Beauregard was willing to talk. “He was someone who sacrificed several lives for his country,” she said. “It was a very long time ago.”

  “I thought the Marble Cemetery stopped accepting burials in the 1930s,” I remarked.

  “You’ve obviously done your research, Miss Fishbein,” Amelia Beauregard said with a hint of respect in her voice. “He wasn’t buried there. His body was never recovered. My family had connections to the Marble Cemetery, and they allowed me to put up the plaque. His own family couldn’t afford a memorial. But that’s enough about me for now. I’ve done a little digging myself, ladies. I read about the Underground Railroad site you discovered, Miss Fishbein. And I know that you were both involved in foiling the heist at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last November.”

  “The point is?” I asked with my mouth still half full of cucumber sandwich and my ankles no longer crossed.

  “The point is …,” Amelia Beauregard began. Then she stopped, and her entire body spasmed as if she’d taken a sip of poisoned tea. “No, no, no. This isn’t any good! I can’t hold a conversation with someone who insists on displaying such atrocious manners. You should never speak with your mouth full, Miss Fishbein. Your napkin should be in your lap, not wadded up in your left hand. And please sit up straight with your legs together. Your posture makes you look like someone who should be painting buffalo on the side of a cave, and I’m certain your mother has told you that nice girls don’t lounge around with their underwear on full display.”

  I was about to teach Madame Amelia Beauregard a thing or two when I felt Betty’s cool hand on my arm and heard her whisper in my ear, “Remember Kiki.” Trying not to gag on my pride, I dutifully straightened my posture and folded my napkin in my lap.

  “Much better,” said Amelia with a smug smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one day you turned out to be human, Miss Fishbein.”

  The hand Betty kept on my arm was the only thing between Amelia Beauregard and a verbal smackdown. “Would you mind if we discussed your job offer, Madame Beauregard?” Betty inquired.

  “Not at all,” the old lady said, taking a dainty sip of her tea. “But I’m afraid you’ll find my conditions have changed.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Betty. “Why would they change?”

  “As I mentioned, I did a little reading about you and your friends. And whatever your reasons for coming here today, I’m quite confident they have nothing to do with employment or etiquette. I have a feeling there’s a reason you need to travel to Paris. Am I right?”

  Betty looked at me. Neither of us had anticipated this.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I don’t need to know your secrets any more than you need to know mine. The job is yours if you want it, Miss Bent. And I shall be happy to take you with me to Paris. But while you’re gone, I’ll need Miss Fishbein’s assistance with a little project of mine.”

  “My assistance?” I asked. My back ached from remaining so rigid. “What can I do?”

  “I’ve heard that you attend the Atalanta School for Girls—is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I cautiously confirmed.

  “Excellent. You see, Miss Fishbein, L’Institut Beauregard doesn’t advertise. We rely on word of mouth to bring in new faces. That’s why every year or two, I like to offer a scholarship to a particularly difficult student. A girl they say can’t be tamed. It keeps my teachers on their toes, and it’s an invaluable public relations tool. The following season, the applications pour in.”

  “I’m not enrolling in your school,” I said. There was only so far I was willing to go. We could find another way to get to Paris.

  “Oh, I’m afraid you wouldn’t pose much of a challenge, Miss Fishbein. I merely uttered a few sharp words to you, and now you’re posed on that loveseat like a perfect little lady. Give me a few weeks and your manners would outshine those of the Queen of England. No, I’m not interested in you, Miss Fishbein. I’m interested in one of your classmates.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  Madame Beauregard rose and opened a desk drawer. When she returned, she was holding a sheet of pale blue notepaper. “Do you recognize any of the names on this list?”

  I took the paper and my eyes began to run down the alphabetized list of forty names. When I reached the D names, I came to a halt.

  Francesca Daly

  Marley Donald

  Molly Donovan

  I couldn’t help it. I started to howl with laughter. “You want to recruit Molly Donovan?”

  “What’s so funny?” Madame Beauregard snapped. “I take it you’re acquainted with Miss Donovan?”

  “Sure. She’s a friend of mine. But have you ever met Molly Donovan?” I asked.

  “No,” the lady admitted. “I’ve only he
ard stories. They say she’s rather wild.”

  “Wild doesn’t begin to describe Molly. She’s practically a force of nature. She held the Atalanta record for detention by the eighth grade. She set off twenty-four smoke bombs in a single morning. I wish I could convince her to enroll in your school. She’d destroy it.”

  Betty pinched me, but I have a feeling Madame never caught that last part. “What do you mean, you wish you could convince her?” she demanded.

  “Molly isn’t at Atalanta anymore. She was expelled last semester. Now she attends a boarding school for troubled children in West Virginia.”

  “She does?” For a moment, Madame Beauregard looked horrified. Then she shook it off. “I presume she returns to the city each summer?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno. She’s pretty happy raising her pigs.”

  Amelia Beauregard clasped a hand over her heart. “Pigs?” she asked weakly.

  “Yes, pigs. The school she goes to is also a working farm. Molly won second prize in the Pig Rodeo a couple of months ago.”

  “Well,” said Madame Beauregard. “It sounds as though this will be quite a challenge. I look forward to turning Miss Donovan into an upstanding young lady.”

  “I just told you. There’s no way she’ll do it.”

  “And I just told you, Miss Fishbein. Either Molly Donovan enrolls in the institute’s summer program or Miss Bent will have to find her own way to Paris. I suggest you act quickly. My flight leaves the day after tomorrow.”

  THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … TEA PARTIES

  Think tea parties are for preschoolers, Mad Hatters, and prissy old ladies? Think again. A famous author once wrote, “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.” So, if you decide to throw a party, invite only people you know well—and those you’d like to know a bit better. It doesn’t matter whether you offer your guests scones, cucumber sandwiches, or pigs in a blanket. The most delectable tidbits served at afternoon tea should always be secrets.

  • Afternoon tea (often called high tea by people who want to sound fancy and don’t really know what they’re talking about) is usually served around 4:00—the perfect hour for plotting, when school is out but parents (and most nosy adults) are still at work.

  • Tea has always been the detective’s beverage of choice. Why? Tea contains a substance known as L-theanine. When combined with caffeine, it produces a state of mind that’s both relaxed and alert. (But you’ll need to drink three or more cups to get there.)

  • Don’t like caffeine? There are herbal teas that may enhance vision, put you to sleep, improve your memory, cure depression, protect you from colds, and kill harmful bacteria.

  • Does one of your guests have a secret you’d like her to share? The Pokrovians say, When the belly is full, the mouth opens wide. So don’t be stingy with the finger sandwiches and cake.

  • Forget all the rules and have a good time. But don’t lift your pinky finger when you sip your tea. (Not because Amelia Beauregard wouldn’t approve. It just looks ridiculous.)

  • Should something go horribly wrong at your party, you’ll be happy to know that black tea can be used to ease pain, stop bleeding, and soothe sunburns. It can also treat smelly breath and stinky feet.

  • Skip the tea bags and serve loose-leaf tea. Once you’re done, the leaves left behind in your cup can reveal the future. Look for symbols like a cabbage, which means someone will envy you, or a parrot, which warns you to be wary of gossip.

  Chapter 9

  The Boreland Academy

  AMTRACK’S CARDINAL LINE: MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16

  The next morning, I was chugging coffee on a five a.m. train bound for West Virginia—home of the infamous Boreland Academy. Technology was forbidden at Molly Donovan’s school, so if I was going to convince her to learn how to curtsy, I would need to do it in person. It was a task I didn’t relish. Some girls spend their childhoods dreaming of all things pretty and pink. I had a hunch that Molly’s fondest fantasies were more likely to feature a flamethrower.

  I was excited to see her, though. We’d grown to be friends in the months before she was shipped off to boarding school, and our friendship had proven to be mutually beneficial. She’d supplied me with confidential information, and when Molly had wanted to be expelled from the Atalanta School for Girls, I’d designed the stunt that had done the trick.

  For the first few hours of my journey, I sent e-mails and surfed the Internet. Then, around eight a.m., my phone lost coverage. With nothing else to do, I turned to gaze out the window at the Pennsylvania wilderness. The sight brought back a half-forgotten memory—a flash from the past that left a smile on my lips.

  When I was eleven years old, my parents and I had taken a camping trip to the same woods that were now speeding past my window. My mother kept the portable radio tuned to NPR because she couldn’t stand the sound of silence. I spent most of the trip on the lookout for werewolves and nearly fainted when I found a tick burrowed into my armpit. And my father wasted an entire night searching the forest for a cricket that was keeping him from falling asleep. That trip had been the Fishbein family’s last excursion into the great outdoors.

  From the safety and comfort of my train seat, I could almost see nature’s appeal. It was quite lovely, after all. Even scrub brush looks charming beneath a thick February snow. But for better or worse I was born a Fishbein, and I was already itching to get back to the city.

  An hour after we passed through the village of Burp, West Virginia, I spotted the Boreland Academy perched on a sunny hillside. Snow-covered pastures surrounded white clapboard buildings that must have served as both barns and classrooms. To the west, nearly hidden in the trees, were six bare-bones barracks. It looked as though the Army had commandeered Old McDonald’s farm.

  I was the only person to disembark at Boreland, and I found the station empty. A handwritten sign that said TAXI pointed out the front door, but the snow piled up in the parking lot hadn’t been shoveled for weeks. Even the road beyond the station was empty. Faced with the prospect of freezing to death while waiting for a ride, I shoved my hat on my head and my mittens on my fingers and started off for the school on the hill.

  The road was still covered with several inches of pristine snow. There were no tire tracks. Aside from myself, the only creature to have made the journey in recent days was a giant cat with paw prints the size of pie tins. I followed its footsteps for half a mile, until they jumped the bank at the side of the road and disappeared across a field. A few hundred yards from the school, the only sound was the wind shifting the snow. Then the peace was broken by the howl of a furious beast. I saw a black-haired boy in a straight jacket being led to an unmarked van in the academy’s parking lot. Suddenly, he jerked out of his keepers’ hands and made a run for it across the pasture. He was halfway to the woods when he stumbled and fell face-first in the snow. As they dragged him upright, I could hear him cackling.

  A burly orderly pointed me in the direction of the school administrator’s office. It was inside a long, narrow building that might once have been a chicken coop. Past the office, the roads were blocked, and there was a sign that read, ABSOLUTELY NO VISITORS BEYOND THIS POINT. SNIPERS ARE ON DUTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. I stepped into the office. The lady at the front desk wore a red gingham shirt and a beehive hairdo. On the wall behind her head, within arm’s reach, were three hunting rifles. I could tell by the way she greeted me she wasn’t afraid to use them.

  “Yes?” asked the woman, her eyes narrowed and her muscles tensed.

  “I’m here to see one of your students,” I said. “Molly Donovan.”

  “Why?” she asked, and I knew “for a friendly visit” wasn’t the right answer.

  “Her grandmother died,” I said, opting for a classic. “Her parents sent me to break the news. They would have come themselves, but they’re too busy arranging the funeral. Molly’s grandmother requested a coffin in the shape of a Budweiser bottle, and they’re waiting for it to arrive from Ghana.”

  Th
e woman didn’t blink. “Do you have a copy of the death certificate?”

  “No,” I admitted. “The coroner is still trying to determine the cause of Ms. Donovan’s death. Her refrigerator fell on top of her—but they’re not sure if it was an accident or foul play.”

  “All right, over here,” the woman snapped impatiently, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of her. “Arms over your head.” She patted me down from head to toe and yanked my phone from my pocket. “You’ll get this back when you leave,” she said. “Take a seat.” I started to sit in the metal folding chair on one side of her desk. “Not there!” the woman exclaimed. “In the cage!”

  Across from her desk was a large Plexiglas barrier with a door. Beyond the barrier were four chairs and a coffee table. I was being quarantined, as if I might infect the students of the Boreland Academy.

  “Really?” I asked. “Is that necessary?”

  “Do I look like the kind of lady who likes to joke around?” the woman asked. I had to admit that she didn’t. Not even remotely. “Have a seat, and I’ll page Molly Donovan.”

  Ten minutes later, Molly barged into the office, her cheeks ruddy and her Wellington boots coated with what must have been pig manure.

  “Ananka!” she shouted. Inside the cage, she wrapped me in a smelly hug. “What are you doing here!”

  “Your parents sent me to talk to you,” I said solemnly, winking at her when the secretary wasn’t looking.

  “Oh no,” Molly whispered theatrically. She caught on quickly.

  “I’m afraid so,” I told her.

  “Not Grandma!” Molly sobbed on cue. Her anguish was so realistic and her wails so loud that the receptionist finally had to intervene.

  “Why don’t you take her outside for some fresh air?” she suggested irritably.

  “Good idea,” I said. I took Molly by the shoulders and guided her through the door. Once we were outside, Molly promptly switched off the waterworks. “Nice job,” I told her. “I see you inherited your mom’s talent.” Molly’s mother had won two Oscars and was hailed for her ability to master the most obscure accents. Molly’s father was Manhattan’s most successful plastic surgeon.