A School for Unusual Girls by Kathleen Baldwin

at dinner, at soirees, assembly rooms, and even at card parties. Mother had instructed me over and over, but on every occasion found me clumsy, ugly, and socially inept. I answered Miss Stranje with a fraudulent smile, “Yes, certainly.”
    â€œExcellent.” She stood abruptly. “Now, if you’ve finished your breakfast, Georgiana, come with me. It is time we attended to your studies.”
    Tess and Maya looked askance at each other. Were they worried?
    My studies?
    I followed our headmistress into the hall feeling certain her use of the word studies was a euphemism for torture. She meant to punish me for last night’s behavior. Clearly, Miss Stranje’s educational theory relied heavily on pain. No doubt she was planning to whip the stuffing out of me until I dared never disobey her again. She would do all this under the guise of turning me into a more pleasing daughter for my mother.
    Go ahead . Torture me. I will never become a simpering, pudding-headed, marriageable Miss. Never .
    I clamped my lips together in absolute defiance, but my clammy palms spoiled the effect. So, I wiped them against my skirts and marched onward to my doom.
    We had descended the main staircase before I realized the discipline chamber wasn’t in this direction. Unless Miss Stranje possessed two torture chambers, I might not be getting stretched on the rack this morning. Confused, I tried to guess my fate.
    Attend to my studies …
    If she meant to stick me in a room with that dragon, Madame Cho, and force me to learn Chinese history, I would leap out of the nearest window, cut off my hair, don boy’s clothing, run to the nearest port, jump aboard a frigate, and join the crew. Not a perfect plan, I’ll admit. But surely it would succeed better than last night’s escape.
    My studies?
    Miss Stranje’s task was to reform me into a biddable young debutante. What studies did that require? Oh, please God, do not let it be a dancing master . I could not bear the humiliation of crippling another skinny Frenchman. Monsieur Fouché had howled louder than a cat with his tail caught under a chair when I tromped on his ankle. Mother had to pay him double his fee just to get him to stop squealing.
    I slowed my pace, from a resigned march to slow plod. Not dancing. Please, not dancing .
    â€œIt isn’t dancing, is it? Because I simply won’t—”
    â€œHeavens no.” Miss Stranje led us through the foyer into the west wing corridor. I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up my stride to match hers. With a slight sniff and a no-nonsense tone she said, “Dancing class is on every other Thursday. Next week we will be mastering German folk dances.”
    I groaned and slowed my steps again. We passed a gallery of family portraits, unmistakably Miss Stranje’s relatives. Their sharp-beaked features did little to cheer up the dark-paneled hallway. I shivered, unable to escape their uncanny lifelike stares. They glared down at me as I walked beneath them, judging, though they were long cold in their graves.
    â€œDo stop dawdling, Georgiana.” She waited beside a door at the far end of the hall. I caught up as she pressed a key into the lock and turned the handle. She stood back and pushed the door open.
    The ancient floorboards creaked as I stepped inside. Mullioned windows allowed in ample light and yet there was a row of lamps dangling from the ceiling so the room might be used after dark. A stillroom lay before us—unlike any stillroom I’d ever seen. Filled with wonder, I stood with my mouth hanging open like a stunned codfish. I couldn’t stop myself from rushing across the room to a long worktable set with the most amazing equipment I’d ever seen.
    I had only dreamed of such contraptions. I’d read about equipment like this in Antoine Lavoisier’s chemistry books. But to see them, not in a drawing, but in real life—I could scarcely breathe.
    I