two—” Before I can give the second half of the assignment, though, a bell rings. Although they don’t get up, most of the students are already shoving books and laptops into backpacks. I can see that they’re eager to be gone. “It can wait till tomorrow,” I say.
When they’ve gone I look down at my roster. As each student had referred to another by name I had found them on the roster and added a few notes to help remember them later. By the end of the period I’d checked off all but one of the students signed up for the class: Isabel Cheney. It seems odd to me that a girl as ambitious as her would miss the first day of school.
I add the roster to my book bag and straighten up to leave. My eyes are drawn, inevitably, to the red glow of the copper beech tree outside the window. A gray insubstantial figure stands beneath it. I quickly realize it’s a reflection in the glass, but that does little to make it less chilling. The figure is Ivy St. Clare standing in the doorway of my classroom, silently watching me. I can’t be sure how long she’s been there, and I can’t help but recall what Sheriff Reade said last night.
She’s always watching
.
I wait to see if the dean will come in, but after a moment the ghostly figure vanishes from the glass. I’m left with the unsettling feeling of having been spied on. It’s not the way I wanted to start out my first day on the job. I shoulder my bag and decide to track the dean down at her office. If she’s been observing my class, I want to know why.
Before I get there, though, I meet Dymphna Byrnes, whose large figure effectively blocks the hallway. “There you are!” she exclaims as if I’ve been hiding from her. “Dean St. Clare sent me to give you this.” She hands me a cardboard hatbox with the name VIOLET DU LAC, MILLINER printed in faded gilt letters on a deep purple background.
“What’s this?” I ask. If Dymphna were to pull out of the box an outlandish hat and declare that Arcadia tradition demands that I wear it while teaching, I’d hardly be surprised. The Arcadia School is shaping up to be that strange. But instead she provides me with a perfectly rational explanation.
“Why, Miss Vera’s letters and journals, of course. You asked to see them, didn’t you? Well, here they are. Dean St. Clare says to be careful with them. They’re irreplaceable.
And
she told me to remind you that you need to give the library your reserve list by four o’clock today and not to forget the faculty tea at four-thirty.”
“Of course I won’t forget,” I say, instantly sorry for how peevish I sound. The truth is I
have
completely forgotten the tea and the deadline at the library. “I’d like to see the dean—”
“That’s just not possible. She personally oversees the freshman orientation all day.”
I’m about to say that she apparently had time to spy on my class, but I stop myself just in time. No need to sound paranoid as well as testy. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for the faculty meeting then.”
“The tea,”
Dymphna corrects me. “The dean is quite adamant it be treated as a social occasion. She likes everyone to
dress
for it as well,” she adds, casting an appraising eye on my outfit. I’d chosen a slim black skirt and a pinstriped button-down shirt for my first day. It looked professional enough when I left the cottage this morning, but looking down I see that the shirt tails have slipped out of the waistband, probably because the skirt is two sizes too big. I haven’t worn it since Jude’s funeral and I didn’t think about all the weight I’ve lost until I put it on this morning. Then it was too late. All the clothes I have are two sizes too big.
“Of course I’d planned on going back home to change,” I lie. “Um … what do the teachers generally wear to tea?”
Dymphna’s brusqueness melts at my admission of wardrobe confusion. “Haven’t you got a tea dress?”
I shake my head. “Tea” hadn’t been big on
When they’ve gone I look down at my roster. As each student had referred to another by name I had found them on the roster and added a few notes to help remember them later. By the end of the period I’d checked off all but one of the students signed up for the class: Isabel Cheney. It seems odd to me that a girl as ambitious as her would miss the first day of school.
I add the roster to my book bag and straighten up to leave. My eyes are drawn, inevitably, to the red glow of the copper beech tree outside the window. A gray insubstantial figure stands beneath it. I quickly realize it’s a reflection in the glass, but that does little to make it less chilling. The figure is Ivy St. Clare standing in the doorway of my classroom, silently watching me. I can’t be sure how long she’s been there, and I can’t help but recall what Sheriff Reade said last night.
She’s always watching
.
I wait to see if the dean will come in, but after a moment the ghostly figure vanishes from the glass. I’m left with the unsettling feeling of having been spied on. It’s not the way I wanted to start out my first day on the job. I shoulder my bag and decide to track the dean down at her office. If she’s been observing my class, I want to know why.
Before I get there, though, I meet Dymphna Byrnes, whose large figure effectively blocks the hallway. “There you are!” she exclaims as if I’ve been hiding from her. “Dean St. Clare sent me to give you this.” She hands me a cardboard hatbox with the name VIOLET DU LAC, MILLINER printed in faded gilt letters on a deep purple background.
“What’s this?” I ask. If Dymphna were to pull out of the box an outlandish hat and declare that Arcadia tradition demands that I wear it while teaching, I’d hardly be surprised. The Arcadia School is shaping up to be that strange. But instead she provides me with a perfectly rational explanation.
“Why, Miss Vera’s letters and journals, of course. You asked to see them, didn’t you? Well, here they are. Dean St. Clare says to be careful with them. They’re irreplaceable.
And
she told me to remind you that you need to give the library your reserve list by four o’clock today and not to forget the faculty tea at four-thirty.”
“Of course I won’t forget,” I say, instantly sorry for how peevish I sound. The truth is I
have
completely forgotten the tea and the deadline at the library. “I’d like to see the dean—”
“That’s just not possible. She personally oversees the freshman orientation all day.”
I’m about to say that she apparently had time to spy on my class, but I stop myself just in time. No need to sound paranoid as well as testy. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for the faculty meeting then.”
“The tea,”
Dymphna corrects me. “The dean is quite adamant it be treated as a social occasion. She likes everyone to
dress
for it as well,” she adds, casting an appraising eye on my outfit. I’d chosen a slim black skirt and a pinstriped button-down shirt for my first day. It looked professional enough when I left the cottage this morning, but looking down I see that the shirt tails have slipped out of the waistband, probably because the skirt is two sizes too big. I haven’t worn it since Jude’s funeral and I didn’t think about all the weight I’ve lost until I put it on this morning. Then it was too late. All the clothes I have are two sizes too big.
“Of course I’d planned on going back home to change,” I lie. “Um … what do the teachers generally wear to tea?”
Dymphna’s brusqueness melts at my admission of wardrobe confusion. “Haven’t you got a tea dress?”
I shake my head. “Tea” hadn’t been big on
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