The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [8]
I wadded up my jacket and tossed it into the far corner, trying to erase the smell of Dunwich Lane, and then I got out a pencil and an exercise book from under my pillow and started doing math problems for Structural Engineering. Far from busywork, numbers are solid and steady. Numbers keep the mind orderly. An orderly mind can’t fall into madness, become consumed by its dreams, get sick on the fantastic and improbable nations that only the mad can visit.
At least, I’d been telling myself that since my mother was committed. Since I was eight years old. Eight years is a long time to lie, even to yourself.
Interrupted by a scratching at the door, I snapped my head up. The chronometer on my desk, with its whirring gears and swinging weights, read half-nine. I’d fallen into a fugue over the page. “Celia, did you forget your key again?” I called. Cecelia was famous for losing everything from sheet music to hairpins.
Instead of an answer, the mellowed corner of a vellum envelope appeared under the door, and a quick clattering of feet ran away down the corridor. I plucked up the letter, saw the address in proper square handwriting:
Miss Aoife Grayson, School of Engines, Lovecraft, Massachusetts
The envelope was charred at one edge, smeared and shiny with dirt, the ink blotted like a bloodstain. It looked like something that had come a long way.
My heart froze. I ripped the door open and looked out into the corridor, my blood roaring.
There was no one. Dusty and dim as always, the dormitory was silent save for snatches of a variety show coming from down the hall. The studio audience laughed over the aether when the host asked, “What’s the difference between a nightjar and my girlfriend?”
Just as quickly, I shut the door and bolted it behind me. The letter lay on the bed, poisonous as a widow spider. The handwriting was as unmistakable as it was unremarkable.
Before I could open the envelope, the door rattled again. “Aoife? Aoife, open this door at once.”
Mrs. Fortune. Of all the rotten times. I shoved the letter under my pillow. Mrs. Fortune was as kind and understanding as any house head could be, but seeing that letter would stretch even her goodwill.
“Aoife!” The bolt rattled again. “If you’re smoking cigarettes or drinking liquor in there …”
I quickly shed my school tie, undid a few collar buttons and turned the taps in the corner sink on full. I didn’t need to muss my hair—the dark unruly strands stood out and frizzed up on their own. I unbolted the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fortune. I was washing up.”
Her face relaxed, and she stepped inside. “That’s all right, dear. I’ll keep this brief. I was going to tell you at supper, but …”
I lowered my head and hoped I looked appropriately guilty. Really, I was just praying Don’t look at the bed.
“Aoife, there’s no easy way to tell you this,” Mrs. Fortune said, crossing her broad arms under her equally broad bosom. “The Headmaster requires your presence on Tuesday, after supper, for a meeting about your future here.”
I kept my expression blank, though inside everything lurched. If you want a course on keeping your face composed, become a city ward and go through a few strict homes where the nuns smack your hand or mouth for the slightest snicker or frown. “I don’t understand,” I said, though I did. I was keeping up the order, the routine and sameness that kept truth at bay. Mostly. Not now, with the letter burning a hole in my mattress.
“Aoife, you’re not unintelligent,” said Mrs. Fortune. “For a girl to be accepted into the School of Engines at all is a feat. Don’t disgrace yourself by playing dumb.”
“I don’t understand,