Free A Face Like Glass by Frances Hardinge Page B

after this, and at last came to a halt before a gilt-handled door with a panel above it that showed a silver heron on a blue background.
    A whispered argument ensued.
    ‘Why do I have to steal the invitation?’ hissed Borcas.
    ‘Because you already have one of your own,’ Zouelle responded with an air of patience, ‘so nobody will suspect you, and you know the other candidates better than I do so you
can get closer to them. Come on – we do not have much time!’
    Borcas vanished through the door just long enough for Neverfell to reach a fever-pitch of anxiety, and for the rabbit to deposit a heap of soft, distressed droppings on her knee. At last Borcas
returned, rather flushed, with a bundle under one arm and a card in one hand.
    ‘Good,’ smiled Zouelle. ‘Marden – go!’ The cart rattled away again. ‘Head to the Twirl Stair.’
    When the rumble of wheels stopped again, Neverfell’s blanket was pulled away, and she found that the cart stood in a small cavern some ten feet across, in the ceiling of which was set a
broad, rough-hewn shaft. Up the middle of this shaft rose a spiralling stair of black iron.
    Borcas’s bundle was opened, and, the next thing Neverfell knew, a white muslin gown was being pulled down over her ordinary clothes. Round her waist was tied a blue sash with a silver
heron embroidered on it, very much like the one she had seen above the door. Beneath the heron was stitched the words ‘Beaumoreau Academy’. Neverfell’s rough pigtails were tucked
under a gauzy cap, and an ointment smeared across her neck, hands and wrists, filling the air with the bitterly piquant smell of cloves.
    The card Borcas had brought out was placed in Neverfell’s hand, and proved to be a gilt-edged invitation to attend an ‘Audition in Facial Athletics and Artistry’.
    ‘There.’ Zouelle smoothed Neverfell’s cap, tucking in a few stray wisps. ‘Now, is everybody ready? Take the stair, and when you reach the top the door will be twenty
yards to your left. Good luck, both of you!’
    ‘Wha– aren’t you coming?’ Borcas sounded as horrified as Neverfell felt.
    ‘Me? Of course not! I can hardly show my face there after yesterday, can I?’ Zouelle was climbing back on to the cart. ‘But I shall be right here waiting for you and looking
after the rabbit – and if you two do exactly what I told you to do then everything should go perfectly.’
    Somewhat crestfallen, Neverfell accompanied Borcas to the foot of the stairway. Borcas was still wearing her strange, lopsided Face, but she smelt a bit like Grandible’s rabbit had when it
felt cornered.
    ‘You smell like my rabbit,’ Neverfell whispered.
    ‘Well, you smell like a dead man’s pantry,’ snapped Borcas, ‘but some of us are too polite to comment.’
    ‘Now, Borcas,’ called Zouelle, ‘you should go first, and, Neverfell – climb up a few minutes after her. You don’t want to arrive together, do you?’
    Neverfell obediently let Borcas start climbing first, and only began her own ascent once the other girl was nothing but a dark blot against the skeletal whorls of the staircase above. Neverfell
was naturally nimble, but was not used to long skirts, and found that her legs were trembling from excitement. The shaft itself was full of strange gusts and gasps of air, and occasionally solitary
bright droplets winked down past her and then vanished into darkness below.
    At the top of the stair, she found herself in a long corridor that stretched from left to right. There was no sign of Borcas. To her left, she could see a heavy-looking door set deep in the
wall. It was intricately decorated in a tracery of green vines in which gold and purple birds nestled. At the sight of this, the clamp of excitement in Neverfell’s stomach tightened and
became terror. Her mind was a mad moth, and she could barely keep Zouelle’s instructions straight in her head as she reached the door and pulled at the red rope bell pull.
    One of the birds