Free Rebel Angels by Libba Bray

be yours. But you must first know what it is you want.”
    “I don’t want to be an archer,” Cecily whines quietly. “My arm aches.”
    Miss McCleethy continues her lecture. "Let Miss Worthington be an example to us all.”
    “Fine, then,” I mumble. I’ll be like Felicity—all action and very little thought. Angry, I raise my bow and let go my arrow.
    “Gemma!” Ann shouts. In my haste, I didn’t notice Miss McCleethy passing before my target. Quick as a fly, she puts up a hand to stop the arrow that would surely penetrate her skull. She gasps in pain. Blood pools on her white glove. The girls drop their quivers and arrows and rush to her aid. I follow dumbly behind. She’s on the ground, pulling at her glove. There’s a neat hole in her palm. It isn’t deep but it is bloody.
    “Give her a handkerchief!” someone yells.
    I offer mine. Miss McCleethy takes it, shooting me a cold, angry look.
    “I—I am so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t see you.”
    “Do you see anything, Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy says, wincing.
    “Should I fetch Mrs. Nightwing?” Felicity asks, putting her back to me.
    Miss McCleethy fixes me with a glare. “No. Continue with your practice. Miss Doyle may help me dress the wound. As penance.”
    “Yes, of course,” I say, helping her to her feet.
    We walk in silence. When we reach the school, she has me fetch bandages from Brigid, who can’t resist a lecture about how it’s God’s punishment on Miss McCleethy for teaching us something as “unnatural” as archery.
    “She ought to be teachin’ skill with the needle or those luvly li’l wa’ercolors, if you ask ol’ Brigid, though no one ever does, and more’s the pity. Here’s your bandages. Mind you put ’em on tight.”
    The dressing in hand, I race back to Miss McCleethy, who has washed her hand and is using a tea towel to stop the bleeding.
    “I’ve brought the bandages,” I say, offering them. I don’t know what to do.
    Miss McCleethy regards me as if I’m the village idiot. "I shall need you to dress the wound, Miss Doyle.”
    “Yes, of course,” I say. "I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve never—”
    Miss McCleethy interrupts. “Place it across my palm and wrap it completely around my hand, that’s it. Now cross over and repeat. Ahhh!”
    I’ve pushed too hard on the wound. "Sorry. I’m sorry,” I say. I continue, securing the bandage by tucking in the edge.
    “Now, Miss Doyle, if you would be so good as to fetch me another glove to replace this one. They are in my wardrobe in the top drawer on the right,” she orders. “No dawdling, Miss Doyle. We’ve a lesson to resume.”
    Miss McCleethy’s room is modest and clean. Still, it feels strange to be beyond the baize door where the teachers live. I feel as if I am trespassing on sacred ground. I open the mahogany doors of the large wardrobe and find the top right drawer. The gloves are where she said they’d be, in a neat line, orderly as soldiers. I make a selection and take one last look around the room to see if there are any clues to the mystery that is our new teacher. What is notable is how little there is. No personal touches. Nothing to suggest anything about her. Hanging in the wardrobe are tasteful suits, skirts, and blouses in gray, black, and brown, nothing that would draw attention. Her bedside table holds two books. One is the Bible. The other is poetry by Lord Byron. There are no photographs of family or friends. No paintings or sketches—odd for an artist. It is as if Miss McCleethy has come from nowhere and belongs to no one.
    I am just about to leave when I spy it: the case that Miss McCleethy insisted upon carrying herself the night she arrived. It’s sleeping there, just under the bed.
    I shouldn’t. It would be wrong.
    I close the door to her room quietly and pull the case from its hiding place. There’s a latch. Most likely it is locked and so that will be the end of it. My fingers tremble at the latch, which opens,