Free Rebel Angels by Libba Bray Page B

secret case she keeps hidden beneath her bed?”
    Felicity raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know about that?”
    I’m going pink. "It was open.”
    “Nonsense! You were snooping!” Felicity taunts. She hooks her arm through mine; Ann takes the other. “What else was there? Tell!”
    “Not much. A ring with snakes on it; it looked very old. An advert for a bookseller’s called the Golden Dawn. The list.”
    Two younger girls try to push past. They’ve got wicked smiles and angel dresses. Felicity yanks the soft wings of the closer girl, nearly toppling her.
"We’ve got rank. To the back of the line with you.”
    Terrified, the younger girls scamper behind us.
    “What else was in the case?” Ann demands.
    “That is all,” I say.
    “That is all?” Felicity echoes in disappointment.
    “You’ve not heard everything about the list,” I say. “Every school on it had been crossed off except for Spence. What do you make of that?”
    Felicity dismisses it. "Nothing. She has an accounting of the schools where she’s sought employment. Nothing terribly odd about that.”
    “You’re out of sorts because she doesn’t like you,” Ann says.
    “Did she say she doesn’t like me?” I ask.
    Felicity twirls, letting the hem of her gown sweep out. “She doesn’t have to. It’s obvious. And you did try to impale her. That didn’t help your case much.”
    “I tell you, it was an accident!”
    The two young angels are back. They manage to squeak into the dining room ahead of us. “Why, you little demons!” Felicity growls. The girls shriek as they run, thrilled by their newfound audacity.
    It is a Christmas tradition for Mrs. Nightwing to hold a last supper before the girls drift away for the holidays. Apparently, it is also a tradition for there to be a celebration in the great hall afterward, with sherry for the teachers and warm cider for the rest of us. I could become drunk on the beauty of the room alone. A fire blazes in the huge stone hearth. Our tree, a fat, jolly evergreen, sits in the center of the room, branches outstretched like a welcoming host. Mr. Grunewald, our music teacher, has been pressed to play the cello for us, which he does with surprising agility for a man of nearly eighty.
    We’ve Christmas crackers to pull. A quick tug on the ribbons and they burst open with a sharp popping sound, startling everyone half to death. I’ve not quite figured out why this is considered such fun. Carols are sung. The candles on the tree are lit and admired. Gifts are presented to our teachers. There’s a French recitation for Mademoiselle LeFarge. A song for Mr. Grunewald. There are poems and cookies and toffees. But for Mrs. Nightwing, we girls have emptied our pockets. The room clears as Cecily walks through the room carrying a large hatbox. As eldest girl, she has the honor of bringing the gift to our headmistress.
    “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Nightwing,” she says, presenting the box.
    Mrs. Nightwing places her glass on a small side table. “My, what ever can this be?”
    She removes the top and pushes aside the stiff paper, pulling out a marvelous felt hat festooned in shiny black plumage. It was Felicity who arranged for the gift, naturally. Heartfelt “aahs” escape from our mouths. There is a sense of wonder and merriment in the room as Mrs. Nightwing places the elaborate hat upon her head.
    “How do I look?” she asks.
    “Like a queen!” one girl shouts.
    We applaud and raise our cups. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Nightwing.”
    For a long moment, Mrs. Nightwing seems undone by sentiment. Her eyes are moist, but her voice, when it finally comes, is sure as always. “Thank you. It is a most sensible gift and I’m sure I shall enjoy it greatly,” she says. With that, she removes the hat and tucks it gingerly into its paper cradle. She secures the lid and pushes the box under the table, out of sight.
    Our cups refilled, Ann, Felicity, and I steal away, crouching on the floor beside the tree.