Free Blythewood by Carol Goodman

why I had
come. He bowed and, without a word, got up and motioned
that I should follow him up the curving staircase. I did, staring at the long braid that hung down his back and marveling at
how little sound his feet, appareled in thick sandals, made on
the marble steps. Halfway up the stairs, I switched my attention
from him to the oil portraits of stern-looking women that lined
the staircase.
    “Is the Bell & Feather only for women?” I asked when we
reached the top.
But he only bowed again and opened a heavy wooden door
that was labeled “The Oak Library.” I stepped through the
doorway and gasped. The room, which must have taken up the
entire second floor of the palazzo and was three stories high,
was lined with books. Brass balconies ran around the second
and third stories allowing access to the upper levels of books.
I was immediately drawn to the shelves and to the gilt titles
stamped on old leather bindings.
Travels to Faerie and Back Again , Arbarrati’s Atlas of Other
Worlds , The Great Sky Castle of Doctor Ashe— each title was
more alluring and fanciful than the next. Were the members of
the Bell & Feather fans of the scientific romance made popular
by Mr. Jules Verne and Mr. H. G. Wells?
“Ahem .”
The sound of someone rather exaggeratedly clearing her
throat drew my attention away from the books. I turned, feeling the feather in my hat snap at the movement, reminding me
to lift my chin, which was good because I might otherwise have
cowered at the sight before me. At the far end of the library was
a long black-and-gilt table, behind which roosted a murder of
crows.
I blinked, and the giant crows resolved themselves into
three women in black attire. The impression of crows came
from their hats, which sported not just a few black feathers but
the bodies of entire birds, their preserved heads peering over
the hat brims with hard, glittering eyes.
The woman seated in the middle cleared her throat. “While
we admire your enthusiasm for the written word, the Council does not have all day. We have other interviews to conduct.
Many young ladies are eager to attend Blythewood, though few
are chosen.”
I started forward with lowered eyes until the feather tugged
my chin up and I found six sets of eyes on me—those of the
women and those of the birds atop their hats. I wasn’t sure
which were more intimidating. The women wore dresses that
might have been in style at the turn of the last century: stiff,
glossy black silk encrusted with lace, embroidery, and beading.
Were they all in mourning, I wondered, perhaps for the same
lost relative? They looked, with their pale skin, light-colored
eyes, and silver hair, as if they might be related; only the woman in the center was larger and more formidable than the two
women flanking her.
As I got closer I noticed a fourth woman sitting in a chair to
the right of the table. She was younger, blonde, and dressed in
a navy-blue suit and a flat tricornered hat trimmed with yellow
feathers. When I looked in her direction she smiled at me and
then looked down at the notebook in her lap. Perhaps she was
a secretary. Her smile gave me courage. I looked back at the triumvirate of crows. The middle one indicated I should sit in the
low straight-back chair in front of the table.
“Avaline Hall?” she asked, looking down at a sheet of paper
before her.
“Yes,” I said, “only I go by Ava—”
“Here you will go by your correct name. I am Mrs. Ansonia van Hassel and these are my associates, Miss Lucretia
Fisk . . .” The needle-nosed woman on the left slightly inclined
her pointy chin. “And Miss Atalanta Jones.” The woman on the
right scowled at me. “Miss Vionetta Sharp, who has lately been
hired to teach English at Blythewood, will be observing the
proceeding and taking notes.”
I glanced at the slim blonde in blue and received another
shy smile.
“However, she will have no vote,” Mrs. van Hassel added,
glaring