I tear my eyes from him, nodding once, and Ren is quick to introduce us. “Cara, this is Hector. He’s in our year.”
I mutter a brief and unenthusiatic “Hi.”
“Well, we should get going. We’ve still got to get to the dorms before prep is over,” Ren says. Even though the boy hasn’t said anything else, I can feel him assessing me. I briefly consider telling him that he won’t like what he finds.
“You’re right,” says Fred, turning to pat the other boy on the shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “Thanks, Hec.”
Hector doesn’t turn back as he stalks toward the conservatory, instead holding a hand up in the air in dismissal. He keeps his voice at the same volume, which strikes me as very self-assured, like he doesn’t have to question whether his words will reach us as he says, “For you, Fred, anything.”
I turn back to the dining room, relieved that Hector’s gone. The walls are paneled in thick, dark wood, and dozens of circular tables, covered with blue and gold tablecloths, are already laid out for breakfast. I look around, wondering where the serving area is, expecting to see piles of trays, cash registers…anything familiar. I might as well be in a restaurant.
Fred clears his throat. “We eat at eight a.m., twelve-thirty p.m., and six p.m. Oh, and afternoon tea—which, if you ask the headmaster, is nonnegotiable—is in the conservatory.”
I raise my eyebrows.
He flashes me his first, brief smile. “You’ll see. Anyway, Ren will show you the dorms—I’m not allowed in the girls’ wing—but I’ll see you around.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say limply.
When he’s out of sight, I feel an empty sort of dread. Now that the tour is almost over, the reality has begun to set in. And the reality of all these new people, places, and rules is unavoidable. Back in the front hall, I grab my bag from inside the door and follow Ren toward an old-fashioned elevator, a gilded cage in the center of a grand staircase, circling up and around it like a spring. At the last minute, I freeze, catching her attention as she calls the elevator.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“How many floors up are we going?” I keep my eyes fixed on the stairs. “Could we not…” I let my words trail off, embarrassed.
She looks confused for a moment, then, in time with the clattering of the elevator’s arrival, gestures to my bag and says, “Hand me that and we’ll send it up.” She pulls the gated doors shut on it, and we watch as it travels above our heads.
She starts trudging up the stairs, and I follow her in admiration and gratitude. How many other people wouldn’t have asked why I wouldn’t get in the elevator? I decide to try to seem a bit nicer, even just for her, when she doesn’t complain as we climb six flights right to the top floor.
“Left side is for boys,” she says, her breath heavy as she collects my bag from the elevator. “Right side is for us.”
We turn into the girls’ corridor, a long, blue-carpeted hallway with doors lining either side. A typed card with the names of the inhabitants is stuck in the center of each door. Ren leads me right to the end of the corridor, where my name has been hastily scribbled underneath a solitary name: Bérénice de Laure.
“You’re with me,” she says, examining my reaction closely. “I hope that’s all right?”
“Short straw for you, then,” I say flatly. It is a lame, half-hearted attempt at a joke.
She ignores it. “I have to help the younger years get ready for bed. I’ll leave you to unpack, but I’ll be back in a bit.”
I watch her go, deflated. I hadn’t considered that I would be sharing a room. I go inside and feel like I’ve stepped into a chalet. There are two raised single beds across from each other, with wooden ladders leading up to them and desks carved into the hollows underneath. My side is empty except for a neat pile of school uniforms. Ren’s side is chaotic—a corkboard over the desk is covered with photographs that branch out past the frame and onto the wall. I trace the faces in the pictures with my finger. Fred is a common feature, as is the other boy, Hector, who let us into the dining room. In the center of the desk is a silver-framed photograph from which two people, presumably Ren’s parents, stare out at me. I turn away, realizing how different my side of the room will be when I’ve unpacked. I’ve brought only one photograph with me, and it’s not one I’m willing to put on display.
I take my time unpacking, feeding my pants through hangers and matching up my shoes so that they sit exactly even with each other in the bottom of the wardrobe. From the loud, unguarded chatter seeping through the cracks in the door, it’s clear that prep is over.
About half an hour after Ren leaves, there is a firm knock on the door, which is pushed open before I can answer. A round, elderly woman enters.
“You must be Cara,” she says in an Australian accent. Her voice is stern and gravelly. For a second, I wonder whether she’s going to be one of those hateful teachers from the books I read as a kid. Then, as we make eye contact, something about her softens. Her eyes are a brilliant periwinkle blue, youthful and conspiratorial despite her lined face and short crop of thick gray hair. “I’m Madame James, your housemother. I’ll be in charge of your pastoral care while you’re here with us. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you when you arrived—hopefully Ren and Fred did the tour with you.”
“Yes.”
“Ren’s a good one to have around. She’ll look after you.” Madame James gestures to the pile of clothes on my desk. “I see you’ve got your uniform—that’s good. Ren’ll take you through everything else. But if you have any questions or are worried about anything at all, come and find me. My room is directly below this one, on the fifth floor, and my door is always open.” She tilts her head, appraising me with something close to pity; I immediately look away. “What I want, above everything, is for you to be happy here. We don’t have much time with you, so we’ll have to make the most of it.”
“I’m here for an entire year,” I say, still looking away from her.
“It’ll fly by, dear. A year is nothing at all.”
I feel my face fall. A year is everything. If I think about all the things that have happened in the last year…If I think about how long the last few months have felt…
Ren pushes open the door, and Madame James takes this as her signal to leave. I sense them having some form of silent exchange, so I turn my back and begin unfolding and refolding my uniforms. There are two navy moleskin skirts that I expect will fall to just above the knee as Ren’s does, four white scallop-collared long-sleeved shirts, two round-necked navy sweaters, and several pairs of dark blue tights.