Mother of Crows: Daughters of Arkham - Book 2 Page 4

  She wondered if she needed to see a doctor. The pounding in her head that had begun when the others were drinking had built to a screaming crescendo inside the funhouse. It was frightening not to remember what had happened; she didn't want to experience this again. But as the pain receded, so did her fear. Maybe it was the shower or maybe it was the Tylenol, but she was already feeling a bit better. Last night's headache had probably just been a really bad migraine. Nonetheless, she mentally filed a reminder to speak to her doctor at her next check-up.

  On the way back through her room, she banged her baby toe on the edge of a table. She nearly cursed, but caught herself. Screaming profanity was not something a Thorndike woman did, and she didn't want a lecture from her grandmother. Not this morning. She cursed once under her breath, then (superstitiously convinced her grandmother had somehow heard) instantly switched to the softer fake curses that her grandmother tolerated. They didn't help.

  The table held an antique dollhouse, built to the exact specifications of Harwich Hall. It had belonged to Thorndike women as long as there had been Thorndike women, and there had been Thorndike women on the continent before there was America. The dolls inside the dollhouse were generic, though since they were all red-headed, it would have been easy to pretend one was her, one was her mother, and one was her grandmother. There was even a servant that could have been Bertram. Abby had never played with it, and mostly just resented its presence in her room. It was creepy. A greenish-black mold had started to grow on the inside. Abby noted with some pleasure that the biggest blotch was in what would have been her grandmother's room. If her mother or her grandmother saw it, she'd be in trouble, but she couldn't bring herself to clean it up.

  Abby hobbled to her closet. Her clean uniforms were already hanging back-to-back in an orderly row. She had one for every day of the week. They were modest: a maroon blazer with the school's crest on the left breast, a knee-length skirt, and a white blouse. Abby matched them with dark tights, penny loafers, and a green scarf. She had a couple of school sweaters and thick wool tights for when the weather turned cooler. She grabbed her backpack and went downstairs.

  Outside of Abby's room, Harwich Hall lost the comfort of home. It was familiar, but there was no emotion in the wide, chilly halls. She didn't care for the antiques balanced on pedestals and ensconced in recesses in the walls. This place should have been her home, but other than a few isolated places-usually spots she had made memories with Nate or Sindy-there was very little sentiment here. It would have been nice to live in the dorms at Arkham Academy, but there was no way Constance Thorndike was going to let her daughter go unsupervised for that long. Living in the dorms might result in embarrassment, something horrible like the youngest Thorndike getting blind drunk and doing God knows what on the streets of the town. With Abby's initiation into the Daughters of Arkham just around the corner, embarrassment would not be tolerated.

  Abby's stomach turned over. She swallowed some burning bile. Had her mother heard something about the previous night? Abby recounted their conversation through her door. Had her mother used a tone with her? She couldn't recall one, but she couldn't recall much of anything. Maybe Sindy or Nate had gotten in trouble, and word had somehow made its way to Harwich Hall, as bad news often did. She had no idea what would even happen to her if her mother found out she'd been hanging out with a bunch of underage teens who had been drinking. There was no way her mother would believe that she had refused to drink with them. This was so far beyond the pale of the little trouble she'd ever gotten into that she had no frame of reference for the punishment she could receive.

  Abby heard her mother and grandmother talking lowly in the dining room. She pushed the door open, and found breakfast waiting for her: a fluffy omelet and some fruit. Her grandmother, Hester, sat at the head of the table, daintily eating a boiled egg from a silver cup, while Abby's mother was picking at her own omelet. They were both wearing their lapel pins. They must have planned to go out.

  Constance Thorndike was perfect as always, not an eyelash out of place. She was tall and in excellent shape, with the milky complexion, jade eyes, and copper hair that were the Thorndike genetic hallmarks. Abby had a lesser version of all three-freckles over her nose, eyes a touch duller, and hair that quickly bleached in the sun-and often wished she could be as lovely as her mother.

  Hester Thorndike had been beautiful in her youth, but those days were decidedly far away. The years had eroded the soft curves of her body, leaving the severe planes of age. Her eyes were as bright as ever but her hair was a not-quite-natural cloud of red. Abby loved her grandmother, but Hester bore more than a passing resemblance to a Disney villain, something that grew more apparent with every passing year.

  "Good morning, dear," Constance said.

  "You look terrible, Abigail," Hester said, barely looking up from her egg.

  "The carnival was... big," Abby said as neutrally as she could. She tried to watch both women for signs that they were fishing for some kind of misbehavior, but saw nothing.

  "Sit down and eat. You'll need your strength."

  Bertram came into the room. He was the live-in servant for Harwich Hall, which also employed a small staff of several maids and a cook. Bertram was the only one who actually lived on the premises-something Hester often complained about, as when she was a girl, the house was teeming with staff-and he was normally a ghost. Abby had stopped noticing him when she was much younger. He was just another presence who occasionally got her juice or fetched her mother.

  Bertram was not a striking man. He had bulging eyes, a nonexistent chin, and his head was crowned with only a few wispy hairs that had long since turned iron-gray. He was not handsome but he was also not repulsive, and yet when Abby saw him, her stomach turned. Her headache returned, planting a knife squarely between her eyes. She found she could barely look at him, focusing her attention on the meal in front of her.

  The omelet and the fruit were light and insubstantial. She couldn't have asked for a better meal this morning but she could barely touch it. As Bertram drew closer, her stomach started doing cartwheels. She focused on it, bearing down. Vomiting at the breakfast table was not a good idea. Bertram leaned over her. He poured her a glass of orange juice and she felt palpable relief when he moved away.

  "First day of Arkham Academy," Constance said. "Exciting."

  "Yes. I'm looking forward to it."

  "I remember my first day. I couldn't wait."

  "You were scared," Hester said. "Shivering like a lamb before slaughter. I practically had to drag you."

  Constance looked down, and Abby knew her mother was fighting a blush. "Well, there was enough room in me for both excitement, and that." She took a bite, and recovered. "First thing, you go directly to the headmaster. He will be waiting for you." What she didn't say was that anyone in Arkham would wait on a Thorndike, and anyone at the Academy, doubly so. The family had been hugely important to the Academy in the past and they still donated every year.

  "What for?"

  "Well, because I said so. But also because he'll welcome you to the school and give you your schedule."

  How did Nate get his schedule? Probably not from the hand of the headmaster. "Mmhmm."

  "You're going to want to eat. Keep your strength up."

  "Feeling sick, dear?" Hester said. Though she said 'dear,' there was nothing sweet in her tone. Abby glanced at her. Was she suspicious?

  "Oh, she's probably as nervous as I was," Constance said. She smiled encouragingly at her daughter. "You'll do fine, Abby. Just fine."

  Abby forced herself to eat as much of the food as she could, doing her best to ignore Bertram. On any other day, she would have already forgotten he was even there. Now he was an intolerable presence, at once twisting her stomach and fanning the flames in her head. She wanted to shriek at him, to tell him to get away, but she knew she couldn't. She choked her food down, and made certain never to empty her orange juice glass. If she did, Bertram would come around, loom over her ag
ain, and make her sick.

  Abby got up. She'd had enough.

  "Don't forget your supplement," Constance said, gesturing to a fat pill sitting on a tiny plate.

  Abby rolled her eyes. Her doctor said something in the groundwater of Arkham leeched the iron right out of people. She had been taking an iron supplement for as long as she could remember. When she was younger, her mother had cut it in half for her. It was a small rite of passage when she could finally swallow the whole thing in a gulp. She put it in her mouth and washed it down with one last swallow of orange juice, then shot out of her seat before Bertram could interpret her empty glass as a need for a refill. Her head swam and her stomach lurched. For a moment, she was terrified that everything would come right back up on the breakfast table. She smiled queasily at her mother and grandmother. Keep it together, Abby, she thought.

  "You're sure you're all right?" Constance asked.

  "I'm fine, Mother."

  "Go meet the car, Bertram will-"

  "No, it's okay. I want to walk. It looks nice out."

  Constance relaxed and her smile brightened. "Just make sure you're on time. Have fun at school, and remember, go see the headmaster."

  Abby went out the door. The crisp autumn air washed the night away from her. Every breath cleared more of her head, and soon her headache was nothing but a memory. She could even forget her bruises, her strained muscles, and a stubborn crick in her ankle from the awkward way she'd been sleeping. As she walked toward the narrow strip of road that led into town, she felt good again.

  5

  Mr. Weatherby

  There was a shortcut to Arkham Academy that went through the woods. Walking through town would take longer because the road doubled back on itself several times, but Abby couldn't face going through the woods that day, not with the gouges on the backs of her hands, and those weird half-glimpsed memories of the previous night. The road was safe. Whatever went on behind the stands of oaks and elms that grew alongside the road carried the black danger of the unknown.

  She did not think of these things consciously. Instead, she thought about her new school. It had been strange growing up for fourteen years, knowing she was destined for the Academy. There had been times she believed she would never get there.

  It became more real as she walked up Academy Road and the school came into view. It looked a lot like her own home, except much grander. Harwich Hall had only a small, single door; Arkham Academy had huge double doors beyond a stand of Doric columns. The lawn was wide and green. Copses of oaks and birches grew here and there, their leaves as fiery as the Academy's brick. The road led up to the front, looped around, and came back down the hill in the approximate shape of an old-fashioned keyhole.

  The few students going inside were locals. They arrived in expensive cars or whizzed past her on sleek road bikes. Any upperclassmen with cars would follow a different access road to the parking lot in the back, concealed so as not to spoil the school's postcard-perfect autumnal facade.

  Abby saw faces she recognized, but everyone was so intent on getting inside that no one stopped to chat. Despite the good weather, the day had a kind of funerary pall over it. Summer was gone, and with it, freedom. Now it was the school year that would never end. Abby slumped her shoulders like everyone else, but she felt full of jittery anticipation.

  She climbed the concrete stairs to the front door of the main hall. Thorndike Hall, Abby reminded herself. There was a large brass plaque mounted on the wall. DEDICATED TO SERENITY THORNDIKE, it said. Abby's direct ancestor. Fear clutched at her for a moment. Everyone would judge her for her name and for being such a pale reflection of her family. Had her mother-or even her grandmother-had felt this way? Maybe Mother did, Abby thought, and then rejected the idea. Her mother was Constance Thorndike, a genius in a model's body. But her grandmother... Hester, Abby decided, would have never felt anything but flinty contempt for whoever had let the plaque tarnish just a little.

  Inside, the hall was packed with students. Some struggled through the crowd; others clustered together to chat with school friends face-to-face for the first time in months. The signs in the front hall were tasteful and unobtrusive, which made it hell to navigate. Abby couldn't bring herself to ask anyone for directions. The idea of Abigail Thorndike unable to find her way through Thorndike Hall seemed like the kind of thing she wouldn't be able to live down.

  She finally found the headmaster's office just off the main office. Like the rest of the interior of the school, it was elegantly appointed with mahogany wood paneling and ornamented molding. Large windows along the back wall flooded the room with bright, clear light. Several women were hard at work nearby-one typed at her computer, one sorted mail, and a third filled out forms at the high desk that divided the room.

  "Abigail Thorndike to see Mr. Weatherby?" Abby said.

  The office worker was a gnomish woman. She fixed Abby with a sunny smile. "Thorndike, hmm? You must be right at home."

  Abby winced, trying to play it off as a laugh. The gnome-lady hardly noticed as she went into an office marked HEADMASTER with the name MR. CLARENCE WEATHERBY underneath. A moment later, she returned to beckon Abby onward. "The headmaster is waiting for you."

  The headmaster's office had only one small window, which was mostly blocked by a bookcase and a half-drawn blind. The room was dominated by a wide oaken desk. Tall bookcases and portraits of previous headmasters decorated the walls, and a plush Persian rug muffled Abby's steps. Though the room appeared lived-in, Abby had the impression everything had been meticulously arranged to look that way.

  Mr. Weatherby stood up behind his desk as Abby came in. He was a big man, both tall and portly. His hair was thinning at the top and he wore circular spectacles over his narrow eyes. He held out his hand, and Abby instantly felt dizzy. "Welcome to Arkham Academy, Miss Thorndike. I'm Mr. Weatherby."

  Abby took his hand out of polite reflex. It was small for such a big man. His fingers were narrow, almost feminine, and his nails were a tad long, although clean. She released his hand as soon as she could, and had to suppress a shudder. She mentally scolded herself. This wasn't a creep; this was the principal. The headmaster.

  "It's nice to finally be here, Mr. Weatherby."

  "I imagine so. Have a seat." He gestured to one of the two chairs lined up in front of his desk. They were antique, but the scalloping around their arms and feet hadn't worn away. The cushions were faded and deeply-patterned. They reminded Abby of tapestries. She settled in.

  Mr. Weatherby moved his computer mouse and glanced at his screen. Abby could tell he didn't need to look at her file. He had probably been waiting a couple years for the Thorndike scion to show up. "Now, it looks like everything is in order. We have you in every honors class available-your mother's request."

  Abby nodded. She had been on the gifted track with Nate for as long as there had been such a thing. "I'm looking forward to it," she said, trying to look like she was meeting his eyes without actually meeting them.

  It was good enough for Mr. Weatherby. He went on, "And, of course, Physical Education. Your gym clothing will be waiting for you in your locker. You'll need your map, your locker number and combination, and the same for your gym locker." He gave her a folded piece of paper and two yellow index cards. Abby took them, careful not to touch his fingers as she did so. "Any questions?"

  Abby shook her head. She was having difficulty thinking of anything. The loathing had returned, and though it was not as intense as it had been with Bertram, she recognized the same feeling. To make matters worse, even looking at Mr. Weatherby was making her head spin in circles.

  "Well, if that changes, you can find me here."

  She nodded.

  "You can go. In fact, you should, or you'll be late."

  Abby shut her eyes and forced herself to get up. She felt a wobble coming on and fought it. She didn't want him to think she was sick. When it passed, she opened her eyes and glanced at Mr. Weatherby. It made her want to swoon again.


  "Are you all right, Miss Thorndike?"

  "I'm fine, sir. Just a little light-headed. Stood up too fast."

  "If you need to see the nurse..."

  "No, no. I should get to class." Abby scurried out of his office before he could continue his thought and the dizziness faded. Just nerves, she thought as she spotted Nate. She smiled, and then faltered. She'd been awful to him last night. Her greeting caught in her throat. His eyes met hers and a faint smile hit the corner of his mouth.

  "Hey, Abby," he said. He sounded as bad as she felt.

  "Hey you. How are you feeling?"

  "Headache. And it feels like I licked every inch of the road home. I should have just left when you did. "

  "Well, if it helps, I still woke up with a pounding headache."

  "That hardly seems fair. But yeah... It helps a little."

  She giggled, relaxing. They were okay. She and Nate would always be okay.

  He pushed his hair out of his face. He had scratches on the backs of his hands exactly like Abby's. "Meeting with the headmaster?"

  She nodded. "You?"

  "I'm the scholarship kid. With me, they get to pretend they're egalitarian."

  "See you at lunch?"

  "Yep."

  "Mr. Baxter?" the office worker called, beckoning him toward the door.

  "Why do I feel like I'm about to be sacrificed?" Nate asked as he left.

  The words gave her a chill. Maybe it was a side effect of their strange, forgotten night... Some kind of residual distrust. The world hadn't quite returned to normal, so they were stuck looking at everything through a lens of nightmares and questionable choices. Abby nodded to herself. That had to be it.