Disclaimer: I do not own Pippa, Felicity, Spence, or any other related media. All of it belongs to Libba Bray.
I vow this not to be a one-shot! It will have more chapters! I promise.
First fanfic. here. Review and stuff if ya like.

Edit -- Just got back to working on this. Man! Sorry guys. Revising and everything is going on...Now! Then I can add more. My deepest aplogies for the wait.

The carriage bumps along the country road, unsteady, creaking wheels. The velvet lined seats and walls offer no comfort in the grey light of coming dusk, the shadows of the woods and fields lie ahead. I am being sent off to Spence Academy for girls. Mother hopes for me to learn some civility and manners at this place. I, hope to get out alive. The castle-like structure of the residence looms ahead. I see something flicker to the left of me in the woods, and turn my head sharply. Mother gives me a strange, cool glance, and I turn back to facing frontward, to my own window, a lady-like smile bracing my features.
The carriage seeps to a halt, moments later, and the toll of a bell is heard, ringing across the lands. I glance up, and along the ramparts is none other but Gargoyles. This will be a long year. I step out daintily, my shadow stretching across the grounds, to see a group of girls headed to a steep Cathedral. The eyes of a pretty, fair-haired blonde reach my own. She ducks her head with a sniff- disdain, I sense? I pray not- and she turns, headed down her path, head held high, followed by a crowd. I stiffen, and frown, as we head to the door.

Stepping into the well-lit great hall of Spence flooded my mind with a tremor of fear. The columns cast long shadows across the floor, the fire dim in the fireplace. A stout maid hurried over and put it out, before hurrying over to us. Streaks of soot lined her face and blouse. She looked my Mother and I up and down, a frown edging those wrinkled lips. Her plump breasts peaked out from over a tightly tied apron, jiggling as she shifted her hands to her waist,
"G'd evening, missus. Miss Nightwing expected you all some time ago. Come, now. Vespers ah' soon t' be over, an' she'll meet you in her office. Follow me, please."
My mother and I followed this jaunt, crude housekeeper up the stairs, my mother babbling apologies away like flowers falling from a petal. It's so fumbled and unseemly over her, I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. The coppery taste of blood reaches my mouth, and I pause a step to breathe.

My mother flickers a glance back to me, and I smile, continuing on. The housekeeper prattles on about timeliness in that thick Scottish accent. I catch of whiff of cleaning fluids and brandy from behind, trying not to smirk as it tickles my nose. I have something against the old crone, now. She frowns back at the both of us, and unlocks double doors, thick mahogany things that creak wide and slide across the tiled floors as graceful as you please.

Oil lamps line the large office, flickering Victorian wallpaper- green, peacock feathered in pattern, and a sturdy oak desk. A silver box lies along it, with the carved name of our headmistress. 'Nightwing.' Beside it line a shelf with several- dozens, at the very least, figurines of happy girls and boys. A little milkmaid with braids, a taunt smile and rosy cheeks, beside a blue-bloused girl with long braids. So fragile and small, I cannot bare to look at them, lest I wring my neck in fear from those ever-staring eyes.

Leaving the room, the crone indicates to some chairs. We take our seats in sturdy silence, and the doors shut behind her. The gaggle of voices floats up the stairs to the office, a soft laugh ringing clear through it, a beautiful sound, like a bud ripping to a fruit in the midst of spring. I shudder in a way that I haven't shuddered since I saw the beautiful body of the son of the man I am supposed to marry. As rich as he is, I would just be another trophy for him. I spare no affection, and wish not to on such a sordid, disgustingly portly figure. He fumbles when he speaks, fidgets when he stands, can't sit still, and has the most searching eyes I have ever seen. Its is disgusting and degrading, making me want to tear my hair from my head and choke myself with it. I can't stand Mr. Bumble- God forbid I am forced onto him as a wife. We met a month ago, and I'm hopping he'll crash in a carriage from London- I voiced such concerns and was locked away and punished—but, it will not do to dwell on that.

The doors click open, and the shadow of a portly, brown haired woman, traces of grey flickering through the tousled hair, tied neatly in a bun, crosses the room and lands on us. I sit a little straighter. Her dominance over the school is clear, and her cold eyes are calm and chilling. Nightwing, apparently; she sits at the desk, tight lips breaking into a sort of strained, forced smile. She folds her hands, and peers down at us through rimmed spectacles, my mother smiles and holds out a hand, "Ah, Lillian Nightwing, I assume?"
The woman nods curtly, and my mother shakes her hand. Introductions are made, but I only nod and smile, distracted by the figures flickering past the slightly open door. My mother places a hand on my arm, and I bolt upright, returning from clouded thoughts of the soft-laughing girl and the blonde haired beauty. I nearly melt- embarrassment of being caught off guard, or was it something else? I am uncertain. The knot in my stomach tightens as mother stands to leave. I give her one last bracing hug goodbye, knowing well in my chest I shall not see her until Assembly day, or whenever that woman stated. I hold back a choke of tears- I do not get along with mother often, but God knows I shall miss her. I am always horrible with goodbyes.

Mrs. Nightwing leads me down a flight of stairs. The acrid smell of smoke comes from the West Wing- I recall, having drifted in and out of the conversation that had taken place, there was a horrible fire of some sort there. I shall get the information later, I assume. Mrs. Nightwing apologies for not being able to feed me- something will be brought to my room. The door clicks open to reveal a room with a window- pretty, really, a closet, and a bed. The mattress is rolled- I am to undo it and make my sheets as due, and the wire frame lies menacingly near it. My chest lies in the closet, my outfits hung on hangers, wrinkled slightly from being folded and forced into confines. Across the room is a ready-made bed, closet door ajar- beautiful gowns and dresses for all occasions lie within. I catch only a glimpse, but it makes me wish to know my roommate. Perhaps we may share our stories and the like- I don't wish an enemy on my first arrival here.

Mrs. Nightwing leaves me to my dues, speaking curtly, "Now, Miss Cross, I must go shepherd the girls to their beds. It is five minutes past nine, and it will do us no good to stay up." She smiles bracingly. I only stare, having no reaction. She continues on,
"Ms. Worthington, you're roommate, will meet you here. If you need any assistance, do ask her."

I can only nod, and she leaves the room. I set about to making my bed, and from the downstairs, hear the voice of Mrs. Nightwing calling to the girls to bed. The giggling softens and I heard footsteps coming and going down the halls. By the time I am rearranging my sheets, the door open, and in parades the blonde-haired beauty. He dress is lined at the hem with small bits of dirt, and she frets with it, walking to the vanity and frowning into the mirror, taking no notice of me. I stare in awe- God forbid I'd ever see an angel walk this Earth. Her grace and beauty shimmers, and I long to feel the caress of her gloved fingers along my face- I snap to reality, where I am staring and ogling her like a fawn to some new forest creature it has not seen before? She gives me the oddest of looks, and sifts her weight, taunt hips swaying from one side to another, hands resting placidly upon them. She frowns,
"Miss Cross- Pippa, I presume?"
A blush creeps across my face, it grows and steadies swiftly, and I stand straight, nodding daintily, feeling faint. I hold out a hand, one she does not accept. I place it to the side, rearranging my skirts. There is a rough, uneven silence before, and she speaks again- I fear melting into the floor with embarrassment. This is unlike me- unlike a lady. God commands against this sort of thing, doesn't he? I push those thoughts away. They must leave me be.
"Yes, Pippa Cross. A pleasure, Miss Worthington."
She sniffs,
"Felicity."
My eyes widen slightly, and I blink,
"You're father is the Admiral?"
She nods curtly,
"As much as I hate to admit to so, yes. Father is the Admiral-"
"Blessed by Queen Victoria herself! Oh, it's a honor miss Worthington!"
I couldn't believe my mouth. I was prattling on- she seemed unfazed,
"Well, it is quite nice. Look- stop playing with that 'Innocent Perfect Girl' act. It's not going to get you through here alive."
I blink, and slump onto the bed, frowning at her,
"I'd suppose not."
She grins at me, wickedly, wildly,
"That's a good start. I suggest you finish your bedding, Pippa. The nights are cold and I refuse to have anyone come crawling to my side while I sleep."
She is a bold girl to suggest so, and I scowl very, very slightly. It isn't unnoticed, and she remarks upon it,
"Don't put you're face like that. A beauty shouldn't spoil herself as so with such a snide look."

She then turns from me, and begins the process of dressing down. I turn from her- it is rude, very, very rude, to look upon such things. There is a long silence, as I finish my bed. She sighs,"Pippa, could you help me loosen this corset?"
Her voice drips with bitter regret, and loathing for the thing. Something I agree with whole-heartedly, and turn to help her do so. She loosens mine moments later, and we slide to bed. The hiss of the flame dies into the night, as moonlight shone through the window. I turned away from it, staring at the repetitive wallpaper, finding the creases and cracks. Just above the wooden floorboards, someone had lightly written,
'Do not give up- only give in when necessary.'
I shut my eyes- it was indiscreet advice, and was no use to me. Slowly, but not-painstakingly, I fell into a sleep. It would be a long, hard year.