I sleep restlessly, going over the events of the evening like a letter that I know holds a secret. I try to remember what I saw, what I felt, but whenever I try to reach out and grab, it darts further from my fingers, like the fireflies I remember chasing along the streets of Bombay. My mother rules my dreams, surreal imaginings and real memories intertwining until I am utterly awake and utterly confused. The key is in the silver. I know exactly what she means, but I will not face it. I cannot face it.
Morning comes too soon, strangely enough, and Ann wakes gradually, before finally standing and slipping behind the screen to get dressed. I lie in bed a little longer, but she comes to wake me and I can no longer pretend that I am sleeping.
I feel that I cannot face the day ahead. School lessons and snide girls, forcing that polite smile onto my face when I am spoken to. Ann seems to sense my mood, and backs off, slowly. Muttering something about breakfast being in 15 minutes, she leaves, and I am alone.
No, of course I am not. When was the last time that I was allowed my privacy?
"Miss Doyle." It is not a question, but a statement, and, as I sit, I forget that I am only wearing my nightgown. Pulling the blankets up around me to preserve my dignity, I gaze upon his face once more. This triggers something in my mind, and I realise that I do not know his name.
"Who are you?" It is the one question of mine that he did not answer last night. He ponders this for a moment, staring suspiciously at me, as if I might use the information against him in some way. Eventually, he gives in.
"Call me Kartik." He approaches me, thinks better of it, and then edges towards the window. "Last night, I am afraid that I left you quite ... abruptly. Forgive me. I only returned this morning to make sure that you were ... alright."
"I'm fine, thank you, but I would be even better if you were to leave. Now."
He nods, draws back, and then throws something my way. It is a piece of paper, and, instead of reaching out my hand to catch it, I watch it as it spirals towards the floor, caught on the ebbs and flows of the air in the room. When I look up, he is gone.
Resisting the temptation to pick up the paper immediately, I instead wash, dress, and make to leave. I can feel his eyes on me, and I do not wish him to believe that I am interested in whatever he has to say to me. Or whatever he has to throw at me.
When I am sure that he is gone I grab the paper from the floor and slip it amongst the folds of my dress.
The lessons are uneventful, verging on boring, but Ann seems notice to notice. She takes neat little notes in her perfect handwriting, and I can hardly think why. Then I realise that she is not like me. She is not one of us. She is being educated so she can become a governess, or some such thing. She needs all the training she can get. I jot things down occasionally, but I am afraid that my head is far too busy with other matters to allow myself to concentrate fully on how to fold a napkin or how to curtsy elegantly.
But then comes Art.
Miss Moore welcomes us each, and for the first time today I actually feel as if I have been noticed. As if I am wanted.
Felicity, to my surprise, approaches me, and sits demurely at the desk next to me. I can sense that this is not her usual seat, because there are stifled whispers reaching my ears from the back of the room.
"Girls, please."
Miss Moore smiles, and then gazes out of the window. "As you are aware, I usually run a very tight ship, but seeing as we have a new girl with us today, I am going to create the illusion that I am actually a compassionate human being, and I am going to allow you to do whatever you like. As long as it is loosely related to art." She smiles again, and there are murmurs from all around me, as girls begin collecting pencil and paint, chalk and charcoal. Felicity studies the activities of the girls as if they irritate her, and she then turns towards me. Beckoning me, she rises from her desk and moves towards a corner of the classroom, where a collection of paintings stands.
"Miss Moore, would it be alright if I studied these paintings, and drew what I could from them? As inspiration, you see."
Miss Moore gives her a cynical glance, but then relents. "As long as your next painting improves."
Felicity smiles, victorious. "It most certainly will. Gemma, darling, would you come and look at them with me?"
I am startled at her friendliness, her intimacy. Miss Moore looks to me, and I find myself agreeing.
Once we are settled in the corner, Felicity points to one of the paintings and then says, "So, Miss Doyle, where did you disappear to yesterday evening? I saw you head towards the woods, and then ... well, quite frankly, it looked as though you were aiming to find the gypsy camp." Her facial expression differed greatly from what she was saying, and I realised that she was looking intently at the painting, trying to seem as though she was mesmerised. I must say, she impressed me.
"I was simply exploring." I reply, nodding my head as if I agreed with her last comment about the picture in front of us. She looks towards me then, and laughs.
"Gemma, darling, I was right. I am growing to like you. Very much. And if I may ask one personal question...?"
My hackles are raised, but I answer pleasantly enough, "Of course."
"What exactly was that gypsy boy doing in your room last night?"
The blood freezes in my veins. I can think of no excuse or lie that would seem innocent enough to satisfy her. She notices my silence and turns towards me again. Her mocking smile is back in place, and she knows she has me cornered.
"Cat got your tongue, has it, Gemma?"