I do not think of his words all of the next day, and all of the day after that. I cannot. I will not. He does not mean them.

It is his way, after all. Empty threats and emptier promises.

Pippa is to be married at Christmas. A winter wedding, filled with snow and holly and Christian charity.

I do not feel charitable at all. And neither, it seems, does anyone.

Assembly Day comes and goes. Felicity, despite Miss Moore's protestations, presents her mother and father defiantly with her rotten fruit painting, and they accept it with mingled surprise and icy politeness.

"Well, Felicity, this is ... unusual."

"Simply, lovely, I think, mother."

"What do they teach you at this school, anyway, Fee, darling?"

"How to be a lady."

And no more was said about it.

My father does not come, and I cannot say I am not thankful. Instead, the handsome Tom reappears, and it quickly develops into him preening and strutting around in front of the prettier girls, watching as their eyes follow him from room to room. They make excuses to come and talk to us. Even Cecily, the hateful creature.

"Why, Gemma, you must introduce me to your dear gentleman friend!" She approaches me, late morning, her parents close behind.

"Cecily, this is my brother, Tom."

"Thomas, please, Gemma, darling." He tries to speak jovially, but he steps on my heel slightly, and I grin in satisfaction.

"Tom, darling, this is a girl called Cecily something or other, who has never been friendly to me in the past and I can't think why she has started being so."

Her face is a picture. A look of frozen politeness disappears, to be replaced by a look of complete and utter indignation. She laughs, falsely, and smiles in my direction.

"Oh, Gemma, do stop joking. Gemma is actually a close friend of mine, Mr Doyle."

"No, I'm not. Cecily doesn't like me and I don't like her. Go away now, Cecily, you have proved yourself both shallow and two faced today, and I think that is quite enough. I daresay my brother will be falling over himself to dance with you later on."

Perhaps it is childish and perhaps it is spiteful, but she deserves it. I am dragged away by my brother, who hisses furiously at me under his breath.

"Never in all my life... can't imagine the impression ... her poor parents ... that dear girl ... so rude ... must apologise immediately ... quite charming ... lies and dishonesty ... what your Grandmama is paying for your education ... and you do not deserve a penny, Gemma Doyle!"

if he were to say this 6 weeks ago, I would have begged him, implored him, even, to take me from the school and back to my family, to my father and my Grandmama and everything familiar. But now so much has happened. This is my home. So I smile insipidly and promise to be quite and courteous for the rest of the visit.

Unsurprisingly, my brother is keen to avoid dear Cecily, so we spend a lot of time in the grounds. I feel somewhat proud at showing him around, acting like I have been here for centuries, am part of the school. I walk like a lady and laugh attractively at his small jokes, and pretend to listen with great interest to his mind numbingly boring stories of London. I drift away, instead, to a world where everything is simple and carefree, where Tom does not exist, and neither does Cecily, and where I can dream and laugh and weep and no one will question a second.

"...and I expect you're wondering why father couldn't be with you today."

I am startled back to the here and now, and say, "Yes, why is that? Is he quite alright?"

Tom sighs heavily, and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he speaks.

"Gemma, I'm afraid father's condition has somewhat weakened."

I know what these words mean, and yet I am still angry at Tom. I want to make him say the words out loud.

"What on earth do you mean? What condition?"

"Father's ... weakness?"

"You mean his weak knee? Must he have surgery?"

"No, Gemma, nothing of the sort. What I mean in ... the laudanum."

"Oh."

I am silent for an extremely long time, and Tom fidgets and mumbles and clears his throat until he cannot bear it any longer. He turns to me and whispers urgently, "Gemma, father is to be relocated to a sanatorium, out in the countryside, Dorset, I do believe, for a little rest and relaxation. I am sure he will improve greatly there."

"Oh?"

"Yes. And I have alerted the school to this and they will allow you to visit him, one Sunday soon, if you should so desire."

I think about this. I do miss my father, and wish nothing more than to see him, but that is the problem. I wish to see my father. I do not wish to see the hollow shell of a man that he will surely have become, I do not wish to hear his rasping, papery voice, once so booming and jovial, and I do not wish to have to kiss his pale and sunken cheeks, and listen to him as he skirts desperately around the reason I must visit him in the sanatorium. I do not wish to see the man my father has become.

"No, Tom. I do not wish to visit father."

I can hear him breathe a sigh of relief, and he leans close, with a slight smile on his face, and murmurs the words, "Good, because I haven't alerted the school to his condition. I would dream of doing so."

Ah, good old Tom. Old shallow, selfish, vain, status obsessed Tom.

I haven't travelled that far from the real world at all, then.