A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)

A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1) Page 27

There's just enough time to make the morning's first stop--a little offering of appreciation for Felicity's kindness last nightand then I'm off to breakfast, suddenly famished. As I'm late, I manage to avoid seeing Felicity, Pippa, and the others. Unfortunately, it means I cannot also avoid the now lukewarm eggs and porridge, which are every bit as bad as Ann predicted and then some. The porridge congeals on my spoon in cold, thick clumps.

"Told you so," she says, finishing the last of a piece of bacon that makes my mouth water.

When we report to our first class, Mademoiselle LeFarge's French lesson, my luck runs out. Felicity's clique of girls is clumped together in their seats, waiting for me. They guard the back row of the small, cramped room so that I'm forced to walk the gauntlet past them to take a seat. Right. Here goes . Felicity sticks out her dainty foot, stopping me in the narrow row between her wooden desk and Pippa's. "Sleep well?"

"Quite." I give it an extra cheeriness it doesn't deserve, to show how little I'm bothered by schoolgirl pranks in the night. The foot remains.

"However did you manage it? Getting out, I mean?" Cecily asks.

"I have hidden powers," I say, amusing myself with this rueful bit of information. Martha realizes she's been left out of the night's foolery. She can't bring herself to say so. Instead, she tries to be part of them by mimicking me.

"I have hidden powers," she singsongs.

My cheeks go hot. "By the way, I did secure the object you requested."

Felicity is all attention. "Really? Where do you have it hidden?"

"Oh, I didn't think it wise to hide it. Might not be able to find it again," I say, cheerily. "It's sitting in plain view on your chair in the great hall. I do hope that was the best place for it."

Felicity's mouth flies open in horror. I give her foot a little shove with my leg and move up to a desk in the front row, feeling the heat of their gazes on my neck.

"What was that all about?" Ann asks, folding her hands neatly on her desk like a model pupil.

"Nothing worth mentioning," I say.

"They locked you in the church, didn't they?"

I lift the lid on my desk to block out Ann's face. "No, of course not. Don't be silly." But for the first time I see the hint of a smilea real smiletugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Will they never get tired of that one?" she mutters, shaking her head.

Before I can respond, Mademoiselle LeFarge, all two hundred pounds of her, sweeps into the room with a cheery " Bonjour ." She grabs a rag and rubs it vigorously across the already clean slate, prattling on in French the whole time, stopping to ask the occasional question, which, I'm panicked to discover, everyone has the answer toin French. I haven't the faintest idea what's going on, French being a language I've always thought sounded vaguely like gargling.

Mademoiselle LeFarge stops at my desk, claps her hands together in discovery. " Ah, une nouvelle fille! Comment vous appellez-vous ?" Her face hovers dangerously near mine so that I can see the space between her two front teeth and every pore on her wide nose.

"Beg your pardon?" I ask.

She wags a chubby finger. " Non, non, non en Fran?ais, s'il vous plait. Maintenant, comment vous appellez-vous ?" She gives me that hopeful, wide smile again. Behind me, I hear snickering erupt from Felicity and Pippa. The first day of my new life and I'm stumped before I begin.

It feels like hours before Ann finally volunteers a helpful " Elle's'appelle Gemma ."

What is your name ? All those strangled vowel sounds to ask one bloody stupid question? This is the silliest language on earth.

" Ah, bon, Ann. Tres bon ." Felicity is still stifling her laughter. Mademoiselle LeFarge asks her a question. I pray she'll stumble through it like a cow, but her French is absolutely flawless. There is no justice in the world.

Each time Mademoiselle LeFarge asks me something, I stare straight ahead and say "Pardon?" a lot, as if being either deaf or polite will help me understand this impossible language. Her wide grin closes slowly into a scowl till she gives up altogether asking me anything, which is fine with me. When the grueling hour is finally over, I have learned to stumble my way through the phrases "How charming" and "Yes, my strawberries are very juicy."

Mademoiselle lifts her arms and we all rise in unison, recite the goodbye. " Au revoir, Mademoiselle LeFarge ."

" Au revoir, mes filles ," she calls as we place books and inkwells inside our desks. "Gemma, could you stay for a moment, please?" Her English accent is bracing as cold water after all that flowy French. Mademoiselle LeFarge is no more Parisian than I am.