The Furies

Chapter 4

Robin chewed her pencil, turning it about in the gap between her teeth with a hollow click. I rose from my seat, ostensibly to sharpen my own pencil. In fact, I was bereft of ideas and looking for something to steal. Annabel’s cryptic prompt: ‘Destination’. The air was milky, tinged pink, the windows draped in gauze and tulle. A faint smell of slowly rotting flowers mingled with clay and turpentine on the air. Annabel – whose cheekbones pressed up against her wrinkled skin in smooth points, and whose white hair hung down her spine in thick, loose rings – liked to change the studio weekly, following some unspoken theme. Sometimes spartan, white and clean and sometimes moonlit, the sky blocked by starry batiks and luminescent, the effect was one of perpetual change: our ways of seeing challenged, time and again.

Annabel hadn’t spoken to me directly for several weeks. Hadn’t even looked at me, in fact, though occasionally I’d feel as though I was being watched, sitting in the studio trying to untangle the threads of a lecture, or a prompt. But whenever I looked at her, she seemed to be absorbed in a book while chewing thoughtfully at a hangnail, or scrawling furiously in a paint-flecked notebook, as though none of us were there at all.

Muddled sketches of airports and cars; pastel beaches and sunbathers, both realist and cartoonish, idealized or grotesque: my fellow students had responded to the prompt as unimaginatively as I had, though with varying degrees of success. Except, that is, for Robin. Hers was a dark, gloomy charcoal sketch, black dust lining her fingers and smudged at her wrists: a wood of trees curving claw-like above a rocky path. Emerging from the light at the end, two figures stood in silhouette, limbs monstrously thin, the backs of their hands barely touching, brushing against one another.

Hers was the only work Annabel would peer at from above, as she made cursory circuits of the class (usually only as the Headmaster passed, his passion for ‘active teaching’ being taken rather literally, for Annabel, at least). I watched the other girls watch Robin with an envy that disappeared in an instant, a shadow only seen in the corner of the eye, a weakness for Annabel’s attentions none of us would willingly admit. But I felt it – the dim awareness of it was its own kind of shame – though when she passed I leaned farther forward, arms wrapped around my work, embarrassed at the childish scratch and scrawl.

Annabel looked up as though about to speak, interrupted by the shuddering bell, the shuffle of students awakened from the silence. ‘Complete these for next session and we’ll discuss,’ she shouted over the noise, ‘and try not to be too vapid, if you can possibly manage it!’ She paused, and turned to me. ‘Violet – a word, if I may.’

I froze. Robin turned to me and grinned, stuffing the drawing carelessly into her bag. She shuffled past, mouthing ‘See you later.’ I smiled, weakly, my stomach churning with fear.

As the studio emptied, Annabel rifled through a mass of papers, not looking up. I stood, nervously mute, as the plastic clock ticked a full minute above. ‘Here we are,’ she said at last, handing me a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘You wrote this?’ I felt a knot of shame, sensing what was coming next. It was a belligerent, thoughtlessly thrown together admissions essay, drafted in the hope my application might be rejected, before I’d been tempted by the photos of ancient archways, the sun blooming behind the Campanile. Though I’d succeeded in impressing Annabel so far – or, at least, had avoided the cold glare of her attention – I’d known, somehow, that it would come back to haunt me.

‘“The purpose of art”,’ she said, reading my words, ‘“is to horrify the idiots who say they have taste. Taste means nothing. Fuck taste. The idea itself is a relic of a version of history that doesn’t apply to me, or anyone not closer to being buried than being born.”’ She looked up at me, eyebrow sharply raised. ‘You wrote this?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ I said, staring down at the page.

‘And you believe it?’ I looked up. She stared at me, eyes cold, rolling a silver pen between her fingers.

‘I … Well, kind of.’

The rolling stopped. ‘Kind of?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, kind of, or yes, you mean it?’

‘Yes, I mean it,’ I said, finally, though in truth I wasn’t sure – the words then had seemed a little much, and now, absurd. It was a guess, a leap: grasping for the answer she wanted to hear.

‘Good,’ she said, softly. ‘Very good. Violet, I hold advanced classes for those students I think have promise.’ An endless pause; I looked away, unable to hold her stare. ‘I’d like to invite you to join our little study group, if you’re interested.’

The blinds whipped furiously in the breeze. ‘Yes, Miss. I mean, Annabel. Sorry.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, rising from her chair and walking towards the window. ‘Though I would ask that you keep this between us. It is strictly invitation only. Off the books, as it were.’ She slammed the window shut. ‘Do you know Miss Adams?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Robin,’ she said, turning to me. ‘The red-haired girl. I saw you admiring her work. She’s very talented.’

I blushed. ‘She is.’

‘She’ll meet you before class and bring you along.’ She sat down at the desk and picked up the pen, hand hovering over the page. I stood, waiting for some kind of detail – a time, a day even – but she said nothing. After a moment, she looked up, as though surprised to see me there. ‘That’s all then, Violet.’

In the corridor outside, the cool, fresh air made the studio seem suddenly stifling, my lungs thick with turpentine and paint, eyes adjusting to the light of day. A short, round-faced girl with a shadow of hair above her lip stood waiting, eyeing me nervously. I looked at her, ashamed for us both, and hurried away, though where to, I wasn’t sure.

The soles of my shoes clapped against the marble floor, heart thudding in my chest. I was alone, the place deserted, silent but for the infrared hum of the scanners below. I peered over the rim of the mezzanine that circled the entrance hall, all Doric columns and gold railings, mahogany cases behind housing grinning taxidermied voles, death masks, and candied jewels.

I had been reading some fiendishly dull (yet still to this day widely read) textbook on the history of realist art and – lulled by the numbing warmth of the old radiators and seams of afternoon sunlight that filled the top floor – had fallen asleep at my desk. When I woke, I found a sky-blue paper bird folded on top of my book, a precise, delicate little thing. I unfolded it, gingerly, and stared down at the words. ‘Welcome to the club. Campanile, 6 o’clock sharp. Brace yourself. R.’ I looked out of the window, and saw the clock’s black hands click on – 5:50pm – threw my books into my bag, and ran.

I heard footsteps behind, a mumbled curse. The Dean of Students was balancing a teetering stack of books on one arm as he stumbled across the mezzanine opposite. ‘Violet,’ he said, catching my eye. ‘What on earth are you doing here so late?’ His voice echoed across the hall. Loath to shout back (my own voice reedy, thin), I waited until we’d met in the middle, by the stairwell, to answer.

‘I was studying, sir. I lost track of time.’

‘Evidently.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, the library closes to students at four, except for around finals.’

‘I didn’t realize,’ I said. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’

He drew breath, as though about to speak – then paused, resting the books on the ledge. Their spines, leather-bound in different, faded colours, each read of a similar topic: The Persecution of Witches, a History; Demons and Darkness, a Study of the Occult; Contemporary Theories of Magick. I imagined the crash as they fell, willed it a little, to interrupt the conversation I was about to endure.

‘Violet,’ he began, rocking his neck back and forth. (I imagined his muscles loosening, imagined the words: trapezioid, splenius, levator scapulae …) ‘If you’re having trouble making friends …’ He reached a hand for my shoulder, fingers clubbed and nicked with cuts.

‘I’m not,’ I said, abruptly, stepping back.

His hand hung suspended for a moment; then, seeming to remember himself, he slipped it back into his pocket, fingers toying with something underneath. ‘It’s just … Well, you’re here so late. Not that we don’t encourage commitment to one’s studies, but …’

‘I’m friends with Robin. And Grace, and Alex,’ I said, a slight wobble in my voice that could have related to either the intimation that I was friendless and alone or my frustration at being waylaid. I caught a brief flicker cross his face, a shadow of doubt.

‘Well, that’s good,’ he said at last. ‘But do make sure to keep making friends in other groups, too. You don’t want to get tied into a clique, now, do you?’

‘No, sir,’ I lied. I could think of nothing I wanted more.

‘Good, good. I’d better be getting on,’ he said, smile fixed wide as he slid the books into his arms. ‘Help me open this door now, would you?’

I waited until the door closed behind him, and ran down the stairs, catching myself as I tripped once on the third floor, and again on the first. I pushed the heavy main doors open, air bracingly cool, and ran towards the Campanile.

The first bell rang as I stepped under the arch, the noise deafening, vibrating in the air and through the ground beneath my feet. Robin wasn’t there.

I opened the little bird in my palm (now mangled, since I’d been unable to put it back together) and read the words again. 6 o’clock sharp. I peered back through the arches, but the Quad was deserted, silent but for the rustle of leaves between each of the bell’s long tolls. After a moment, I stepped back into the shadows and looked up into the tower’s golden underbelly, then around; following a carved serpent knotted around the grille, I saw it. Another folded note, tucked between the bars. Another bird, this time a deep crimson colour, and more complex than the last. I reached in and plucked it from the grate, and as the last bell fell silent a key fell to the ground with a sharp ring. I scooped it up, and tried the lock.

A crack, a rattle, and the grille slid open, the void black within. I stepped inside, and felt the air begin to sour as the inner door slammed shut, darkness stony and absolute.

‘Hello?’ I whispered, my voice ringing back. I reached around, scraped my knuckles on the stone walls, slammed palms mutely on the door behind. Silence crawled into every space, into the cracks between the bricks, the knots in the wooden door. I plugged the keyhole with my finger, gripped the handle tight, and stood until the air stilled, panic settling heavy around me. I took a deep breath. Was this some kind of initiation? Or – I thought, guts turning over and again – was it simply a cruel joke?

And if so … how long would she leave me here? An hour? Or all night? I felt my heartbeat quicken further as I turned back into the narrow chamber, finding a recess to my right. I took a step towards it, pawing at my pockets for a lighter with one hand (smoking still an affectation more than a habit, an excuse to lurk where the girls might be) and holding my other arm in front, pressed against the damp, creeping walls. In a ridiculous moment of vanity – pretentious, thinking myself some out-of-century bohemian – I’d bought matches, instead. I struck two out, missing the strip in the darkness, before the third caught and the room burst into a brief, warm light.

‘If this were a horror movie, you’d be about to die,’ Robin said, breath hot against my cheek.

‘You bitch,’ I said, my heart thudding, as she bent double, gulping with laughter. ‘What was that for?’ The match burned out, singeing my fingers, and we stood, again, in the dark. She clicked a switch, and a torch lit the chamber in a bright, full beam.

Seeing me again, she leaned against the wall and resumed her hysterics.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as I began to laugh too (though perhaps with relief, rather than any sense of humour about the situation). ‘I just couldn’t resist.’

‘Well, thanks a lot. That’s at least a decade taken off the end of my life.’

‘See! That’s the spirit. I did you a favour. Die young, leave a beautiful corpse, blah blah blah.’ She looked me up and down, a split-second glance that made me immediately aware of my body, filling the narrow space. ‘Come on. Follow me.’ She paused. ‘Lift’s out of order, so we’ve got to walk.’

She swung the torch around to reveal a flight of steps leading upwards, some strange language etched on the ceiling and walls in faded, white chalk. Up we went, the darkness warped and flickering behind Robin’s silhouette, distorted by the light. After two flights, the floor beneath turned from stone to wood; our footsteps echoed loud and hollow, the occasional board wobbling or creaking underfoot in warning. Robin quickly disappeared ahead, her footsteps heavy above, leaving me feeling my way in the dark. I felt my way through turns in the stone staircase, keeping my balance with the wall; lit another match and looked up to see another five or six floors, the light fleeting in the draught that blew it swiftly out.

‘Violet?’ Robin’s voice rebounded sing-song down each flight, passing me by and continuing into the darkness below.

‘Yeah?’ I shouted back, taking a moment to steady my breath.

‘Come on, fat arse. Pick up the pace a bit.’ I winced, ashamed, and duly hurried, grateful that the darkness disguised my blush.

By the time I reached the top, I was giddy and breathless, all too aware of the altitude and my own horrifying lack of balance, the stairs having lost their railings two floors earlier. There was a horrifying void in the centre of the tower, down into the darkness of what I would later realize was the old elevator shaft, a fall into which one would be unlikely to survive.

In my exhaustion I stood for a moment, listening to the hiss and scratch of rats several floors below (and, I would soon discover, the flutter of bats in the belfry above). I steadied myself against the wall – a fortunate move, as the door swung open with a crack, a rush of warm air rushing into the cool stairwell.

‘Woman, get a move on,’ Robin said, grinning. She extended a hand, and I took it, feeling unsteady with vertigo as the darkness loomed below.

I stepped forward into the wide room, struck by the brightness from within. The moon was streaming silver through the four huge, white clock faces, each of which took up the best part of every wall. I heard my own gasp echo from the walls like a dull chant; above, the bells hummed as a gust of wind brushed by.

It was breathtaking, details clambering one after another: the Victorian chaise longues in faded brocade, piled high with jumbled papers and rolled-up sketches, painting and ink. The marble bird perched on a broad mahogany desk, surrounded by candles and strange, sober little dolls. Even now, decades later, the same trinkets line the walls; with every passing year, still more appear, lost, beautiful things that make the tower their home.

‘Hi, Violet,’ Grace said, not looking up from the book splayed open in front of her. Alex, sat beside her, gave a half-smile, waiting for me to catch my breath. I walked to the farthest clock face and looked out, shoulders level with the lowest point.

Outside, the campus shone lavish in the falling light of the moon winking above the trees. Beyond, the town glowed dull, and farther still the infinite black of the sea glittered as it met the sky. Several feet below, a raven swooped, disappearing into the darkness of the woodland beyond the school gates.

I turned away, struck with a sudden vertigo as my eyes followed it down, and walked a long, slow circuit of the room. I felt the other girls watching, waiting for me to speak. I picked up one object after another, as though only by touch could I make them real. A rag doll in a dirty gingham dress, eyes gouged, posed grotesquely on a stack of books; a vase of flowers which looked long dead but somehow retained their scent.

A comic mask and an infant’s dress, which left my fingers powdery white when I reached out to touch its silk and lace. A winged brass figure, too heavy to lift, though its base was the size of my palm; a blown-glass vase, faded grey and muddy with earth; four deer skulls, antlers broad and piercing, like outstretched hands.

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ Robin said, finally. She flopped down on the chaise longue, her feet in laddered tights resting on the table, drinking whisky from a bottle she’d tucked inside the lining of her blazer. She held it out to me. ‘Want some?’

‘No, thanks,’ I said, with a weak smile. I’d found the journey up the stairs harrowing enough. The prospect of making my way down while sober seemed impossible, let alone intoxicated.

With a jolt, a mechanism below rattled and shook, the elevator roaring into life. I glanced at Robin, and she shrugged. ‘I thought it was broken. Good exercise though, huh?’ I felt my cheeks burn, cruelly, and turned back to the shelves, running my fingers along the bruised white face of a porcelain doll.

A click of heels echoed on the flagstones outside. Another broad scrape of the door, a rush of cool air from the stairwell, whistling through the cracks in the brickwork, unsettled by the relentless tick-tick-tick. Annabel stood, tall and imposing in the doorway, two books slung under one arm. She looked at us, one by one, as though appraising each of us in turn; I felt exposed, somehow, as she looked at me, her brow furrowed for an almost imperceptible moment. At last she smiled, though her eyes were still flat and cold. ‘So we are five again at last,’ she said, softly. ‘Tea, anyone?’

‘Forgive me, if I may,’ she began, lowering herself into an armchair, legs crossed beneath her. ‘I would like to go over a couple of things we’ve already covered for the benefit of our new student. Is that okay with you ladies?’ She looked at Robin, Alex, and Grace, who nodded, mutely.

She turned to me, eyes bird-like, black and ringed with tan. ‘So, Violet, welcome to our little group.’ She smiled, the slightest of gaps between her front teeth, like tombstones in a graveyard; a warmth that seeped through my skin, a doll becoming real. ‘How much have the girls told you so far?’

‘Nothing. I mean, not yet,’ I said, glancing at Robin, who clicked her pen, and began sketching in the margins of her open book.

‘Good,’ Annabel said. She paused, blowing softly into her mug before taking a sip, looking at each of us as she did so. ‘We meet every Thursday, for two hours, at 6:15pm. You may schedule office hours with me, should you find yourself struggling with the work – but there is to be no mention of this class or discussion of our lessons beyond these four walls. Is that understood?’

I nodded. She smiled, eyes deathly and emotionless. ‘I assume you’re aware of the history of this school, no?’

I wondered why it was that I kept being asked this by tutors, and why each assumed I had some idea. ‘Some of it,’ I said, weakly.

‘I suppose we should start from the beginning,’ she said, placing her drink on the desk, steam rising hot. ‘This institution was founded in 1604, by Ms Margaret Boucher. Originally, it had only four students, all orphaned, or taken from parents who could not provide them with the due care they required. The Poor Law made it rather easier for Ms Boucher to do her work, since pauper children were given the opportunity to become apprentices. Naturally a formal girls’ school would have been something of a tricky prospect, since there were barely any schools for boys in the area as it was, but Ms Boucher was able to tell interested parties that she was simply offering something of a training academy for these young women, teaching them the arts of good manners, etiquette, and the like.’

She pulled a pin from her hair, and turned it around in her fingers, a thin, white smudge of clay on the edge of her hand. ‘The reality, of course, was rather different. Ms Boucher had been something of a scholar, though of course there were few opportunities for a young educated woman to use this knowledge at the time. She loved the Greek and Roman tragedies; adored folk myths, studying them with an almost anthropological eye. She read plays and poetry, devouring whatever she could get her hands on, and regularly journeyed to London to see performances by Shakespeare and Marlowe, and others since forgotten. She spent three months in Italy, touring Florence and Rome, completely alone, purely to see the great works of Michelangelo and the other great Renaissance painters.

‘So, as you can imagine, she was hardly inclined to teach her students the importance of correct cutlery placement.’ She gave a wry smile; bit her lip, as though catching herself unguarded. ‘Soon enough, the school had sixty pupils, then a hundred; mothers would send their daughters here clutching forged notices of their parents’ deaths, in the hope that they might have a better life than the one which seemed their fate.’