A School for Unusual Girls Read Free Page B

that will not bleach out no matter how many milk baths or cucumber plasters Mother applies. She detests my ginger hair. Red is definitely not en vogue .
    Not long after the glider incident, she tried to disguise my embarrassing red curls by rinsing them with walnut stain. It would infuriate her if she knew that her efforts to change my hair color increased my obsession with dyes and inks. Her oily walnut stain failed miserably. The hideous results had to be cut off—my hair shorn like a sheep. It has only now grown out to an acceptable length.
    And now this. Exile to Stranje House.
    I clinched the fabric of my traveling dress and wished for the millionth time that I’d been more careful while adding saltpeter to the boiling ink emulsion. If only it hadn’t sparked that abominable fire.
    Miss Stranje allowed an inordinate amount of time to pass before pronouncing judgment upon me.
    â€œI knew it.” Mother collapsed against the back of her chair in defeat and threw up her hands. “It’s hopeless. Nothing can be done with her.”
    Miss Stranje rose. The black bombazine of her skirts rustled like funeral crepe. “On the contrary, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I believe we may be able to salvage your daughter.”
    Salvage ? They spoke of me as if I were a tattered curtain they intended to rework into a potato sack.
    â€œYou do?” My mother blinked at this astonishing news.
    â€œYes. However”—Miss Stranje grasped the edge of her desk as if it were a pulpit and she about to preach a sermon condemning us all to perdition—“you may have heard my teaching methods are rather unconventional. Severe. Harsh.” She paused and fixed each of us with a shockingly hard glare. “I assure you, the gossip is all true.”
    For the first time that day, my mother relaxed.
    I, on the other hand, could not swallow the dry lump of dread rising in my throat. Miss Stranje’s sharp-eyed gaze seemed to reach into my soul and wring it out.
    She bore down on my father. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, you may leave your daughter with me under one condition. You must grant me authority in all matters pertaining to her welfare, financially and otherwise. Should I decide to lock her in a closet with only bread and water for sustenance, I will not tolerate any complaints or—”
    â€œHeavens, no. You can’t do that.” Mother swished her hand through the air as if swatting away the idea. “It won’t work. Don’t you think we would’ve tried something so simple? It’s no use. You can’t leave her in solitude to think. She’ll simply concoct more mischief while she’s locked up. You’ll have to come up with something more inventive than that.”
    Lips pressed thin, Miss Stranje sniffed. I wasn’t sure whether she was annoyed about Mother interrupting or about being saddled with such an intractable student. “Furthermore,” she said with a steady calm, “if I deem it necessary to take her to London to practice her social skills, you will not only permit such an excursion, you will finance the endeavor.”
    â€œMore coin?” My father ran a finger around the top of his starched collar. “Already costing me a king’s ransom.”
    â€œThe choice is yours.” She plopped a sheaf of papers on the corner of the desk nearest him. “You must sign this agreement or I will not accept your daughter into the school.”
    He glanced at me and his angry scowl returned. His nostrils flared. I groaned, knowing the smell of ash and burnt hay still lingered in his nose. He would sign.
    â€œWon’t sign unless I have some assurances you can do the job.” He sat back, arms crossed. “We stated quite clearly in our letters, we expect some kind of guarantee. I’m no stranger to the rod. Went to Eton. Got beat regular. All part of the training.”
    The lump in my stomach turned into a cannonball, and my backside