Page 9 of The Light Between Worlds

“Old Nick died,” I tell her. “And I’ve been writing to Philippa, but she never writes back. I’m afraid I might have ruined things for good between us.”

“Oh, Ev, I’m sorry.” Georgie shuts her book with a snap. “But sisters fight, and she’ll come round eventually. Leave the unpacking for now—we’ll have plenty of time this evening. If you’re having trouble with your own sister, why don’t we go find mine and get you a cup of tea?”

The clamor in the hall hits us like a freight train when Georgie opens the door. We wander through the crowded and noisydormitory corridors, and I’m happy to let Georgie lead. Now that I’m here, I feel deflated, as if I’ve come to the end of something and nothing new has begun. I’m just... waiting. But I smile and nod with false good humor to all the girls who greet us.

The truth is, I’m not at home here. My sister, Philippa, was. When we were sent back from the Woodlands, Phil began making this world hers in earnest. Powder and pumps, nylons and cinema and boys took the place of tree spirits and stonewardens and wooded glades. She was a radiant star in constant motion, all the rest of us caught up by her inescapable gravity.

And then she left me behind. Although she’s still in this world, she’s an ocean away and the distance feels unbearable.

I miss you, Philippa. I wish you were here.

Now there’s just me, following Georgie, and how can I tell her that the last time I was sixteen, I danced in grassy clearings, visited centaurs, and chatted with talking beasts? I can’t speak of it, but there’s still too much of me left behind not to think about it.

Just like that, in the noise and rush of start of term, a crack forms inside me. The first hairline fracture. I’ve made it through the summer hale and whole, with a faith like the burning sun, and now loneliness has started the breaking.

Five and a half years I spent in the Woodlands with my brother and sister. Five and a half years I was always with one of them. Yet here I stand, separated from both home and family, and it’s all come rushing in on me.

Georgie stops at the door closest to the dorm’s front entry, which bears a small plaque inscribed with the wordsJosephine Maxton,English Literature Supervisor. Knocking half a dozen times, she raises her voice to be heard. “Josie, are you in there? We want a cup of tea.”

Music billows from Max’s rooms—a new jazz standard, something loud enough to drown out the noise from the hall. It cuts off abruptly and the door swings open. Max stands there in fashionable slacks and a paint-spattered blouse, a scarf holding back the tight curls of her hair. She beckons to us to hurry inside, and once we’re in, all but slams the door.

“Sorry, I’m trying to keep the clamor out by making my own. And I’m repainting. The Curmudgeon gave me permission, after five years of stubbornness. Tea, you said?”

Max throws one arm around Georgie and one around me, sweeping us into her tiny kitchen. She’s the English Lit teacher, and the youngest faculty member, which makes her our dorm supervisor by default. Max sets the kettle on, wipes a smudge of paint off her chin, and looks us up and down.

“Georgie, my love. Evie. What’s wrong?”

“Still fighting with Philippa,” Georgie says. She and Max know me better than my own parents do, and let it rest at that. I’ve never liked to say much about my troubles—even if I wanted to, how would I find the words? I prefer good tea and sympathetic company, and no one pressing me to speak.

I steal glances around the room as we sip cups of tea and Max and Georgie talk quietly. It was drab in here before—Max used to joke the color ought to be named Funeral Parlor Foundation—but it’ll be drab no longer now she’s finally worn the Curmudgeondown. A first coat of hyacinth purple is already up on the walls, and there’s a box on the counter with blue shot silk curtains peeking out of it.

I had a gown that shade of blue, which was made for me during our fourth year in the Woodlands. I used to wear it on the beach below Palace Beautiful, out at the very Wood’s edge. Philippa scolded me for spoiling my hem, but I liked to sit and watch the water, wrapped in something the color of waves. Jamie used to sit on the sand, too, when he was home from the front, and whenever I saw him there I’d go down. We’d talk until the ugly things he’d seen faded to distant memory and he laughed instead of frowning. I always had enough laughter for him, enough faith for Philippa—or so I thought.

Now I’m left wondering what I have for me.

The dinner gong rings out across the quad, and Max looks up. “Alright, Evie?”

When I nod, she reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Check the fern after lights-out, if you need to.”

Georgie and I clear away our teacups and brave the hallway once more, where we’re swept up in the rush of girls heading out of the dorm and across the quad. I hear someone shout Georgie’s name, and she bites her lip, twisting the end of her thick braid around one finger.

“Ugh, it’s Penwallis. Can’t I just have one evening of peace?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Apparently not.”

“Remind me again why I put up with her.”

“Her father’s a Cambridge dean, and that’s where you’re headed next year. So you’ve decided it’s better to make her a friend.” Thewords come out like a piece of recitation, I’ve said them so many times before.

“I’m not her friend, I’m her project,” Georgie answers drily. “And IhopeI’m headed to Cambridge.”

“They’d be fools not to take you.”

Giving my arm a quick squeeze, Georgie disappears into the crowd, following the sound of Penwallis’s voice. I realize, surrounded by this press of girls I’ve known for ages, that without Philippa I’m a stranger in their little world. I don’t belong. I’ve grown into a shape that cannot bend, and Cervus help me, though I’ve been trying to change it for five years, it’s a Woodlands shape.

Dinner is tough, fat-marbled beef with scant gravy and boiled potatoes. The Curmudgeon gives the same start-of-term speech she does every year—excellence, dignity, the good of the nation, that sort of thing. It’s stuffy in the refectory, the food is dreadful, and the wool collar of my school sweater itches terribly. When the Curmudgeon finishes, it’s a relief to be sent back to the dorm.

Georgie’s gone over to someone else’s room to compare notes on the summer reading list. It’s just me, and to be honest, I don’t mind. I’ve felt alone since the day began and now I truly am. So I sit down on my bed next to the window, because Georgie’s never much cared about the view, and throw open the leaded glass casement.