CHAPTER THREE: Headmistress Harriet Hawthorne

                                                       — Chapter Three —

                                                                 

                        Headmistress Harriet Hawthorne 

It was a sun-filled summer day with barely a hint of cloud as a small white car made its way into the heart of London.

   Looking out from the backseat, Crescent Grey watched two images at once; where they were going and where they had just been, she saw out through the window the surrounding houses and lush green land as it rolled by.

   As they came into the city, the trees and buildings stretched, overlaid on each other, distorted reflections dancing on the surface of the back windscreen. The peaceful dream of the green countryside, which had dominated her imagination for so long and had become a reality for her for a few short sweet months now gave way again to a more familiar setting — a harsher reality made of brick, stone, and steel.

   She sighed to herself as she said good-bye, looking back to the life she might’ve had. The life she had so much been looking forward to.

   She turned herself around and faced her future, but to her, it felt more like she was going backward, into the past. She knew very well where they were going; it had been less than a fortnight since she had fled the farmhouse, yet she knew that very same night that they would eventually return her to whence she came.

   She didn’t blame them at all; they were a generous, forgiving, gentle couple. But she knew that Mrs. Baker just couldn’t cope with what had happened, and neither, for that matter, could Crescent herself. It was too much for her, too much for all of them.

   The day after the incident, they had taken Crescent straight to the local doctor. To all of their amazement, he could find nothing wrong. He suggested a specialist, so they went to the nearest modern hospital. Crescent and the Bakers tried to explain that there was something wrong; she implored them to discover the problem and to cure her, but no one could figure out what it was.

   They didn’t have much money, but the Bakers had paid for all of the tests anyway.

   Crescent was examined, poked at, prodded, put under a CAT scan machine, had her blood tested, every inch of her analyzed, and even took a psychological test, but nothing out of the ordinary was ever found. Yet something had gone terribly wrong that day, and it was obvious that it had something to do with her.

   But whatever had happened, it just confirmed to Crescent what everyone had been telling her all her life — that she didn’t fit in, that she was strange, even spooky.

   She noticed that sometimes, when she caught their eye, people were scared of her, and sometimes that made her scared too. So much so that whenever it happened, she did her best to look away and push the incident out of her mind.

   Crescent had had to deal with this her whole life, and by the time the Bakers had adopted her, it had become just a normal part of being Crescent Grey, a fact of life. But now she wondered, what had it all been about?

    On the morning of Crescent’s birthday, Mrs. Baker had collapsed right then; the doctor said she was in shock, and he said if he hadn't known better, he would have thought she was suffering from a nervous breakdown, but it was well known in the community that Mrs. Baker lead a calm and simple existence, taking care of the house and tending her garden, and she had been fine only a few minutes before.

    Before she and Crescent smiled to each other and they told her to blow out the candles and make a wish. And Crescent had, she’d made her wish — in one big puff, she had blown out all the candles and was laughing. They’d all started laughing.

    It was a festive time, just as birthdays should be; they had even surprised Crescent with a brand-new silver bicycle — only it was actually when she had made her wish that something had befallen her would-be mother. Crescent herself later had to admit that she felt something had happened to both of them; she had felt her mind slipping, and more ominously, somehow she didn't know how, or why, but she had also felt Roberta Baker’s mind slipping as well.

   Then suddenly, without any rhyme or reason, her adoptive mother had collapsed and fell hard against the floor.

   At that moment, Crescent feared that the lady had just dropped stone dead, and Crescent had been horrified because she herself had known that down deep in the pit of her stomach that it had all been her, Crescent’s own doing, been somehow her own fault.

   She was afraid that without meaning to she had wished her newly adoptive mother dead and then inexplicably made it happen.

   She didn’t mean to do it; all she remembered was wishing that she could see her real mother just once before embracing her new life, and then Mrs. Baker had fallen, and lain still, and Crescent had fled into the night.

   Mr. Baker called for an ambulance straightaway, and they had rushed his wife to the hospital. After they had found there was no serious injury he had gathered a group together to search for Crescent.

   A few days later, when Mrs. Baker had come home from the hospital, she was well, but still shaken from the experience. Whatever had befallen her, she was in no condition to talk, but the one thing that was clear was that she seemed to be deathly afraid of Crescent. And from then on, she did not want to be left alone with her newly adopted daughter, and Crescent couldn’t blame her in the least. So it was with a heavy heart that Mr. Baker had declared that there must be something seriously wrong with Crescent, and Crescent had no choice herself but to agree.

   But what was it? No one knew; she didn’t even know herself.

   All she knew was that she was just as afraid as they were, and just as she had imagined, like she was some broken toy, they had decided to return her to the orphanage.

   Crescent felt miserable and completely heartsick over the whole situation. She felt sorry for herself, and even sorrier for the couple, but she understood that there was nothing else for it, and Crescent realized that this would probably be the last time she would ever see the pair of them again.

   Coming into Greater London, about to pass across Tower Bridge, she saw that there were a pair of tugboats on the Thames, and tourists walked like ants all around the outside of the Tower, which looked to Crescent now more than ever like a fortress-prison.

   If she looked closely to the west she could just make out where she knew the Millennium Bridge stretched from Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Tate Modern to St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Old Bailey. To the east lay Canary Wharf, which rises up, a modern monolith among the many structures of London’s old West India Docklands.  

   They continued on through busy streets and byways; Crescent kept looking out at the city, trying desperately to focus on the famous landmarks, trying to keep her mind occupied and trying to keep herself from thinking about what had happened too much. She could see the Houses of Parliament and the clock tower now and almost hear the chiming of Big Ben as they headed into Westminster and from there into the West Side of London proper.

After driving round the Victoria Memorial past Pall Mall, they drive by the usual throng of tourists gathered in front of the black and gold gates that lay before Buckingham Palace and Green Park. They drive up Constitution Hill toward Hyde Park Corner and take the route through ritzy Knightsbridge, an area of London that everyone knows but not all can afford. As they drove on they pass Harrods and Crescent marveled at the classic building with all the green canopies and international flags flowing freely above its many doors, and at the parade of wealthy men and women carrying armfuls of packages containing pricey items that she could scarcely imagine. All in all, like Leicester Square with all its celebrities attending movie premiers this was a part of London that could be very glitzy and glamorous; some would say the best part. But Crescent had never known anything of that sort of life, and by her own estimation most likely never would.

    A short time later they were in West Kensington; Crescent knew they were getting close now. Soon the car sped past Hammersmith Station, and down King’s Street and then finally they would be onto the Chiswick High Road, which was the main street from where the orphanage stood; the orphanage was only a short distance away now, and for Crescent, the air was alive with apprehension.

    Passing King’s Mall, she saw people walking from shop to shop going about their daily business and dining in front of the little cafés that littered the pavement. Here there were not many tourists. Chiswick was considered a nice part of London for a while now, but there was nothing to attract visitors to this area of the city except a fair few restaurants and nightclubs for the swinging singles lot.

   No famous cathedrals or shining new additions made their way down in this area of the city; mostly it was for young professional locals who could afford their own flat and wanted a taste of the independent life, or for older folks who had already owned their homes for a long time. 

   Hammersmith Station had a nice little mall inside and was a keystone for traveling on the Tube, but not many besides the locals wandered down to the little roads and the labyrinth of neighborhoods where the orphanage lay.

    Passing a Snappy Snaps photo shop, the car made one more turn. It ambled down a little side street called Turnham Green Terrace. And not too far down Turnham Green was a small park called Acton Green Common — Crescent knew this area well; she had lived here most of her life.

    The orphanage sat in a residential neighborhood on the far side of the park; the front of the property ran along a street called South Parade and stretched between a street called The Avenue and Ramillies Road. Mr. Baker pulled the car into a parking space adjacent to the park.

    The old place stood towering over the area, an immense and intimidating archaic structure that took up an entire city block.

    Amidst the surrounding red brick houses, the orphanage seemed to grow out of the ground more than sit atop it. In stark contrast to its friendly and quaint-looking neighbors, the orphanage was made from great gray stones. In some places, vines and foliage had crept into the stonework, and it was easily one of the most ancient buildings in this part of London.

    Mr. Baker gave Crescent a little half smile, then got out of the car. He stood there for a moment, looking off toward the orphanage, then breathed a heavy sigh and waved for Mrs. Baker and Crescent to join him.

   She hesitated. “Come on Crescent,” he said sadly, coaxing her out. She slowly pushed the seat forward and then reluctantly departed the little white mini.

   The three of them stood there staring at the building across the street.

   Crescent shivered slightly, feeling a chill, and wondered if she felt that way from the wind or the fact that she was returning exactly to where she had hoped never to return again.

   True, it was the only home she had ever really known, but Crescent had also wanted to leave it ever since she could remember, and she considered it a personal failure on her part that she had to come back. She could count the few happy times she’d had there on the fingers of one hand.

   The couple walked down the sidewalk, Mr. Baker in his brown suit and Mrs. Baker in a red sun dress and matching hat. Crescent followed in their wake wearing her favorite assortment of secondhand clothes — tattered jeans, old corduroy jacket, white blouse, scuffed-up white trainers, and rainbow scarf. 

   The trio struggled against a strong wind; Mrs. Baker held on to her wide red sunhat while Mr. Baker leaned forward and clasped his brown fedora whilst leading the way, walking resolutely, and with purpose. Behind, Crescent was feeling an ever-growing sense of dread and agreed with the wind which seemed to be trying to tell them to go back the way they had come — she wasn’t looking forward to stepping back through those doors at all.

   When they came to the crosswalk, they looked both ways before attempting to traverse the street; not far from the edge of the park was a roundabout next to an underpass where Crescent knew an Underground train ran over noisily every few hours. But at the moment, all that could be heard were the faint sounds from the neighborhood and the rustling of leaves swirling upon the wind.

    But then just as they attempted to cross, a red double-decker bus marked 267-Brentford came out of nowhere barreling down the road.

    Mr. Baker held his arm out to keep Crescent and Mrs. Baker from tumbling forward while the bus rushed past. “Blimey,” he exclaimed in surprise, then caught himself up and gave the driver a what-for. “R-ruddy bus driver!” he said, shaking his fist wildly as he was ignored and the bus continued to speed on down the street. “Oh my,” cried Mrs. Baker, who swayed and kept hold of her hat, which rippled with the wind.

   Crescent gave a slight smile. Mr. Baker was not prone to cursing, and she figured this was as close to a curse as he got. It was one of the reasons she liked him so much, liked them both. They were a very sweet and caring couple, and Crescent knew the only reason they were taking her back was because something had gone dreadfully wrong. Something had been wrong with her — Crescent.

    She sighed and brought herself up to her full height, trying to steel herself for the inevitable. When they had crossed over to the other side, they stood in front of an intimidating wall, and at its center stood a large black wrought-iron gate, which was flanked by two enormous square columns cut from the same large blocks of gray stone as the building that lay beyond it. 

    It was menacing and looked as though it was meant to keep people in as much as it was made to keep people out — the whole place had the same fortress feeling as the Tower of London, only it was darker, grayer and hadn’t yet been converted into a bright tourist spot.

   The wall that surrounded it ran all along the length of the block and completely enclosed the building, which seemed to loom over the entire neighborhood, casting a grim shadow.

   Ancient and gnarly maple trees dotted the sidewalk, twisting upward, growing threateningly through large cracks in the pavement, and shading passersby as they hurried by the place.

   On either of the side streets next to the building were bunches of thin red brick houses squeezed together with barely a driveway between them. Dwarfed by the orphanage, the brick houses extended all the way down along tiny side streets, branching off and crisscrossing each other, creating a maze of a neighborhood.

   While Crescent looked up at the iron gate, she noticed in the time that they stood there that dark clouds had formed overhead, but the midmorning sun still broke through in slanted rays and shone down, highlighting the red and orange of her wavy chestnut hair.

   The bars of the gate were wrought with sculpted ivy, roses, and leaves that snaked up the sides. There were even little metal thorns that spiked out every which way and presumably existed to keep people from climbing.

   Atop the columns, on either side of the gate were black statues with wings. Grotesque caricatures of cherubs with trumpets extended from their misshapen mouths, as if announcing the arrival of visitors passing through to purgatory.

   Crescent looked past the gate to the building beyond; she had always thought it was the strangest place for an orphanage, let alone a school, and Crescent Grey Orphanage was both.

    It was very old, and though it wasn’t a castle, it was reminiscent of some sort of medieval stronghold — dark and foreboding, as gothic as any structure in England.

   It even had its share of ghost stories, including one about a phantom prowling around the school during the midnight hours; it was a very old story that had been around since she could remember. Crescent had never seen anything of the sort herself, but she couldn’t deny the place at times had felt as if it was haunted.

   To one side of the gate, set in the stone, was an old tarnished square bronze plaque. She knew what was written there; she had seen it many times over the years, but she glanced at it anyway and read:

                           Crescent Grey Orphanage

                                      Founded 1944

                                The Cerulean Council   

    It was strange to see her own name etched in metal like that even though she realized it wasn’t actually her name but that of the orphanage.

   And she never knew why. It had always been a mystery why she had been named after the orphanage, since the person who had done the naming had disappeared not too long after. And underneath that was a funny little rhyme that could barely be made out because of the way all the weather had worn it down over time, but Crescent had deciphered it ages ago.

                             Bless all those who enter here,

                            May all those who pass within

                            Leave intact with life and limb.

                            Guest, friend, lost soul or kin,

                                 May you find your way

                           And safely come back out again.

   Crescent looked back up; they were expected, but there was no one to greet them. Mr. Baker pushed on the gate, and it opened with an eerie creaking sort of groan. The trio began moving up the long crooked walkway that went from the sidewalk right up to the front steps.

   There seemed to be absolutely no one about. Of course, Crescent thought, today was Saturday, and most everyone would be either in their rooms, out back in the courtyard, or relaxing in the entertainment room watching films or in the lounge playing games.

   Crescent and the couple stopped after making their way up to the top of the broad stone steps.

   The top step served as a large platform enclosed on each side by wide stone railings that bent downward. On the right side of the building was a large porch that swung out away from the orphanage like a turret and extended all the way around the back.

   Two very large doors made of strong English oak dominated the front of the orphanage and in the middle of each were two gigantic circular wrought-iron knockers that protruded from the mouths of garishly carved gargoyles.

   Mr. Baker took hold of one of the knockers and boldly pounded on one of the doors. A very loud BOOM — BOOM — BOOM ensued and could be heard all around.

   It was so loud and unexpected that it startled Mrs. Baker, and she jumped but Crescent had heard it many times before — she stood her ground, but what happened next surprised even her.

With a creak, the door slowly opened, and long thin fingers with jagged nails crept around the edge. At this all three slightly jumped for the hand was shriveled and bony, the skin seemed barely to be hanging on, and when the door opened fully, Mrs. Baker let out an audible gasp, but it was Mr. Baker’s turn to say, “Oh my!”

   Crescent stood perfectly still and blinked once, then just stared. She had no idea what to do for she had expected someone completely different to answer the door and so had the Bakers. Here was the wickedest woman that Crescent had ever seen, but more importantly, she was a complete and utter stranger.

   What was this — this strange woman doing answering the door to the orphanage? That was the housekeeper Mrs. Collins’ job.

    Crescent looked her up and down, and for one brief instant, she was strongly reminded of the Wicked Witch of the West from the film version of The Wizard of Oz, minus the green skin and pointy hat. The woman was tall, incredibly thin, gaunt, and most certainly imposing.

   Her features were severe; there were two long, thin, deep lines between her eyes as if she was in a constant state of concentration, and she had a harsh expression on her face that seemed to suggest that this was not someone to be trifled with.

   She had a sickly pallor, and sallow skin which was an unhealthy gray color.

   Crescent thought she looked dead. Her jet black hair was tied conservatively in a constraining bun, which made her face jut out like a bird.

    She had a very large beaklike nose that was bigger than the rest of her face which only added to the effect — a thin line for a mouth and no lips whatsoever, and her eyes were wide and silvery under huge lids. Her pupils were tiny black dots set exactly in the center, her eyebrows were pencil thin and arched, which made her look somehow even more evil. She wore a drab dress with long sleeves, which made her look practically puritan and was entirely black except for a wide white collar at the neck and lacy trim at the cuff.

   The dress went straight down the length of her lanky body and stopped midcalf. Her legs were covered with black stockings, and her shoes, which were also black, were plain and sensible and had square heels.

   The woman looked at the Bakers, surveying them, her eyes narrowing into two thin slits. She paid no attention to Crescent at all.

    Feeling quite invisible again Crescent stared down at her own shoes and noticed how dirty they were.

    “I am the new headmistress here. My name is Hawthorne, Harriet Hawthorne. We’ve been expecting you.” She made a point of checking her watch, then raised one eyebrow and looked back up and said crisply, “You’re late.”

   Mr. Baker swallowed, took off his hat, which he had been absently holding on to, and held it to his chest. “W-w-we’ve brought Crescent here,” he said feebly, kindly putting one hand on her shoulder. The headmistress didn’t even bother to look at her and continued speaking directly to Mr. Baker.

   “Yes, I’ve read her case file. My predecessor, Headmaster Wilkes, briefed me on the recent adoptees before he left. He thought he had finally gotten rid of the little — been able to give the little girl a decent home, but I see he was mistaken,” she said with an air of disdain in her voice.

    “It’s not that we … we just.…” Mr. Baker, began but something caught in his throat, and he just couldn’t finish.

    “I understand,” the headmistress said nonchalantly. “This happens sometimes.”

    Mr. Baker’s shoulders slumped, and he looked utterly defeated. He said, “I-I’ll go g-get Crescent’s birthday present, shall I? It’s in the boot. It’s not very big, and it will only take a moment.…” But before he could take a step, the headmistress spoke up again. “I am sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “We do not allow such frivolity here. Students are not allowed many personal items. I like to run a ‘tight ship’ as it were.”  

   “I … I feel we owe her something. Please, it was a birthday present. It’s a bicycle. It was supposed to be a surprise but — but.…”

   The woman stared at Mr. Baker, and for an instant, Crescent thought she was going to slam the door in their faces and could tell the new headmistress didn’t like having her authority questioned.

   “Well … I suppose we can make room for it in one of the sheds, but she will not be permitted to ride it around on orphanage property, or she will most assuredly find it in a rubbish bin or used for scrap metal in one of the trades.” Crescent understood perfectly and slowly nodded to show her comprehension.

   “Y-yes, ma’am,” Mr. Baker said and gulped while Mrs. Baker just stared on in amazement.

   “Very good,” the headmistress said, sounding pleased, then she backed away inside. Crescent noticed that the woman seemed to glide backward more than walk; so far this new headmistress was giving her the creeps. She held the door open so Crescent and the Bakers could step through; the Bakers went first then Crescent followed. As she moved forward over the threshold it was like stepping into another world, and it all came flooding back to her. Crescent had forgotten what it was like to be away from here and free and normal.  

    Like shackles springing to life and binding her, everything came back to her in a rush — the smells, the sensations, the fear, the awkwardness, the teasing, the bullying … as if frozen in time, the orphanage hardly ever seemed to change.

    Oh, every so often they added something here and something there, and a new student would walk through the door, and an older one would depart, but the old building itself, which might be a hundred years old, always stayed the same, always seeming to retain its morose flavor of hopelessness and misery.

   The entrance area was large enough for at least a half dozen people to stand, the walls on either side curved upward, creating an arched ceiling. To the right was a black iron and wood bench for visitors to wait, and behind that, against the wall, was an enormous painting with an intricately carved frame made from cherry.

   The painting depicted a dire scene, a single crooked black tower standing in barren wastelands; it spiked upward, each section more crooked than the last.

    The top of the tower could not be seen — it disappeared at the top of the painting into dark clouds, while similar opposing shapes of white lightning extended downward like jagged daggers to greet it.

    On the left was a wide security desk, and behind that a little space large enough for just a few people to move in and out. A thin old man sat behind the desk; he had silver hair, bushy eyebrows, and a rather thick mustache that covered his mouth and traced down around his jowls and connected to a pair of white fluffy sideburns. He wore a monocle over his left eye.

   “Here you are right here, sir,” the man said to Mr. Baker, his voice hoarse and dry sounding. Laying a thick sign-in book and pen on the desk he continued, “Ev’ry visitor has to sign in who walk through that door. No exceptions.”

   Mr. Baker took the pen and quickly signed in the book as the headmistress eyed him and said, “Give him the key to your car, and he will have someone fetch the child’s belongings.”

    At this the man behind the desk started sputtering and coughing in a furious fit. Crescent gave a giggle then put a hand up to her mouth to cover it and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

   Mr. Baker took out a pair of keys from his jacket pocket and handed them to the man at the desk (who gave the headmistress a sour look), then nodded and smiled at the Bakers, the corners of his eyes wrinkling up in long lines.

   He wore an old army uniform and beret; Crescent gave him a quick little wave, and the old man tipped his hat and winked at her. The headmistress must have noticed this because just at that moment, she said very abrasively, “Good day to you, Mr. Fusspot.”

   He cleared his throat. “Colonel Fusspot. British Army, retired. The Queen’s Own, Royal Infantry, One-Hundred-Fifty-First Regiment! Uh, beggin’ your pardon, mum.”

   “Oh yes, yes, of course, how droll. How could I have forgotten?”

   And Crescent couldn’t help but note the way the headmistress’s eyes rolled and the sarcastic tone in her voice as she said it. “Good day to you … Colonel.”

   Crescent’s brow furrowed. She liked Colonel Fusspot; he was nice, if sometimes a bit eccentric. He often recounted old war stories, to the dismay of both students and staff alike. And daft though he was, with his wide mustache, he sort of reminded Crescent of a terrier. Just being around her for the last few minutes, Crescent was already sure she did not like this new headmistress. Not at all … and couldn’t help but sense that the feeling was mutual….  

   After they passed the front desk, the headmistress suddenly turned curtly on her heel and faced the Bakers. “Good. All right then, now that you’ve brought her back, what exactly do you expect me to do about it, hmm?”

   Mr. Baker began, “W-well, uh.…” He was startled to have been asked so blatantly. “W-we think Crescent’s a wonderful girl, but there’s just something —”

    “Something not quite right about her,” Mrs. Baker said, finishing for her husband. It was the first time Crescent had heard her speak up since before they left the house. Everyone looked at Mrs. Baker, including Crescent, but the lady quickly averted her eyes and looked away. Crescent looked away again too and pretended to occupy herself with the architecture that she already knew all too well.  

   “Yes, well …” the headmistress said. “So it would seem.” And she eyed them suspiciously as if the Bakers were nothing more than common riff-raff.

   She reckoned the headmistress must not have thought their explanation a very good one; this new headmistress seemed to like things solid, she supposed — everything accounted for and logical, everything perfect and in its rightful place. 

   Crescent gave a little frown because she, Crescent, wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. In fact, she was completely the opposite — unorganized and often unkempt.  

   Mr. Baker cleared his throat again.

   “W-we thought … maybe since she grew up here that you … you might be able to help her somehow, better than we could anyway … t-then maybe … maybe when she’s b-better, we could come and get her.” When Mr. Baker finished speaking, his eyes were bright and hopeful; Crescent took the opportunity to steal another glance at his wife. Her head was down, and her eyes were closed as if she already knew that it wasn’t going to happen.

   Crescent looked over at the headmistress, who was talking.

   “— I certainly do not know what we can do,” she sighed, “but the adoption has not been finalized, and you certainly have the right to return her if you choose to —” And for a brief instant her eyes swept over Crescent, then she turned back to Mr. Baker and asked, “Is she unruly? Because we can certainly take care of that for you! Train her up a bit! The former headmaster may have been lax in disciplining students, but I assure you that I am not.”  

   Mr. Baker seemed to shrink under her shadow and swallowed.

   Crescent blinked.

   “Uh-uh, n-no,” Mr. Baker sputtered. “NO. No. It’s … it’s not that at all. I mean … she does wander off at times and is a little bit of a daydreamer but it’s not that at all, it’s just that there’s something —”  

   “Something … a bit off about her,” Mrs. Baker said, finishing for him again, and he glanced at her with a pained expression but nodded in solemn agreement. Crescent looked down again, feeling guilty and ashamed, but that seemed to end the discussion.

   “I see …” said the headmistress, sounding as though she really didn’t see at all, and Crescent knew that whatever the headmistress’s imaginings might have been, she really didn’t have any idea about why she was being returned. None of them did.

   Mr. Baker looked down at Crescent with that same pained expression, sighed and said, “I’m … I’m sorry, Crescent.”

    Crescent nodded and swallowed, but something had caught in her throat, then she looked down at her shoes again and shuffled them. She could feel herself mist up, and if she had to keep looking at either Mr. or Mrs. Baker, she just knew she’d start to cry. The situation was almost unbearable, but she knew it would do no good to make a scene, and she just wasn’t that kind of person. Crescent had already been through so many ups and downs; so many foster parents, so many empty promises.

   She had had too many bitter disappointments in her young life already to make her fall apart so easily now.

    Just then, a short, plump, bubbly woman wearing a full gray dress and a wide white apron ran up from around a corner, looking harassed and waving a duster around dangerously. Her face was tinged with pink, and she was winded. “Sorry, sorry, I was up a ladder cleaning a rather large portrait.”

   “Mrs. Collins, good of you to join us,” the headmistress said in a chilled tone. The housekeeper bowed. Mr. and Mrs. Baker nodded.

   “Sorry,” Mrs. Collins said in a sweet but breathless voice. “I — I was on a ladder on the second floor when I heard the knockers. I —” The headmistress gave her a piercing look that quelled the housekeeper, and Crescent noticed that the headmistress’s nose had twitched ever so slightly as she did it, but Crescent was glad to see Mrs. Collins. She had known the housekeeper all her life. She could be very stubborn, but at times also very, very nice. She was one of the few friendly faces around the old orphanage, and Crescent was glad to see that neither Mrs. Collins nor Colonel Fusspot had been replaced.

    It was then that Crescent decided to speak up for the first time since arriving back.

   “Hi, Mrs. Collins, how have you been?”

   The housekeeper leaned in and whispered, “Oh fine dear, but how are you? We didn’t expect to see you back here again.” And she gave Crescent a look out of the corner of her eyes.

   Crescent opened her mouth to explain but stopped because at that moment, the headmistress had swung round and peered at her, seeming to notice her for the very first time. Hawthorne leaned over, her narrow face very close, her long nose almost touching the tip of Crescent’s, and narrowed her eyes again focusing them. Crescent felt insignificant, like a bug being analyzed under a microscope.

   She could tell the headmistress wasn’t really looking at her, not in a normal way, anyway. Her eyes darted around too much as if she were sizing up an adversary, trying to discern her vulnerabilities.

   Feeling uncomfortable, Crescent stepped back, and at this, the woman gave just the slightest little smile, which, although barely discernable, made her look twice as evil.

   Crescent stepped back yet another pace, frowned, and shifted her shoulders, trying to ward off the unpleasant feeling.

   “So,” the headmistress said, sounding slightly interested, “this is Miss Grey, is it? Such an odd little thing,” she said, looking at Crescent sideways with curiosity. “How is it then that she came to be named after the orphanage?”

   “I —” Crescent began, but the headmistress cut her off, stood back up and once again faced the Bakers.

   “She will be treated no differently than any other student. In fact, we thought we had already gotten rid of her. It’s not the function of the orphanage to keep students until they come of age. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

    Crescent could hear her own heart thumping. She wouldn’t have dared to speak, but her own curiosity overwhelmed her — she needed to know about everything that had changed since the three months that she’d been gone.

    “W-what happened to Mr. Wilkes?” she bravely said. “When … when I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Baker, he was still headmaster.”

    Hawthorne looked down at Crescent, and the two thin lines on her brow merged as one. “Impertinent little guttersnipe, aren’t you? Barnaby Wilkes is no longer with us,” she said sharply. “There have been many changes since you have been away.” 

    Crescent started to say, “But … but what about —” But then she saw Mrs. Collins was looking at her with wide eyes — she had put a finger up to her lips and was shaking her head.

    Crescent took this as a very real warning and decided that for now she ought to keep quiet.

   The headmistress eyed her contemptuously but continued speaking over Crescent’s head, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Baker as if she had noticed nothing. “The board members that are in charge of the trust for the orphanage decided that a little cleaning up was in order. They appointed a new accountant to review the school’s finances, and many of the teachers and staff were found wanting. The staff has been downsized. Teachers have been sacked and Headmaster Wilkes decided to take the opportunity and put in for an early retirement.

    “He’s been replaced by someone the bank thought more … suitable for the job at hand — myself of course.”

    Then she waved her arm out in a wide arc, turned in one smooth motion, and said, “This way.”

    The five of them walked out into the main hall with the headmistress in the lead. Mr. and Mrs. Baker kept up behind her. Crescent walked behind them in a funeral march, and Mrs. Collins, who was just barely taller than Crescent, brought up the rear, flicking her duster quickly here and there at various spots along the walls as she toddled along.

They were led from the foyer through an arch into an even larger hall; almost the entire inside was laid in dark mahogany — the hallways, stairwells and railings were all like this. It was a very dark place. There were small chandeliers hanging from the ceiling every few feet, but it was not very inviting. At first some might think it cozy, but even with the windows open, curtains drawn and daylight pouring through, the place was still just a little too gloomy.

    Straight opposite from the entrance was a large staircase with thick railings that led upward and off to the right somewhere above. Crescent noticed the wood was shiny, polished, no doubt, by Mrs. Collins earlier that day.

    To the right of the stairs were two wide doors, and one was ajar. Inside was a blood red carpet and tapestries depicting scenes from history hung from the walls. Tables could be seen, as well as sofas and comfortable-looking armchairs all placed around a very large mantelpiece. This was the orphanage lounge, or common room, where all of the various students, both boys and girls, could be seen playing board games, or catching up on their reading or studies, or engaged in animated discussions.

   Making a turn down the left wing, they passed still another set of doors; this time the doors had been propped open, and Crescent could hear the echoes of feet and a ball bouncing. It was the small gymnasium; she glimpsed a pair of orphans inside practicing fencing while someone else was having a go at playing basketball on their own.

   They walked down a long hallway filled with portraits. All along the hall, children of different ages were loitering about, most of them huddled together in groups chatting. Sometimes they glanced over their shoulders. Crescent recognized most of them; a few started pointing at her and whispering excitedly.  

   Here we go, she thought and shook her head. 

   As they made their way down the hall, they passed even younger children jovially teasing one another. Crescent remembered again that it was a Saturday. If not relaxing, then a lot of the students would be out of the orphanage this time of day traipsing about the city, but she knew they’d soon be back for supper.

   And there were some new faces as well. Two more orphans walked by; a girl that looked just around Crescent’s age was coming toward them with a younger boy at her side. The girl had dark hair, which was twisted into a very long plait, and wore a tattered red baseball cap, which was faded and torn in spots and had definitely seen better days. From what Crescent could see, she was actually quite good-looking, but if it hadn’t been for the plait and her developing chest, Crescent wouldn’t have been able to tell if she was a girl.

   Her demeanor and manner of dress was so tomboyish that she looked very ambiguous in her jeans and T-shirt; the short sleeves were even rolled up to the shoulders, as if she was trying to show off a bit of muscle.

   Next to her, the young boy had a confused look on his face; he had shiny neat short blond hair and wore oval glasses and the school uniform sans the jumper and blazer.

   The girl was shaking her head at him and throwing her arms up in exasperation.

   As the two of them passed by, Crescent heard the girl say in a kind of drawl, “Honestly, Elliott, it’s all right here in front o’ your face. Ya jus’ have t’ read the stupid thing, is all!”

    She had a strange accent, Crescent thought — definitely not English; she must be from America. She’d heard an accent like that before in a film she’d seen once on television called Gone with the Wind.

   Continuing down the corridor, Crescent, not wanting to think too much about what was ahead, chose to pay more attention to the portraits that lined either side of the hall.

   These were all the headmasters of the school going back decades.

   The students called this the Heads Hall, and not only because all the portraits depicted headmasters and headmistresses, but because each of the portraits primarily focused on the face of each subject.

   They were an odd lot, this group of people. Some had been teachers, others administrators who had governed the orphanage and school since its inception.

   All in all, they were a very colorful group; many of them had peculiar names, but Crescent couldn’t very well fault them for that. After all, her own name wasn’t by any means normal, but a lot of them looked just as strange as their names indicated.

   The first headmaster was a funny little man with dark skin and a blue turban; he had a small black mustache that curved upward that looked very much like Salvador Dali’s. The little brass nameplate at the bottom of the portrait was all but rubbed off, but Crescent could still make out the name: Ali Kazan. The orphanage had been founded sometime around the end of World War II, and this was the man presumably responsible for it.

   The next had been a woman who was either his wife or his sister, Shiva Kazan; she had a small red teardrop shape like a jewel in the center of her forehead.

   Then there was Hannibal Balm, a serious-looking man with a square face, a deep frown, and hard features. It was said that besides being headmaster he had also been a judge and a representative in the House of Commons. Supposedly a copy of this very same portrait also hung somewhere in Parliament.

   Alice Pendragon came after him. Crescent couldn’t help but admire her; she must have been quite daring, and a very unique woman. She looked like a model, she had a beautiful face and very shortly cropped dark hair, and if Crescent remembered her time periods right, at the time it would have been very unpopular for her to have styled it in that way.

   Snorty Warbert was a funny little man who looked a bit like Albert Einstein and the only one of the lot with a smile on his face, which was small, round, and happy. He was completely bald except for a bunch of hair that fanned out from the side and back of his head. He wore little Benjamin Franklin spectacles low on his nose and had a lot of wrinkles on his forehead.

   And just after Snorty Warbert, there was a curious empty space just large enough for another portrait.

   The picture had disappeared long ago, and Crescent reckoned it must have been damaged or desecrated by one of the early students because the nameplate was also missing.

   There would have been a very heavy punishment to anyone who defiled any of the paintings, she was sure of it, because that’s how it also was today, but now that she thought about it, maybe the rule had been put in place because of the missing painting. No one had been able to find out who the headmaster had been, so they just left the empty frame out of respect and for tradition’s sake.

   In her time at the orphanage, Crescent had endeavored to solve many little mysteries that had cropped up, and she had become quite good at it. She was even able to find a few hidden passages throughout the building, and that knowledge had become quite useful to her over the years.

   Oh well, she thought. Someday she would find out whose portrait it was that belonged to the mystery of the missing painting.

   She walked on and came to Nathanial Ash; he had a stern sculpted face, long black hair and piercing red eyes. It always gave her the shivers looking at him, so she quickly turned her attention to Alberta Snookrack, whose frame was adorned in gold-leaf. She had a kind face, big bright eyes and long blonde curls and wore a small hat with a large yellow rose atop it.

   One of the strangest ones was Fortnum Grey; the top of his head was all but bald, and around the sides behind his ears was a mane of long wispy white hair. He had heavy jowls, insane eyes, and thick flamelike eyebrows, which made him look quite the madman.

   The portrait over the name Nemesis Nox depicted a very beautiful woman with long black hair, and sharp features. She had full lips, a straight nose, and piercing black eyes. A small beauty mark adorned one of her cheeks.

   Victor Vervaine had short messy hair, a hawklike nose, and different-colored eyes.

    Crescent’s time at the orphanage had been under only two headmasters. She had been lucky; while the place itself was pretty dismal, despite it all, they had been fair men.

   The first, Thaddeus Green, had a noble face — a handsome black man with striking good looks and a dash of gray at the temples. And down at the end was Barnaby Wilkes, who Crescent knew as a warm-hearted if feeble and troubled man who almost always stopped to chat with the students. He even looked a bit defeated in his portrait.

    He had a large bulbous neck, sunken face, and in the portrait wore a mustard-colored suit with, oddly enough, a daisy pinned to his lapel.

    As they came to the end of the line of portraits, Crescent came to the conclusion that Hawthorne would doubtless have her portrait painted and hung up by the end of the month.

    They halted in front of the headmaster’s office. Crescent noted that Barnaby Wilkes’s name was still on the plate at the top of the door, not having yet been replaced.

    “You just need to sign a few papers, and you can be on your way,” the headmistress was saying. “Mrs. Collins can take the girl upstairs and get her settled in. If you want to say your farewells, now’s the time.”  

    Crescent looked at the couple; Mrs. Baker looked down at the floor. 

    Mr. Baker bent down and put his hands on Crescent’s arms, “Oh, Crescent, I’m s-so … so sorry. I wish we could — it’s for the best you know,” was all he was able to get out before more words could fail him.

    Crescent could tell he was choked up, and so was she. He hugged her, and she hugged him too, trying to fight back the tears.

    Mrs. Baker said to both of them, “It will be … all right, you’ll see … quite all right.” Then she wiped her eyes; then, unable to face the scene, turned away toward the office door.

    Mr. Baker nodded and said in barely more than a whisper, “Good-bye.”

    Crescent didn’t say a word, she just couldn’t. Then Mr. Baker sniffed, wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve, and stood up. Mrs. Baker finally looked down at Crescent, who looked back up at her. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant; Mrs. Baker swallowed, and Crescent saw tears well up in those kind hazel eyes.

    Mrs. Baker’s lips trembled; then she bent down and gave Crescent a hug, and though she knew she would soon have to, the last thing she wanted to do was let go. Mrs. Baker whispered into Crescent’s ear in a choked voice, “Y-you t-take good care of yourself, all right?”

   Crescent swallowed, and sniffed, and in a strained voice said, “A-all right.”

   They hugged for long moments, then Mr. Baker gently put his hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she reluctantly stood back up. And it was at that moment — more than any other, more than the three solid months she had spent as the Bakers’ newly adopted daughter — that Crescent realized just how much she had meant to them and just how difficult a thing it was for them to let her go. The same as it was for her to say good-bye to them, she supposed.

   The headmistress took out a ring of keys, found which one she needed, but before she could insert it into the lock, the hall filled with a BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM that echoed all around.

   Crescent’s first thought was that there was someone else at the main door but even before that thought had entrenched itself in her mind, she realized that the sound was coming from inside the school.

   She spun round and was surprised to see a woman of gargantuan size thundering down the hall, like a rhinoceros on the rampage; she filled up half the corridor.

   Immediately everyone scattered, flattened themselves against the walls. Students ran in the opposite direction or ducked into open classrooms.

  The woman bounded down the hall; the floor seemed to strain and creak with pain, and the walls shook with every tremendous step she took. She was easily the largest woman Crescent had ever seen, wearing a gray sweat suit stretched over her body like a circus tent. She had dark brown hair, which, like that of the headmistress, was also severely tied back in a bun; her hands were balled into meaty fists, and her face, which was screwed up, looked like a purple grape that was about to explode.

   She had little squinty eyes and a stubby upturned nose, large nostrils like a pig’s and a wide mouth that stretched from ear to tiny ear, and she had absolutely no neck to speak of.

   “Headmistress, Headmistress!” she bellowed, running right up, almost shoving Crescent and Mrs. Collins over in the process.

   Mrs. Collins had to hold on to Crescent for support and grabbed the young girl round the middle, which, because of how thin Crescent was, made her sway and wobble, and she almost lost balance herself and had to stick out her arms to center herself for fear of entirely tipping over.

    Like an earthquake suddenly ending, the large woman came to a halt right in front of the headmistress and began a tirade of complaints, “It’s outrageous, I tell you! OUTRAGEOUS! I simply cannot tolerate Mr. Tisdale’s insubordination any longer!” she exclaimed, but the headmistress simply put up a hand and the woman stopped short. Then Hawthorne turned to Crescent’s adoptive parents, who looked just as stunned and bewildered as Crescent herself did.  

   “This is Ms. Bickle, the new activities director,” the headmistress said, introducing the elephantine woman.

   “Oh, sorry Crescent,” Mrs. Collins commented offhandedly, regaining her composure, and released Crescent, who righted herself again and smiled weakly at the housekeeper, then looked up and down at the new arrival, trying to take her all in.

    The woman wasn’t just large, she was huge. Like a big balloon in a parade, only she definitely had weight to her and was round everywhere.

    “I was just showing Mr. and Mrs. Baker into my office, Ms. Bickle. Why don’t you join us? They just need to sign a few papers, and afterward you can tell me all about it.”

    Ms. Bickle grunted in acknowledgement. Crescent raised her eyebrows; she supposed the new activities director couldn’t nod, seeing as how she didn’t really have any neck. Finally inserting the key into the lock and turning, the headmistress opened the door to her office and ushered Bickle and the Bakers in but before following them and closing it she said, “Mrs. Collins, since the girl will be staying with us now, would you show her a room?”

     Then she walked in and shut the door behind herself.

     Mrs. Collins stomped on the floorboards, “Ooh that … that —”

    “What?” said Crescent curiously; she wanted to know exactly what Mrs. Collins thought of the new headmistress. Then the housekeeper seemed to remember that Crescent was still there. She froze in midstomp and straightened out her uniform.

    “Uh, never you mind, dear,” she said, patting Crescent on the head. “Oh, here comes the colonel.” Mr. Fusspot came teetering up the hall wheezing and coughing with Crescent’s suitcase under his arm and set it down at her feet, looking as if he were about to keel over in the process.

   Crescent smiled a little; the suitcase wasn’t all that heavy, and after all, she didn’t even own that many clothes and could lift it well enough herself.

   “Ooh,” he said, wincing. “Here you are. I got Tobey O’Brian to stow your bicycle out back,” he said in a raspy voice. “And here’s your luggage, what.” Then he turned to the housekeeper. “All right then, Mrs. Collins?”

   “All right, we’ll take it from here. Thank you very much, Colonel,” she said, smiling and bowing slightly.

   “Right-O,” he said, dropping the case down on the floor then stood straight up and did a salute and an about-face, clicked his heels together, then turned round and walked back down the hall, but midway, he suddenly stiffened, bent over, and put his hand on his back.

   “Ohh … Crikey! That smarts! Ow. Ow. Ow …” he said walking awkwardly back to his desk, his legs bent out at odd angles whilst he massaged his back.

   Mrs. Collins sighed, and Crescent sniggered slightly. Mrs. Collins heaved the suitcases up, swaying a bit with the effort. “Well, uh … come on then, Crescent. Umph … th-this way, dear.”

   “I … I know,” she said, at once feeling the gloom settle its way back in.

   “Yes, yes of course you do dear. Welcome back Crescent.”

   Crescent didn’t say anything in response to this; the orphanage was the last place she wanted to be. She had been so happy at the little house near the woods in the countryside with the Bakers for those few short months, but that was now as she well knew — over.

    On the west side of the building there was a stairwell adjacent to the headmistress’s office. Mrs. Collins began walking up the steps slowly, dragging the suitcase behind her.

    Crestfallen, Crescent followed. She looked back down the steps behind her at the spot where Mr. and Mrs. Baker had hugged her and knew it would be the last time she would ever see the couple again. Reluctantly she turned around and faced her new old life again.

Crescent climbed the steps one by one, her left hand on the thick wooden banister. She lifted her foot and walked upward, already knowing what awaited her. She resigned herself to her fate.

   When they reached the midway point, Mrs. Collins had to stop; wheezing heavily, she came to a halt on a large landing in the middle of the stairwell.

   “G-give m-me a m-moment, my dear,” she said, holding on to the suitcase for support, trying to catch her breath.

   Crescent sat down next to her. Straight ahead was a tall window facing south; the curtains had been drawn back, and the day’s light shone through, the dark clouds seeming to have disappeared once again.

   To the right, against the wall, was a painting. Crescent had forgotten all about it. It was in a gold frame, now tarnished and blackened with age. A haunting figure of a woman wearing a black dress with a plunging neckline, she sat with her arms folded in her lap. Wherever she had sat for it, the portrait had been painted outdoors — behind her, seen over her shoulder, was a lush green meadow surrounded with what looked like scant stonework and a well in the center.

   As with most of the paintings in the orphanage, it was obvious she had been from a much earlier time period.

   In addition to her dress, she wore little white gloves that seemed to melt into her milk white skin below sleeves that stopped mid-arm length. She had bright green eyes that seemed to burrow into you and full lips set in a small smile.

   The quality of the painting was so well rendered that Crescent could tell that even though she was smiling, it seemed forced somehow, which led Crescent to think that despite her apparent wealth and contented demeanor, the woman had not really been happy. The woman in the painting was adorned with little jewelry. A pearl bracelet and a black medallion weighed round her neck, but the most astonishing thing about the woman was her bright, luxurious flame red hair; it was set in a very old style — part of it was pinned up while perfectly even ringlets fell from her temples and in front of her ears down to her collarbone. The rest of her hair came down, flowing gently past her shoulders to her waist. Crescent’s eyes flicked down to the bottom of the frame, but the nameplate was missing on this one as well.

    All that was left was just a sad empty little spot where dust had permanently settled in the shape of the plate and two little circles where the screws would have been.

   Crescent remembered now — this was the mysterious woman.

   There had been a lot of talk over the years between the girls as to who this very beautiful woman might have been and why her painting was so prominently displayed but no one knew for certain. Like the missing portrait in the Heads Hall, it had always been a mystery.

   And there were many such riddles around the orphanage, many mysteries that Crescent herself had spent the years occupying herself with determinedly trying to solve.

   On a few occasions, she had even gone to the London Library and roamed through the historical records, which went back hundreds of years, in hopes of uncovering who some of these people might have been, but she had found nothing.

   And the paintings were just one of many things that she was never able to penetrate; there was a vast graveyard behind the school with many curious names and dates, a plethora for the amateur detective to occupy herself with, but discovering who they were had always proven futile for Crescent. And there were no other portraits of the woman around the orphanage.

   It was a very romantic painting, and the speculation was (like many of the portraits here) that it came from a period long before the place had ever been an orphanage or a school, probably when it had still belonged to a prominent family in the area….

   “Come on, Crescent,” said Mrs. Collins, who had recovered herself at last, and they continued up the steps.

   Crescent looked back over her shoulder at the painting one last time before proceeding onward. The artist had captured her expression perfectly; there were stress lines around her mouth and eyes, which looked sad. Crescent knew how she must have felt if she had had any real association with the orphanage; maybe it had even been just as depressing a place back then (whenever that was) as it still remained today.

   When they came to the edge of the second floor, she could hear the din from the entertainment room, and as she suspected, many of the students must be in there watching some film or other, which was often the case on the weekend. 

   Like the colonel, Mrs. Collins began coughing and wheezing. Crescent offered to take the suitcase, and the housekeeper thanked her and handed it over.

   They made a right, walking down the corridor; on their left, they passed two large blue doors that Crescent knew to be the entrance to the school library and came to a stop at a locked door, which looked like the entrance to a vault but which led to the girls’ dormitory.

   The door was beige in color and solid steel, with a tiny little window centered higher up.

   Mrs. Collins knocked on the door a few times, and a dark face with a wide nose suddenly filled the little window.

   The door opened, and a heavyset woman half a foot taller than Mrs. Collins appeared.

   Waiting at the entrance to the girls’ dorm was Mrs. Wimple, the girls’ residential advisor.

   She had a tiny office just off the side of the heavy door that guarded the way. It was her job to make sure none of the girls left the dorm after lights-out and, more importantly, according to her, that no boys snuck in. 

    Mrs. Wimple was a stocky black woman with frizzy hair and glasses. Built like a bulldozer, she had thick arms and legs and a large pendulous bosom that bounced and swayed with every step.

   She wore a mustard yellow work dress that fit her like linen spread too tightly over a large mattress, and like Mrs. Collins, she wore a white apron, but unlike the housekeeper’s, it was much less fanciful, devoid of ruffles and had more pockets.

    Mrs. Wimple had a round face that at first glance looked kindly, but as Crescent knew from personal experience, she had a no-nonsense demeanor that could turn deadly strict in a heartbeat.

   “Crescent’s back,” said Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Wimple welcomed her with open arms, and after she took Crescent’s suitcase, hefting it easily, the two women chatted for a few moments. Then after Crescent had been handed off, Mrs. Collins toddled off the way they had come.

   Mrs. Wimple walked Crescent to the end of the girls’ dorm on the second floor. Thick tan doors stood on either side leading to various rooms, and at the end of the hall was a navy blue door and, as Crescent knew, one last set of steps to climb.

   A narrow staircase led up to the third floor and the last area of the girls’ dormitory. At the top, Mrs. Wimple opened yet another door — it let out an audible creak, but the dormitory was deserted. Of course, Crescent thought, whoever wasn’t at the other end watching a film or just hanging about would still be outside enjoying what was left of the day, or maybe just making their way back now to get ready for dinner.

    Walking down the corridor, one after another on either side, they passed identical doors until at last they stopped near the center of the hall.

    “Lucky for you, we have an empty. You’ve got a room all to yourself. You know how rare that is around here. We’ve had a few new students arrive since you’d left Crescent. Just one more, and you’d have to share it with someone else, but here you are. It might take a bit of time to get used to everything again, but it being Saturday, you have some time to get reacquainted with the place. Then it’s back to school on Monday morning.”

   Mrs. Wimple unlocked the door; Crescent peered in and saw the tiny square room. It was very claustrophobic-looking, just barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but it had been designed for exactly that.

   Crescent had almost forgotten how small and dank the dorm rooms were; they were all exactly the same, with the same old rickety furniture. To the right, there was a wood bunk bed; on the left two tall wood wardrobes; and between them a vanity desk with a mirror and a chair.

    A simple single panel of light hung loosely from the middle of the ceiling, and that was the total of all that was crammed into the little room.

    Mrs. Wimple handed Crescent her suitcase, went straight over to the other end, pushed aside two yellowish curtains, and unlatched two doors, which covered the only window in the room.

    Light poured in and Mrs. Wimple winced and sneezed, affected by the rays of the sun.

    “Gesundheit!” Crescent said considerately.

    “Cheers,” replied Mrs. Wimple taking a handkerchief out and wiping her nose.

   She blew into it and shook her head, trying to clear her sinuses. “Dow there, that ought to do it.”

   Mrs. Wimple folded her handkerchief, depositing it back in a pocket, and walked away from the window, heading back toward the door. Then she turned. “Oh, here’s your key, Crescent, and after you’ve had a chance to clean up and eat, see me about your new class schedule, school things, and whatever other personals you might need. And don’t forget, Monday the matron will want to see you straightaway. I suppose she wants to make sure you’re none the worse for wear and give you a clean bill of health before you’re sent back in with the rest of the students. In any case, she’ll get you sorted.” She handed Crescent two small keys, one for the wardrobe and the other for the room; one had the room number inscribed upon it: No. 13.

    Crescent immediately put it in her jeans pocket. Then the R.A. closed the door, leaving Crescent alone in the near dark. She looked around the tiny room. Except for the headmaster and some staff and a few students, it seemed that nothing whatsoever had changed since she had left.

    Crescent sighed. She had hoped never to see this place again, and yet here she was. She supposed that it was her lot in life to live here until she was able to get out on her own, but that wouldn’t be for a long, long while….  

    Then at last, she would be free of it, she thought, but until then, she was fated to live out her life here in this dismal place. 

    She let her shoulders slump and her luggage fall to the floor. If anyone else had been in the room besides herself, they would have heard a defeated tone in her voice as she heaved a heavy sigh and said, “Well, I’m back.”