The House That Shadows Built: Chapter 1
Bright Young Lady
A woman with bright red hair was standing on the platform as the Silverline Express pulled into Arvonia Station in Marbrose City. She was leaning on a bamboo cane, and the black peacoat that was draped over her shoulders was warm for the season. As the passengers started to disembark, her dark eyes scanned each face intently. The Silverline Express mainly served the well-off—people who didn’t mind paying nearly a hundred dollars for an hour trip—which made it easy to spot her young charge as she stepped off the train. She looked old for her age, which was fifteen, and her straight black hair was cut just short of her shoulders. Her eyes and nose were a little too large for her face, and ever since a tactless aunt had called her “plain,” it was a description she wore with pride. While she looked self-conscious in clothes that were obviously more formal than she was used to, her head was high and she carried herself with confidence. The woman with red hair stepped forward.
“Fern Kubelsky?” she said.
“Guilty as charged,” smiled the girl. “Am I correct to assume you’re waiting for me?”
“Quite correct,” the red-haired woman replied in her charming Mid-Atlantic accent. “I’m Marjorie Stott. You can call me Miss Marjorie or Miss Stott—whatever tickles your fancy. Just as long as you call me Miss Something—that’s school policy, I’m afraid. The dean of students sent me to get you. Have you got all your things?”
“This is all I brought,” said Fern, lifting her heavy trunk demonstratively with both hands.
“Excellent,” said Miss Stott. “I would offer to help you with your bags, but as you can see I’m quite useless in that regard.”
She patted the arm that was holding her cane for support.
“It’s quite alright,” said Fern. “I’d hate to be any inconvenience.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Stott. “This way. The car is waiting just outside.”
Fern followed the woman out into the concourse hall, lugging her heavy trunk behind her. She had never been to Marbrose City before, but Fern always read about any place she was going before she got there, so she knew to look for the Art Deco murals showing the history of the Dreyfuss Steel Company on the ceiling high above them, and the stained glass window at the far end of the hall depicting the construction of the Lothian Building by Mohawk steelwalkers. The station—which linked Marbrose City not just to Bancroft but also to New York, Philadelphia, and Boston—was bustling with travelers—people who, like her, were strangers in this strange city. As they came to the end of the concourse, Fern saw a long, sweeping staircase that led down to the street, where a line of cars was picking up and dropping off travelers and their luggage, watched carefully by uniformed porters.
“Is it customary for you to meet new pupils at the station in person?” asked Fern.
“Oh, no,” said Miss Stott, as she hobbled down the stairs. “But we weren’t about to let one of our Rothko Scholars ride the subway all the way to the school. This part of Marbrose City isn’t exactly safe.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Fern.
“Yes. Get on the wrong line and you’d end up in Mersey Village or, God forbid, Chilltern Banks. Hardly the kind of place for a bright young lady like yourself. Ah, here’s Mikhail. He’ll get that great hulking trunk for you.”
She waved to a bald man who was leaning on a black Lothian sedan that was so spotless it looked as though it had just rolled off the assembly line. The chauffeur immediately jogged halfway up the stairs to meet them and took Fern’s trunk and backpack before she could protest.
“It’s really alright if—.”
“It’s his job, Fern,” said Miss Stott, patting her on the shoulder. “You’ll have to get used to being waited on just a little if you’re going to make it at the academy. We don’t believe in spoiling our pupils, but you’re with us to study, not to drag luggage around.”
Mikhail put Fern’s suitcase and bag into the trunk and then opened the backseat door so she and Miss Stott could climb inside. Fern had never been in a car this expensive. The seats were upholstered in luxurious black leather and astonishingly comfortable, and there was a scent of eucalyptus that she found quite pleasant. As Miss Stott closed the door behind them, Fern noticed several bottles of chilled mineral water in a cabinet between the front two seats.
“Ready, ma’am?” asked the driver.
Miss Stott glanced at Fern, who nodded.
“All ready, Mikhail.”
The Lothian pulled out into the fast-moving traffic, and Fern Kubelsky got her first look at the bustling streets and towering skyscrapers of Marbrose City.
“So what is it that you do at the school, Miss Stott?” asked Fern, after they’d been driving for a few minutes in silence.
“Ah, I did forget to mention that, didn’t I?” said Miss Stott, a strange twinkle in her eye. “I’m one of the dorm mothers for Caithness Hall. It’s my job to make sure you’re focusing on your studies instead of getting into mischief.”
“You won’t have any problems with me,” said Fern. “I am notoriously adverse to mischief.”
“Good. Just be sure the other students don’t persuade you otherwise.”
Fern wondered for a moment whether Miss Stott was being serious. She’d always prided herself on being a model pupil, without ever resorting to the kind of brown-nosing that drew eye rolls and scoffs from the other students. As long as she could remember, Fern had felt more comfortable talking to adults than to kids her own age, and she liked that—even if they didn’t quite see her as an equal—her teachers thought she was mature, and responsible, and someone the other students should look up to. The tradeoff, of course, was that even if her classmates didn’t ostracize her, she’d always been considered a bit of an oddball—someone who didn’t quite fit in. “Too smart for her own good,” one of her friends had said. That was the main reason Fern had chosen to go to Marbrose Catholic Academy instead of a school closer to home.
She hoped that at a school with such an impressive academic reputation, she wouldn’t stand out quite so much.
“They won’t,” said Fern. “They’re not really going to try, are they?”
“Some of them will,” said Miss Stott. “Sometimes the most brilliant students are also the most devoted troublemakers.”
She smiled wistfully. Fern’s worries were somewhat assuaged—if even the troublemakers at Marbrose Catholic were smart, she would hopefully fit right in.
Fern was about to ask another question about the school when Miss Stott addressed the driver in a commanding tone.
“Why are we stopped, Mikhail?”
“Police cars, ma’am,” said the driver, pointing up the road. “They’ve got the east ramp all blocked off. Most likely a rubout, I’d say.”
“In broad daylight,” said Miss Stott indignantly, leaning forward so she could see what he was pointing at. “A fine way to welcome our Rothko Scholar. Can we get around it?”
“We’d have to go through the Fen, ma’am. They’re doing construction on the south bridge. It’ll take us close to Vice Mile.”
“How intolerable,” said Miss Stott. “But I suppose it can’t be helped. Try to be quick, Mikhail.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the chauffeur.
With a deftness that astonished his young passenger, Mikhail pulled the Lothian out of traffic, cut across the sidewalk, squeezed through a narrow alley, and turned out onto a different street heading north. Ahead of them, in an opening between two old warehouses, Fern thought she could see the colossal stone towers of a suspension bridge, and beyond that, a great hill covered in brick buildings and crowned by a huge Gothic church and a crumbling Colonial-era fort.
“The Fen,” said Fern, turning to her companion. “Is that Fenley Island?”
“Yes,” sighed Miss Stott. “I suppose you’ve heard a great deal about Fenley Island, even in Bancroft. Dreadful place. Don’t let any of the other students tempt you into seeing the sights.”
“Is it that dangerous?”
“Gang killings almost daily. Utterly barbaric. Not to mention robberies, racketeering, narcotics.” Miss Stott shuddered. “When Mr. Rothko was alive, you would’ve had to go to Sefton Polytechnic, which is right in the middle of that hellhole. Fortunately for all of us, the Rothko Foundation sees things differently now.”
Fern didn’t reply. Oxborrow Middle School, where she’d been for the past three years, probably would have seemed like a hellhole too compared to where she was going.
Though she’d always been a hardworking student, Fern Kubelsky had been amazed to learn that she was a finalist for the Rothko Scholarship—a prestigious full-ride that would follow her all the way through a PhD, if she wanted one. Only students from Marbrose City, Bancroft, and the towns in between were eligible, and only those in the top 0.1% in state test scores even made it past the first round. Next was the essay, and then the interview, and then an “aptitude test” administered by the Galt Foundation, which Fern found extremely confusing. No student from Oxborrow had ever won the scholarship, and Fern had expected to receive her notice of disqualification at the end of each round, and but it never came. Finally, in the last week in June, a man from the Rothko Foundation had showed up at her front door to announce that she was one of the four—that she, Fern Kubelsky from Bancroft, was officially a Rothko Scholar. Her parents were delighted. Fern was too, though deep down, she suspected there must have been a mistake somewhere along the way. But the man had assured her that everything was finalized. She could go to any high school she wanted in Marbrose City or Bancroft, and she knew immediately which one she would choose.
“Did you graduate from Marbrose Catholic, Miss Stott?”
“I did,” smiled Miss Stott. “That was some time ago, of course, and things have changed a good deal—mostly for the better, I’d say. Father Rohrbach has made the school much more selective. You’ll find plenty of kindred spirits.”
The Lothian was crossing over the bridge between Verger and Fenley Island. Fern didn’t mention it, but she thought that “the Fen” (as the locals seemed to call it) didn’t look that different from the rest of Marbrose City—at least what she’d seen so far. Perhaps the buildings were a little dingier, and there were fewer Art Deco skyscrapers and more smokestacks, but in the bright, warm sunlight of mid-afternoon, it was hard to see anything sinister in the shops, factories, warehouses, and tenements they passed. Perhaps, she thought, if she’d known what to look for, she could have recognized which of the well-dressed men ambling along the uneven sidewalks were gangsters, and which of the billboards advertised business that were in the pocket of the Marbrose mob. But, really, the Fen looked a lot like Oxborrow, and so it was hard for Fern to hold in the same contempt as her guide obviously did.
“As you’re no doubt wondering,” said Miss Stott, pointing to the right, “that road going north is Riverside Boulevard—Vice Mile, as it’s commonly known.”
She said the word “commonly” with more than common disdain.
“Not my kind of place,” said Fern.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Stott. “My apologies if it seems like I’m mainly trying to warn you off. Marbrose City has its sights. Just not on this side of the river.”
Fern craned her neck a little as she looked out the car window. She could just see the languid waters of the Marbrose River through the gaps between the old buildings. They were driving along a cramped, narrow street that ran beneath an elevated track—rattling and creaking under the weight of the passing trains. As they pulled up to an intersection, Fern noticed a group of young men dressed in dark suits loitering on the street corner. She didn’t need Miss Stott to tell her that these were gangsters—she could tell from the gold watches on their wrists and the chains dangling from their necks. They reminded her of the men back in Oxborrow who her parents always warned her to avoid—well-dressed, thuggish, and cruel. One of them—a tall, dark-haired ruffian with a hooked nose and a left eye that was white and cloudy—saw the Lothian, smiled, and gestured for his compatriots to follow him. Together, they surrounded the car, blocking it on all sides.
Fern immediately looked at Miss Stott, wondering if she was also afraid or whether this kind of blatant intimidation was normal in Marbrose City. Miss Stott’s expression was hard to read—Fern couldn’t tell whether she was unconcerned or simply putting up a brave front. The light changed, and the car in front of them pulled away as quickly as it could. As the leader of the gang looked admiringly at the silver ornament on the car’s hood, Mikhail rolled down the window.
“This is a nice car,” said the man with the cloudy eye. “It would be most unfortunate if…”
He never finished his threat. Mikhail was beckoning him to come closer. With a smirk, the man strode up the car window and bent down so Mikhail could whisper something into his ear. Fern caught only the word “school” and a name—“Carmine”—but whatever he’d said, the gangster’s entire aspect changed. He looked chastened as he straightened up and motioned for the other thugs to let them go on their way. As Mikhail rolled up the window and proceeded through the intersection, Fern couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“Who were they?” she asked.
“Polish mob,” said Mikhail, without taking his eyes off the road. “Lowest of the low, looking for easy pickings. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“The impudence,” said Miss Stott, opening one of the bottles of ice cold water and taking a swig. “I’ll speak to Father Rohrbach about this. The commissioner should be informed.”
Whether or not Miss Stott’s apparent calmness had been a front, the driver obviously wasn’t concerned by what had just happened, and that was why Fern couldn’t help but go on.
“Why did they let us go? Not that I’m complaining, but—.”
“Marbrose Catholic School is patronized by some of the city’s most illustrious families,” said Miss Stott. “Scum like that wouldn’t dare incur their displeasure.”
Fern nodded, but she wasn’t really sure what Miss Stott meant. The idea that common criminals wouldn’t dare touch a car that belonged to Marbrose Catholic Academy just because the children of some wealthy families went there—well, it seemed incredible. That certainly wasn’t the way things had worked back in Bancroft.