Even with Jocelyn’s hopeful new outlook, she soon discovered that finishing school was no picnic. Of course, picnics are often no picnics, if you get what I’m saying. You think it’s going to be nothing but fun and games, but then it’s all stinging nettles, sand in your sandwiches, and who drank up the rum? No picnic indeed.

The very next morning, all occupants of the pink room were startled out of sleep by a knock at the door. “Jocelyn, you answer it,” Prissy whined. “I’m not fit for receiving guests.” To ensure that no one was able to peek at her with her scandalously wrinkled nightclothes and messy hair, Prissy pulled her bed curtains tight around her.

The knock sounded again. Pinch-Face looked stupidly about, then pulled her curtains closed as well.

Jocelyn stuck her tongue out at both beds, rumpled her hair up into an even rattier nest, and got up to see who was knocking. As soon as she opened the door a crack, Miss Eliza barged in. “Good morning, Miss Hook. I’m glad to see you are up. Why don’t we have a seat?”

Miss Eliza strolled over to the fireplace and sat in one of the ghastly pink chairs. Jocelyn remained standing. She may have claimed a victory the day before, but the girl knew the battle was far from over. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Prissy’s bed curtains part slightly. Whatever was to come, it would take place in front of an audience.

The headmistress was not her usual stern self. She wore a nauseating sweetness like a poorly tailored cloak. It did not suit her. “Now, Miss Hook”—Jocelyn noticed the way Miss Eliza emphasized her last name—“it seems we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I blame myself, really.”

“I blame you too. So we are agreed,” Jocelyn replied.

Some of the old steel returned to the headmistress’s voice. “Very well. Let us get straight to the point, shall we? I had assumed you capable of presenting yourself appropriately. I see now that I was wrong. As your grandfather has instructed me to spare no expense in your education, I have secured for you a personal maidservant. She will be on hand each morning to help you wash, dress, and arrange your hair. She will then return in the evenings to help you dress for dinner.” Some of the syrup returned to Miss Eliza’s voice: “Won’t that be lovely?”

Jocelyn’s reply was cut off, which really was likely for the best. I’m not sure any of the ears in that room had ever been graced with such a string of curses as the girl was preparing to spew forth.

Jocelyn was interrupted by Prissy, frantically clawing back the curtains and tumbling out of bed. “Miss Eliza! I want a maidservant too,” she said. “I know my father will pay for one. You must get one for me as well.”

“Me too,” Pinch-Face called from behind her bed curtains. “I’ll take a maid too.”

Prissy scowled and scratched at a spider bite on her arm. “Do shut up, Nanette! Miss Eliza and I are talking.”

Jocelyn spoke over her, “That’s fine, Pinch—er, Nanette. You can have mine. I really don’t care to have one.”

Prissy’s face grew white and her voice went very high-pitched. “Miss Eliza, Nanette simply cannot have a maid and neither should Jocelyn. I don’t mean to question your authority, but I am the only one who deserves to have a personal servant.” Her tone turned threatening: “I am certain my father would agree.”

Miss Eliza stood. “Miss Edgeworth, your father does not run this school, and neither do you. I do. I have made my decision and will hear no more.” She glared around the room, taking in Prissy and Jocelyn—and Nanette’s bed curtains. “Is that understood, ladies?”

Without waiting for a reply, she crossed to the door, opened it, and clapped her hands. A hulking figure appeared. The woman (and I use that term loosely in this case) was nearly seven feet tall and all muscle. There was nothing soft about her—even her bosom was formidable. Looking way, way up, Jocelyn noticed that the maidservant had a dark smattering of whiskers dotting her ruddy face. And that face? It did not look to be a happy one.

“Miss Hook, this is Gerta. She shall attend you from now on. I’ll see you, looking smart, at breakfast.”

Gerta looked down at Jocelyn and cracked her hairy knuckles. “I make you very very pretty now.”

Touché, Miss Eliza. Touché.

Although Jocelyn had broken plenty of nurses, governesses, and servants in her day, Gerta proved to be the toughest. Even so, Jocelyn was sure that with time and pressure applied in just the right way, she’d be able to rid herself of this one too.

Hard as it may be to imagine, Jocelyn had a larger problem than Gerta—Prissy. That spoiled little she-devil did not like being denied. She immediately sent a message to her father, demanding that he force Miss Eliza to get her a servant of her own, and one that was better and prettier than Jocelyn’s (which shouldn’t have been too difficult).

Imagine Prissy’s shock when her father did the unthinkable: he told her no.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Mr. Edgeworth spent the afternoon demanding, threatening, begging, and bribing, but Miss Eliza remained firm. The only student currently in need of a maidservant was Jocelyn Hook. There would be no exceptions.

To try to make up for it, the doting father promised to send his little princess several trunks filled with pretty new dresses, but she would not be consoled. It made no difference to Prissy that Jocelyn had neither asked for, nor desired, a maidservant. Jocelyn had something that she wanted. Prissy was going to make her pay.

I have faced down some horrors in my day—ferocious animals, fangs gleaming and hungry for human flesh; fierce men with murder in their eyes; my own dear mother on wash day. All were terrible to behold, but I contend that there is nothing on this earth more fearsome than a spoiled girl out for vengeance.

The next week was a grueling one for Jocelyn. She was hopeless at her lessons: her embroidery was all in knots, her sketches were “too violent,” and the only French she had picked up from her tutors at home consisted of insults and swears—certainly useful under the right circumstances, but not much appreciated at finishing school. Jocelyn couldn’t play an instrument, refused to sing the overly sentimental songs arranged by Miss Eliza, and was the least graceful dancer ever to waltz across a ballroom floor.

Each morning, bright and early, Gerta arrived to stuff the girl into a starched white dress and stiff shiny shoes. Entire layers of Jocelyn’s skin were scrubbed away, and her hair was brushed so roughly she feared it would all be yanked out.

By the time Jocelyn made it to breakfast, feeling rather tender and raw, Prissy ensured that all the tables were full. The other girls spread out and refused to make room for Jocelyn anywhere. When she finally pushed her way into a spot, the occupants of that table would vacate it, claiming a loss of appetite. The midday meal, afternoon tea, and evening meal were no different.

Three times that week, when the young ladies put on their cloaks to go outside, Jocelyn found her pockets filled with notes:

You are ugly.

You are stoopider than anyone.

I hope you never get married, but if you do, I hope he has bad breath and is poor.

We hate you.

No one wants you here. You should go home.

If only she could have.

Miss Eliza, believing that a certain amount of societal pressure would help mold Jocelyn into a lady, pretended not to notice the cruel ways her students were behaving. If she had been a seafaring woman, she would have known: too much wind can tear a sail, too much weight can sink a vessel, and too much sun can give you the squints—then you’ll have to wear spectacles.

Yet, sea or land, this is the truth: too much pressure can cause even the strongest things to break.