Tally hadn’t worked in the school library for terms and terms and now she was suddenly remembering why. It felt like a tomb. The windows in the cavernous main reading room were so high you had to stand on tiptoe to see out of them. The only sounds were whispers and the rustle of pages. And there were too many books. Far too many books, all looming down and shoving in your face everything you’d never bothered to read and probably wouldn’t understand even if you tried.
But today was going to be different. Tally passed into a series of smaller rooms and wandered toward the poetry section. Back when the school had still been a grand stately home owned by Lord and Lady Cornwallis, this part of the house had been a cluster of elegant drawing rooms used for entertaining. St. Cecilia’s first headmistress had tried to keep their style intact, obviously deluded into thinking that girls concentrated better when they felt at home. What planet was she living on? Tally snickered quietly as she spotted Bella Scott snoring gently on a windowseat, her head lolling to one side and her math textbook crushed facedown on the floor.
She padded on over oriental rugs, past an unlit fireplace with a painting of a horse above it, past velvet armchairs and carved antique desks adorned with porcelain lamps. All this was rather nice for a school library. Tally had been impressed by it when she’d first arrived from Moscow three years ago; it was so perfectly… English. But she’d got used to it.
A bank of brand-new Apple computers blinked from the far wall. Tally hadn’t checked her e-mail in at least half an hour. The poetry could wait. She tapped her St. Cecilia’s ID into the system.
Where is my scarf? read the title of a new message. From her mother. Tally sighed. She clicked it.
I can’t find my yellow Pucci scarf. If you took it, send it back now.
I hope you are not coming back for half-term. Boris and I are going to Cyprus for that week and we don’t want you in the house when we’re not there. Tell your father you need to stay with him.
Mum
PS Send the scarf
Tally shut her eyes for a second. She hadn’t been planning on going back to Moscow till the Christmas holidays, but still… Did her mum always have to be such a bitch? She’d started acting like this around the time Tally turned thirteen. Tally could remember it as clearly as if she had it on film.
One day she’d gone to the set of Da! Fashionista, the glamorous talk show her mum hosted in Moscow. Not that her mother needed to work, obviously. Tally’s grandfather took care of them all with his immense oil fortune. Lyudmila just adored the fame and attention. She loved strutting around on set in her knee-high boots and miniskirts, flirting with fashion designers and male models and having her face plastered on posters all over the city.
That afternoon three years ago, Tally had been on her way to a friend’s birthday party. She was wearing a black satin minidress with snakeskin stilettos and no tights. Her white-blond hair flowed loose over her shoulders.
“Yeah baby!” the film crew catcalled her. She’d known them all for years. “Work it, girl! Look who’s all grown up!”
“Better watch out, Lyudmila,” the producer had joked, slapping his fleshy hand across her mum’s shoulder. “Soon we might ask your daughter to take your place!”
Tally watched her mother’s jaw tighten. Six months later, Lyudmila had sent Tally off to England to live with her dad for good.
A low, male voice punctured Tally’s reverie. “Hiya—it’s Natalya, isn’t it?”
Tally whipped her head round. Mr. Logan! A little gasping sound escaped from her nose.
Shit. Had he heard? Her e-mail was still open. Hurriedly, she closed it.
“Hard at work?” Mr. Logan asked. He’d shoved his hands into the pockets of his corduroys. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms.
“Posh in here, isn’t it?” he carried on, jerking his head at their surroundings. “Chandeliers and everything. You wouldn’t find any of those where I taught before.” He looked at Tally expectantly, waiting for her to ask where that was.
Tally rubbed her right ankle with the bottom of her left loafer and fixed her clear, gray eyes on Mr. Logan. There was no way she was doing a repeat of her mortifying blushing fiasco from earlier in the week. “Oh really?” she asked coolly. “Where did you work bef—”
“State school in Tower Hamlets,” Mr. Logan interrupted. He tossed his head back dramatically and ran his hand over the unruly curls at the front. He smelled faintly of aftershave, or maybe it was cologne. “Try bringing those kids here. They wouldn’t know what had hit ’em.”
“Yes, we’re very lucky,” Tally said. She groaned inwardly. What a fucking boring thing to say.
“They were a difficult lot,” Mr. Logan carried on, not seeming to have heard her. “Rowdy. Boisterous. But there was some raw intelligence in that classroom like I’ve never seen before. It felt good to know I was giving those kids a chance.” He glanced down at Tally again. “So what brings you to the library? The vast pursuit of knowledge?”
“I came to find that poem you read us in class the other day,” she answered. “By Yeats, I think. Where he’s talking to his girlfriend or whoever it is, about his dreams.”
“Ah yes. It’s called ‘He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,’” Mr. Logan said. He breathed deeply and struck a pose, then, gazing into the middle distance, began reciting. His voice sounded soft and throaty, as if he’d drunk too much milk. It made Tally feel strange.
“Indeed, that’s a beautiful poem,” Mr. Logan said once he’d finished. “But too many people like it. It always wins plebeian competitions, like The Nation’s Favorite Love Poems and things like that. It’s become a bit of a cliché. Why not try reading some on your own? Then you can tell me what you think. Here, come on.”
Tipping his head sideways, he beckoned, then disappeared round the bookshelf before Tally could answer. She followed.
“Let’s see, what might you like? Have you read any Keats?” he asked, running his index finger over some spines.
Tally pretended to think, then shook her head.
Duh. Of course not. This was the first time she’d ever taken any voluntary interest in English. Schoolwork and all that crap weren’t things you bothered with unless you had to. Even Alice knew that, and she was the one who was so obsessed with getting high marks and glowing report cards.
But now… well, for some reason Tally was desperate to have Mr. Logan approve of her. She wanted to win his praise.
He’d taken down a thick hardback—John Keats, Letters and Poems, it said—and was flipping through it, his head bent in concentration. She looked at his neck. Her eyes traced the line of his wavy brown hair to where it met his collar and flicked up into little curls. It looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in ages. Maybe he didn’t care about insignificant things like that.
“Here is a haunting poem about a man bewitched by a beautiful woman,” Mr. Logan said, meeting Tally’s gaze. “Because, as you know, beautiful women are dangerous.”
Holding the book straight out in front of him with both hands, he cleared his throat and read in a silken voice:
“Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”
Mr. Logan glanced at Tally again, then jumped his eyes farther down the page.
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a fairy’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.”
On the words “sweet moan,” Mr. Logan shut his eyes, then closed the book abruptly.
“So,” he said. “What do you think?”
Tally gulped. She realized she’d been staring at him. She’d never had a man read poetry just for her before. She’d let herself imagine that he was speaking to her, that she was the beautiful lady on the page and he was her lovelorn knight.
“Er…,” she murmured. Say something. Say anything. “It’s very… scary, isn’t it?” she ventured. No, that sounded lame. “It’s quite, what’s the word… enigmatic?” Tally felt a shock of pride—even though she wasn’t particularly sure what enigmatic meant.
A muscle twitched in Mr. Logan’s forehead and his look brightened. “That is a very astute comment,” he told her. “Well done. Perhaps you have a talent for poetry.”
Tally glowed. A talent. Well, why not? Just because she’d never set her mind to working didn’t mean she wasn’t clever. Maybe she was even a secret genius. She pictured herself winning the school Poetry Prize. Her name would be inscribed on the heavy wooden tablets in the Main Hall. They’d read it out at Parents’ Day. She’d walk up the aisle between everyone’s seats to collect her certificate, and people would crane to see her, murmuring, “Wow, who’s that girl? She doesn’t look like a nerd. She must be naturally gifted.” Naturally gifted. Her father would be so surprised that he’d actually pay attention to her for once.
“Listen, Natalya,” came Mr. Logan’s voice.
“It’s Tally. Please.”
He smiled at her. “Tally. What are you thinking about uni? Do you know where you might apply next year?”
“Umm, well,” Tally said. It was a bit embarrassing, but she’d hardly thought about university at all. Whenever teachers started going on about it she just sort of tuned out, always falling back on the vague idea that she’d return to Moscow after school was finished. But now, considering it, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to.
“Because,” Mr. Logan said, “I’m always looking for eager young minds to nurture.” He had his milky voice on again. “If you ever have any questions, or read something you want to discuss, come and see me. My door’s open to you.”
Tally opened her mouth to thank him. But she was interrupted by the five-thirty bell ringing for supper.