“Except Caitlyn. High school dating, drill team, school spirit—it all seemed silly to her. Why did it feel like high school was crushing her soul? Shehad nothing concrete she could point to. All she knew was that she didn’t belong here.She preferred old, used clothes to new ones; her iPod was full of classical music; and photos of castles and reproductions of old European artcovered her bedroom walls, including a Renaissance painting of a young girl in white, named Bia. It should have been pop singers on her wall, ormovie stars”

“I will talk to you again in my office, at nine A.M. tomorrow morning, togive you a more thorough orientation to the school and to explain what I will be expecting of you as a scholarship student.” She turned to Greta.“Greta, please see Caitlyn settled in her room, and see that she showers.” With a nod she turned on her heel and left.Caitlyn raised her arm and sneaked a sniff at her armpit. Was Madame Snowe saying she smelled? She caught Greta watching her and loweredher arm. “Just checking,” she said sheepishly.”

“Caitlyn, s’il vous plait!” Madame said, whacking the blackboard with her stick, its end pointing to the irregular verb devoir, “to have to.” Shewanted Caitlyn to conjugate it.Caitlyn felt the class’s attention turn to her, and a clammy sweat broke out in her armpits. Her brain stopped in its tracks, unable to move underthe pressure. A vague sense of having known how to speak French in her dreams tickled at her brain, but the skill was as lost to her in the wakingworld as was Raphael.“Devoir,” Caitlyn croaked. “Er. Je dev? Tu dev?”Madame gaped at her, horrified.Caitlyn shook her head; she knew those words were wrong. “Er … I mean, uh …” And then out of nowhere came, “Egli deve, lei dovrebbe …”These words felt right. He must, she must …Several girls burst into laughter.“What?” Caitlyn demanded.“You’re speaking Italian!” one girl shrieked, and collapsed into hysterical giggles.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t get out of the workshop much. The girls of Rome would have been introuble!”He grinned and waggled his brows. “Do you think so?”She pushed his shoulder. “Naughty boy.”“I could be much naughtier.”Caitlyn sucked in a breath, alarmed and thrilled by the dangerous look in his eyes. She clasped her hands primly in front of her”

“Monsieur Girard grinned at the effect his story had had, and moved on, grunting disparagingly at another student’s efforts. As he approached her,Caitlyn went back to work, afraid to be caught slacking. He came to stand behind her, watching her attempts, and despite her best efforts her armslowed and then dropped as she was overcome with self-consciousness.“Do you, too, have a brilliant artist locked in your head?” he asked.“No. I’m beginning to think I don’t know a thing about art.”“Class! Do you hear? She knows nothing about art! And she proves it in her drawing.”Caitlyn cringed.“This,” he went on, laying his hand upon her head, “is the proper state of mind for learning to draw. Your mind must be blank of your old ideas andold ways of seeing. You must start fresh, like a baby who has never seen the world.” He dropped his hand from her head and pointed to the areashe’d shaded with parallel lines. “This is nice.”“Thank you,” Caitlyn said in soft surprise.He nodded in acknowledgment. “Keep listening. With open ears, you will be one of the few who learn.”

“Why hadn’t the Woman in Black called for Raphael? Mathilde’s idea that she’d stopped looking for him seemed out of keeping with most ghoststories; ghosts didn’t change their behavior, did they?Whatever the reason, Caitlyn was glad of it. Raphael was hers, and she didn’t want to share him. She hated the idea of a long-lost lover roamingthe halls of the castle, looking for him. It meant there was someone else in his life.She was, she realized, jealous.That’s stupid! How can I be jealous of a ghost, over a guy who might not even exist?And yet, there was no other word for what she felt. Since the moment she’d seen Raphael riding in the valley, her heart had claimed him as herKnight of Cups”

“Hi,” Caitlyn said.“Hello.”“I’m Caitlyn.”Mathilde grinned. “The Wild West girl who rode bareback! Yes, I know. The whole school knows! Can you shoot a gun, too?”Caitlyn’s cheeks heated in embarrassment. “Urg,” she gurgled, “no.”