The Library of Lost Girls

When her sister returns from finishing school a total stranger, a teen seeks out the cause and discovers that the cost of becoming a perfect lady is much higher—and sinister—than ever expected. A lush, gothic tale that will haunt readers long after they turn the last page.

Gwen Donovan adores her beautiful and rebellious older sister, Izzy. But the Izzy who returns from the Delphi School for Girls is not the sister who left for the finishing school. Now she is Isolde: dull and complacent and—most shocking—eager to marry.

Gwen is determined to discover what happened to Izzy at Delphi, and the only solution she can conceive of is to&nbsp;cheat&nbsp;her way into the mysterious school. If she can see for herself what they did, maybe she can get <her< Izzy back.

But Delphi is far from the finishing school Gwen expects. Several days&rsquo; travel away, the estate is the only building on an icy, remote island. Sinister shadows lurk in the hallways, her classmates are strange and secretive, and she is told to never leave her room after dark. More curious, though are the thousands of books, each with the name of a girl on its spine. They line the walls from floor to ceiling, and the students at Delphi are prohibited to read them.

Delphi says they&rsquo;re reforming the students, but when Gwen discovers a note left for her by her sister, she realizes that what is happening at the school is much more terrifying than she could have ever imagined. There&rsquo;s something dark at the center of Delphi, and somehow it&rsquo;s tied to those books&mdash;and to the girls who are sent there. And if Gwen doesn&rsquo;t confront what hides in the shadows, it won&rsquo;t be just Izzy who&rsquo;s lost forever.

Autorentext

Kristen Pipps

Leseprobe
Chapter One

New York City, 1893

I should mingle with my sister’s wedding guests. It’s what Mother sent me down here to do, and the foyer is bustling with New York’s finest. Long trains of silk and satin covered in delicate flowers trail along the rugs that Father had imported from overseas. White-­gloved hands grasp fans that hide the snicker of laughter and the rolling of eyes. Wisps of smoke from cigars passed in the smoking room sneak tendrils out into the common space. I should find my fan, fashioned purposely to match my new blue gown. But I can only stand amidst it all, grim-­faced and wishing for a ghost who lives only in my memories.

A ghost who somehow grew into a bride. The subject of the framed photo that sits atop a mahogany table covered with fine lace and delicate rose petals. There’s another photo beside hers in a matching gold filigree frame, but I don’t care as much to look at Astor Wallingford, my soon-­to-­be brother-­in-­law. Instead, I’m fixated the photo of Izzy—­or Isolde, as she is known now.

It’s impossible to tell Izzy’s exact shade of blond hair in the black-­and-­white photo, or the fact that the dress she’s wearing is a flattering shade of pink that would make me look like an overripe tomato. But the slight upturn of her lips as she coyly looks over her shoulder shines through. Her eyes hint at a demureness befitting a young lady newly out to society.

They’re nothing like the wildfire eyes that used to dance around, alight as she regaled me with tales of her own making or goaded me into imaginative adventures around the house.

“Your sister is quite beautiful.”

I turn around to find myself face to face with the one person I was hoping to avoid. Lydia Heathersworth.

And, as to be expected, her gaggle of empty-­headed cronies stand behind her, whispering thinly veiled snide remarks into their fans.

“It’s lovely to see you, Lydia,” I say, playing the role of hostess.

She quirks her perfectly shaped mouth into a half smile. We both know I’m lying. Despite our parents’ greatest attempts, Lydia and I have never been friends. I was always too odd for her, spoke at the wrong times, didn’t know the right things to say. When we were five, before I realized what it really meant, I called her pretty, said I would like to marry her someday. Our parents wrote it off as a silly thing a child might say, but Lydia never let me forget it. Never let me forget the fact that she knew that secret truth of mine. So I became the butt of the joke my mother had always hoped I’d be on the other side of.

And her cousin is marrying my sister today.

“That finishing school of Isolde’s truly worked wonders,” Lydia says. “Who knew such a terrible child could grow into a pillar of society? Gorgeous too.” She gestures to the photograph we stand in front of. “She was away for a long time, never even came back to visit, did she?”

“Izzy loved it there,” I explain, a lie I was coached to tell as soon as she left. “She adored England and wanted to stay close to my cousins.” But our only cousins live in New York. Mother never explained the reason behind the lie, and after a while I learned not to ask questions. Izzy was at the Delphi School for Girls and would return at graduation.

I don’t even know if the school was in England.

“Is that so?” Lydia—­perfect society girl Lydia—­asks with the arch of an eyebrow. Her eyes track deliberately down my face, her insinuation impossible to miss.

It’s common knowledge to anyone who knew me as a child that I didn’t have a scar, then suddenly I did. And it appeared right when my sister left for school.

No one has ever outright asked, but I know they’ve wondered. The older, prettier—­albeit more rambunctious—­Donovan girl was sent away just as the younger, more awkward one debuted a scar that ran bright pink from eyebrow to chin. The look of it doesn’t matter to me as much as the looks it brings me. That and the constant reminder of why my sister was sent away.

I can’t let her leave again, especially not while she’s still a shell of her former self. Lydia may see Isolde as a woman to aspire to, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be like the Izzy who was taken away from us when she was fourteen.

“Excuse me,” I say, and quickly push away from Lydia and the other girls.

The girls snicker and I hear one of them say, “What an odd duck.”

Another says, “A complete oddity.”

I weave around full-­bodied skirts, canes, and tables prepped for serving after the ceremony. I’m swept away by an older woman wearing an old-­fashioned hoop skirt that is both long and wide enough that I have to exit the parlor on the far side of the room near the entryway instead of through the servants’ exit, which would have made my escape faster. Hardwood turns soft beneath my feet; I catch a heel on the edge of the burgundy runner that Father brought back from his last trip to India and slam into a hard wall.

“Oof,” I grunt, looking up. The wall is actually a man, a full foot taller than me, dressed in perfectly tailored tails and a velvet top hat adorned uniquely with a single peacock feather.

“My apologies,” I mutter.

“Not at all, Miss Donovan,” the man says with a voice like syrup. His lips curl into a smile that feels like a secret. He knows who I am. And while he looks vaguely familiar, I cannot place him. Perhaps a friend of the groom? He appears to be young—­likely right about Astor’s age. His face is more round than angular, his blond sideburns a bit patchy, as if he might struggle to grow a full beard. A friend from school, perhaps? I shake i…