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 more sinister—than ever expected. A lush, gothic tale that will haunt readers long after they turn the last page. Gwen Donavan 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. 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 cheat 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. Sinister shadows lurk in the hallways of the remote estate, 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 are forbidden to read them. Delphi says they’re reforming the girls, but when Gwen discovers a note left for her by her sister, she realizes that what is happening at the school is more terrifying than she could ever have imagined. There’s something dark at the center of Delphi, and somehow it’s tied to those books—and to the girls who are sent there. And if Gwen doesn’t confront what hides in the shadows, it won’t be just Izzy who’s lost forever. "[The] first-person-present narration enrich this feminist gothic horror, underscoring stakes, heightening suspense, and injecting heart.... the twisty plot and creepy trappings command readers’ attention ." — Publishers Weekly "This is a tale of girls’ power , exploited by those who seek to control it, and of the resistance that rises in response.... A chilling, feminist debut in which friendship, love, and truth become weapons against the darkness." — Kirkus Reviews "A highly entertaining historical take on power, agency, and responsibility." — Booklist " Readers will be glued to the pages , trying to figure out what is going to happen next... for fans of Gothic fiction, horror books, and anyone who enjoyed CG Drews’s Don’t Let the Forest In or Lauren Kate’s Fallen ." — School Library Journal Kristen Pipps is a PitchWars alum who lives in the New York City area with her spouse and a Maltipoo named Buffy. She has masters degrees in both Screenwriting and Management and is an avid board game player. 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 secr