Miss Mabel's School for Girls (16 page)

“Blessed be, but it’s cold out there!” Miss Celia cried, finally succeeding with the thin strings. “I’m glad that delivery is over with. The good gods know I never want to venture out in the cold.”

“What were you delivering?” I asked. Camille and Jackie continued to the dining room, leaving me standing on the stair alone.

Miss Celia’s buxom chest swelled.

“An order of my cinnamon buns,” she said with a little titter. “Ten dozen, with extra icing. It made me a nice sacran or two.”

I slowed to a stop at the bottom of the steps. One or two of the golden, octagonal sacran coins seemed like a cheap price for so many cinnamon buns. Her pastries should net her at least three or four silver pentacles, but she looked so pleased I didn’t say anything.

She shook a few stray leaves off the back of her cloak, and I couldn’t help but notice the frayed hems and tattered edges. Miss Celia never looked poor, but her kitchen clothes typically bore speckled flour and tomato stains. Although everybody said that Miss Celia had been here for ages, I realized I didn’t know much about her.

“Are you saving for something?” I asked. 

She waved me off with a little cluck. “Just my retirement, like everyone else.”

That should have been a few decades ago,
I wanted to say but smiled instead.

She cast a wary eye towards the dining room and visibly shifted back into
Priestess of the Kitchen
mode. “I smell bread. Do Rebecca and Michelle have dinner ready? I hope they restocked the firewood and spiced the peaches.”

I looked towards the open dining room doors. Camille and Jackie stood inside, talking to Brianna, a second-year with full brown hair. She had a lovely nose, a warm smile, and reputation for being friendly to the first-years.

“They just rang the bell,” I said.

Miss Celia’s hands fluttered over her hair, soothing back the strands of gray and white. Instead of setting them right, she made them stand up on end, drifting in the drafty hallway.

“I guess I better get in there. I didn’t mean to be so late. There was an emergency in Bickers Mill, and the apothecary had to leave in the middle of my order. Oh, well. So mote it be.”

Emergency. Apothecary. Bickers Mill. My stomach clenched in fear. The sleepy village of Bickers Mill never had emergencies. I cleared my throat and tried to keep my tone even.

“What kind of emergency?”

“Oh, one of his elderly patients fell sick two nights ago. Poor thing,” she crooned and hung her cape on an iron coat rack near the door. The pegs spiraled out like giant arms. It was a gargantuan piece of furniture that had startled me several times when I came down the stairs with only a candle. “It sounded like she wasn’t going to make it.”

“Did you hear a name?”

I realized I’d lost any claim to subtlety when Miss Celia gave me an odd look and her face dropped.

“Oh, Bianca. I forgot. Your family lives in Bickers Mill, don’t they?”

“Yes. My grandmother is–”

“Hazel? Is her name Hazel?”

My heart stuttered and leapt into my throat. 

“Yes,” I whispered.

Miss Celia reached out and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Bianca. A woman who, now that I think about it, looked just like you, came running in, asking that he follow her. She mentioned a Hazel, and he left straight away.”

I managed a weak smile, but inside I wanted to scream.

No! Not yet. Give me a chance to bargain with Miss Mabel. All I need is a few days!

“Y-yes. Thank you, Miss Celia.”

“Come on,” she said, motioning me towards the dining room. “Let’s get some warm food inside you, and you’ll feel much better. That’s a good girl.”

“Actually,” I said, digging in my heels. “I just realized I forgot something in my room. May I go get it?”

She hesitated, studied my face, and nodded.

“Take your time,” she said, patting my shoulder again. “I’ll set some dinner aside for you.”

The sounds of the dining room faded behind me as I took the stairs two at a time. Three candles in my room blazed to life the moment I barged in. A feather flew into my hand, and a fresh sheet of messenger paper flapped onto the desk from my hidden cache below the mattress.

My hand trembled as I wrote:

Mama,

Miss Celia told me that Grandmother has fallen ill again. Please write with details as soon as you can. I may still have a chance to bargain with Miss Mabel, but I need as much time as you can give me.

All my love,

Bianca

I folded it, tossed open my window, and the paper flew out, disappearing over the haunting tree line of Letum Wood.

I Want To Be Great

E
arly the next morning a nightmare jarred me awake to the shadows of my bedroom.

I stared at the ceiling, panting, trying to erase the image of Grandmother lying in a casket, surrounded by a sea of black. Miss Mabel stood nearby. I couldn’t see her; rather, I felt her. A raven flew overhead, circling and circling.

“She’s not dead,” I whispered, pushing the sticky hair out of my eyes. “She’s not dead.”

Yet.

I shoved the blankets off myself and slipped into the cold air of my bedroom to wake up. Dawn lingered on edge of the horizon, the lightening blue in the sky creating a jagged black outline of tree tops. My body shivered, staring into the cool morning. No letter had come during the night.

I clambered desperately for my clothes.

Too cold.

My candle gave a pathetic amount of light as I scrambled into the long white shirt and dark blue linen dress, still shaking. I never felt warm in a winter like this.

The low clang of Miss Celia moving around the kitchen greeted me on the stairs. She muttered to herself in bursts of agitation magnified by the clang of slamming pots. I padded down the stairs and hurried towards the library undetected, wondering why she was working so early.

The candles in the library ignited into a low flame when I slipped inside, highlighting the dark shadows and aged oak of the bookshelves. The fire smoldered with coals and ash. I crouched down and added a few logs, stirring it into a blaze that heated the tip of my nose and loosened my stiff fingers.

I grabbed an empty bit of messenger parchment, a new feather, and a half-full ink pot, and settled onto a table near the fire.

Mama,

I wrote twice last night but haven’t heard back. What’s going on with Grandmother? Please write back soon.

Go well,

Bianca

The ink dried quickly. I folded the paper and stood up. Across the room sat a tall, skinny window. I grabbed the old handle and forced it open with a groan. My hair flew off my shoulders in a blast of cold wind, while the paper dropped into the night and disappeared from view.

The soft patter of footsteps caught my attention and I held my breath to hear more clearly. Someone approached. A student, probably by the light sound of her footsteps. She’d pass the library soon.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Or not.

My blood turned cold, mimicking the icy draft that blew in from the window. I whirled around to see Priscilla standing in the doorway, her hair drifting about her shoulders.

“Hello Priscilla.”

The wind slammed the window shut, sealing off the room.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked, stepping into the library.

“Getting warm by the fire.”

Her eyes darted around, finally landing on the feather and leftover messenger paper on the table.

“Oh,” she said, her mouth rounding out. “I heard about your grandmother. That’s too bad.”

The droop of her lips looked so sincere that I could only stare at her. Her unexpected twists and turns made me feel like I ran a race in a hedge, with walls so high I never knew where to go next.

“Thanks.”

“How is she doing?” She took a few steps into the room and settled on a chair in the shadows near the fire, grasping a book. I barely caught the title before she covered it with her hand.
Advanced Beauty Transformation
.

Interesting.

“Fine,” I lied and then started towards the door, the best route of escape.

Second rule of every confrontation: map out your area. Know how to get away, and how others can get in.

“Oh, Bianca?” She motioned to the chair next to her with a pat. “Why don’t you sit? We’ll have a little chat.”

“A little chat?”

“About school, of course,” she said. “You’re new, and I’ve been here for years. I can give you a few pointers.”

“Yes, I’m sure the last two years have made you an expert,” I said in a dry tone that she ignored.

“I wouldn’t say expert, but I certainly know what I’m doing.”

No doubt about that.

I lowered into the chair, keeping to the edge, trying to anticipate her trap. Priscilla set the book face down in her lap and folded her hands on top of it, turning to me with an inquiring gaze.

“How are things on the first-year floor? Is it still as shabby as I remember?”

“Yes,” I drawled, eyeing her. She smoothed out a line in her skirt.

“I noticed that you hang around Leda and Camille a lot.”

My eyes narrowed. I didn’t trust this Priscilla. I preferred the snarky, deceptive third-year I met when I first arrived. This polite little bundle could be nothing but angles.

“Yes,” I said, waiting. She studied me and, seeing something in my face, seemed to drop whatever plan she’d had before.

“Why are you doing this, Bianca?” she asked, trying to stare me down. “Are you trying to prove something as a first-year?”

The question struck a note of panic in me, but at least she wasn’t playing a game anymore. I remembered Elana asking me the same question during the first match.

I’m doing this because it’s my only chance to live. Whatever motivation you have, it’s not stronger than mine.

“Why are you?” I asked.

Priscilla hesitated, her eyes calculating.

“Because I want to be the best.”

An answer so blunt I couldn’t doubt it.

“You think learning from Miss Mabel will do that for you?”

“Don’t you?” she retorted immediately. “All of the greats of our time started in the Network school system and climbed their way to the top. Miss Mabel’s has a reputation for turning out students that do very well.”

No, I don’t think that. Greatness doesn’t develop because Miss Mabel runs the place.

“I think greatness depends more on you than on her,” I replied instead, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “It has nothing to do with outside influences.”

Priscilla pondered my words for a moment, then changed the subject.

“We must have something in common, you and I,” she said with a look that showed she was less than pleased about it. “I’m imagining it has something to do with our determination to win. But only one of us will.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Leave the Competition, Bianca,” she said. “At least spare yourself a little embarrassment. You’re no match for my education level.”

“Because I haven’t been so far?”

Her hands balled into fists. Good. I unnerved her a little. Her aspirations to Assistant were in danger from a first-year. I understood her desperation but that didn’t mean I felt any pity. If Priscilla really wanted greatness, she’d achieve it on her own. But that wasn’t what she wanted. Priscilla wanted the fastest road to power. 

And who didn’t, really? Even I had felt the sweet tug of that desire before. Power to enact change. Power to keep my family and myself alive. Power was strength, and nothing compared to strength.

Perhaps we did have a few things in common.

“You’ve got more talent than I’d anticipated, I’ll admit,” she said slowly. “But I’ve been holding back, giving you a chance.”

“I noticed that during the second match,” I said, matching her cool tone. “When you headed for the herb table right behind Elana.”

She leaned forward into the light of the fire, illuminating the freckles that smattered her nose, cheeks, forehead, and neck. Her anxiety was made apparent by the pitch of her voice.

“I’m serious Bianca. Get out now. I won’t lose. Certainly not to a first-year. I’ve been planning for two years now.”

Well I’ve been planning for eleven.

I opened my mouth to reply but stopped. Since when did Priscilla have so many freckles? I remembered her face as almost flawless, like porcelain, when I first met her. The firelight during the second match showed a few, but not nearly what I saw now. They gave her skin an entirely different color and tone.