Princess Academy (12 page)

n

Chapter Sixteen

I cut all day and I squared all night

And I thought I’d mined the mountain’s might

Then I saw all my work by the bright dawn light

The mountain was the world and my labor a mite

n

O
ne early morning at the academy, Miri went outside before breakfast to stretch and look out over the mountains. A wind came out of the north and whipped the end of her shirt tight against her hips. It smelled far away, not familiar and warm like summer wind, but of empty places, trees Miri did not know, and snow. The scent made her muscles tense. It meant summer was over, autumn was dawning, and the ball was just weeks away.

In the academy, the mood changed with the weather. Every day that passed was one day less to learn how to impress the prince and not look like an utter fool. The dances were practiced with uptight clumsiness, the curtsies with anxious stumbles. Olana yelled at them, “Do you want to look like imbeciles? Do you really want the guests to believe every frightful thing they’ve heard about the outlying territories? Stand up straighter, pronounce your words. For pity’s sake, stop looking like you want to humiliate me!”

Miri tried to remember when every curtsy had begun to feel more important than breakfast.

For some of the summer, Miri had spent outdoor breaks teaching Britta quarry songs and running over the hills. Now change pulsed around them, and she felt pulled inside to bend over books and recite lists of kings and queens. Soon most of the other girls were studying through breaks and rest days as well. She found herself glancing often at Katar, wondering if the older girl had caught things that Miri missed, or staring at the painting of the house with hope so strong that it felt like something she could reach out and grab. When she found herself in such a mood, she tried not to think of Peder at all. Her mind and heart tangled.

Then Olana announced the final exam. Each girl read aloud from a book and was judged on pronunciation and clarity. Knut stood in for the prince, and the girls toe-heeled across the room and curtsied to him. He never put down his stirring spoon and met each girl’s eyes as if it pained him terribly, but with Miri he managed a half smile.

During Miri’s turn at Dance, Katar caught her eye and winked. Miri staggered in the midst of a step, looked away, and tried to concentrate.

“It’s all right, Miri,” said Britta, who was acting as her dance partner. “You’re doing really well.”

Miri could hear Bena whisper her name.

After the individual tests, the girls followed Olana to the top of a slope where the ground was softened with grass. The wind from the valley smelled as fresh as wind-dried laundry, and the sun warmed the top of Miri’s head as though giving her a pat. She leaned back on her hands and felt her shoulders relax for the first time in a week. She was confident that she would pass.

“Take a long look,” said Olana, gesturing to the northern horizon. “It’s the only view some of you will ever see. So far, several have not done well enough to pass the exam and attend the ball. Now is your last chance to redeem yourselves. Those who are near to failing must answer correctly each question or you will remain hidden in the bedchamber while everyone else dances and makes eyes at the prince.”

Olana sat the girls in a circle and began the decisive quiz. Miri recounted the first five kings of Danland beginning with King Dan and Katar supplied the next five. Frid stumbled with her question but came up with a correct answer.

Then Olana turned to Gerti. “Name the years of the War of Rights.”

Gerti’s faced drained of color. She squinted at the sky, her eyes searching, but hopelessness made lines on her brow. Miri watched Gerti’s struggle and amazed herself by feeling relieved. In the contest for academy princess, everyone was competition.

“The answer, Gerti,” said Olana.

“I . . .”

Miri thought of the painting of the house, of Marda saying that nothing could get in Miri’s way, of the silver gown with tiny rosebuds and the feeling that buzzed in her bones when she thought of the significance the title “Princess” would add to her name. At that moment, it all felt wispy and weedy compared with Gerti’s immediate need.

It’s just not fair,
Miri thought.
Everyone has studied hard all year. We should at least get the chance to go to the ball.

Her decision seemed obvious. She would try to help.

Her instinct was to use quarry-speech.
But how can I tell Gerti a number of a year?
She had found a way to tell the girls to run. If she could find the right thought, she might be able to communicate anything, particularly as the academy girls had so many shared memories. It could work. It just might.

By her foot, a single miri flower wiggled in the breeze. That gave her hope. The pink flowers seemed to thrive around beds of linder. The entire area had once been a working quarry, and surely there was a remnant. Still, Miri had heard it work only with solid stone like the living quarry and the floor of the academy.

Olana sighed. “Just say you don’t know, Gerti, and we’ll move on.”

Gerti’s lip quivered. Miri sank her hand into the autumn grass. There must be linder deep down. She pushed harder and hoped.

Despite what Peder had said, she still liked to sing aloud when quarry-speaking; it helped her focus the internal singing that pushed her memory into the stone. But she could not risk it here. She pressed the ground and thought of her favorite block-squaring chant: “The mountain was the world and my labor was a mite.” She organized her thoughts and sang them silently in the rhythm of that chant.

Miri recalled the History lesson when Olana first had talked about the War of Rights. A fly had been caught in the room, buzzing madly and thumping the window. Miri remembered because she had wondered how many times that crazy fly could bounce off the glass before knocking itself unconscious, and she had decided 212 times, the first year of the war.

“Two hundred twelve to two hundred seventy-six,” Olana had said. “Say it, class.”

Thump, thump,
went the fly.

“Two hundred twelve to two hundred seventy-six,” they had repeated.

Thump, thump, thump-thump.

Miri sang the memory into the earth—the fly drumming on the window, Olana declaring the years, the class repeating. Perhaps Gerti had noticed the fly, too. Perhaps with that nudge, the memory would come forward for her and the sound of those years fall from her mind to her tongue. Miri’s vision shivered, her thoughts clicked, that moment painted itself in full color in her mind, but Gerti’s face did not change. Miri tried again, her quarry-speech song roaring inside her.

“If you haven’t remembered by now, Gerti, you won’t,” said Olana. “Now then, Liana, please name—”

“Two hundred and . . .“ Gerti looked up. She appeared to be trying to taste something peculiar or identify a distant smell. “Two hundred and twelve to two hundred and, uh, seventy. Seventy-six, I mean, seventy-six.”

Katar elbowed Miri in the ribs, having no doubt detected Miri’s quarry-speech as well. Miri smiled back pleasantly.

“Hm. That’s correct,” said Olana.

Gerti looked at Miri and smiled as big as the sky. Olana returned to Liana, who answered correctly, as did the next girl. Then Tonna tripped up over the first rule of Conversation.

Miri had not thought of continuing her silent hints, but she believed Tonna had as much right to attend the ball as Gerti. A jab from Katar and a warning look decided her. Miri searched for the perfect memory and sang it down into the mountain’s hidden linder and up into the minds of any listeners. Tonna sighed relief and answered the question.

Miri smiled. It was beginning to be fun.

The exam continued while the sun arced west, dragging their shadows longer. Whenever a girl faltered or looked Miri’s way, she did her best to communicate a helpful memory. She was relieved that Britta always knew her answers.

Then Frid could not remember the last rule of diplomatic negotiations. Miri quarry-spoke of the day Olana had introduced the rules of Diplomacy, but Frid just stared at the ground with her familiar wide-eyed expression and seemed resolved to defeat. Miri dug her fingers deeper into the earth, and if she had sung aloud, her quarry-speech would have been a shout; but no recognition crossed Frid’s face. Whether the memory was unclear or the quarry-speech was too faint on that hill, it was not working.

“I’m sorry,” Miri whispered.

“Silence,” warned Olana.

Then another voice in quarry-speech, faint, delicate. The feeling of that voice could not have been more clearly Gerti’s than if she had spoken aloud. Miri closed her eyes to concentrate and saw in her mind her negotiations with Olana when she had forgotten the final rule and Katar had stepped in.

Frid’s dull eyes sparkled. “Give them a limit for accepting the terms.”

“‘Assert a deadline for acceptance’ is the correct answer,” said Olana, “but that will do.”

Gerti beamed.

And from then on, no one hesitated on an answer without being deluged with hints from a dozen different girls, some less helpful, some exact, but the flailing girl always managed to sort through them and come up with the correct answer. On the outside, the girls were serene but for a few sly smiles, their hands resting casually on the ground as if interested in the grass. But on the inside, the feeling of that quarry-speech was like ten songs sung at once, all in different voices, all joyous.

So anxious were the girls to help, Miri did not have another chance to step in, save once.

“Did you hear me, Katar?” said Olana. “What is the formal name of the curtsy used only for a king on his throne?”

“I, uh . . .”

Katar looked at the sky, at the ground, at her fingernails, anywhere but at the girls, as if refusing to ask for help. And no one offered. Miri thought it possible that none of the girls could recall, but many placed their hands in their laps, explicit in their refusal. Even Bena and Liana looked over their shoulders and examined the aspect of the far hill. Katar’s glance flicked to Miri for the briefest moment, and then away.

To Miri’s recollection, Olana had given the name of the curtsy only once, but Miri had read it recently during personal study. Katar would pass the exam without her help, but she might not score high enough to be academy princess. Miri grappled with herself. She did not want to give Katar anything, but her sense of justice would not allow her to help every girl but one. Miri glared at Katar, slapped her hand on the grass, and sang mutely of Olana’s introductory lecture on Poise. After a few moments, Katar nodded. Her voice was very quiet.

“I remember now.” She cleared her throat. “It’s called the heart’s offering.”

After the last question, Olana whistled a long note of approval.

“You all scored one hundred percent on this portion of the exam. I didn’t expect that. Well, go on to dinner, and I’ll calculate the scores for the entire exam. After dinner, I’ll announce who passed and who will be academy princess.”

Little food was consumed that evening. Miri watched the fat congeal in her egg-and-wheat-bread soup and listened to the whispered conversations of the other girls. Knut passed behind her and muttered, “This is the last time I bother to cook something nice on a test day.”

“You cooked something nice?” said Miri. “Where is it?”

Knut tousled her hair.

Katar pushed away her full bowl and stared out the window. Miri realized that both girls’ legs were shaking, their knees banging the bottom of the table.

“Looks like Katar and I are doing our best to harvest and square this table before the traders come,” said Miri, and several girls laughed.

Miri had joked to break the tension and now braced herself for the inevitable retort, but Katar just stood and left. Miri rested her chin in her hands, happy to have the better of Katar for once.

“It’s time,” Olana called.

The classroom chairs squeaked as the girls sat and adjusted themselves. Miri thought she might not be the only one holding her breath. Olana held a parchment. Her eyes seemed pleased, though her mouth gave no hint of a smile.

“Due to the unexpected performance on the final test, you all passed,” she said.

A squeal of delight went up. Olana read the parchment with the order of the scores, starting with the lowest. Most of the girls at the bottom of the list did not seem to mind their place and were pleased to hear that they would be going to the ball at all. Olana stopped reading before Miri heard her own name.

“The last five girls—Katar, Esa, Liana, Bena, and Miri—were so close, I could not determine the leader. So I will allow you to decide.”

Katar’s shoulders slumped. Miri felt her leg shaking again as her classmates whispered their votes to Olana one by one. When the last girl sat down, Olana smiled.

“Over half of you voted for the same girl, a clear majority. Miri, come forward.”

Miri’s head was light, and as she walked to the front of the class she seemed to float, as though she were a puff of tree pollen blown just above the ground. She kept her eyes on Britta, who was grinning madly.

Olana put her hand on Miri’s shoulder. “The academy princess.”

And the girls cheered.