Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (7 page)

If gods needed help looking after me, well . . . .

It’s said that the slowest soldier is either a hero or a
corpse. I hoped I could learn fast.

I’d already seen enough ghosts.

I didn’t want to join them.

Marta and Cousin Esme had had tea and scones long before
Marta came in search of me. They’d talked about me, too; I was certain of that.
But even after questioning me, they still had information to trade. I used this
time to eat two more of the scones and try cream so thick a spoon stood up in
it, something Marta told me privately was clotted cream.

“Let us go to the dining room, Alfreda, where I will
introduce you to those students who are neither still asleep nor chose to eat
breakfast elsewhere. On Saturday, selected students prepare the meals so that
Mrs. Gardener, our cook, may have a day of rest.” Cousin Esme rose as she
spoke, heading for the door, and as we also stood up I carefully wiped my
fingertips on a napkin and glanced quickly at Marta.

No crumbs, tea or
cream
.
Very good
, Marta’s mind
voice said inside my head.

Now—two more things to mention, she continued as we followed
Cousin Esme.
Do you remember what I said
about deciding to bed a boy?

My mind froze in place like a frightened hare. I hoped I
wasn’t blushing. I certainly did remember her bringing it up out of the blue.
You said there were good reasons not to do
that yet, and asked me to talk with you first if I was tempted
.

Excellent. That
request still holds, dear. Please trust me on this—you do NOT want to start a
baby now, and very few forms of birth control are foolproof. The second thing
is
—and she looked over her shoulder briefly as she spoke to me.
Don’t teach anyone wild magic.

I felt a weight to the words, as if she were settling them
upon me.

Of course not.

I was no teacher.

Marta stopped walking and gave me a gentle hug, her cheek
momentarily brushing mine.
I’m not
dressed impressively enough to meet her current students, so I’ll say good-by
now. Remember that you are up to any challenge Windward Academy hands to you!

I love you, I thought to myself, but I did not frame it for
her to “hear.” I hoped she knew this, but some adults did not like
sentimentality from children. I decided to say the words another time.

Marta walked briskly back the way we’d originally come from,
leaving me with Cousin Esme, who was moving toward the center of the house. I
followed her silently, trying to hold my head high and keep my shoulders from
hunching up.
Behold Alfreda Sorensson, a
too tall, flat-chested, awkward, thirteen-year-old future Valkyrie.

Truth.

Still, I was a child of a dual line of famous Northern
practitioners. I’d find a place for me here, somewhere.

I cannot hide,
I
reminded myself.
Only magic can hide me
and this is not the moment for magic!

At least not the moment for my magic. This house reeked of
power. It made my shoulders itch.

We stepped into the entry hall. I didn’t know where to look.
To my right two huge sets of windows flanked what must have been the main
entrance of glass double doors. Above us a balcony rimmed almost three quarters
of the room, but no grand staircase could be seen. Numerous open-backed chairs
lined the walls, and a huge, branched candelabrum seemed to float just below
the ceiling.

Cousin Esme continued across the polished stone floor
squares to the corner doorway. Glancing over her shoulder, she said: “We
generally have breakfast and dinner in the room we are entering. Supper can be
taken here or the tea room, or even out on the portico in lovely weather.
Saturday, as I said, is the day that students make the meals. I’ve found that
making students responsible for meal preparation can quickly solve many
discipline problems.”

Another glance revealed no staircase. Discipline problems?
So cooking was extra work? Some people were not very good cooks.

Somehow, Cousin Esme knew I wasn’t just taking it all in. “Are
you looking for something in particular?”

“I thought that fine houses had single, grand staircases? Is
this the entrance?”

Cousin Esme smiled and said: “Yes, this is the entry hall.
But President Jefferson designed this house, and the architectural principles
he prefers do not include a large, single staircase. Fortunately, women’s
skirts currently do not need double doors to enter a room!” With that, she
gestured for me to step into the room ahead of her.

President Jefferson
designed this house?

A lovely wood floor stretched away before us, the pale
strips and few knots making me think of cherry wood. A good-sized table in the
center of the room seated ten, and looked like it could be expanded. Beyond
broad glass doors stood between the dining room and another seating area.

Around me whirled a blur of young people, from my little
brothers’ ages up to at least my own. A sea of faces, and they varied in skin
color and severity of dress. In the room beyond, the students looked older.
Candles burned up high in wall sconces and on the mantel of the fireplace.
Beneath the scent of beeswax I smelled burnt pork and also scorched biscuits. I
also recognized the sweetness of oatmeal.

The room was noisy, but not overwhelming. Still, what
sounded like spirited conversation abruptly grew quieter as the students
realized who had entered the room.

“We have a new student joining the school,” Cousin Esme said
simply. “This is Miss Sorensson. She has had unusual training up until now, so
all of you may see her in at least one class. I hope you will make her feel
welcome.” Cousin Esme was looking around as she spoke. “Is Miss Rutledge here?”

A dark-haired girl who looked to be my age said: “She was
feeling unwell this morning, so she had ginger and willow bark tea in her room.
When I stopped there before breakfast, I thought she seemed better.”

Cousin Esme’s eyebrows rose, and her smile was amused, not
reassuring. “I wanted her to give Miss Sorensson a tour of the house and
grounds.” My cousin pinned a pretty, plump blonde girl with a look. “When you
are finished, Miss Wolfsson, please ask Miss Rutledge if she feels well enough
to join me in my room.” Cousin Esme looked at me and gestured toward the
buffet. “Eat whatever you need; we know that growing magicians need fuel!”

Clearly Cousin Esme had her reasons for making students cook
the Saturday morning meal. I suspected Miss Rutledge was not really ill, merely
avoiding the bad food.

How bad did you have to be to get sentenced to the kitchen
on a Saturday?

I also wondered if that itchy feeling I had between my
shoulder blades meant that someone was using magic to listen to this entire
conversation. Surely practitioners could do that?

Still, I couldn’t stop my grin. Since I liked to cook, and
had brought with me old trousers and my brother’s shirt for dirty work, I was
ready for anything from baking to shoveling manure. Perhaps I could manage not
to trespass while I was in New York. Just once, could I avoid upsetting people
before I even knew the rules?

Cousin Esme smiled up at me. “If she has recovered, I will
ask Miss Rutledge to show you the manor after you finish breakfast. She will
show you how to find your room. Dinner is at two in the afternoon—there is a
bell that rings the time. May you learn here all that you hope for and more.”
With a gracious nod, Cousin Esme walked out before I could thank her.

I smiled at several children who smiled timidly at me, and
then I walked to the buffet table. I found a pan of rashers of bacon, the fat
burnt to charcoal, and baked eggs cooked so hard they could be cut from a pan
like a dried-up cobbler.
Oh, dear.
Then
I found the oatmeal.

Someone made an attempt at a display. A small pitcher of
cream, a honey jar, and a cone of precious white cane sugar balanced a bowl of
dried fruit. Pride of place went to the oatmeal pot. The dipper stood on its
own in the middle of the cereal, bowls stacked to one side.

Well—some hot water to thin the oatmeal would be in order. As
I reached for the dipper, movement at the edge of my vision caught my
attention. A small, thin boy of anywhere from eight to twelve suddenly stood at
my side. He was dressed neatly in dark knee breeches, a white shirt and collar,
and a blue jean jacket carefully buttoned over all. His dark eyes gave life to a
pale face, his dark hair a bit shaggy. He leaned slightly toward me and
whispered: “It tastes fine!”

“Have you tried it?” I replied, keeping my voice softer than
usual.

“I made it. I did everything just like Mrs. Gardener does, I
asked her how. I used five cups of cut oats, and twenty cups of water, and a
little bit of salt, just a pinch!” His gaze was beseeching. Clearly, getting
this right mattered to him.

I wiped a serving off the dipper into my bowl. Round spoons
lay by the plate stack. I picked one up to taste a tiny bit of the cereal. It
was fine, the creamy surface hiding thoroughly cooked grain. I smiled at the
boy. “Excellent.”

“Truly?” He studied me anxiously, as if I was putting him
off with a fairy tale.

“Truly. All it needs is a bit of thinning; oatmeal soaks up
a great deal of liquid!” Since there was hot water with the tea, I
demonstrated, and soon had a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of fresh tea.

Loaded for bear, I turned back to the young man. “Where do
you suggest I sit?”

The boy seemed momentarily at a loss, but quickly recovered.
“The older students like to sit in the back room. Or you are welcome to sit
here.” He gestured to the large table in the center, where a boy was carefully
taking dirty dishes to the opposite buffet table.

Older students, eh? And were any older students supervising
in the kitchen? Did students repeat this punishment, or was once enough . . .
explaining the quality of most of the food? Did anyone teach them
how
to cook, for the lord’s sake?

What had Cousin Esme said?
I’ve found that making students responsible for meal preparation can
quickly solve many discipline problems.

So this was a test. Was the intention to show them that they
knew nothing about work other people did?

Experience is a grand
teacher
, Grandsir would often exclaim.

Cousin Esme must have had a Grandsir in her life, too.

I started for the large table. “I thank you for the
invitation. And your name is? . . . . ”

He flushed. “Daniel Williams, Miss Sorensson.” He tidied a
place setting a touch more, laying a clean napkin to the left of the
forks—plural, if you will. I remembered Papa telling me that the secret to a
formal dinner was start from the outside and work your way in. He had said that
the fun stuff was at the top—the bread plate and knife, a dessert
spoon—although none of those special pieces were laid out here.

“That actually looks good,” another boy said, his fair hair
and pale blue eyes suggesting he was of Dutch ancestry.

“It is lovely,” I assured him. “Mr. Williams has done an
excellent job.” I hoped it was all right to say that. Since this was
punishment, maybe the students didn’t want any attention drawn to their
efforts? I set down the plate and bowl, and my teacup to the right of the place
setting. My skirt moved, and I felt something bump the backs of my legs. Daniel
Williams was ahead of me, sliding the chair beneath me. I sat and nodded my
thanks to him.

It was like a signal; the others still at the table started
eating or talking again, while two boys and one girl got up and headed for the
oatmeal. A quick glance told me they’d been drinking sweet tea for breakfast.
So were they waiting around for their friends to finish cooking? Waiting for
someone to make a mistake? Was everyone expected to show up for the meal?

I surveyed the room and realized something important. No
leaders—these students were followers, or misfits. The students who controlled
things at this school did not show up for Saturday breakfast.

Daniel Williams grinned fit to bust. I felt he had a right
to be proud.

At least two other students ate with their left hands.
Good—I liked my tea on my tool-using side. I lifted a crumpled napkin to my
left, to make room for my cup and teapot, and found an upside-down bowl.
Well, that won’t do
. I slid a nail under
the rim to right it, just as Daniel cried: “Don’t!”

A growl came from under the bowl.

I slammed the stoneware back down on the table, hearing
several gasps and a nervous giggle. Several children started toward us.

The small boy tidying the tables came to me, eyes wide. “I—I
apologize, Miss Sorensson. We thought we’d taken all of them back to the
kitchen.”

“Well, what is it, and how fast does it move?” I asked him.
A soft, steady growl continued from under the bowl.

A nibbled lip, a glance at Daniel . . . .
 
“It’s a biscuit,” the small boy
whispered.

I decided to smile. “So tell me about your biscuit that
growls.” A few finger taps on the bowl earned me a snarl.

“It has big teeth, too!” a flame-haired little girl at my
right elbow volunteered.

“Where do biscuits with teeth come from? They’re not
considered a threat where my family lives.” I tried to keep my voice sounding
normal.

The children looked embarrassed.

Several pairs of eyes glanced quickly at the young boy who
was the spokesman. I turned to him, trying to look interested but not accusing.
The child’s face was flushed, his hands clenched—I guessed to resist grabbing
for the bowl. He was one of the group who looked underfed, as growing
practitioners often did. His sharp features might make an attractive man
someday, if one of his spells didn’t eat him first.

“I wasn’t ever on Saturdays with Miss Wild,” he said slowly,
stealing a quick glance at me. “So I didn’t know how to make biscuits, and no
one was there to help with the dough. Saturday cooks usually make biscuits for
all three meals.”