Fritz charged Boroda in a blind rage. He turned his shoulder for a tackle but Boroda stepped aside and, with a strike of his fist, broke Fritz’s collarbone.
Fritz collapsed, gasping in agony. Sparks flashed and his voice caught. He barely had time to speak the healing spell before he crumpled, heaving on the floor.
“Never lose your temper,” Boroda said. “Even if you are down on the floor, and your opponent is standing over you, ready to plunge the sword into your chest—do not lose your temper. A calm opponent is far more deadly than a frothing lunatic with flailing arms.”
Fritz sat quietly and cradled his arm. The bone was mended, but the muscles were still throbbing.
“I think that will be all for today. Your first day of school is tomorrow. You should rest.” Boroda pulled his gloves off and traveled them away.
Fritz answered in a disappointed sulk, “Yes, sir.”
Boroda disappeared, and Fritz moped to his own room.
It was dark outside, and a heavy blanket of snow whipped through the air in angry torrents. Fritz made his way to the library, picked up a book he had started reading the night before, and settled into the cushioned window seat.
The little alcove jutted out from the library and overlooked the back gardens. The simple, flat panes of glass provided an unobstructed view. Fritz curled up in the blanket and snapped his fingers. A floating ball of light appeared above him, illuminating the pages below.
He lost interest in the book and perused the shelves for another. While searching the vast array of scholarly titles, he came across a thin book called Pickety Wickett. He noticed it because it was definitely out of place sitting between two large volumes dealing with chemistry and crockery. The front cover was made of writing paper with colorful scribbles and was sharply creased down the middle from being shoved haphazardly between the surrounding books. The spine was bound with a single piece of yarn strung through several holes and tied in a bow.
Fritz snickered and pulled it down.
On the inside cover, drawn in crayon, was a large heart. There were other pictures drawn in the same infantile manner; the artist was obviously a young child. The dogs, horses, dragons, and unicorns all looked like the same creature save for a horn or pointed wings.
The heart, however, was the central focus. It was the biggest of all the figures and colored in with scrawling red strokes.
The next page had a simple but elegant handwritten message in the blank section.
To my little Drosselmeyer.
Pickety Wickett
Fritz sat up.
Drosselmeyer? Did Boroda really name me after a character in a children’s story?
He shrugged and turned the page.
These illustrations, as opposed to the cover page, were colorful and whimsical. They radiated blissful happiness. The wispy lines and shades seemed to move on the page, pulling him into the story.
Fritz ran his fingers over the page, unconsciously smiling with the cartoons.
Franz would have loved this!
Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of his brother, and he quickly flipped the page.
Pickety Wickett sailed over the sea
To find a rare gift for Rosamund Lee.
For she was his true love and he for she
Was Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee.
One gift would soothe her;
Just one she preferred:
The magical song of the Drosselmeyer bird.
Pickety Wickett searched forest and tree
But still had no bird for Rosamund Lee.
For she was his true love and he for she
Was Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee.
This was her first choice
Not second or third:
The magical song of the Drosselmeyer bird.
Pickety Wickett fought lion and flea
Still no bird was found for Rosamund Lee.
For she was his true love and he for she
Was Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee.
She would soon dance to,
He gave her his word,
The magical song of the Drosselmeyer bird.
Pickety Wickett bowed low on one knee
He hadn’t a bird for Rosamund Lee.
For she was his true love and he for she
Was Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee.
In love, she embraced him
Then suddenly heard
The magical song of the Drosselmeyer bird.
Pickety Wickett was filled with glee
To give this rare gift to Rosamund Lee.
For she was his true love and he for she
Was Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee.
Fritz closed the book and shoved it back in between the two large tomes.
He grinned happily as he made his way back to his room. He skipped to his bed in the lilt of Pickety Wickett and Rosamund Lee and hummed a tune with a similar cadence.
He was still smiling when he woke up the next morning. The smile vanished, however, when Boroda called him from the mirror and told him to get ready for school.
Chapter 7
Fritz tugged at his collar and stepped from the secluded gap in the hedges. Up ahead, under an arch, a looming steel gate stood open—a cold, mechanical welcome. The spires and turrets cut jagged shapes into the sky. The wall surrounding the building ran parallel with the street in front and disappeared into a thick forest behind it.
A long line of carriages wrapped around the edge of the school. Students disembarked from the ornate barouches and entered the building, followed by servants carrying bags headed toward the dormitories.
“Once you step into the dome of St. Michael’s, magic is strictly forbidden,” Boroda reminded Fritz.
Fritz nodded.
“What’s your name?” Boroda quizzed.
“Drosselmeyer,” Fritz answered and nearly broke into a stanza of Pickety Wickett.
“How are we related?” he pushed on.
“You’re my uncle,” said Fritz.
“How?” asked Boroda.
“My mom is your sister,” Fritz answered, then cut in. “Is this really necessary? Is anyone going to ask?”
“It’s best to be prepared if they do.” Boroda stopped outside the gate. He inspected Fritz’s jacket and straightened Fritz’s tie. “It’s also best to say nothing if you don’t know what you’re supposed to say.”
They were met at the door by a middle-aged man in a tailored suit. He shook Boroda’s hand and ushered them inside.
“I’m Headmaster Peabody,” he said to Fritz. “It’s good to have you. This way, please.”
Parents milled around the vestibule, but Peabody stepped past them, acknowledging calls for his attention but ultimately ignoring them.
They stepped into a front office where a lady with thick glasses sat behind a large, mahogany desk.
“Mrs. Fairchild,” the headmaster said as he walked past. “Will you bring me the class packet for Mr. Drosselmeyer, please?”
Mrs. Fairchild smiled at him. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her red-lipped smile revealed brilliant, white teeth. Without a word, she handed him a packet and continued working.
Peabody led them into his private office and closed the door.
Once seated behind his large, oak desk, he addressed Fritz. “I suppose your uncle has explained all the rules here at St. Michael’s?”
“Yes, sir.” Fritz swallowed and fidgeted, his stiff collar scratching his neck.
“St. Michael’s is one of the most exclusive schools in the world, and we pride ourselves on decorum and academic achievement. Your uncle has assured me that you will not disappoint.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir, I won’t disappoint,” Fritz said.
“Good.” He stood up.
Boroda and Fritz followed suit.
Peabody addressed Boroda. “I know you are a busy man,” he said, “so I have arranged a student to guide Drosselmeyer to his classes.”
&nb
sp; On cue, Mrs. Fairchild knocked twice, then poked her head in the door. “The guide for Mr. Drosselmeyer is here.”
Beside Mrs. Fairchild, dressed in her school uniform, stood Marzi.
Fritz stifled an excited gasp.
“Drosselmeyer,” Peabody began. “This is Marzi Pan. She will be your guide. Feel free to ask her any questions.”
He looked warmly at Marzi. “Marzi is one of our top students. I am confident she will take good care of you.” He clicked his heels. “You are dismissed.”
Fritz left without saying anything to Boroda.
“Welcome to St. Michael’s,” Marzi said once they were outside the office. “Lockers are down the main hall, and you will be in the third to last hallway on the right.”
Fritz wove around a clump of people. “I’m kind of nervous.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Marzi replied. “St. Michael’s is a great school. It has the best teachers and its own library.”
“It has a library?” Fritz exclaimed.
Marzi looked at him quizzically. “Do you like books?”
“Yes!” Fritz replied.
“I love books, too,” she said, then lowered her voice. “None of the others do. We never talk about anything interesting.”
“Do you have any other friends here? Are the apprentices the only … you know, special people here?” Fritz looked over his shoulder.
Marzi laughed. “No. I don’t have any other friends yet. And yes, the apprentices are the only ‘special people’ here. We mostly stick together. It’s safer that way.”
She stopped and pointed. “Here’s your locker.”
Fritz deposited the contents of his bag, and Marzi showed him which books to grab for first period.
The hallway was sparsely populated, and the few groups of students present were involved in their own conversations and oblivious to the new boy.
“Why does the most powerful group of wizards in the world send their apprentices to a school where they can’t do magic?” Fritz asked in a hushed tone.
“Because the most powerful group of leaders send their children to St. Michael’s,” she replied acerbically. “That means the future rulers attend here now.”
“Ah. So we’re supposed to cozy up to a family so we can be their …”
Marzi touched her finger to her lips. “We shouldn’t talk about it in the open.”
“Ok. Sorry,” Fritz said. “It’s just that Boroda doesn’t talk much.”
“Neither does Hanja … but she is wise, and I trust her.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Meet me in the library after school. There is more privacy there.”
Fritz grinned. “Ok.”
Marzi cocked her head. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Fritz startled. “Like what? I wasn’t smiling. I was …”
“Come on,” she interrupted. “First period is science with Ms. Wakimba. You do NOT want to be late for her class.”
Ms. Wakimba was a middle-aged woman with ebony skin and sharp eyes that scanned the class in slow, steady sweeps.
After the bell chimed, Ms. Wakimba punctuated her greeting with force. “Good morning class.”
“Good morning, Ms. Wakimba,” the class replied.
“Welcome back,” she said as she scanned the room. “To our new students—or student,” she said as she made eye contact with Fritz, “welcome to you, as well.”
“Drossie!” a chipper voice called softly from behind Fritz.
Fritz turned to see Vivienne waving at him. Her face was pink and bright, and her hair was pulled back at the sides with a flowery clip.
Fritz smiled and waved back timidly.
“Now that the formalities are over, get out your textbooks and turn to page 227.” Ms. Wakimba turned to write on the chalkboard.
The class obeyed.
Fritz opened his book, and as he was approaching the right page, a folded note fluttered past his hand and nearly dropped into his lap.
He glanced over at the short, heavyset boy who had delivered it. He looked several years younger than everyone else in the class. Without breaking his gaze on Ms. Wakimba, he adjusted his glasses with his left finger and simultaneously motioned with his thumb behind him.
Fritz turned to look and saw Faruk wave at him and point at the note.
Fritz smiled and opened it.
Don’t get caught passing notes.
Fritz smiled at the note, then froze as Ms. Wakimba addressed him. “Anything you’d like to read to the class, Mr. Drosselmeyer?”
Fritz turned a deep shade of red.
She tapped the chalk in her hand.
“No, ma’am,” he said and wadded up the note.
“Perhaps no one has told you about my class yet, but since you are new, I will explain it to you, and let it serve AS A REMINDER TO THE REST OF THE CLASS that there will be no note-passing, unauthorized talking, or outside work while in my classroom. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ms. Wakimba,” Fritz said.
“Class?”
“Yes, Ms. Wakimba,” they chanted in unison.
A tall, muscular boy in the front corner of the class caught Fritz’s eye. He studied Fritz closely.
“Mr. Nicholaus,” Ms. Wakimba called out again, and the boy turned lethargically to face her. “I want you to read the first paragraph. You can meet the new student on your own time.”
Nicholaus sighed and began reading in a bored, monotonous tone.
Fritz kept his gaze down or forward until the bell rang.
“Homework is due before the first bell tomorrow,” Ms. Wakimba reminded them. No one lost any time closing their books or leaving the room.
“Come on,” Marzi said, pulling him from his chair. “We have to get to literature.”
Fritz followed Marzi from class to class, swept along in the current of bodies all rushing to the next class period. He joined the apprentices for lunch but said little.
“Looks like Nicholaus has his eye on you,” Vivienne said when she sat down at the table. “He was sizing you up during first period, and I saw him staring at you in the hallway.”
Fritz shrugged.
Faruk laughed. “Viv is just jealous. She wants him.”
“Ew. No I don’t,” Vivienne said playfully.
Gelé played with the food on her tray. “Drossie’s already got dibs on him, Vivienne.”
Fritz looked up. “What? I don’t even know him.”
Gelé looked at him incredulously. “How can you not know who Nicholaus is? Hasn’t Boroda told you?”
“What has he got to do with any of this?” Fritz dodged.
“Um … Nicholaus’s father is Czar of the Central Kingdom. He’s Boroda’s boss. Nicholaus is next in line to rule, and you’re next in line to advise,” Vivienne explained.
“Oh. I see,” Fritz stammered.
Andor sat down and signed to Marzi.
“Andor says, ‘Hi, and welcome,’” Marzi said to Fritz.
Fritz waved back at Andor.
Gelé ignored Andor and stood up as soon as the large apprentice sat down. “I have to get ready for my next class,” she said, then turned to Vivienne. “You coming?”
Vivienne stood up and waved goodbye, pausing by Andor long enough to recoil slightly in disgust as he shoveled food in his mouth.
Andor, with a large smile plastered across his face, continued to eat. He signed to Marzi.
She slid her tray across the table. “I’m not going to finish. It’s yours.”
She took a book from her bag and began reading.
“What’s wrong with them?” Fritz asked Marzi.
Marzi looked at him sullenly. “They don’t like Andor.”
“Why?”
“Gelé and Vivienne are used to more, shall we say, posh company?” Faruk cut in.
Andor wiped some food from his chin with his hand and reached for his glass. He smiled at Fritz and signed.
“He wants to know if you’re going to eat your roll,” Marzi said over her
book.
Fritz tossed the bread to Andor, who stabbed it midair with his fork.
He held the roll up for the rest of the table to see. Fritz laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.
They finished lunch and continued through their afternoon classes.
The last class of the day was gym. Fritz stood awkwardly in his tight-fitting gym clothes while Mr. McGregor, a bearded, barrel-chested man, led them through calisthenics.
“Give me fifty push-ups!” he roared.
“Yes, sir,” the class chimed and dropped to the ground with a smattering of grumbles and complaints.
“At the end of the semester, you’ll be put through the trials!” McGregor bellowed to the grunts of the students.
“Running through the woods, building forts, fighting a war, trying to defeat the other team: the trials aren’t for weaklings. The trials are for fighters!” He tapped a boy’s arm with his foot and the boy corrected his posture and continued the push-ups. “Look at you! You aren’t fighters—you’re a bunch of weaklings.”
The class answered his insult with agonizing moans.
“The trials show us who can conquer and who will be conquered.” He walked down the lines of students struggling with the exercise, straightening form and watching for people using their knees as a cheat. “My job is to make sure there’s no weakness to expose.”
Several students flopped to their backs, gasping for air and mopping the sweat off their faces.
“You know what waits for you in the woods?” McGregor warned.
“Perrin’s ghost!” shouted a random voice.
Titters of laughter broke out among the students.
“Quiet! The lot of you!” McGregor boomed. “That’s twenty more push-ups, and if I hear a grumble, I’ll add ten more. The trials await you in the woods! It picks the weakest among you and stomps on you. Now start your push-ups.”
The class went silent as those who had finished rolled back into position to start the exercise over.
McGregor led the students through different tumbles and directed them toward a small springboard next to the tumbling mat. The first student ran, bounced off the board, and rolled on the mat as directed.
Fritz whispered covertly to Marzi while waiting in line, “What is Perrin’s ghost?”
She looked forward. “It’s a school legend the upperclassmen tell the freshmen to scare them. They’ll pick a younger student to haze during trials and then blame it on Perrin’s ghost. Don’t worry about it. You’re too old.”
Drosselmeyer: Curse of the Rat King Page 8