[Network 01.0] Miss Mabel's School for Girls

by Katie Cross

  “I know,” Camille muttered under her breath. “I’m not stupid.”

  Camille resumed watching the other groups of girls, a restless, unsatisfied look on her face. I closed my eyes again, wanting to block it out. I didn’t want to think about the future or our purpose here at the school. I just wanted to sit and not see a scroll or Miss Mabel’s face anywhere near me. I wanted to not think about the Esbat, the close call with the trust potion, or what it meant that I almost told her everything. The pressure of the mark was beginning to take its toll on my weary mind. Even small talk felt like work, so I stayed out of it.

  “What about gardening?” Camille asked again, after the silence stretched so long I’d started to drowse off into that in-between where everything seemed to make sense, no matter how absurd. It was a safe world to live in, one without commitment or fear. “I think I’d like working in a garden.”

  Michelle and Rebecca stood at the distant garden plot, pacing out spots, planning what they would grow come spring as part of their mark. I thought idly of my favorite herbs, the ones Grandmother taught me to care for with her aged hands. Basil, her voice said in my mind, is my favorite herb. It goes with anything and is so easy to grow in the Central Network. But you can never go wrong with rosemary. A flash of homesickness overcame me, and I drifted on it, replaying the sweet memories of home.

  “You’d have to get your fingernails dirty,” Leda said with obvious condescension. “You wouldn’t even plant pumpkins in the summer, remember?”

  Her retort shook me from my reverie. I opened my eyes to watch both of them. I wondered what made Leda so ornery today. She wasn’t giving a single inch, and poor Camille looked frazzled.

  “Yes,” Camille said in a defeated tone. “There is that. How about fashion? Brianna is going to design clothing, hopefully for the High Priestess. She’ll be so good at it. She always looks wonderful. I might like fashion.”

  Leda rolled her eyes and made a point of picking up a scroll and holding it in front of her face so she couldn’t see either of us. Camille’s hopeful look dropped into a disappointed frown. Giving up with a sigh, I raised myself to one elbow.

  “Is something wrong, Camille?” I asked.

  “Bianca, I need plans!” The exclamation burst out of her with all the force of a gale, visibly taking some of her pent-up energy with it. “Everyone at the school knows why they are attending Miss Mabel’s, and I don’t. Leda wants to be a Coven leader. Priscilla is going into transformation. Jackie wants to be a Diviner. Isabelle is going to be an artist. Michelle and Rebecca want to work at Chatham and cook for the High Priestess. What am I doing?”

  She threw her hands in the air in agitation, her apple cheeks flaring to a deep red. I noticed she didn’t pinpoint my future goals, and I wondered what exactly they were. Live, for one. The rest would come later.

  Hopefully.

  “Isadora would never have admitted you if you were weren’t meant to go here,” I said, hoping it would be comforting but not feeling conviction in my words. “Are you saying she was wrong?”

  “No,” she muttered. “I’m saying she’s crazy. I’m not good at anything.”

  Leda joined the conversation.

  “You are failing geometry still.”

  Tears welled up in Camille’s eyes.

  “Not as badly as you’re failing at friendship,” I shot back. “At least Camille makes an effort.”

  I sent Leda a scathing glare, accompanied by a mild hex that made her sneeze several times in succession. It took her a couple of minutes to compose herself, and when she did, she ignored me completely.

  “Camille, you’ll find your place here,” I said. “All of us wonder where we belong, or what’s ahead of us. Just because some of these girls think they know what they want doesn’t mean you have to.”

  At least you have a life to plan, I wanted to say.

  “No I won’t.” She ducked her face into her hands, drawing the attention of a few second-years nearby. I waved them off with a low growl, but they only moved away a few steps before turning back to watch from the corners of their eyes. “The only reason Isadora let me in is because … because …”

  She trailed off, her face slowly crumpling. I reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. The floodgates broke.

  “She felt sorry for me!”

  Even Leda’s face seemed sober when I looked at her in question. She forgot to be vexed at me and shrugged. Camille’s wails turned into stuttering, hiccup-like sobs. Unsure of how to comfort her, I patted her shoulder until the crying subsided. The second-years moved away, motivated by the nasty look Leda shot them while they stared. She could silently threaten in a way that I couldn’t. It was admirable, and I thought of asking her for lessons once she’d gotten over her irritation. There was no one in the yard but us now.

  “Camille, surely Isadora wouldn’t let you into Miss Mabel’s just because she felt sorry for you,” I said. Camille pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and patted the tears off her face. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I certainly don’t have the educational requirements,” she said, stuttering through fast breaths as she attempted to recover from crying. “I-I-Isadora said it h-h-herself.”

  The look on Leda’s face that suggested she agreed. I pinched her arm and gave her a threatening glare.

  “Say something nice,” I mouthed.

  “Camille, you’ll find your place here,” she finally said. “Do you trust me?”

  Camille quieted and looked at Leda in surprise.

  “I will?”

  “Yes,” Leda said, conviction in her tone. If Camille hadn’t been so upset, she would have heard the annoyance beneath it. “You will.”

  “Will you–”

  “Absolutely not,” Leda cut her off. “I won’t tell you what it is, or when you’ll figure it out. Discovering it is half the battle, Camille. I won’t take that away from you.”

  It was an incredibly mature thing for Leda to say, especially in light of her preceding heartless remarks, and for a moment I felt like we were a bunch of children trying to pretend like we were adults. But we weren’t, nor were we close to it, and I felt grateful. We really didn’t know anything.

  Camille looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be so emotional.”

  The sun slipped beneath the spiny spires of Letum Wood, casting us in a cool blanket of winter air again and giving me an excuse to break the conversation up. Camille’s fears had stirred up far too many of my own. I didn’t even know if I had a future to be afraid of, and it made me sad.

  What would I do if I lived?

  Eat a dozen cinnamon buns, I decided, trying to cheer myself up. And gobs of frosting.

  “Let’s go inside,” I suggested, uncomfortable with where my thoughts headed. The Esbat, I reminded myself. There’s no reason to plan a future if you can’t even make it past the Esbat.

  The three of us stood and shook off our skirts. Camille finished composing herself while Leda headed for the door, scrolls in hand. She threw it open, leaking the sweet smell of apple spice cake into the cool evening. She fell into a book as soon as we reached the dining room, Camille dropped into a conversation with Jackie, and I sat staring at the fire, my thoughts back where they belonged, twirling around the Esbat and the mounds of homework awaiting me.

  Confidence, Bianca. Confidence.

  The Esbat

  Leda sat across from me, thumping her body onto the chair.

  “You look horrible, Bianca.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, pushing a few bits of egg around my plate. I felt sluggish, like my brain worked underwater. Studying nonstop for the Esbat the past weeks had taken its toll, and the dark funk I lived in settled in my bones.

  Almost done, I told myself. The three weeks are almost done.

  A nightly run through Letum Wood maintained my sanity, but only just. The jaunts were my only adventure, my only out. They were the fingernail grip that kept me holding on wh
en my world felt buried in scrolls and parchment. Although dangerous, the balance the moments of freedom gave me was well worth the price. Besides, Isadora watched on, evidently keeping my secret, for Miss Mabel never mentioned them.

  “I think you look lovely,” Camille said, shooting Leda a reprimanding look. “A bit tired, and pale, and a little peaked,” she clarified with pinched lips. “But lovely.”

  Leda had a newsscroll in hand. She held it like a club, her knuckles turning white. I recognized the title right away.

  The Chatham Chatterer

  Revealing the troubles of Antebellum one edition at a time.

  “Oh no,” Camille whispered under her breath, eyeing the scroll with impressive trepidation. “Here she goes. Leda’s crazy over the news.”

  Leda’s flaring nostrils and pressed lips were all I needed to see. Something had perturbed her. Good. She always provided some relief from my bad moods when she got worked up over something.

  “Anything interesting?” I inquired, hoping to goad her into a reaction. “Good news, perhaps?”

  Camille kicked me underneath the table, and I shot her a dirty glare as my shin smarted. Leda took a deep breath, her skinny shoulders settling down a few inches.

  “No,” she said with haughty disdain. “Is there ever good news with leaders that are such imbeciles?”

  Camille shot me a look of warning, then shook her head once. “Don’t ask anymore,” she mouthed, but Leda was already scrolling through the newspaper, preparing her attack.

  “I hope you’re not talking about the Central Network leaders,” I said in a low tone that was more teasing than earnestness. “I happen to like the High Priestess.”

  “Have you met her?” Leda shot me a pointed glance, already knowing the answer.

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t know if you like her.”

  “Have you met her?” I shot back.

  “No,” she said with a stiff neck, her eyes averted.

  “Then you can’t know if you don’t like her.”

  She scowled at my triumphant expression, finally giving in with a low mutter.

  “Stop encouraging her,” Camille hissed under her breath.

  “Have you read this?” Leda asked both of us, holding it up, already over my victory. “It’s atrocious.”

  “Here, Leda. Eat something.” Camille shoveled a few eggs onto her plate and tossed a golden biscuit at her. “It always makes you feel better.”

  And stops you from talking, I thought.

  “No, I haven’t read it,” I said, attempting unsuccessfully to stab a swollen, round sausage. Finally giving up, I grabbed it off the plate and bit off the end, earning an annoyed look from Camille.

  “Blessed be. Have some decent manners, Bianca,” she muttered.

  “Dane is a fool,” Leda said.

  Camille groaned, scooting a few inches closer to Isabelle, who sat on her other side.

  “Not Dane again!”

  Leda ignored her, grabbed her napkin, and shook it over her lap with a whip so violent it almost snapped my eye. I leaned back and gave her the same dirty glare Camille had given me.

  “Sure, sure,” I muttered, suddenly wary of the storm on Leda’s face. Maybe goading her hadn’t been the best idea after all. “They’re all idiots. You’re going to become a Council Member and teach them a thing or two. I know. I’ve heard it before.”

  “I’ll be a Coven leader first,” she corrected me. “The Coven leader of Chatham City. Then I’ll convince the High Priestess to stand up to Dane and all of the Western Network, and then I’ll save the world.”

  A snort almost escaped me, but I turned it into a cough at the last minute. Leda was from a tiny border village, and she wanted to lead the largest city in the Network? I couldn’t help admiring her ambition, but I feared it as well. Leda looked so certain of herself that I couldn’t help but give her a dose of reality.

  “Dane is going to gather the whole Western Network and start a war with us before you even graduate Miss Mabel’s,” I said, drawing from information I’d read in the past, as well as stories Papa’d been telling me for months. “I think you’ll have to settle on writing the High Priestess a convincing letter to see if she’ll prepare for battle. Maybe they’ll name the war after you. At the very least, I’m sure a few Guardians would sacrifice their life for your honor.”

  A dreamy look came to Camille’s face. For a second, Leda looked as if she was considering my proposal. Sarcasm wasn’t her strong suit. She blanked out long enough for Camille to be startled out of her daydream and cast me a forbidding scowl.

  “No.” Leda shook her head, unable to hide her disappointment when she came back. “That wouldn’t work. There’s no guarantee that the High Priestess would get the letter. I’ll have to think of something else.”

  If the determined set of her jaw meant anything, Leda would do just that.

  “Oh, let’s not talk about this!” Camille said. “Let’s talk about something pleasant, please? Aunt Bettina always talks about politics over breakfast, and I hate it. Don’t make me go through it now that I’m away from that crazy old bat.”

  I ignored Camille. Papa spoke about Dane and his ambitions all the time, and whenever he did, it tied my stomach in knots. Any trouble from the Western Network meant that Papa would have to go and investigate in total secrecy. No news out of the Western Network was good news, especially news of their soon-to-be-leader Dane. A sudden worrisome urge to find out everything I could swooped over me like the fell shadow of a nasty black bird.

  “What does the Chatterer say about Dane?” I asked, ignoring Camille’s desperate pinch on my arm.

  Leda waved the newsscroll toward me without a word, buried in a book titled, Economic History of the Eastern Network. Clearly she was ready to be rid of us, vexed into silence before eating breakfast. It was an accomplishment that made me feel as if the day meant something. The scroll landed against my chest with a heavy thud.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  The Chatham Chatterer was made of a long, thin parchment of surprising resiliency. Most witches bought one newsscroll a year to keep until it wore out. Every time the Chatterer released a new edition, the words would shift on the scroll, so that its owner didn’t have to buy a new paper. Keeping the same parchment for long periods of time reduced waste and cost; it was one of the many ways the current High Priestess devised to save money and spread news quickly, something that had been sorely lacking in the Dark Days.

  I glanced at the edition in the top right corner first. Fresh this morning. The Chatterer wasn’t consistent. Sometimes it could go a week without any new articles, sometimes it would release them twice a day. Checking a newsscroll was the only way to know.

  Leda’s scroll was ripped in a few places and the ink smudged in spots where water must have damaged it. Like the second-hand clothes I’d seen her wear on the weekends, it had seen better days.

  “Where’d you get this?” I asked, carefully skipping past a torn section of the scroll. She flushed and mumbled something about finding it.

  “Leda is the oldest of nine brothers and sisters,” Camille said in a low whisper only I could hear. “They don’t have any money so she nabs newsscrolls from the street or gets them second hand and uses them until they give out. Looks like this one is just about there.”

  I glanced up at Leda in surprise, but the book completely obscured her face. Having been an only child, I couldn’t imagine what a house full of kids would be like. No wonder Leda didn’t like people.

  After muddling through a few headlines, I found the article in question and started to skim it.

  A pair of Protectors following up on a lead found a group of West Guards lost in Letum Wood, near the border crossing of the Central and Northern Network. The West Guards were later reported to be on a trip to the Northern Network for a training mission.

  I skipped past the drivel, searching for any sign of my father in the newsscroll’s words. Nothing. Papa was always
somewhere between the lines, although they never used his name.

  “Notice how they claimed to be on a training mission,” Leda said. “The West Guards don’t need training. They were going to the North to try to make a secret alliance with the Northern Network, I just know it.”

  “Is that why you think Dane is an imbecile?” I asked.

  “No,” Leda snorted, as if I’d offended her. “He’s an imbecile because he shouldn’t look to the North for help. They won’t come down from their mountains to save any of us.”

  The article trailed off into a ramble about the recent history of the Western Network’s volatile relations with the other Networks and a discussion of the Central Network’s plans to increase security along the Borderlands by sending more Guardians. I let the scroll slide shut and handed it back to Leda, disappointed and relieved. Camille just let out a sigh and looked away, humming under her breath while she searched for a safer conversation.

  “Interesting,” I said, handing it back. “Thanks for sharing.”

  “Ooh, look!” Camille cried, grabbing my arm. She waved to the other side of the room, where the beautiful second-year Brianna walked in with a new scarf around her neck. Brianna waved back with a sparkling smile dotted by perfect dimples and settled next to another second-year who stroked the fabric. Camille’s shoulders slumped. “Her mother is always sending her nice things. Bettina would never buy that. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a cape and scarf set like hers?”

  I thought I heard her mutter or a mother under her breath but couldn’t be sure. Leda dropped the Chatterer into her ratty bag with a livid glare.

  “You’ll fawn over fashion but you don’t even care about real problems,” she said in disgust. “We could go to war over this incident.”

  “You’re right,” Camille admitted with no remorse. “I don’t care about the Western Network. But I do want that scarf.”

  I silently applauded Camille’s sudden backbone. Leda glowered at my presumptuous smirk. She finished the rest of the meal in her book and made a point of ignoring us, her wrinkled brow casting a dark shadow over her face. Camille, distracted by a new deck of Diviners’ cards Jackie received that morning, turned her back on both of us, leaving me to myself.