Mrs. Winter was very thorough in her instruction, though I wasn’t sure if her information would be useful to me in real life. She did indeed start at the beginning with me, with basic magical runes every Guardian school child learned in their first year of home instruction. And wasn’t I the luckiest girl in the world that she decided to teach me through embroidery? I was painstakingly embroidering each of these symbols into a sampler using a rainbow of blessed silk thread. Mrs. Winter pronounced my stitches “serviceable, but unimaginative.”
To complete the Guardian nursery school theme, Mrs. Winter drew a large wall chart depicting the chapter on the six ancient Mother Houses, as if every Snipe child didn’t have the various Houses, their associated families, and their symbols memorized by the time they reached working age.
Mrs. Winter insisted I study the house chart for at least thirty minutes each night before bed. She claimed it would help me prepare for the “who’s who” at the parties I would be expected to attend. That education included a complete history of Mrs. Winter’s family, the Brandywines. The Brandywines needed the money the Mountforts provided. The Mountforts needed the Brandywine’s political influence, in addition to herbs for their healing potions. Mrs. Winter was the daughter of the Longbourne branch of the Brandywine clan, raised on an herb farm in Suffolk. Her marriage to Mr. Winter, a descendent of the Mountforts, had been arranged by their fathers to seal yet another connection between the two families. Neither of them seemed particularly unhappy with the arrangement, but it wasn’t a blissful union, either.
All of this effort was supposed to prepare me for my interview at Miss Castwell’s. But despite the changes in wardrobe and table manners, I still felt like the tired, scared Snipe girl on the inside.
“Do stop fidgeting, dear,” Mrs. Winter sighed, bringing me back to the present. Her gaze never wavered from the window. My hands dropped to my lap and I made a concentrated effort not to wring them. “Proper Guardian girls from this sphere are expected to attend Miss Castwell’s. More importantly, they expect to attend Miss Castwell’s. And therefore, as a proper Guardian girl, Cassandra would not be nervous about this interview. Cassandra would see it as a formality before she waltzed into her proper place amongst her peers.”
I nodded, pressing my lips together in a flat, grim line.
“Take a breath. Now.”
I nodded, inhaling deeply through my nose.
“Perhaps without the nostril whistling.”
I resisted the urge to snicker. While I had grown slightly more comfortable with Mrs. Winter, she had made it quite clear during my etiquette lessons that proper young Guardian ladies did not snicker at their beloved aunties. Nor did they talk with their mouths full, accept dances from young men to whom they had not been introduced, or touch another student’s athame without permission. I had these rules copied in tiny, scrupulously neat hand-writing on a series of paper cards that Mr. Winter had provided from his desk. I also made cards for the history of the school and the members of Miss Castwell’s faculty. I pulled the cards from my blue silk reticule and reviewed the faculty cards.
“Reference cards?” Mrs. Winter asked. “How very industrious of you.”
I paused, my hand suspending the card mid-air as I tried to determine whether she was being sarcastic. To my surprise, she offered me a quick wink and said, “I did the same thing before I arrived at Miss Castwell’s, listing the girls from the most prominent families, who I might want to befriend. Just make sure you burn them before the other girls see them. Otherwise, you might come across as ‘disingenuous.’”
“What? Proper young ladies don’t want friendships based on reminder cards?” I feigned horror.
Mrs. Winter smirked. “Well, they certainly don’t want to know their friendships are based on reminder cards.”
Before I could respond, I looked through the glass and caught that dreaded first glimpse of Miss Castwell’s Institute for the Magical Instruction of Young Ladies. We rolled down a long white-gravel drive toward a crescent-shaped building, dotted with enough towers and turrets to make any fairy princess want to toss her hair over a bannister. The great grey stone walls stood five stories, supporting a roof set with green scale-shaped tiles. The building curved around an enormous white marble fountain depicting the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone lifting a cauldron together. The building was topped by an enormous bell tower, with all four corners supported by heavily carved green marble pillars. The green scale-tiled tower roof looked a bit like a traditional witch’s hat, but I wasn’t about to make that observation to Mrs. Winter. The stereotypical cone hat had gone out of fashion centuries ago.
Unlike the carefully manicured grounds at Raven’s Rest, the groundskeeper had allowed the woods to reign here, the tree line creeping toward the school gnarled with outstretched fingers. Ancient stone benches were arranged in clusters here and there between clumps of herbs and flowers. I’d heard that at Palmer’s, the school kept a special kennel for the few boys that brought pet wolves, but here I saw no familiar more exotic than a palomino pony wandering the backlawn.
Young ladies in day dresses of pale green stood out against the drab background, strolling across the velvety lawn, their heads turning to watch the carriage clatter by. They moved in clusters, like birds, their heads bent together as they giggled. Under Mrs. Winter’s orders, Madame Dupont made me a dozen dresses in the same pale spring green muslin prescribed to all Miss Castwell’s students – known as Castwell Green. But I wasn’t allowed to wear the dresses, or the dozens of matching gloves meant to hide my rough hands, until I was accepted into the school.
The girls were allowed to tailor the school “uniform” to their figure and taste, but they were expected use the same color and fabric to keep things “even” for the less fortunate girls whose families had status, but not much else. Mrs. Winter called those girls “social cautionary tales,” and instructed me to avoid them. The girls were watching the carriage door, waiting for the Winter footman to open it and reveal… me. This was my first public appearance as Cassandra Reed. And if I wasn’t mistaken, my breakfast was going to make an encore appearance. I sucked an unsteady breath, clutching my hand to my waist. I felt a firm hand clamp over my shoulder.
“Radicem fortes,” Mrs. Winter murmured.
“I don’t know much Latin,” I whispered back. “Or any at all, really.”
“It’s the Brandywine family motto. It means, ‘Strong roots hold.’”
“But I don’t have roots here.”
“No, but you have something better,” Mrs. Winter countered. “My support. Now, get out of the carriage before the other girls get the impression that you are afraid. Like dogs and bees, adolescent girls scent fear.”
“Could you give me a little push, please?” I asked, wincing when the gentle nudge I expected was replaced by a stinging magical jolt to my backside.
“Thank you,” I murmured through a wince as my expensive shoes hit the ground.
The building seemed to loom even larger from the ground and I couldn’t help but marvel up at the sheer scope of the stone façade. Mrs. Winter hooked her arm through mine, hurrying me along, all the while looking perfectly at ease.
I tugged at the high blue collar that seemed to be tightening around my throat. Madame DuPont had stayed away from exotic laces and embellishments for my wardrobe, keeping to curlicue piping, high collars and the occasional pointed sleeve. Today’s selection was a creamy blue with white-and-blue striped edging at the lapels and matching silk gloves. I might have felt elegant and impressive, but the gloves were damp from the sweat gathering in my palms. Impressive girls surely had dry palms.
Mrs. Winter led me through a wide foyer, set with black-and-white floor tiles and faded emerald trim. A large, dark-stained double staircase led to the second floor, where I could hear the echo of an older woman’s voice as she lectured on the properties of ground moonstone. An oversized frosted glass window bathed the foyer in light, silhouetting a dark, slim figure standing on the l
anding with her hands folded in front of her.
Mrs. Winter curtsied, but just barely. She nodded toward the formidable-looking woman, who was around Mrs. Winter’s age, but wore her iron grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her moss-colored dress was also severely simple, with frog enclosures that kept the crisp collar closed at her throat.
“Cassandra Reed, this is Headmistress Lockwood,” Mrs. Winter said, gesturing to the woman. “Headmistress Lockwood, this is my niece, Cassandra Reed. Your latest pupil.”
Headmistress Lockwood offered an enigmatic smile, the sort that involved stretching your lips over your teeth without actually revealing any of them. “We shall see.”
Without another word, Headmistress Lockwood turned on her heel and walked up two more flights of stairs. Mrs. Winter and I followed, carefully negotiating the stairs in our heavy skirts, on the hope, I supposed, that Headmistress Lockwood actually wanted us to follow. Headmistress Lockwood left the door to her office open, and Mrs. Winter had the grace to take a few deep, recuperative breaths before entering that dimly lit chamber.
I, on the other hand, stopped at the door. What was waiting for me on the inside? Would I have to pass some sort of test? An initiation? Would I have to cast a spell? Drink a potion? Mrs. Winter had tutored me, but her instruction was mostly theory. What if I was turned away from the door before I took my first class? I realized, to my shock, that possibility frightened me far more than the possibility of being exposed as a Snipe upstart fraud. As much as I missed the simple life I’d had as a servant, I wanted to study at Miss Castwell’s. I wanted to know how and why I was able to do magic. I wanted to live life as a magical being. And I couldn’t do that unless I crossed through the door.
I was just in time to hear Headmistress Lockwood’s voice, rounded and burred by a distinct Northern accent. “This is highly irregular, Aneira. Surely, you expected some questions on my part.”
Headmistress Lockwood sat in a heavy, ornately carved chair behind her desk. Mrs. Winter was seated in the leather club chair. She did not look pleased. “Questions, yes. My old friend and mentor casting aspersions on a member of my own family? No. I am telling you, Dora, the girl is of my bloodline and has powerful magic. What more – beyond the substantial donation my husband and I make to this school each year – do you need to admit her?”
I pretended I hadn’t heard that, focusing on the strange furnishings in Headmistress Lockwood’s office with its dark green wallpaper and heavy grey curtains. Every wall was covered in portraits of students past, dating back to the 1600s, when the pre-Restoration institute was only known as Miss Castwell’s School for Young Ladies. Several specimens of exotic plants stood on special stands under bell jars. I leaned close to examine the glowing gold petals of one particularly odd-looking plant. I reached up to touch the glass, the golden flower, whose lovely foliage immediately darkened to brown, reptilian scales.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the Headmistress said, without looking up at me. I glanced down at the golden flower, whose lovely foliage immediately darkened to brown, reptilian scales. The flower expanded and split, revealing row after row of tiny fangs amongst the stamens. The unhinged jaw snapped up, smacking against the glass in its haste to get to my fingertip. I shoved both hands behind my back, straightening and stepping away from the stand. Having missed its opportunity to eat my hand, the plant returned to its charming, shimmering state.
How lovely.
“Drosera aureus,” Headmistress Lockwood said, again without looking at me. She flicked her wrist toward me. A black linen-bound book, The Dark and Dangerous Garden, materialized in my right hand. “One of the first known magical carnivorous plants. Perhaps you could study their origins and save your fingertips. I expect one thousand words, neatly printed, on the plant’s camouflaging and hunting techniques.”
A small stack of writing paper and a fountain pen appeared in my other hand. I bit back the question that immediately came to mind – would I still have to submit the paper if I was not admitted to the institute? Mrs. Winter did not seem upset with my misstep, so I assumed that this was normal behavior from Headmistress Lockwood. Perhaps this was how she heated her office in the winter, by burning stockpiled essays from nosy initiates.
I was not asked to sit, something I was rather accustomed to, so I stood at Mrs. Winter’s shoulder, spine ram-rod straight and the book and paper cradled in my hands.
“Some proof of her pedigree would be nice,” Headmistress Lockwood insisted, not missing a beat as a silver tea service seemed to appear from nowhere on a small wooden table beside Headmistress Lockwood’s desk. She poured a cup for Mrs. Winter.. “And perhaps a school record or two, something that proves that she has had some formal training.”
“I am afraid Cassandra’s mother was very… liberal.” Mrs. Winter sipped her tea, making an almost imperceptibly sour moue with her lips and stirring in sugar. “She insisted that Cassandra be tutored privately at home in Cambridgeshire, but was so demanding that her instructors often quit without notice. As a result, Cassandra’s education is riddled with holes. She will need a specialized class course, allowing for remedial instruction in some basic areas while accommodating her natural gifts.”
Headmistress Lockwood frowned. “I am assuming you have some lesson plans detailing what her tutors taught her?”
“I am afraid those records were destroyed in the fire,” Mrs. Winter lied smoothly. I played my part, looking appropriately distressed at the mention of my “parents” and their tragic, fiery demise; a demise that provided a perfectly legitimate reason for me to transfer schools mid-year with no proof of who I was or what I knew. I twisted my hands around the book, plucking at my gloves as I chewed my lip. Though I didn’t think it was possible, Headmistress Lockwood’s expression softened, just as Mrs. Winter said it would.
“Cassandra, perhaps you should visit the library,” she said, her voice a bit more gentle. “Your aunt mentioned in her letter that you enjoy reading.”
“Yes, ma’am, I would like that very much,” I replied, carefully imitating Mrs. Winter’s sophisticated inflection.
“Morton!” Headmistress Lockwood called into a black funnel shaped object on her desk. A few moments later, an older woman in a tea-leaf colored dress and a frizzed chignon of greying curls glided into the office. The blue architect’s compass embroidered at her sleeves denoted her as a member of Morton family. The Mortons were minor extension of House Drummond, masters of complicated ward construction. Her aquiline features were perfectly placid, but there was a sadness to her deep brown eyes that made me want to put my arms around her. But I was sure that hugging was something severely frowned upon at Miss Castwell’s.
“Headmistress?” Miss Morton asked, clearing her throat and giving Mrs. Winter a deferent nod. “You rang for me?”
“Miss Morton, our librarian,” the headmistress said, waving rather dismissively at the older woman. “Morton, I believe you remember Aneira Winter. This is her niece, Cassandra Reed, who is enrolling rather late in this year’s session. Please take Miss Reed to the library to keep her occupied. When she has completed her essay, let her explore the stacks. Entry-level access only. No advanced subjects.”
Miss Morton gave me a quick once-over and smiled gently, a kind expression that helped wiggle that cold weight from my chest, ever so slightly. “Of course. I would be happy to. Come along, dear. ”
Miss Morton led me along a long black-and-white corridor lined with more student portraits. Her long skirts swished around her ankles. She checked her pocket watch, a blue enameled circle with a Morton House compass on the lid. It was her only ornament, besides a tarnished silver brooch securing a sprig of nightglove, a dark purple hybrid of nightshade and foxglove whose scent encouraged focus and clarity, to her chest. It seemed an odd plant to wear against the murky color of her dress, but given how frazzled she seemed, maybe she needed the boost of concentration.
Thousands of questions sprang to my tongue about the paintings, the various hous
e symbols worked into the crown molding. But I didn’t ask any of them, because I suspected that hallway conversation was also verboten at Miss Castwell’s.
Miss Morton opened the double doors to reveal the library. Rows and rows of bookshelves, floor to ceiling, three stories high, lit by hundreds of cray-fire lamps. We emerged on the landing of the second story, overlooking long rows of worktables on the ground floor. Younger students, some as young as nine or ten, in matching green dresses bent their heads over books, scribbling industriously in their notebooks. Older girls wandered the stacks upstairs, their books floating behind them as if carried by an invisible servant.
I felt conspicuous in my blue gown, as beautiful as it was.
Overhead, a ceiling of stained glass showed the crests of the prominent family Houses against a smoky blue backdrop, composed of little pinpricks of light like elitist constellations – the Drummonds’ black tree against the white background, the Benisse peacock, slightly imbalanced golden scales for the Mountforts, the flaming silver McCray lamp, the heavy brass Cavill hammer splitting a mountain.
The Brandywine crest was a bit more subtle than I’d expected, white apple blossoms with dark leaves and roots. As I was supposed to be a distant Brandywine cousin, Mrs. Winter had asked Madame DuPont to subtly embroider white apple blossoms on some of my dresses and handkerchiefs, and each set of gloves. She’d also given me several small pieces of costume paste jewelry featuring the floral motif. All of the smartest girls did this, Mrs. Winter claimed, sneaking their house sigils in some form into their ensembles to show allegiance to their families and remind their classmates with whom they were dealing.
I wandered closer to the cray-fire lamps, an invention of House McCray, powered by a network of magically charged crystals. They were terribly expensive to create and maintain, due to the amount of magical energy required to keep them lit. Miss Morton murmured that the McCray family had generously donated the lamps more than a century before, with the understanding that the students would be responsible for charging them as part of their coursework.
Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1) Page 6