Pennyroyal Academy

by M. A. Larson

  “But it’s not Anisette’s fault!” said Evie.

  “Eves. Enough.”

  Anisette limped across the wall walk past the Fairy Drillsergeant. Down below, Captain Ramsbottom shouted at the knights in an attempt to restore order, but up on the wall, the only sound was the steady huffing of Evie and Malora.

  Evie found Maggie’s eyes, but there was only helplessness there. Anisette paused next to her, at the head of the stairs, and turned back. She was crying. A small circle of red had already started to rise from a knock on her forehead. She laid her hand across her heart, smiled through her tears, and vanished down the staircase.

  WITH HER HANDS interlocked behind her, Princess Beatrice glowered at the two girls standing in front of her desk.

  Evie’s eyes hadn’t left the floor since she and Malora had been summoned, but she could feel Beatrice’s glare, and knew she deserved it. Her dress was torn, and so soon after Rumpledshirtsleeves had given her thread to repair the damage from the night she had returned to the Academy. She tried to conceal her left hand with her right, but the stains of dried blood seemed to be everywhere. A tangle of hair fell across her eye, but she left it; at least it prevented her from seeing the girl standing next to her. The girl who had just gotten one of her only friends discharged from the Academy.

  The door snapped open and Evie jumped. “Discharge papers, Mum,” said Liverwort. She strode to the desk, knocking into Evie as she did, and set two parchments atop the heap of clutter.

  The Headmistress walked deliberately around her desk, lips pursed. She stepped in front of Evie and Malora and let her hard blue eyes linger on each of them. Then, like a viper, she snatched up Evie’s scarred and bloodied hand. “Is this the hand of a princess?”

  Evie grimaced. “No, Headmistress.”

  Beatrice threw her hand down and turned to Malora. “And you. Would the Queen be proud of your actions today?”

  Malora’s eyes fell to the worn beams of the floor. She didn’t respond.

  “Cadet Anisette is gone, and quite rightly so,” said the Headmistress, and Evie finally placed the particular tone she heard in Beatrice’s voice. It wasn’t anger or disappointment; it was disgust. “I see little reason to keep either of you—”

  The door flew open and a woman entered, her face drawn in urgent concern. “Malora?”

  “Mother!” She ran to the woman’s arms. Beatrice opened her mouth to protest, but stopped herself. Evie studied Malora’s mother. She had clearly been a staggering beauty in another life, and had aged into the cold elegance of a porcelain vase. She had eyes as dark as her hair, which spilled over a shawl that was wrapped around her shoulders like a web around a fly.

  “I assure you, Headmistress, this is not how I raised her.”

  “Yes, well,” said Beatrice, “you have long been a friend to this institution, Countess Hardcastle, for which we are forever in your debt . . .”

  Evie stood transfixed by this woman, this Countess Hardcastle. The others kept talking, but she was so deeply mesmerized that she heard none of it. There was something about Malora’s mother . . . a strange familiarity . . . a nagging sensation that perhaps they had met somewhere before. And the longer she studied that face, the more certain she became.

  She reached behind her for a chair, for something to lean on, but before she could steady herself, she was rocked by a memory so clear and total that it eclipsed everything else . . .

  It was her, the younger Evie, from her very first recovered memory in the Infirmary. She stood in a cozy room with a wood-burning stove, an oaken table, and two grimy windows flanking a heavy door. The walls were covered in cabinets and hooks and all manner of cookery gear. It was dark and warm, and she was about to take a bite from a golden-crusted pie . . .

  The memory faded, and she was back in Beatrice’s office, disoriented and dizzy—

  But another came right after the first. A bear of a man with a hearty smile in light mail armor. She had seen him before as well, only as a wisp of a vision after one of her treatments, and never so clearly as this. He sat atop a huge white palfrey with black mane and hooves. And she sat behind him, the young version of herself, clutching him around his thick middle, grinning ear to ear . . .

  Words began to mix with memories and reality, and all she could do was stand there and stare at Countess Hardcastle and wait for it to stop. “. . . but fighting another cadet,” came the muted voice of Princess Beatrice, “that is something a Princess of the Shield would never do . . .”

  Another memory now. A stately manor of white plastered walls crisscrossed with deep brown timbers nestled high above a valley. The walls were punctuated with large, iron-framed windows. Two redbrick chimneys spired from opposite ends of the roof like horns—

  And another: two little girls running through a meadow near a wood. One was Evie. The other had long, black hair—

  “. . . and here is the other player in our great drama. May I introduce Cadet Eleven . . .”

  Hardcastle’s eyes, the dark umber of rust, met Evie’s. There was a flicker of recognition, but she couldn’t place Evie, either—

  The memories came faster now. Countess Hardcastle, ten years younger, slipping a pie from the wood-burning stove. Evie was there watching as she set it on a stone to cool—

  Little Evie throwing a ball of snow at the great bearded man. He roared with laughter, then dropped a scoop of white flakes over younger Hardcastle’s head—

  Evie and the black-haired girl sitting on either side of Hardcastle as she taught them to play a harp . . .

  Evie’s eyes bored into Hardcastle’s as the memories started to pool together like liquid mercury.

  “What are you doing?” said Malora. She had finally noticed the peculiar looks Evie and Hardcastle were giving each other. Evie turned to her now, and another memory came—

  The black-haired girl climbing into a small larchwood bed next to Evie’s. She turned with a smile, and there was simply no question. This was Malora, ten years ago . . .

  Evie’s face went white. Her eyes swung back to Countess Hardcastle . . .

  “Mother?”

  No one spoke. Then, in a faint whisper, Hardcastle said, “Nicolina?”

  “What’s she talking about?” said Malora. Despite the hint of panic in her voice, everyone ignored her.

  Evie was staggered. That word—Nicolina—was so foreign, yet so entirely loaded with meaning. Beatrice caught Liverwort’s eye and flicked her head, sending her assistant scurrying for the door.

  “Countess,” she said. “Do you mean to say you know this girl?”

  “I should say so, Headmistress,” she replied, her voice soft with wonder. “This girl is called Nicolina, and she is . . .” She nearly choked on the word. “She is my daughter.”

  The next few minutes blurred past. Beatrice ushered Evie into a private room adjoining her office. She collapsed into a plush chair and listened to Malora’s frantic voice muffled through the door. Beatrice poured her a cup of passionflower tea, and her mind seemed to go blank after that . . .

  “My darling Nicolina, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  Evie looked down at her hands. They were enveloped inside Countess Hardcastle’s. I must have fallen asleep, she thought, but, then, why isn’t this a dream? She glanced around and found Beatrice and Liverwort huddled over a massive tome with ancient, brittle pages. Sure enough, everything that had just happened was as real as the scars on her hand.

  “Would you mind calling me Evie?” she croaked. Her voice was dry, like the pages of the book.

  “Of course, my darling, whatever you prefer.”

  Thank goodness. I couldn’t bear changing my name again. She felt as though she should say something, to explain somehow this incredible thing that had just happened, but her mind was blank. She glanced up at Hardcastle, cringing when she saw her muted smile. How could this w
oman—spindly, hard-edged, and pale as fog—possibly be her mother?

  “Registry of Peerage proves it. That there’s Countess Hardcastle’s little one,” proclaimed Liverwort.

  “Peerage?” said Evie. “But isn’t that for the highborn?”

  “If you please, Countess,” said Beatrice, motioning to the ancient book. Liverwort stepped aside, and Hardcastle scrawled her mark with a quill, which she then handed to Beatrice to witness. Once the Registry had been updated, Liverwort closed the cover, tucked the book under her arm, and exited.

  “Young lady, it is quite right you should be confused,” said the Headmistress. “You were cursed at some point in your young life, and it stripped away your every memory.” Hardcastle returned to the chair across from her, but Beatrice remained standing. “This woman is your mother, and you are terribly fortunate for that. She’s a fine woman, a true friend of the Academy.”

  “Thank you, Headmistress, you are most kind.” Now that some of the initial shock had worn away, Evie could hear the same silky ribbon running through Hardcastle’s voice that was present in Malora’s. “Your sister is quite . . . unsettled by all of this, as you can imagine. The physicians said she had blocked all memory of you when you went missing, and I had always believed that to be for the best.” She shook her head, her eyes haunted. “I couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling such grief as I had. She had found her own way round the pain, and for that I was eternally grateful. My only wish was for her to be able to live as a normal girl.” Beatrice put a hand on Hardcastle’s shoulder. Her smile was tinged with sadness. “Tell me, Nicolina—er, Evie . . . is there nothing you remember?”

  Evie seemed to remember many things all of a sudden. More in the last hour than in all the rest of her time at the Academy. But most were only flickers of things—faces and places and images—but nothing of substance.

  “Quite often in cases such as these, a sudden event will jar loose other memories,” said Beatrice. “Take a moment. Breathe. Think back.”

  Evie inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, only too happy to escape the scrutiny of that room. After a moment, a scene began to form from the black of her mind. It had the same disconcerting familiarity of all the other memories . . .

  She was in that small kitchen, the one with the dingy windows. Only now, she was actually there. The room felt wide and deep and safe and warm. The slate floor was scattered with lavender-scented rushes, and the windows weren’t dirty, but layered with frost on the outside. Other scents filled the room, warm smells of baking and stewing. She was really there, a little girl, in that kitchen with her mother.

  She had just placed a wedge of white cheese into a lashed straw basket, and was waiting for more. Hardcastle, softer and younger and lighter behind the eyes, wrapped a small pie in linen, then handed it to her daughter. Evie gave her a cheeky, sidelong glance, then took the steaming pie from its sleeve.

  “Aha, young lady, it may be your birthday, but you must still wait ’til you get there.”

  “One bite?”

  Hardcastle gave her a stern look that the little girl knew wasn’t real. “All right,” she said, breaking into a smile. “But only one.”

  Evie shoved the pie into her mouth and bit off a huge piece. As she struggled to keep it from spilling onto the floor, Hardcastle laughed with delight. “You’re a naughty one.”

  The big bearded man barreled into the room. He had a voice ripe with laughter and authority, cheeks permanently reddened from hours on horseback, and a twinkle in his eye for the little girl with the basket. “Pie, is it?” he bellowed, grabbing it out of Evie’s hands. He took a huge bite of his own, and just like that, half of it was gone.

  “Daddy!” she said, admonishing him.

  “There won’t be any left for the picnic,” said Hardcastle, putting the rest in the basket.

  “All right, all right.” He wrapped his thick arms around Hardcastle and pulled her tight. “You’re certain you don’t mind, my lovely?”

  “No,” she said, then pecked him on the lips. “You must go. We’ve been promising this one her birthday picnic for weeks, haven’t we?”

  “My stars, is it someone’s birthday?” he roared, releasing Hardcastle and scooping Evie off the floor. She giggled with delight as he swung her through the air.

  “Your map to the picnic ground,” said Hardcastle. She handed him a rolled parchment. “And your expertly packed picnic.” She hung the handle over his forearm. “And, please, don’t worry about Malora. I’ll find a way to break that fever.”

  He raised the parchment like a sword and aimed it at the door. “Very well, then, let’s be off . . . for adventure!” And he charged out into the biting autumn air.

  Hardcastle squatted down and embraced Evie, then looked at her with a mother’s bittersweet awareness of the passage of time. “My little girl, five years old already. All our plans will one day come and go, won’t they?” Little Evie kissed her mother’s cheek, then galloped to the door . . .

  “Ah, yes,” came a distant voice. “King Callahan.”

  Evie opened her eyes, as disoriented as if she had woken from a deep sleep. It took her a moment to realize that she had been recounting the memory aloud. Everything had felt so vivid and so real . . .

  “What a lovely man was he,” said Hardcastle.

  “She’s on an aggressive treatment plan, Countess, and more memories should return as the days pass. But I’m afraid for now I must cut this wonderful reunion short.”

  “What?” said Evie. “But we’ve only just—”

  “I know this is all quite strange for you, Cadet, but you must understand that we deal in recovered memories as a matter of course. It’s best you continue your training as before and let the memories sort themselves out. There will be plenty of time for reunions after term.”

  “It’s all right, my darling,” said Hardcastle, rising from her chair. “I’m content in the knowledge that for the first time since your fifth birthday, I know where you are.”

  “One last thing, if you please, Countess.”

  “Of course.”

  Beatrice looked down at Evie. “As I said to Cadet Malora, you have now used your final chance. Should I see you in my office again, it will be with discharge papers in hand. Am I quite clear?”

  “Does that mean Anisette gets to stay as well?” asked Evie.

  “Former cadets are no longer your concern.”

  No longer my concern, thought Evie. One of my very best friends is no longer my concern. It was all she could do to keep from crying.

  After a protracted series of hugs and farewells, Beatrice enlisted one of the Academy’s administrators, a young princess only a few years removed from graduation called Princess Rahden, to escort Evie back to her barracks. But Evie was so shaken by everything that had just happened that she didn’t say a word the entire hike across Hansel’s Green. And, somehow, when she stepped inside, Hazelbranch already seemed to know about her new family situation. She took Evie’s hand and led her through the empty barracks. When they passed Anisette’s bunk, Evie’s heart broke anew. There was her ball gown, draped over its dress form. It was sloppy and poorly constructed—Anisette had never done well at Rumpledshirtsleeves’s lessons—but it was hers, and now she would never have the chance to finish it.

  Hazelbranch took Evie into the latrine, then sat her down on a stool in front of the mirror. Using scalding water from a bucket, she began to scrub away the dirt, the blood, and the tears that were all that remained from the fight.

  “Your ball gown is coming along nicely,” she said. “Rumpledshirtsleeves has really developed your talents.” She took a boxwood comb off the countertop and began unsnarling Evie’s hair. “I suspect, however, that there might be more on your mind than fashion.”

  “I already have a sister and I don’t want another. Especially one as vile as Malora.”

  Haz
elbranch smiled as she began running the comb from root to tip. It felt like music, so smooth was her technique.

  “Why? Why is she still here and Anisette isn’t?”

  “Perhaps there’s something inside her we haven’t seen yet.” The delicate comb clinked on the stone, and she started to pull Evie’s hair into loose strands. “That’s the way it is with people, you know. When I was a girl, my mother died quite unexpectedly. She meant the world to me. To my father as well. But in his grief, he consented to marry another. She was a dreadful woman, and her dreadful daughters became my stepsisters. They lived to torment me. Each morning I’d wake and wonder what I’d done to make them hate me so. Eventually I came to see that I hadn’t done anything at all. Something somewhere in their lives had hurt them—I could see that even if they couldn’t—and I made up my mind to treat them decently, as others so clearly hadn’t.” Evie studied her in the mirror. She could live to be a thousand years old and she’d never be as kind as Hazelbranch. It seemed to come naturally, as though it was a part of her, like hair or skin.

  “Each of us is blessed with the ability to control our own decisions,” she continued, “but cursed with the inability to control the decisions of others. I couldn’t do a thing about the way they treated me, but I got to choose the way I treated them. And do you know what happened? As we grew into adulthood, one of those wicked stepsisters became the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Evie scowled and looked to the floor. She had no interest in being the bigger person. She despised Malora, and was comfortable in her anger. “It isn’t fair. Of all the people here . . .”

  “Life isn’t fair, Evie. It never has been and it never will be. You can sit back and moan about its unfairness while the witches roll across the countryside, or you can pick yourself up and get on with it.”

  She took a step back, and Evie’s eyes went to the glass. The girl staring back at her was a stranger. Where moments ago there had been a rough, filthy girl streaked with blood and grime, now sat the most beautiful version of herself she had ever seen. Hazelbranch had plaited her hair into a delicate braid across the top of her head like a crown. Comets of wispy brown fell behind her ears.