Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(19)

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 house 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.