Little Witches (Schooled In Magic Book 21) Read online

  “Lady Emily,” Lady Damia said. Her voice was quiet, but it echoed through the entire room. “Please allow me to introduce...”

  Emily had never been good with people and names. She’d never found it easy to remember people, even people she knew from school. And yet... she forced herself to listen as Lady Damia introduced the senior tutors. Mistress Greenstone, Gym Mistress, who looked a little like a female Sergeant Harkin. She was intimidating and strong, her robes doing nothing to hide her muscles. Beside her, Mistress Jens - Charms - glanced at Emily and pointedly looked away. Emily guessed she was one of the old guard, the ones who disliked the New Learning on principle. She certainly looked like a snooty aristocratic woman who’d climbed to the top under the old rules, then discovered they’d changed overnight. Mistress Halladale, Alchemy, looked as if she’d been drinking too many of her own concoctions. Her hair stood up as if it had been struck by lightning, while her robes were covered in stains, burn marks and patches that appeared to be on the verge of coming off. Mistress Brier, History, was only a handful of years older than Emily. She gave Emily a sweet smile that hinted they could be friends. And, sitting at the corner, Mistress Allworth - Healing - beamed at her. She looked warm and friendly and strikingly - unusually - overweight.

  “The juniors aren’t here at the moment, save for you,” Damia said. Her eyes swept the room, as if she was looking for someone. “Where’s Nadine?”

  Emily frowned, feeling something nudging at the back of her mind. She knew the name, but from where? She made a mental note to consider it later, when she had a moment. Right now, she needed her wits around her. The staff might look like an odd and diverse group, but she knew they’d be leaders in their field. None of them would feel inclined to welcome her, at least until she’d proven herself. There was no room for dangerously incompetent teachers in magical schools.

  “She’s giving some of the girls a little extra tutoring,” Mistress Brier said. “They had detention last week and missed their flying lesson.”

  “I see,” Damia said, in a tone that promised trouble for the absent teacher. “They had detention for good and sufficient reason.”

  “It was just a little prank,” Mistress Greenstone said. “They shouldn’t lose their chance to fly in formation...”

  Emily did her best to follow the discussion as it raged around the room - it had the air of an argument that had been hashed out so many times the people involved were doing it out of habit, rather than any real urge to win. The stricter teachers seemed to agree with Mistress Greenstone, somewhat to Emily’s surprise. The alchemist was the only one who openly agreed with Lady Damia, pointing out the danger of pranks in classrooms.

  “And Clarice was caught hexing a boy,” Mistress Greenstone said. “Will I be seeing her tonight?”

  “So I’m told,” Damia said. Her tone didn’t change. “She is also barred from visiting the town for the next two weeks.”

  “The students shouldn’t be allowed to visit the town at all,” Mistress Jens said, curtly. “We and they are not compatible...”

  Emily blinked as Mistress Brier beckoned her over. “They’ve had the same argument every day for the last year,” Mistress Brier said. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I’ll try,” Emily said. She had the feeling she’d come into the argument halfway. “What are they arguing about?”

  Mistress Brier winked. “Jens feels that we magicians should have nothing to do with the mundanes,” she explained. “We should lay claim to the magical places and let them scrabble over the rest, leaving us alone. Damia thinks that tradition is tradition and therefore shouldn’t be changed, for any reason whatsoever. It’s quite silly, really.”

  Emily said nothing. She’d met a few magical supremacists, magicians who believed they were inherently superior to the magicless mundanes, but... it was disturbing to find one in a position of influence. She told herself not to be silly. There’d been teachers at Whitehall who felt the same way, although none of them had advocated banning the students from Dragon’s Den. Or had they...? It wasn’t as if she’d been privy to private discussions amongst the tutors, even when they’d made her Head Girl. They hadn’t involved her in their arguments.

  That won’t happen at Heart’s Eye, she promised herself. They’ll have to learn to get along.

  “It’s good to meet you at last,” a new voice said. She turned to see Mistress Allworth. The older woman graced her with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Emily flushed. “Most of the stories are lies...”

  “But you did defeat the necromancers,” Mistress Allworth said. “I hear it’s just a matter of time before the Blighted Lands become the Unblighted Lands.”

  “Very witty, Mistress,” Mistress Brier said. She sounded irked, although Emily couldn’t tell why. “I’m sure your students will be hurrying there to heal the land.”

  “All in good time, my dear, all in good time,” Mistress Allworth said. She smiled at the younger teacher, then looked at Emily. “Lady Barb spoke highly of you. She said you’d have made a good healer, if you’d been inclined to study the art.”

  “My talents lay elsewhere,” Emily said. The lessons had been interesting, and she’d enjoyed putting her skills to use, but the more advanced healing magics demanded total commitment from would-be healers. She would have had to take an entire flock of binding oaths if she’d wanted to become one in her own right. “I don’t have the patience or empathy to become a good healer.”

  “They’re not easy to learn,” Mistress Allworth agreed. “And half the time, the patients won’t listen or unbend in front of you, no matter how you encourage them.”

  Emily nodded, unsure what to say. She felt trapped, even though she could turn and walk away... except she couldn’t. Lady Damia had brought her to the staffroom... Emily couldn’t help feeling she’d been thrown to the wolves. She would have preferred to meet the teachers one on one, perhaps when she patrolled the corridors or assisted in their classes. There was no point in looking to Lady Damia for help. The argument behind her was still going on. It sounded as if the two teachers were on the verge of hexing each other.

  “Don’t be too upset with Lady Damia,” Mistress Allworth said, quietly. “She wasn’t too pleased to lose her assistant so quickly, let alone having to break in another one at such short notice.”

  “If she’s getting to be too much, feel free to call on me,” Mistress Brier said. “We can have a drink together and commiserate.”

  Emily forced herself to pick a new topic. “Do you study the school’s history?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mistress Brier’s face lit up. “I’ve been researching it ever since I was a student myself. There was a time, back during the wars, when a lot of primary material was lost or deliberately destroyed. I think it might have been when the Redoubt was also destroyed, although I don’t know. There’s a handful of documents that talk about the Redoubt being destroyed a great deal earlier, but a couple of those are clearly forgeries pushing an agenda.”

  She smiled. “And that was so long ago that no one knows what their agenda might have been.”

  Emily allowed herself to relax, just a little, as Mistress Allworth withdrew. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Mistress Brier said. “Like I said, much of the primary material has been lost, but... there are hints within the archives that something pretty bad happened before the paperwork was destroyed. I’ve been trying to convince the Old Woman to let me search the Redoubt for clues. Maybe you’d have better luck...”

  “That didn’t work out too well at Whitehall,” Emily said. “They made a dreadful mistake when they opened the old tunnels.”

  “So I heard,” Mistress Brier said. “I studied under Professor Locke, back when I was an apprentice historian. He was very keen to dig up the past.”

  “Burying it again proved difficult,” Emily commented. Whitehall had nearly been destroyed before they’d figured out how to repair the damaged spell
work. “You have to be careful.”

  “I’m very careful,” Mistress Brier said, playfully. “Do you want to come see my notes?”

  “I’m afraid Emily has other work this evening,” Damia said. “But I’m sure she’ll be happy to study your notes in a week or two.”

  Emily started, halfway to casting a spell before she caught herself. She hadn’t sensed the older woman walking up behind her. She’d been so engrossed in the conversation that... she kicked herself, silently, as she turned around. She should have been more careful. Much more careful. The cozy room was lulling her into a false sense of security.

  “You should come meet the others,” Damia said. “This’ll be the only chance to meet them before classes resume tomorrow.”

  “I know,” Emily said. She felt nervous, despite everything. “I’m just not good with people.”

  Damia gave her an odd look. “And I was informed you wanted to be a teacher?”

  Emily kept her expression under tight control as Damia led her from teacher to teacher, all of whom tried to make conversation with her. The discussions ranged from the latest alchemical papers - which she hadn’t read - to politics, with the disposal of the Blighted Lands and the remaining necromancers on the top of the list. Emily did her best to keep her answers noncommittal, reluctantly aware they were sounding out her opinions on the topic. She had no idea who was moving to claim the new territories, save for Cat; she had no claim to the lands and no way to keep newcomers from moving in and staking claims. There was certainly no way to know when, if ever, the Blighted Lands would be safe for permanent habitation.

  She’d never really considered what teachers might talk about, in their private moments. She was amused, yet disillusioned, to discover that most of it was banal. They chatted about everything from their charges - students with potential, students with problems - to the weather. Mistress Brier appeared to believe there were spells to meddle with the weather safely, although none had been tried in living memory. The power requirements were just too high.

  They can charge up a dozen batteries and use them to power the spell, Emily thought. She had no idea what would happen if someone tried. The weather was such a complex system that it was quite possible the results would be unpredictable. Perhaps it would be better not to suggest it.

  Her heart lifted in relief they moved into the next room, where dinner was waiting. The atmosphere was surprisingly informal, although she was starting to make out hints of factions amongst the teachers. She supposed they weren’t as solid as factions elsewhere, if only because Laughter had fewer teachers. There were only twenty, plus a handful of other staff. Emily had the feeling the school was undermanned.

  There are fewer students too, she reminded herself. The documents had stated there were no more than two hundred students at any one time. They don’t need a hundred teachers to keep the girls in line.

  She frowned. Her stomach churned. She’d walked into a necromancer’s lair and come out alive - she’d done it several times now - but she hadn’t felt so nervous. Things had been simpler, she thought, when she’d had to kill or be killed. Now... she had to teach students, some who would look up to her and some who would challenge her, just so they could boast they’d stood up to the Necromancer’s Bane. She wasn’t looking forward to it at all. The slightest mistake could haunt her for the rest of her life.

  You wanted to be a teacher, her thoughts mocked. Remember?

  Chapter Nine

  When she awoke, Emily felt disorientated.

  SHE SAT UP, GLANCING AROUND IN alarm. Where was she? Void’s tests had often started with her going to sleep in one room and waking to find herself somewhere else. A flash of panic ran through her, only to be dimmed when she remembered everything that had happened the previous day. She’d travelled to Laughter, she’d met her fellow teachers and she’d listened as Lady Damia tried to cover a week’s worth of information in a few short hours. Emily’s head felt as if someone had tried to cram a small library into her skull. She clambered out of bed, cursing under her breath as she stumbled into the washroom and turned on the shower in hopes it would wake her up.

  Daylight streamed through the window as she walked back into the chamber and found a robe in the wardrobe. It was long and black and made her look like a crow, she thought, as she pulled the robe over her head and allowed it to spill to the floor. The robe came with a sash - rather than a belt - and a surprising amount of pockets, all charmed to be bigger on the inside. It clung to her skin without - somehow - revealing any of her curves. She discovered, as she started to walk around the room, that it also allowed her more freedom of movement than a typical dress.

  No underwear, she thought, puzzled. The robe was charmed to act like a makeshift bra, providing all the support she needed, but she wasn’t comfortable without underwear. No socks either.

  She frowned as she pulled on underwear and socks she’d brought from the tower, then headed down to the dining hall. Damia had given her a brief tour of the important places, promising to show her the rest later. The corridors felt cold, cold and empty, as she walked down the stairs. It was easy to believe she was alone, at least until she stepped into the hall itself. A handful of girls, ages ranging from sixteen to twenty-two, sat at the tables, eating breakfast. Mistress Brier sat at the high table. She waved to Emily as she entered. Emily shrugged inwardly, then joined her.

  “Make sure you eat plenty,” Mistress Brier warned, waving at a pair of girls. One of them collected a tray of food from the kitchen window and carried it over to Emily. “The hall is closed when the bell rings and not reopened until lunchtime. You don’t want to be hungry in the middle of the morning, not when you’re trying to teach.”

  Emily nodded, too nervous to eat. There were more and more girls flowing into the room, taking their places at the six lower tables. She guessed there was a table for each year, but - beyond that - no formal seating order. It was easy to pick out the popular kids, sitting together while the unpopular kids sat alone. She felt a twinge of sympathy as she spotted a young girl at the end of her table, as far as she could get from the others without actually sitting on the floor. The poor kid was completely isolated. Emily’s heart went out to her.

  She frowned as she spotted the girls who’d accosted her in Pendle entering the room. They were carrying small parchments in their hands - chat parchments, Emily guessed. Their eyes went wide as they saw her, a mixture of fear and defiance flashing over their faces before they sat at the head of their table. They looked to be surrounded by cronies, just like Alassa and Melissa before they’d grown up. Emily wondered why the girls below hadn’t grown up yet, then shrugged. In her experience, the kids who were popular at school were rarely successful in later life. They’d already peaked, socially speaking. Not, she admitted sourly, that the prospect made their victims feel any better...

  “Monday is always a slow day,” Brier explained. “The majority of the girls spent the weekend in Pendle or the Silent Woods. A handful even went further afield with Mistress Greenstone. They know they should go to bed early, but they don’t. They never seem to learn.”

  Emily nodded, forcing herself to eat. The bacon and eggs were overcooked. The bowl of... something - she was tempted to call it gruel - was so thin as to be almost tasteless. She ate it anyway, then signaled for seconds. The serving girls replaced the tray quickly. Emily felt oddly guilty for bothering them, even as she tucked into the second helping and drank her Kava. That, at least, was strong. She suspected the girls probably needed it. They’d be in real trouble if they nodded off during class. So would she. She stuck some food in her pockets for later. It looked as if she wasn’t the only one.

  Her eyes lingered on the girls from Pendle. They were eating, but also scribbling away on their chat parchments. Emily frowned. Whitehall had banned chat parchments in class. It had also tried to ban them for junior students, but the ban had proven impossible to enforce. The parchments had never been easy to find. And besides... she was surprised the
girls were chatting away so blatantly. She’d have found herself in hot water if she’d tried that at Whitehall.

  They’re not in class, she reminded herself, curtly. They can do whatever they like as long as they’re not disturbing anyone.

  Brier grinned at her as she pushed her plate aside. “You looking forward to your first class?”

  “I feel like I’m walking to my own execution,” Emily said. Her stomach churned. “It isn’t going to be fun.”

  “My first class was a total disaster,” Brier told her. “I thought Lady Damia was going to sack me on the spot. And... it got better. You’ll find there are some students who’ll take to your subject like a duck to water, the ones you can inspire by talking, and some who’ll do their level best to pass so they don’t have to see you again. They can be annoying, because they won’t so much as look at the topic again once they leave, but you learn to tolerate them.”

  Emily frowned. “And that leaves?”

  “Students who set out to cause trouble,” Brier said. Her face darkened. “Some will be pranking their fellows almost constantly. Others will be challenging you, trying to get under your skin. Don’t expect your reputation to protect you. They’ll poke and prod at you until you explode if you give them half a chance.”

  “You make them sound like animals,” Emily said, doubtfully.

  “They’re growing up, trying to find their places in the world,” Brier said. “And challenging authority, sorry to say, makes them look good in front of their peers.”

  “I see,” Emily said.

  “Just don’t let them get on top of you,” Brier said. “Come see me, after classes end for the day. We’ll have a drink and swap war stories.”

  Emily had to laugh as she returned her gaze to the students. She’d never been that good at reading social class, let alone where students stood in the school’s unofficial hierarchy, but the clues were there. The girls all wore the same uniforms - gray for juniors, black for seniors - but some wore finer clothes than others. They’d be from magical or aristocratic families. It was hard to be sure, yet Emily was sure a third of the firsties were newborn magicians. They looked unsure of themselves, their faces wan as they looked around the giant hall. Laughter had to seem like heaven, if they’d grown up in poor families. She shuddered, wondering if the school provided lessons to ensure the newcomers knew how to navigate magical society. Whitehall only provided them upon request.