Pegasi and Prefects (8 page)

“Lizards turned into dragons?” murmurs Corona.

Gladys wheels on her. “What’s so silly about that? Elves visiting Earth to bring us magic is just as silly. Why on earth would they turn up, give us all magical gifts, and then go away again?”

Miss Spears gives the dreamy, slightly smug smile of a teacher who feels she is at last provoking lively discussion and now all she has to do is guide our growing minds in the right direction. “That’s the wonderful mystery of magical history. These stories of unearthly visitors bearing magic appear with minor variations in all the known nations of the world. What do you say about all the stories of young men and women from all over the world who were drawn into woods and deserts to dance with strangers of unearthly beauty, and came back forever changed, with the ability to cast illusions or fireballs?”

Gladys snorts. “Stories.”

“What about the babies with pointed ears and round eyes?” Corona leans forward in her chair. “Our book said there are no pictures of them dating from before the elves came. And the babies had to come from somewhere.”

“I can think of a reason someone would pretend to have a baby by magic. What does that say anyway, that elves came to our world just to seduce innocent girls and breed?” Gladys shoots back at her.

“Girls, girls! No need to be indelicate.” Miss Spears crosses the classroom, in a kind of gliding wriggle I’m sure she thinks is graceful. That woman wears far too many scarves and brooches. “It’s true that it seems some elves took the form of humans of incredible loveliness to—to
marry
humans of special ability and quality. These humans naturally rose to prominence, because of their attractions and powerful gifts, and passed these on to their lucky families.” She self-consciously tucks her hair back behind her left ear, so that we all can’t help but notice the little point at the tip “It’s true that people of specially pure elfin blood tend to have a special quality to them, with the obvious signs: pointed ears, large round eyes, and often unusual colouring.”

She pauses by Rosalind Hasting’s desk, and takes Rosalind’s chin in her hand. The poor girl stares very hard past Miss Spear’s pointed ear, pretending to be supremely unconscious that a classroom of girls are now staring at her silver-grey plaits, the huge eyes behind her spectacles, and the sharp cat-like points of her ears. It’s dreadful, like watching a kitten freeze in the hope of not disturbing the tin can tied to its tail. I’m sure that at any moment she’ll lose her nerve and bolt from this awful woman. I have a terrible urge to get up and rescue her.

“Those us of with a strong strain of elfin blood bear a special responsibility,” Miss Spears says. It strikes me as a bit rich to claim sisterhood, considering her ears are not nearly so pointed as Rosalind’s and I’m not convinced the slight blue sheen to her black hair is entirely natural.

Gladys makes another explosive sound. “If that’s so, then every two-bit actress who dyes her hair pink and sleeps with pegs on her ears is an aristocrat.”

Miss Spears stiffens and draws herself up, tweaking her hair back over her ear, as some of the other girls snicker a little.

Oddly enough it is Diana, who usually speaks up about as much in class as I do, who cuts in before than can be an explosion. “The elves aren’t gone altogether, though. You can still reach them.” She clasps her hands together.

“That’s nonsense, sadly. The days of elfish miracles are long over.” Miss Spears sighs, theatrically. Myself, I’m pretty sure that elves would be uncomfortable folk to have around, given the tricks they were rumoured to play.

Kitty from the Fifth leans forward. “It’s a silly idea, but some people really believe it. Some of Daddy’s friends are trying to find a way to swing it. They think that if you can focus enough power, and use rituals to enhance it, then you can open a conduit—and the elves will give you even more power in return. You could unlock all the magical gifts in one person at once, like the elves could.” She twirls a finger in one of her red-gold curls. “Idiots.” There’s amusement in her lilting Scottish voice.

Miss Spears moves to the front of the classroom again. She has suddenly lost her airs and graces; her expression is very serious. “Kitty is right: it’s a very silly idea indeed. There’s no human with power enough to breach the gap between the human world and the elfish world—if an elfish world even exists,” she adds, in careless contradiction of everything she has just been saying. “Rituals and so-called magical items are, as I expect you all to know, frauds. They are people dressing up their innate gifts with worthless gewgaws, or snake oil salesmen trying to persuade those of little talent that they can possess more. Magic is an intrinsic, beautiful thing, and each man—or woman’s—special gifts emerge as they mature. There is no way to increase your natural power.”

Diana opens her mouth to protest, and Miss Spears’ voice becomes harsh.

“I’d be doing you girls a great disservice as your teacher if I allowed you think there was any way to become more powerful. After all, the elves—or God—decided in their wisdom that one or two gifts were enough for mere humans, lest we become too powerful and challenge the angels themselves.”

Diana shakes her perfect waves of hair, her brow still creased obstinately. “But what about Drainers?”

Miss Spears’ shoulders stiffen. She arranges her scarves more carefully around her shoulders as she speaks. “It is true,” she says coldly, “that some unfortunate individuals have no true magical gifts of their own, and can only absorb those of others. This is not, however, a gift to be fostered. I would like to remind you all that Draining without consent is entirely illegal—as well as deeply dishonourable.” She pauses and then says, in the same sharp tones, “That is enough for today, girls. Head out for your break.”

There’s still a good quarter of an hour left of lesson time, but we are nothing loath to escape. As we head for the Dining Room to see if the milk and biscuits for morning break can be wheedled out of the kitchen staff early, I notice Diana take a hesitant step toward Kitty. That young lady, however, is winding her arm into that of Anne Crompton of her own form and is clearly engaged. Diana pauses, showing more awkwardness than I have ever seen in her. She finally turns back to Valerie and Rosalind, who are waiting loyally for her.

In the absence of my own two particular friends, I pair with Gladys, a step behind Diana and the two others. Thanks to Cecily, Gladys and I have lately become pals of a sort.

I have absolutely no intention of anything as sneaking as eavesdropping on the girls ahead of us. I simply can’t help being aware that Diana is whispering in an excited voice about what Kitty said in the lesson.

“Drop it, Di,” Valerie says, with unusual impatience. “It’s all nonsense, anyway, like Miss Spears said. If we really could contact elves, everyone would.”

“I’ve heard it’s possible, too.” When Valerie doesn’t respond, Diana’s voice changes to the kind of condescending sneer she usually saves for me. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be of use to someone like
you
. I suppose the elves are far more likely to answer someone of purer blood. Isn’t that right, Rosalind?”

Valerie yanks her arm away and rushes ahead in an offended silence. Beside me, Gladys half-smothers a chuckle. “One in the eye for darling Val,” she mutters in my ear.

“I really wouldn’t know anything about elves.” Rosalind’s voice is expressionless.

“But, Rosalind—”

“Please leave it.” There is more firmness in Rosalind’s voice than I ever recall hearing before. ”Valerie’s right. I don’t think it’s quite nice to talk about.” She pulls her arm free and follows Valerie.

“And one for Diana!” Gladys adds, gleefully. “Even the little mouse can squeak!”

I nod in shared amusement and a little guilt. I have a vague feeling that, as a Senior Prefect, I should be quashing Diana’s silly talk. Unfortunately, there’s no actual rule I know of forbidding speculating about summoning elves, nonsense as that sounds.

I really wish there was some kind of guidebook on being a good prefect. Someone like Cecily would know how to handle this, and do it firmly and tactfully. Me, I let it slip, taking comfort in the fact that Gladys has not challenged Diana either.

Within a few moments, I am drinking milk and chatting with Gladys and Corona, who are both keen on hockey, about my plans to set up a hockey match against the local Women’s Institute. Hockey is far more interesting than Diana’s silliness.

CHAPTER FOUR

ROSALIND

I find myself peeking at Rosalind with a faint puzzlement in the evenings, thinking about the odd conversation at the dance. Sometimes I catch her thoughtfully watching Diana or myself instead of getting on with her own prep, as if she’s weighing us in the balance. There’s no clue in the level line of Rosalind’s mouth as to how the two of us measure up.

I try to put her out of my mind, pretty successfully. I have too much on my hands, struggling to keep up with the work of the Sixth on top of my other duties and still spare some time to see Ember and Miss Roberts, to spare a strange new girl more than a passing thought.

To be fair on myself, Rosalind doesn’t exactly force herself on one’s attention. She’s excused from games so I don’t see her on the playing fields, which is where I seem to spend most of my time, either practising with the First or taking practices or giving extra coaching. And… well, it’s not exactly unjust that being Diana’s chosen bosom friend is enough to drop anyone several pegs in my estimation. I detest the way she bobs around in Diana’s wake, hanging on her every word. As if Diana ever said anything a decent girl would find worth listening to.

It’s not until well after another Saturday, in which I never ended up paired with Rosalind at all, that she suddenly claims my attention. In English, of all places.

The argument has clearly been in full swing for a few moments, before I notice it. There’s a glorious autumn day out the window, and in my head it’s hot Australian sun, and I’m wheeling and circling above a herd of magical brumbies on Ember’s back, the warmth of that sun beating down on us both. In my defence, I’ve barely seen Ember, let alone ridden him, in a fortnight. I’ve done my best to keep my word to Cecily about sneaking out; besides, I constantly have my hands full now, taking extra prep. and overseeing practices. All in all, I can’t be blamed if I let my mind wander a bit.

I detest English, in any case; it usually consists of Miss Evans standing in front of the class posing self-consciously, declaiming poetry or plays in her dreadfully affected manner while Valerie and Frances clasp their hands in adoration. Silly girls, acting like a pretty face and curling golden hair are the most important thing in the world, when anyone can tell Miss Evans has less brains and backbone than a teacup. She and Miss Spears are inseparable friends and cut from the same showy cloth.

I’m not conscious of what is going on until I hear the last voice I expected to hear raised.

“It’s utterly dreadful.” Rosalind’s voice is shaking a little, her pointed face very pale with the effort of contradicting a mistress when she hardly says a word in class, like the little mouse she is. “And untrue. We shouldn’t have to study such trash.”

“Do I take it that a schoolgirl sees herself as more capable of judging deathless poetry than I am?” Miss Evans’ voice is very cold. “This passage describes the ultimate celebration of the relationship between magical beasts and man. It’s only in the glory of the hunt that their true beauty is revealed, and their existence reaches its culmination in death, in a mystical union between monster and hunter. You’re just an inexperienced girl who has never had the glory and honour of being in at a kill.”

Rosalind rises half out of her seat, shaking, her weight supported by two hands with fingers splayed out on the desk. Two bright points of red glow in her white face. “That’s all lies. It’s not like that at all—it’s horrible, the most agonising thing I’ve ever been through. I don’t believe you’ve ever been on a unicorn hunt, or you wouldn’t talk such utter rot!”

Valerie gasps audibly, and the class turns to watch Rosalind in half-aghast, half admiring fascination. Rosalind herself seems too angry and upset to realise or care that she has just twitted Miss Evans, with her carefully refined voice and her hair cleverly arranged to accent any pointing of her ears, with the difference between their birth. Naturally Miss Evans has never hunted unicorns, or chimerae, or phoenixes. Hunting of fabled beasts is a privilege strictly reserved to the oldest families, and while Rosalind clearly has first-hand knowledge of hunting magical game, Miss Evans equally clearly has not, and never will.

Miss Evans crosses to Rosalind and looks down at her. Rosalind glares up at her, for once completely unafraid.

“I’m not accustomed to my girls calling me a liar, Rosalind.”

“It’s obvious you’ve never been hunting!” Rosalind’s voice is much louder than usual. She pushes her glasses askew and passes the back of her hand against her eyes, furiously rubbing at the tears. “You would never forget it—the way they look, all broken and crumpled in blood, and the death hounds tear at their flanks, and they scream, and they are so scared and in pain. . .”

“Sit down at once, Rosalind! I simply cannot believe such a naughty display of temper from a senior girl!”

For a moment it seems Rosalind will refuse. She stands straight and lifts her hand, and for one glorious second my heart rejoices at the thought of Miss Evans having her smug pink-and-white face soundly slapped. Then Rosalind subsides into her seat, flinging her head into her folded arms, her shoulders shaking.