Pennyroyal Academy (12 page)

“
Now . . . draw your weapon, Cadet,
” said the Fairy Drillsergeant.

Maggie closed her eyes and disappeared inside herself. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes squinted tight. The other cadets looked at one another with frightened anticipation, no one quite sure what was happening. But, as certain as the sun,
something
was happening . . .

A strange glow flickered in the air near Maggie's chest. It was faint, yet undeniably there.

“
That's it, Cadet! That's it!
”

The pale light intensified, as though each beat of Maggie's heart made it stronger. The cadets watched in awe, eyes wide, as it pulsed into an illuminated bloom of wafting strands, like a jellyfish of stars.

“
There it is, girls. Courage!
” called the Fairy Drillsergeant.

Maggie's jaw quivered and her eyelids went white, so tightly were they closed. As a princess's magic undulated in the air, the witch's bloodthirsty smile and hate-filled eyes began to shift away from the little girl to focus on her. With the full force of the witch's dark magic trained on her, every part of Maggie's face quivered. Untold stores of darkest terror were hurtling, invisible, straight into her heart.

“
That's her weapon. Suffering . . . despair . . . Only compassion can block it! Look at that little girl!
”

Maggie's body shuddered from the extraordinary effort. Still, the bloom in front of her chest began to spatter and dissolve, like rain on snow. She opened her eyes to focus on the little girl, tears streaming down her cheeks, but it was too late. Her frail blossom of courage faded to deep gray. And then it was gone.

She yelped in pain and fell backward. Then she scrambled up the pit until she backed into one of the rail posts, pulling her knees in tight. The Fairy Drillsergeant flicked her wand and the awful grinding sound echoed to a stop.

“Compassion and courage are the only weapons you'll have against a witch,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant. “I take that rather seriously. Hessekel and Gisela didn't. What about you? The spell on that statue over there is a quarter of what a real witch can do. It's time to stop mucking about and commit yourselves, ladies.”

Demetra helped Maggie to her feet. Evie was so shaken that she didn't even join the chorus of, “Yes, Fairy Drillsergeant.” If good, kindhearted Maggie suffered that much in a simulation, what chance would Evie have when confronted with a real witch? The progress she had made since arriving at the Academy now seemed so fragile. Would it hold up under those piercing yellow eyes? Or would it crumble like so many kingdoms already had?

“P
RINCESS
C
ADET
M
AGDALENA!”
called Beatrice.

A flurry of voices became a wild cheer, snapping Evie from her reverie. She was in the Royal Hall and Maggie had a grip on her arm, her eyes as wide as the sun.

“She called my name . . . but those are all princesses of the blood up there . . .”

Cadets congratulated her and guided her away from Evie, down the row of benches toward the center aisle. Only once she was gone did it dawn on Evie that her friend had just been selected to the Grand Ball. She'd been a million miles away, thinking about that day in the Armory. Thinking about courage, or lack thereof.

The entire third class had gathered to hear the announcement of the Grand Ball competitors. Forty knight cadets, ten from each company, stood on the dais in their mud-spattered uniforms. One by one, they had heard called the names of the princesses they would be accompanying. And one by one, elated girls had popped up from the crowd and made their way forward. They had been selected by a small committee of instructors and House Princesses for their effort and dedication to their training thus far. And now each of them had earned the chance to win a coveted place in the second class.

As Maggie's auburn curls bounced toward the dais, trembling hands hovering near her mouth, Evie felt a twinge of regret that she had been too distracted to congratulate her friend. The applause and the hooting—mainly from Ironbone Company—began to die away as Maggie took her place with her partner, Cadet Stanischild, a rugged boy with thick arms that strained his black tunic. He looked utterly petrified.

Evie glanced across the dais as though she had just woken from a dream, which, in a sense, she had. Nearly all of the knight cadets had already been partnered. Only one remained at the far end. He wore the black of Thrushbeard Company and a half smile. His eyes were on the ceiling, and he looked as though he was struggling to keep from laughing. Girls from all companies leaned forward ever so slightly, desperate to hear the words that would launch a thousand letters home, as though marching down this aisle to become his Grand Ball partner was only the first step toward the inevitable march down the matrimonial aisle.

Evie scanned the blue dresses and found Malora sitting a few rows back. She looked serene, like the cat who knew where the fish swam, the whisper of a smile on her face.

Let it be anyone but her.

Princess Beatrice returned to the lectern. “The final competitor in this year's Grand Ball . . .” She took a gilded card from one of Rumpledshirtsleeves's miniature assistants, bedecked in a stylish suit of carmine and pink. “From Ironbone Company, to be escorted by Knight Cadet Remington of Thrushbeard Company . . . Princess Cadet Basil.”

A confused murmur spread through the hall. Evie glanced at Basil, who sat with his arms crossed, a look of supreme annoyance on his face.

Beatrice, taken aback by the crowd's reaction, only now realized what she had said. She checked the card again, then began lambasting the hapless troll. He held out his upturned hands to show that it wasn't his fault.

Evie glanced back at Malora, perched at the edge of her bench, frantically scouring the hall for someone to set this horrible injustice to rights. Princess Hazelbranch hurried to the dais and whispered something in Beatrice's ear. With a glare of furious reproach, the Headmistress raised her hands for quiet. Evie's eyes met Remington's, and he gave her the slightest of winks. She didn't know what it meant, but her cheeks flushed red.

“It seems a mistake has been made,” said Beatrice. Evie didn't turn back, but she could imagine the smug look on Malora's face. “The final competitor is not, indeed, Cadet Basil. It is Cadet Eleven.”

Scattered applause broke out. A sea of faces turned toward Evie. She had forgotten that Cadet Eleven was her. Anisette pulled her to her feet and ushered her down the row. “Go on, Eves! You made it!”

The Ironbone girls clapped her back and shouted her name as they helped her to the center aisle. It was only when she stood there, with nothing between herself and Remington except Princess Beatrice, who had resumed her scolding of the poor troll, that she finally understood. She, not Malora, would attend the Grand Ball with Remington.

She began to walk toward the dais, and heads turned to watch. As she mounted the stairs, Hazelbranch gave her a proud nod. For the first time since she had arrived at the Academy, all eyes were on her and she didn't mind. She stepped past Maggie, who gave her an ecstatic smile, and filed in next to Remington.

“I do sympathize with that bloke, but it had to be done,” he said softly.

“What had to be done?”

“
That.
All this formality gives me a rash.”

She turned to him and saw a mischievous spark in his eye. “
You
changed the names? But how?”

“Secret methods,” he whispered.

Beatrice spoke, calming the murmurs of the crowd. “The winner of the Grand Ball brings great honor to her company—and his, of course—as well as the Grand Ball trophy, now housed in Stonewitch Company barracks.”

A cheer went up from the girls of Stonewitch.

“Cadets,” she continued, still scowling at the miniature troll, “these are your champions.”

The Royal Hall filled with applause. Girls called out the names of friends lucky enough to have been chosen. The first few rows of cadets stood, then the rest of third class joined the ovation. Goose bumps rose on Evie's arms as the sound of mass approval enveloped her. Summoning courage was forgotten. The spiderweb dress was forgotten. Her memory curse was forgotten.

This is what it feels like to belong—

“
IT'S NOT FAIR!
” screamed a voice of venomous passion. The shriek was so loud that it pierced through the applause. “
SHE'S JUST A BLOODY PEASANT!
”

The clapping died away and heads swiveled to see who was responsible. A small ring started to open in the Ironbone blue.

“
SHE DOESN'T BELONG UP THERE WITH HIM!
” wailed Malora, her hands clutched tightly at her chest. Her face was twisted in rage, tears streaming from red eyes. “
SHE DOESN'T BELONG UP THERE AT ALL! SHE'S NOTHING BUT A CURRISH, LOWBORN FREAK!
”

“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH!” boomed Princess Beatrice.

“It's me . . . it's me . . .” cried Malora, but her wave of fury had already crested.

“I SAID THAT'S ENOUGH!”

The Royal Hall was thick with tension. Though everyone was looking at Malora and trying to make sense of her shocking outburst, Evie had never felt such humiliation in her life. Like a castle in the sand washed over by the tide, her fledgling confidence had vanished. Gradually, the curious eyes shifted her way, as though the cadets needed to see for themselves if the horrible things Malora had said were true. The girl who had been a dragon, then a human, was now something else entirely. She had been made subhuman. An object of ridicule. A freak.

Malora's sobs echoed through the hall. Red heat climbed Evie's chest and neck and into her face like flames in a building soon to crumble. She couldn't move.

“Now,” said Beatrice, and from the sound of her voice, even she was a bit shaken by the outburst. “Where were we . . .”

As Beatrice read out an explanation of the Grand Ball's scoring system, Evie scanned the hall. Every set of eyes she saw was looking straight back at her. Some with sympathy. Some with amusement. Some with vicious whispers to the friends seated next to them.

“Forget it, Evie,” said Remington, leaning in so closely she could feel his breath on her neck. “No one will remember—”

Suddenly, she leapt from the dais in two great bounds, sprinting down the aisle and out of the hall.

“Evie!” shouted Remington. But she was gone.

Her footfalls echoed through the rotunda as she burst out of Pennyroyal Castle, then ran past the fountain and its towering princess statue and down the hill through the swaying grass. She had already leapt the crumbling stone wall before anyone else even started down the hill. By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, she had disappeared into the thick green shadows of the Dortchen Wild, exposing herself to whatever creeping things waited beyond the magical protections of the wall.

She ran and ran and ran, her feet crunching through rust-colored oak leaves. She ran through low red spikes of deadnettles into a valley walled with green. She ran, but her heart was still in the Royal Hall, still trapped in that awful moment of humiliation. Phantom insects crawled over her body and she ran to shake them loose. She ran over hills and splashing streams, through white-flowered viburnum and thick tangles of chokeberry. The hairy arms of the beeches waved above as chill winds blew, and the sky faded from the bright gray of seaside sand to the ominous dark of fresh smoke. She ran until hemlocks slashed her arms and maidenhair ferns grew so thick she couldn't see the ground beneath.

If this is how humans treat one another, then I'd rather be a dragon.

She ran until her lungs burned and her uniform was soaked through with gossamer mist. After hours of pure flight, she trudged to a stop. Great, heaving sobs wracked her body. Running hadn't gotten her one step further from the thing she meant to escape.

A loud crackle tore through the air. She dove to the side as a swinging branch caught her leg, spinning her through the undergrowth. The bark tore her dress and opened bloody scrapes along her calf. She scrambled to her feet and raced to the tree's trunk, where its branches couldn't reach.

What have I done?

She wiped the bleariness from her eyes and surveyed the gloom of the forest. All around her, in every direction, was a perfect sameness. Spidery tree limbs and treacherous bracken and walls of forest and gullies and stones. She looked to the sky for guidance, but even the bits that showed through the canopy had faded to dusk. She was well and truly lost in a forest the Fairy Drillsergeant had described as the single most dangerous in all the land.

“Oh no . . . no no no no no no no . . .” Her breath came in white plumes where it hadn't only moments before.

A twig snapped in the distance. She searched the empty spaces between trees, but found only gathering darkness. She slid to a knee and hunched against the trunk, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her heart hammered inside her chest.

If she finds you don't look in her eyes don't let her see your fear or you're dead you're dead you're dead . . .

She knew it was a witch, and that everything she had been training for had deserted her. She was still the same frightened girl she had been in that cottage, shivering beneath the candy crank machine.

A cold, desolate cackle crept out from the dark, and Evie's last flicker of hope was snuffed. There, hobbling down a gentle slope, a shrouded figure lurched in the murky green. Evie was frozen, unable even to blink.

Something moved in her peripheral vision, and her eyes darted left. There, another figure, as formless and hunched as the other, trudged from the trees. This one, too, cackled with menace.

“Lost your way, young one?” said the first creature. It was the voice of a kindly old lady. A kindly old lady with blood under her fingernails.

“My word,” said the second. “It's a Pennyroyal girl.”

The witches were close enough now that even in the gloom she could make out the pale yellow orbs of their eyes.

“Fates be praised,” came a third voice. Evie wheeled, eyes darting from one hag to the next. “Calivigne shall reward us proper for this.”

The three witches staggered ever closer, and each step gave Evie the acute panic of drowning. Everything—the forest, the witches, even her own hands—now seemed to be stretching away, as though she was falling down a well. She could smell the pungent mustiness of wet earth, could see the scabbed cracks in the witches' lips.

And then she saw nothing.

• • •

From the darkness, a face appeared, no more than a dim halo of light. She couldn't discern the features, but the figure seemed to be young. A woman.

Mother,
she thought.
Mother, is it you?

“Awake now . . .” came a soft voice, and the face disappeared into the blackness.

“Awake . . .” It sounded small and distant, as though it were coming from inside a cave. Evie fought through the void to find it, to understand what it was saying.

“Awake, little one . . .” The voice became clearer. She had almost found her way out.

“That's it . . .”

She could smell fire, then, and taste something on her lips. She swallowed, and found a grainy substance on her tongue, bitter like an olive but with a hint of meaty iron.

“Awake . . .”

Slivers of light blinded her. She squinted to allow her eyes time to adjust. Tears tickled the skin near her temples, and she knew she was lying down. A wooden spoon split her lips, filling her mouth with another scoop of the putrid, curdled substance. She spit it out and forced her eyes open. One of the hags loomed over her, holding the spoon. The other two tended a steaming cauldron near a crackling fire.