Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“How are you, Mama?” I ask her as I sit down at my place, gathering my napkin in my lap.
“Me?” she asks, folding her hands in front of her. They look thin and veiny, speckled with liver spots, the hands of a woman much older than forty-five. “I’m fine. Just tired. You know how it is, running the house.”
I glance at Famke as she comes back into the room carrying a bottle of wine.
“Well, that’s why we have lovely Famke, isn’t it?” I point out.
“She needs to rest more,” Famke says with a tsk as she pours us the red wine. “I keep telling her so, but you know, she is stubborn.”
“Mama,” I scold her as Famke leaves the room. “You must do as Famke says. Running this house is her job, not yours. You’re supposed to be a well-kept woman.” She snorts at that and has a sip of her wine. “Perhaps another trip to Dr. Fielding?” I venture, though the town doctor doesn’t seem to help anyone. He loves to label every issue a woman has as “hysteria.”
“No, no,” she says dismissively before putting down her glass and fixing her eyes on me. “I am fine. Enough about me. Tell me all about your day.” My stomach growls loudly in protest, and she seems to hear that. “No, wait. Eat first. Eat. Then tell me.”
I oblige, drinking some wine and having some of my soup and bread. When I’ve taken the edge off my hunger, I begin. “My day, well, it’s honestly very hard to describe.”
I wanted to launch into a diatribe about how she sent me ill-prepared with no supplies and no class schedule, but now that I’m sitting here with her and she seems especially frail today, I decide to hold off. Besides, Sister Margaret gave me my schedule earlier, and when I had my mimicry class in the afternoon with Professor Crane, he presented me with a notebook bound with black ribbon, a couple of pencils, a writing slate, and some chalk. I didn’t have a satchel to carry it back with me, so he said he’d hold on to it until my class with him tomorrow. Which was rather nice of him. I think he feels bad about the attempt at mind reading.
“First day is always overwhelming,” my mother says with a nod.
That’s putting it mildly. “Can I ask you something?”
She dabs her napkin at her mouth. “Of course.”
“Is there something…strange about the school itself? Is there some sort of magic or spells that protect the campus? I can barely remember the tests I took when we went this summer, nor anything else from that visit. Even right now, I’m having a hard time recalling what happened today. I feel like I’m forgetting almost everything.”
“It’s normal, dear,” she says with a swallow of wine.
“In what way is that normal?” I question.
She picks up her spoon and gives me a steady look. “It’s normal for that school. There are a lot of things you’re going to experience there that are going to seem strange and unusual. You just need to trust the program. Trust the process. I wouldn’t send you to that school if I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“But you waited so long,” I say. “I could have gotten a head start on my education when I was fifteen, sixteen.”
“We know why we waited,” she says stiffly. “I always thought Brom would be brought back.”
My heart sinks at the mention of his name. I feel like no one really talks about him anymore. Sometimes it’s like he only ever existed in my head. But my body remembers, and so does my heart.
“Besides,” she goes on, dipping her bread into her soup, “the school is for students of all ages. There is no getting a head start. It’s not a competition.”
She is right about that. Some of the students I saw were my age or younger, but most were adults. Some looked to even be in their thirties.
“But if I can’t remember what I was taught when I leave the grounds…” I begin. “How can I learn anything?”
“Katrina,” she says, her voice lacking patience. She never calls me Kat. “Think about that for a moment. Where are you doing your tests? At the school, the same school you’ll go to tomorrow, and all the information will come flooding back.” She fiddles with the napkin in her nap. “There are spells, wards in place, put there by your aunts many years ago. There had been a few accidents where students had left the school and started talking about what they were learning. Cast a shroud of suspicion on us from the state. Took a very long time to convince the government that our school was fairly run and we were paying taxes.”
“What happened to the students that blabbed?” I ask.