as if saying, “Now you understand why it’s best not to be seen with me.” She took a seat in the last row, her face composed.
Tory felt a twinge of guilt. She would like to become better acquainted with Elspeth, but since she wanted desperately to be cured and leave Lackland as soon as possible, she should be with girls who shared her goals.
A sour-faced cleric entered the chapel and scowled at the students. The group quieted obediently. “His name is Mr. Hackett,” Penelope whispered.
His gaze swept the congregation and settled on Tory. “A new student,” he said harshly. “Give thanks, girl, that you are able to attend this fine school and have the evil purged from your filthy soul!”
Tory blanched at his venom. Luckily, his attention moved away as he began intoning a prayer. That was followed by the vicar’s condemnation of magic and mages, descriptions of how the girls would suffer in hell if they didn’t renounce their evil natures, and orders to pray for deliverance.
Tory felt whipped by Hackett’s words. If she dared, she would have walked out. She was what God had made her, and while her magic was unacceptable, she wasn’t evil. Letting Jamie die when she could have saved him—that would have been evil.
A few girls were nodding agreement with the curate, but most wore blank expressions. They must be used to Hackett’s virulence. Realizing that she must learn to ignore the man’s venom, Tory gazed straight ahead and tried to think of better things.
The image of a swift, powerful athlete came to mind. Allarde. Dreaming of the Marquis of Allarde would make the time fly.
* * *
When the service ended, a hungry herd of girls poured out into the foggy morning and headed to the refectory. Tory fell in alongside Elspeth Campbell. Speaking softly so as not to draw attention, she asked, “Is Mr. Hackett always that bad?”
“Often worse,” Elspeth replied. “Especially on Sundays, when he has more time to chastise us.”
“If he despises magic and those who have it, why does he work here?”
“I think he enjoys screaming vile threats at a roomful of attractive young ladies.”
Tory thought of the cleric’s feverish intensity as he lashed out with his words. “I suspect you’re right. How do you bear it every day?”
“I run through magical control exercises in my mind.” Elspeth grinned. “It’s excellent for my discipline because for half an hour, there’s nothing better to do.”
Telling herself that was a better use of time than daydreaming about a young man she’d barely glimpsed, Tory said, “I’ll do that tomorrow. Anything is better than listening to Mr. Hackett.”
Outside the door to the refectory, Elspeth said quietly, “Good luck with your evaluations.” Then she crossed the room to join her friends.
Tory scanned the long room. The tables had steaming teapots, tableware, and small jars of preserves and butter. At the far end a long table was set crosswise to the others. Two kitchen maids presided over the food while students lined up to be served.
As Tory started toward the serving table, a tall girl with a haughty nose approached. Tory had noticed her the night before as part of Cynthia’s group.
“I’m Margaret Howard, the head girl,” the girl said curtly. “After breakfast, go to Miss Macklin’s office in the classroom building.”
Before Tory could ask for better directions, Margaret was gone. Head boys and head girls were traditionally older students chosen to have authority over the their fellows. Tory’s brother, Geoffrey, had said the head boys at his school, Eton, were usually dreadful prigs. Margaret Howard seemed that sort.
Remembering that the night before the other girls had labeled Miss Macklin particularly difficult, Tory joined the line for breakfast. She was the last girl, and by the time her turn came, the hot porridge had run out. Only bread rolls were left, so she took one and headed to Nell Bracken’s table.
Nell poured
Tory felt a twinge of guilt. She would like to become better acquainted with Elspeth, but since she wanted desperately to be cured and leave Lackland as soon as possible, she should be with girls who shared her goals.
A sour-faced cleric entered the chapel and scowled at the students. The group quieted obediently. “His name is Mr. Hackett,” Penelope whispered.
His gaze swept the congregation and settled on Tory. “A new student,” he said harshly. “Give thanks, girl, that you are able to attend this fine school and have the evil purged from your filthy soul!”
Tory blanched at his venom. Luckily, his attention moved away as he began intoning a prayer. That was followed by the vicar’s condemnation of magic and mages, descriptions of how the girls would suffer in hell if they didn’t renounce their evil natures, and orders to pray for deliverance.
Tory felt whipped by Hackett’s words. If she dared, she would have walked out. She was what God had made her, and while her magic was unacceptable, she wasn’t evil. Letting Jamie die when she could have saved him—that would have been evil.
A few girls were nodding agreement with the curate, but most wore blank expressions. They must be used to Hackett’s virulence. Realizing that she must learn to ignore the man’s venom, Tory gazed straight ahead and tried to think of better things.
The image of a swift, powerful athlete came to mind. Allarde. Dreaming of the Marquis of Allarde would make the time fly.
* * *
When the service ended, a hungry herd of girls poured out into the foggy morning and headed to the refectory. Tory fell in alongside Elspeth Campbell. Speaking softly so as not to draw attention, she asked, “Is Mr. Hackett always that bad?”
“Often worse,” Elspeth replied. “Especially on Sundays, when he has more time to chastise us.”
“If he despises magic and those who have it, why does he work here?”
“I think he enjoys screaming vile threats at a roomful of attractive young ladies.”
Tory thought of the cleric’s feverish intensity as he lashed out with his words. “I suspect you’re right. How do you bear it every day?”
“I run through magical control exercises in my mind.” Elspeth grinned. “It’s excellent for my discipline because for half an hour, there’s nothing better to do.”
Telling herself that was a better use of time than daydreaming about a young man she’d barely glimpsed, Tory said, “I’ll do that tomorrow. Anything is better than listening to Mr. Hackett.”
Outside the door to the refectory, Elspeth said quietly, “Good luck with your evaluations.” Then she crossed the room to join her friends.
Tory scanned the long room. The tables had steaming teapots, tableware, and small jars of preserves and butter. At the far end a long table was set crosswise to the others. Two kitchen maids presided over the food while students lined up to be served.
As Tory started toward the serving table, a tall girl with a haughty nose approached. Tory had noticed her the night before as part of Cynthia’s group.
“I’m Margaret Howard, the head girl,” the girl said curtly. “After breakfast, go to Miss Macklin’s office in the classroom building.”
Before Tory could ask for better directions, Margaret was gone. Head boys and head girls were traditionally older students chosen to have authority over the their fellows. Tory’s brother, Geoffrey, had said the head boys at his school, Eton, were usually dreadful prigs. Margaret Howard seemed that sort.
Remembering that the night before the other girls had labeled Miss Macklin particularly difficult, Tory joined the line for breakfast. She was the last girl, and by the time her turn came, the hot porridge had run out. Only bread rolls were left, so she took one and headed to Nell Bracken’s table.
Nell poured
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