•T W E N T Y - F I V E•

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"It will be better for you there, daughter dearest. I was reluctant at first, but it is best if you are far from the issues I handle at home. Far from opportunities for spying on my conversations with nobles—"

Céleste giggled. "To think Father expected my habits to change whilst being here." She checked the corridor—the coast was clear, all the Juniors were in class. Hunched, eyes pinched, she snuck down the hall towards Miss M.'s office. "Does he not know this school is full of gossiping ladies to listen in on?"

On instinct, she hopped over the floorboard that creaked a few inches from the Director's door—they caught her because of it, a few months prior. The hem of her velvet sea-foam gown swished over the spot instead, soft and muffled. Upon landing she winced and braced for Sir Knowles to come running—but nothing happened.

She smiled. One thing she loved to do when no one was looking? Snoop. She and Emeric had done it so often in Valeville; trying to overhear their father's discussions with his staff, jotting down the fancy words they employed, then using them later while reenacting scenes in their cherry-tree backyard.

But Emeric grew up and left. Father no longer found amusement in her childish games, and wanted her to grow up, too.

Here, at the Academy, far from Father's sharp hearing and his uncanny ways of finding her hiding spots, Céleste got away with near anything—when Miss M. wasn't on alert, that was.

On two occasions, Sir Knowles had called her into his office for eavesdropping, creeping about, smart-mouthing teachers. Once, she had met with Miss M.

But today, someone else was in the woman's Study. Someone Céleste craved to see embarrassed and chastened.

She had been minding her own business—for once—while sipping tea in the Parlor and reviewing her French notes, when she heard Sir Knowles in the Entryway.

He ushered someone upstairs, "Go on, then; you know what you did. Miss M. awaits you in her Study," using his do not test me voice.

Odd.

A few grumbles answered him, but Céleste couldn't decipher them. Which irked her, as she'd become quite skilled in matching a grumble to its issuer.

"I care little for your excuses, Miss. This attitude is unworthy of someone of your status, and—" he huffed, and loud thumps came from the stairwell, "—we will not discuss this in the hallway for eager ears to listen to."

Céleste chuckled, muffling the noise with a gloved palm.

He speaks of me! He must know I am nearby.

Too curious for her own good, she set her notes onto the coffee table, took a swig of her drink, and inched up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She tiptoed to the open Parlor doors and crept to one side, craning her neck to catch the conclusion of the argument.

"... and as I told you, I care naught for your apologies! I reminded you, Miss M. warned you by letter, and I will be damned if we allow this behavior to slide, Miss Geitz!"

Céleste stilled.

Miss Geitz?

Oh, she couldn't believe her luck. Of all the students detected doing something they weren't supposed to; of all the ladies who broke the rules and disobeyed—Charlotte had triggered Sir Knowles. She trudged up the stairs, grunting, found red-handed in whatever sordid business she conducted.

Perfect Charlotte Geitz—prim and proper on the outside, not a single blonde strand out of place, not a loose thread from her skirts, never a misplaced word escaping her plump lips? Caught. For the first time since Céleste arrived at the Academy, she was in trouble.

And it wasn't the first occasion Sir Knowles warned her? Had she been less discreet as of late, while torturing her usual victims?

Céleste knew of Charlotte's attitude; everyone did. She and her ditzy raven-haired friend Julia Espinar, and their other ally Hermione, glowered at all as if above the law. They prowled about between classes, with their crude insults, their pranks on the younger students—such as Sophomores like Céleste—and their whispered rumors that purred along the hallways and caused waves of confusion during lunches and dinners. Yet the teachers, Sir Knowles, Miss M., never seemed to notice or give any heed to these hushed deeds.

That changed today. Because today, Miss Geitz, ever the up-and-coming lady, expected to marry high and thrive in the Totresian social circles, was in trouble.

Céleste had to follow them, to learn what Charlotte had done to fall into a trap and prompt Sir Knowles to haul her off to the Director's Office.

Back pressed against the wall near the doors, she waited; Sir Knowles would loiter by Miss M.'s study for a moment, expecting her to sneak up. He'd scan the corridor, check behind the potted plants and statues, tap his foot to the ground, and return to his business.

Counting the minutes, the ticking clock in the rear of the room mirroring her heartbeats—steady, anxious, excited—Céleste reeled in her impatience and bit her lip.

Sure enough, the Assistant Director lept downstairs soon after.

"Miss Condello, I saw that dress! It is not Academy-approved, not even for down-time!"

He swept past the Parlor without a glance, and Céleste braced, sucked in a breath, counted a few more seconds—then dashed to the stairs. She crawled past the banister and watched Sir Knowles' white wig flop along as he hastened to the opposite end of the ground floor landing.

"Phew," she said, taking the steps two-at-a-time, near tripping, too hurried to bother paying attention to her footing.

There she was now; ears pricked, concealing herself in a corner of obscurity by Miss M.'s door, waiting.

What did Charlotte do?

At long last, after what felt like ages of silence, a voice came from under the threshold.

"... it is beneath you to play such foul games, Charlotte. I am certain Sir Knowles said the same. We have kept mum, so far. I have not informed your parents, and I do not wish to. Your father is not a pleasant man to handle. Telling him his youngest and most prominent daughter causes dread at the Academy? Can you imagine?" The Director was stern, her words coated with an anger about to burst.

Scuffling occurred on the other side of the wall. "You know nothing of my father, Miss M. Did you not assume he asked me to act like this? To inspire fear, else the other girls disrespect me? My sisters had the same temperament, and he praised it." Charlotte sounded peeved, yet she kept her irritation under wraps—shocking, coming from her.

Miss M. let out a long, sorrow-filled sigh; the same she had uttered when meeting with Céleste about her sneaking habits. "I doubt that. Your sisters' transcripts are impeccable. What I think is that you misinterpreted his words." She cleared her throat. "And you, Julia; what have you to say for yourself?"

Céleste unleashed a gasp that tore through the corridor. Trembling, she clapped her palms over her mouth.

Oh! Accomplice number one is in there, too?

"I... I..." Julia's mousy voice, squeaking with gloom, skittered under the door-frame.

"Exactly," said Miss M., sounding strained. "The Viscount of Malaros is strict, if not stricter, than the Count of Belnau. You risk double trouble by going along with Charlotte's plots."

"But we—"

"And Hermione—"

"—Enough, both of you!" Something banged—like someone's fist against a desk or a wall. Céleste shuddered. "Your cruelty knows no bounds, it appears."

"It is not cruelty—"

"—stop it, Charlotte." The silence that followed was heavy, frightening. "I never bring students into my office unless the offense is grave. Most deal with Sir Knowles, but you have sickened him, too. So... my turn."

Again, Céleste gasped—but with her mouth covered, she didn't expect anyone would spot her.

I went to her office. So my sneaking was grave?

She hesitated; should she straighten up, walk off, slip into the Library and read, forget all she'd listened to? Be mature, smart, step away from the drama?

Or stay where she was and continue to overhear things she shouldn't?

Her curiosity ate her on the inside, compelling her to crouch closer to the door, desperate for juicy details.

"A bit of competition is normal among girls your age. I remember from my days... anyway, what I mean to say is I cannot reprimand you for pushing Miss Thatcher the way you do. It prompts her to be on her guard, to prepare for her future, to sharpen her wit." Footsteps, slow and precise, began behind the door; Miss M. paced. "But the manner in which you two act is not student rivalry, it is bullying. I demand that you stop."

An obnoxious groan followed—Charlotte, no doubt. "She does not belong here! We all know it, and we only mean to help her realize it! Her father's deals, his lack of contributions... and her status, it is flimsy, no? How is she a student here?"

Céleste pictured Julia beside the evil girl, nodding, smirking, gaze awash with vice.

"Harriet Thatcher is the daughter of a Vidame." Miss M.'s tone peppered with frustration. Though she'd only seen them once, Céleste imagined her emerald and turquoise eyes turning darker than a stormy forest at night. "Do you recall your nobility rank lessons? The scale from highest to lowest? Where on that scale is a Vidame, hm? What is a Vidame, would you refresh my memory?"

Silence, again; wicked and painful, as Céleste envisioned Charlotte's squint, the one she reserved for those she despised the most.

Like Harriet, and me.

"A Vidame is a French status, descended from French aristocracy," said Julia, nasal and low. "Older Totresian families bordering France adopted it, but there is only one, now. The Vidame of Limesdale." Her gulp was so loud even Céleste heard it, with a wall between them. "A Vidame is on a level with a V-Viscount, Miss M."

"Aha!" Miss M.'s footsteps sped up and ceased, as if she'd halted before the girls' seats and towered over them in triumph, hands on her hips, brows furrowed. "Julia, advise me—what is your father's rank?"

"A... a Viscount, Miss."

"A Viscount. So Charlotte, pray tell; do you mean to suggest the daughter of a Viscount is also not welcome here?"

That was it—the comment that would put Charlotte in her place and send her out of the office with sweat beading on her forehead, tears in her placating eyes, no jump to her march but a slouch as she ambled to her room with uneven paces. Céleste couldn't wait to witness Charlotte's slow demise. She couldn't wait to gloat and point and remind Charlotte she didn't rule this school—Miss M. did.

"Julia's father is not a thief, a disgusting man, a vile creature who dabbles in—"

"—Charlotte Geitz!" Another bang resonated, and Céleste's knees buckled. "You are not to meddle in the matters of men! Have you learned nothing in this institute?"

"But Miss, it is true—"

Céleste missed the end of her sentence, as a blurred figure plowed into her, knocking her away from the door. A fearful force, giant like a boulder, snarling like a rabid dog.

"Oh!" She toppled over, skirts and all, fighting to catch her breath and glimpse who had rushed up; a bull? A monster? What on earth had such strength?

The sconces extinguished with a whoosh. Before she could decipher any clues to comprehend who her attacker was, the mystery individual stormed to her, clutched her under the armpits, and heaved her up.

"Oh, no." She swallowed hard, her spit transforming to sandpaper and scraping the linings of her throat. "I—"

"—oh yes. I trapped you." Sir Knowles tugged her to a lit-up section by the Library door, his messy white wig glowing in the fire-light, his eyes bursting with angry lava. "You thought I would abandon this area? I saw you in the Parlor, Céleste; I saw you creeping upstairs to find out what would happen with Miss Geitz!"

Her chin dipped down, unwilling to glance at the disappointment swirling in his gaze, to visualize the curling of his upper lip as his breaths turned harsh. "Sir Knowles, I... I can explain, I—"

"—do not bother. I do not want to hear it." He yanked her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "From the sound of it, Miss M. will not want to, either. Her day has not been easy, and dealing with you will worsen it." He released her jaw and seized her wrist, yanking her into the Library. "Come."

They waded past empty tables and the half-asleep Librarian as they hastened to Sir Knowles' office in the rear, where he would reprimand and scold her, scowl at her, and—

"We will write to your father, yes?" He slammed the door as he threw her into the guest chair in front of his desk. "Let us see how he feels about his daughter eavesdropping again. We may have a vacancy in our Sophomore department soon."

His voice—like a roar, a deafening screech, a viper's hiss—drowned in her brain, swerving and swishing, mingling with her father's yelling, her brother's moans of discontent, her mother's dying breaths of disappointment, disgraced by her only daughter.

No! I cannot lose my place here!

Sir Knowles rattled on,pacing behind his desk, pointing and growling; and Céleste prayed, prayed, prayedfor a solution, while promising herself to never eavesdrop again.






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