Chapter Four

The next week passed in a flurry of excitement as Anabelle dithered over what clothes to pack and what outfit would make the best impression on the first day. The servants were all leaving the same week as well, so the normally quiet, orderly Emitan estate was turned into a well of chaos. For the first time in years, there were clothes and papers strewn about everywhere, with no one to clean them up.
The week went quickly, and Anabelle soon found herself on the night before she had to leave, throwing clothes into her largest valise along with an assortment of toiletries and knick-knacks–and, of course, her diary, to which she had added several lengthy and complicated additions to her original revenge plot. It was a difficult fit, but she eventually managed to make everything fit by scrunching it all closer together. Satisfied, she slid down the banister (something she’d never been able to do with the maids around) and dashed into her father’s study to tell him that she was ready.
She stopped after entering the heavy, ornately carved oak doors that led to the study, though — something felt funny about the air inside. “Father?” she called experimentally, peering around one of the bookcases toward the desk at the other end of the room, but found that she could barely hear herself. Suddenly she realized that her father must have cast a silence field inside the room — something he only did when he was working on something very important, when it was imperative that he couldn’t be bothered.
He seemed to realize that she’d entered the room, though, and turned sideways in his desk chair, which creaked with the movement. He mouthed something, and then blinked, realizing his mistake, and waved a hand and tried again. “Anabelle,” he said. “Come on in.”
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” asked Anabelle, walking over to the desk.
“No, no, not at all,” said her father, chuckling. “I was just finishing something up — I’m writing some letters of application for jobs, that’s all.”
“Oh,” said Anabelle, not sure what to say to that. “Well, I’m packed for leaving tomorrow.”
“Good,” her father said, nodding slightly. “Do you know when dinner will be ready?”
Anabelle grimaced. “Probably not for a while yet. Mum’s trying, but she hasn’t cooked on her own in years. It’ll probably be ready in a few hours. If we’re lucky.”
Her father laughed lightly. “All right, then. Well, let me know when it’s ready.”
“All right,” said Anabelle. “I’ll just let you get back to your work, then,” she added, and left.
Closing the door, she wondered to herself just what had changed. It had been a pleasant enough conversation, of course. But it felt like discussing the weather. They’d used to have so many lengthy, involved conversations about all manner of things — what he did at work, magic theory, government, how school was going — but now it seemed like all their usual topics had been exhausted. There was nothing to talk about between the two of them.
Perhaps it was for the best that she left for school for awhile, anyway. Things around the house were going to be different for a little while — perhaps when she returned things would be back to normal.
Maybe.

The next morning they set out before dawn, her father for once driving the carriage as the driver had been among the servants they’d had to let go. Anabelle had heard of her father’s equestrian exploits of his youth, and had supposed that he was an expert horseman, and he might very well have been. However, he was a little bit rusty in his carriage-driving skills, and as such the ride was considerably bumpier than usual, Anabelle found, and got little sleep between being jostled this way and that.
The ride, however, was uneventful, and rather quiet; none of them had very much sleep, and were too tired to talk. Anabelle counted it as a small mercy that there wasn’t much of an attempt at conversation made by anyone. She found herself more and more often these days without the right words, it seemed.
Once they began to pass through larger towns and cities Anabelle found it more bearable to be awake; there was plenty to look at in towns. Anabelle privately marked a couple upscale shops that looked interesting for their return trip. Her mother, meanwhile, was laboriously poring over a text that looked indecipherable and occasionally jotting down notes in the same unreadable script. Eventually, her curiousity go the better of her, and she asked:
“What’re you doing, Mum?”
Her mother looked up. “Oh,” she said, “I’m applying for a new job, I suppose you ought to know — I found I needed to brush up on a few things in advance.”
“What kind of job? Another university lecturer position?”
“No, actually,” said her mother, a little hesitantly. “I’m actually applying to an independent firm… as a secretary.” Then more hastily: “I have to know shorthand for the position — I used to be quite good at it, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit rusty–”
“I’m sure you’ll pick it back up again fast enough,” said Anabelle, giving her mother an encouraging smile. “I’ll let you get back to studying, then.”
A secretary. A secretary? To think that the Emitans had been reduced to mere secretarial jobs, being employed by the sort of people they would have commanded themselves mere weeks ago. It was shameful, Anabelle thought, completely disgusted, as she stared sullenly out the window. Her mother had been the best lecturer the University of Talamar had to offer for the last ten years, and now? Reduced to a mere secretary hopeful.
She was still fuming when their carriage went by Landomel Academy. They nearly missed it, in fact, because it was in the center of a city block, and difficult to distinguish from the other worn brick buildings surrounding it. Her father drew the carriage to a skidding halt, the horses whinnying loudly at the sudden command to stop, and Anabelle was nearly hit on the head by her valise.
“We’re here,” her father called, unnecessarily, as he pulled the carriage up next to the building and dismounted to open the door for Anabelle and her mother.
“Here I am,” said Anabelle, staring up at the school building and feeling a tinge of nervousness beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. She promptly squashed it. The building did look a little forbidding in the fading late afternoon light, with its tall, faded brick walls and rather dreary architecture, but it was her school, dammit, and besides, there was nothing to be afraid of.
She straightened her skirt and blouse, which were a little more wrinkled than she would have liked, and pulled her valise from its place on the middle of the carriage’s bench seat. “All right,” she said, turning toward the walkway. “Shall we go in?”
“Oh!” said her father, blinking. “Didn’t we tell you?”
“Tell me what?” said Anabelle, frowning slightly.
“Darling, we have to leave now — you’ll have to go in on your own,” her mother said, apologetically. “Your father has an interview a couple towns over tomorrow morning. You’ll be all right, won’t you? Make mummy proud?”
“Yes,” said Anabelle, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Yes, yes I will,” she continued, lifting her chin slightly, and turned on the ball of her foot toward the path that lead up to the school.
“Make sure to write, dear!” called her mother.
Anabelle didn’t turn around, but called back, “I will!” and waving a hand back toward her parents nonchalantly as she continued up the path. She wouldn’t look back.
She never looked back.

Anabelle stepped inside, lugging her valise, which was beginning to get a little bit heavy. She began to wonder if she really did need all those knick-knacks. But entering the lobby, she promptly did a double take. The lobby was empty of any people — there wasn’t even anyone at the reception desk. Have I made some kind of error? wondered Anabelle. The letter said…
A very plain-looking, bespectacled girl came walking very quickly by across the end of the lobby that connected to the hallway, appearing not to notice Anabelle — she was absorbed in a book, which she seemed to be intent on.
“Excuse me?” said Anabelle, walking toward her. “Do you know where new students are supposed to go? I was told to go to this entrance.”
The girl looked up, and studied Anabelle curiously for a moment as if she were some completely new species before replying. “Yes,” she said, in barely more than a whisper. Anabelle had to lean in to hear her better. “You’d want to go to the auditorium for that. Back that way,” she said, pointing down the direction she had come from, “and take the third left. There’ll be a sign. Can’t miss it.” She then picked up her book once again and continued walking, even faster than she’d been before, as if fleeing from something.
Somewhat thrown off, Anabelle followed the girl’s curt instructions and turned down into the hallway. Third left, she repeated to herself, inwardly, and a sign. The auditorium… there!
It admittedly wasn’t a very good sign — the stuck-on letters that read “AUDITORIUM” were peeling, and the paint could have used some touching up. Anabelle frowned at it. You’d think a school would put forth a little more effort in putting their best foot forward for their new students, she thought, feeling her upper lip begin to curl into a sneer. She quickly reschooled her features into a charming smile, and pulled open the door.
She stared down at the auditorium from the very top. It was very big, she noted. And it seemed from where she stood that nearly every seat was filled — how many students did this school have, anyway? Coronet only accepted one hundred students for its first-year class. And these were all new students? There were at least six hundred by Anabelle’s estimation, and she couldn’t even see all of them.
Somewhat bewildered, Anabelle realized that she probably ought to take a seat — most of the other students had, although some were milling around in the aisle or talking to other students. Down below, a group from the front row was lining up at a table down on the auditorium’s stage.
She gingerly sat down in the last row in the only open seat, next to a girl who was… well, Anabelle attempted to find something complimentary to say about her appearance, but couldn’t think of anything in particular. Well, her hair was all right, Anabelle supposed, but she was unfortunately a little on the heavy side. In other words, someone Anabelle Emitan would normally not be caught dead sitting with. Still, it was better than sitting alone. She didn’t want to be an outcast.
“So, ah,” she said, turning to the unfortunate-looking girl. “What’s going on here? I just got here and everything, so…”
The girl looked up at her, and appeared to do a double take before straightening up from her hunched-over position. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked, cautiously.
“Who else would I be talking to?” asked Anabelle, a little shortly. Why did people keep looking at her oddly?
“Sure,” the girl said, slowly. “Well, this is orientation. They’re calling the rows up one by one to get their course schedules and other information, starting with the front rows.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’d suggest you get comfortable.”
Anabelle barely heard the last sentence. She was already staring down in horror at the rows upon rows in front of theirs, and mentally calculating how much time this was going to take.
It was going to be a long wait.

The wait took two hours. Anabelle tried to be patient — one of the first rules of being a well-bred lady was that you were always patient (a rule Anabelle attempted to forget as often as possible) — but eventually boredom won out and she reached into her valise for her diary and pen. If she was going to be bored, she was going to be productive and bored, at the very least.
About an hour in she took a fifteen-minute nap, and then went back to writing about her revisions to her revenge scheme, which now involved a year spent at Landomel before transferring to Coronet and covered ten handwritten pages. The girl she had spoken with earlier looked at her a little strangely, but didn’t bother her, and continued studying a book that she was meticulously taking notes on.
Eventually Anabelle got bored even with her plotting, so she leaned back in her chair (which had seemed comfortable once, but was now beginning to feel considerably harder) and amused herself by drawing sparkling lines in the air with one finger, back and forth, creating little designs. It wasn’t very useful — chalk tended to be simpler, and didn’t expend any extra energy — but it was fun. And life could always use more fun, in Anabelle’s opinion.
Finally, their row was called. Anabelle almost didn’t register it at first, because she was beginning to wonder if this was going to go on forever, and nearly jumped out of her seat in a very undignified manner when the girl next to her nudged her to get up.
Recovering and trying not to look like she could really use a stretch, Anabelle followed the rest of the row down the auditorium steps to the stage. Look at it this way, she told herself. At least you didn’t get left up there alone. Now that would have been embarassing.
Upon reaching the stage she found herself waiting once again in a line that reached all the way to the lower wings — and as the last one in line. And here she’d thought that waiting sitting down was bad! She began to regret wearing heeled shoes. To take some of the weight off her feet, she resorted to leaning against the nearby wall and impatiently tapping her toes on the hard concrete floor every so often.
At last, after what seemed like another eternity, Anabelle was at the front of the line. “Finally,” she muttered under her breath as she came up to the table. “Could this have taken any longer?”
She’d thought she’d said it quietly enough that no one would hear, but one of the adults seated at the table glared up at her. “Emitan, Anabelle?” she said, skeptically, and thrust a red folder in Anabelle’s direction. “Here’s all the information you’ll need to begin your term at Landomel Academy. Please make sure you read all of it before tomorrow morning, please?”
“Sure, whatever,” said Anabelle, sighing. “Is that all?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I should give you detention for that. Since this is your first day, though, I’ll let it go this once.”
Anabelle sniffed, and went to walk back down the steps to the floor level. Before she could set a foot on the first step, though, the woman cleared her throat once again and said, “And Miss Emitan?”
“Yes?” said Anabelle, not bothering to turn around.
“You would do well to remember that no matter who you were anywhere else you’ve gone to school… here, you’re just the same as everyone else. Do not expect any kind of special treatment.”
Anabelle paused for a moment, and then nodded slightly. “You seem to have the advantage of me,” she said, evenly. “You know my name; you haven’t told me yours.”
“My name is Eileen Sharpe,” the woman said. “Professor, to you. And I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Anabelle.