After wishing Pippa and Everly good luck, I go about my daily duties, fortifying the manor for the arrival of the Boston Bruisers, and by fortifying, I mean warning everyone to watch their backs and watch out for backsides.
The moon-gate stunt is not amusing.
I spend the afternoon doing paperwork and preparing lesson plans and a week-long itinerary for each of the coaches and their clients. They’re like boys in need of reform, but it’s our job to transform them into dignified gentlemen. In the old days, learning the art of chivalry and having good manners was a given. Now, people simply accept a lower standard. Bargain basement-level stuff.
Not me, and apparently not their commissioner. Then again, he was rather rude on the phone.
Arthur quietly slips two pieces of mail into the basket by my office door.
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“You’re quite welcome,mon cher.”
Arthur is as proper as they come and is like a grandfather to me. Although he isn’t French, he uses that little term of endearment,my dear, to indicate that, although he’d like to stay and chat, duty calls. I know the feeling, yet I appreciate him even more for everything he does around here.
I retrieve the mail. One of the envelopes bears the same return address as the one that poked me in the side. My visa is a matter that I’ll attend to, but not now.
Believe it or not, I’d rather deal with the manor’s overdue bill notices and our new cavemen.
I spend the evening trying to find ways to cut costs around here. Even though we’ll receive a sum for the four new students, that won’t come close to digging us out of the red.
And what a deep hole it is.
The next morning,my hair is pinned in its usual bun and my shoes are polished. Mercifully, I’m back on schedule. However, my new student, Connor Wolfe, is late. Typical.
On the way to my office to find out if he’s stranded on the side of the road or took a detour and got into more trouble, I meet Maggie, Giselle’s friend. She’s from the US, like Everly and as bright and bubbly as a can of soda pop. Even if a little disheveled and damp, she’s a breath of fresh air, eager, and friendly.
I quickly discern she had a close encounter with Declan, her pupil. My eye twitches slightly, and not because of emotion this time. No, it’s the tug of stress. Without time for proper training, I can only hope we can corral these guys into gentlemen rather than ball-playing barbarians.
I tell Maggie, “It’s our mission to make celebrities, prominent figures, and even football players classy again. There was a time, not long ago, when people would get dressed up for dinner, board an airplane, or just to take a trip to the post office. There, they’d hold the door open, greet strangers, and use proper manners. Now, we have a bunch of zombies, hobbling around the world with crumbs in their beards, sitting while a pregnant or elderly woman stands on the bus, and ignoring social graces.”
“It’s unacceptable,” Maggie says in a scandalized tone.
I like her already, even if she seems a little nervous during our conversation, especially when she talks about her client. If the fact that she’s all wet is any indication, he got her good.
Tapping my chin as I try to figure out what happened, I say, “Let me guess, a bucket of water over the door? Water pistols?”
Her nod is sheepish. I tell her to report to me if his behavior worsens, just as the grandfather clock chimes. So much for staying on schedule.
Before I excuse myself, I tell her that on the commissioner’s orders, we’re preparing the team members for The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball. “We’ll get these boys out of their sweats and into three-piece tuxes.” At that notion, I’m suddenly warm all over. “Have you ever seen a man of stature in a tuxedo? It’s a sight to behold.”
“I know—I can imagine,” Maggie replies as if catching herself from saying more.
Giving my head a little shake because I will not be envisioning anyone in a tuxedo anytime soon, I add, “That said,personal interactions with pupils are not tolerated and result in immediate termination.”
With a nod, I bid her adieu and brace myself for these jokesters, then hurry to my office to find out why Connor is delayed.
The driver who’d met him at the airport doesn’t answer. I check emails and hope he didn’t get lost in transit or is gallivanting around the village and mooning passersby. Can you imagine? Actually, don’t. The poor city of Boston already saw that sight. From what I’ve gathered, it wasn’t pretty.
I stand at the broad window overlooking the town and the city beyond. Technically, Blancbourg is in a little village on the outskirts of Intherness, the capital of Concordia. Intherness is a city, but I’ve been to plenty of cities and this one has an old-world feel with quaint buildings along with modern structures. The royal castle in the distance gives it a fairy-tale feel. This village is straight out of a storybook. The manor itself is modeled after a famous castle in the Bavarian Alps.
Concordia is relatively small compared to most nations, but has everything—the sea, mountains, lakes, rivers, and a vast wilderness to the north. I rarely think about life beyond the borders because I’m perfectly content here, but the new piece of mail about my visa, and what it would mean to leave, flickers and then fades when the phone rings, startling me.
Arthur’s voice is low when he says, “I’m pleased to report the plumbing has been repaired. Slightly less so to inform you that a rather large man with a shaggy beard and a mouth like an ox is prowling the halls looking for you.”
Sounds like a real beast.
Arthur hesitates, then adds, “Oh, and Miss Berghier, my apologies for bringing this up now, but you asked me to remind you about my request for the day off next week. You said you needed to check the calendar.”
