They did the best they could. Sometimes the doubts crept in anyway, but Alison had done what her mother had told her to without even realizing it: she had learned to stop listening to that voice that told her she didn’t deserve to be happy.
Alison walked down the hall. At the end, tucked between a pair of statues, was a long-talker. It was much nicer than the one she had used to call her mother all those years ago—it probably wouldn’t even fade out if she talked on it too long.
She picked up the receiver and gave the party line number to the operator.
It rang five times, but finally it picked up.
“Hi, Mum,” she said. “It’s me, Alison.”
Chapter Nine
THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
Ceri
There was a knock on Ceri’s door about an hour before Dean Whittaker’s opening address for the autumn term was due to begin.
Ceri and Ana had already been awake for an hour, perfecting their hair and makeup for the first day.
(Ceri could not believe her luck that her roommate was the daughter of a hairstylist. Having had her dressing needs met by servants for her entire life, she was grateful to have someone with the necessary expertise to help her learn to do it for herself.)
It was Dean Whittaker. He, too, looked as though he’d been awake for some time. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, your highness. I was wondering if you’d like to speak at the opening address this morning.”
Ceri was surprised by the request. “Are there usually other speakers?”
“Not usually, but we don’t tend to have royalty around. The presence of the royal guard on campus needs to be explained, if nothing else.”
Ceri had insisted on not having guards following her every minute of every day, but because of that, they’d had to secure the entire campus instead. “What about my brother?” asked Ceri.
Dean Whittaker nodded; he was getting to that. “I’ve asked Prince Idris to say a few words. He agreed, but he told me I’d better ask you as well. I mean, that it would be good to ask you as well, since you are also royalty.”
Nice save, thought Ceri, but she knew which of the two phrasings her brother would have used. “I’d really prefer not to,” she said.
She didn’t want to admit that Idris was right: that if she hadn’t been asked, she would have been insulted. But also, she had no desire to speak. “While I’m here, I’m trying to be Ceri, not Princess Ceridwen. Do you understand?”
“Of course, of course. How right you are,” said Dean Whittaker. “Although you may change your tune after Professor Ali’s Numbers exams. I’ve heard they often veer closer to a hazing exercise than anything else.”
Ceri decided then that she liked Dean Whittaker. He was far too eager to please, but she appreciated that he did consider her opinion separate from her brother’s.
An hour later, Ceri and Ana sat at one of the long tables in the dining hall meant for the students. Dean Whittaker did exactly as he promised: he mentioned the guards, he allowed Idris to speak, and he did not out Ceri’s presence.
Of course, it didn’t stop people from recognizing her.
There had been a few encounters during moving week, but the rumors of her attendance had grown, and by the time she reached her first class of the day (Loegrian, with Professor Proudfoot), it seemed like most of the school knew who she was, judging by the pointing and whispers.
She’d expected some acknowledgment from Professor Proudfoot, considering half the class was staring at her, but to her surprise, Professor Proudfoot simply dove straight into her lecture.
The other thing Ceri had expected was a mixture of boredom and fear. That’s what education up to this point had been for Ceri: relentless memorization of names and dates and formulas and vocabulary, followed by varying forms of corporal punishment for failures. The slap with the ruler. The cane on the legs. A strap or a belt, which Ceri hated the most.
King Derkomai had not only approved of these punishments, he also sometimes performed them himself.
Ceri did feel a familiar tightness in her chest as the lecture began, but it was quickly replaced with relief. It was immediately and abundantly apparent that Professor Proudfoot was nothing like her tutors had been. She was funny and personable, mixing in personal anecdotes about her upbringing in the Ash Woods with her discussion of the syllabus and her approach to selecting the works they’d be covering. She welcomed suggestions on what they’d like to study or how to improve the course so they got more out of it—welcomed them.
In fact, all of her courses were more or less the same. Some of her professors—like the infamous Numbers professor, Professor Ali—were stricter than others, but none of them seemed to have any interest in making sure Ceri or anyone else learned “the hard way.” There was a genuine sense of openness to new ideas, a desire to encourage students on a path they found both interesting and fulfilling, a hope of improving the school for future generations.
It was enough to make Ceri cry.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ana, following Ceri back to the room after their final class.
