Chapter Text
It was mid morning on a late August day at Cackle’s Academy, and the teachers were settling in after a long summer away from the school. “Come in, come in!” Miss Cackle said brightly, ushering Constance through the door of the staffroom, Miss Drill following close behind. Constance took note of Miss Bat’s absence; the eccentric Chanting teacher must not yet have emerged from her hibernation.
“Shall I fetch Miss Bat?” Miss Drill gestured to the supply cupboard with a hand as she passed.
“Term doesn’t start for another day,” Miss Cackle said with a shake of her head. “Let her rest a little longer, poor dear, exam season always does her in.”
Constance snorted derisively. “You said that last year,” she pointedly reminded the Headmistress as she pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “And Miss Bat missed two weeks of the first term.”
Miss Cackle hesitated. “Well,” she said, “yes, you’re quite right. I suppose, just to be certain… we don’t want to repeat last year's incident, after all.”
“Gosh, I remember last year - didn’t she get quite the fright when she woke up?” Miss Drill laughed in remembrance before carelessly throwing herself down into the chair beside Constance. “Mildred and Enid sneaking through the castle at night - if I’m remembering correctly, Davina thought she’d been set upon by goblins!”
“Miss Bat was so shaken she had to miss an additional four days of teaching,” Miss Cackle admonished gently, though she couldn't hide the slight smile Miss Drill’s words had summoned up.
Constance scowled in censure. “The students missing nearly three weeks of Chanting is no laughing matter, Miss Drill,” she snapped. “It’s a miracle anyone at all passed the term final. The first year’s Yule Concert performance was dreadful, quite below the usual school standard.”
Miss Drill rolled her eyes before standing up to fetch the tea tray from the sideboard. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she admitted with a frown, “And I didn’t enjoy the extra patrols I had to pick up, either.” Though as she settled back into the table, pouring herself a cup of tea, Miss Drill smiled. “But enough about all that,” she said brightly, “I can’t help but be jolly, Miss Hardbroom! You know I love the start of a new term, the new students… It’s all quite exciting, wouldn’t you agree?”
Constance huffed. “Exciting is certainly not the word I’d use for another year of teaching Mildred Hubble and her little gang.”
“Oh pish tosh - if Mildred wasn’t always getting into trouble, who would you terrorize? Who would clean all your cauldrons? Don’t pretend you don’t love it just as much as I do.”
“You know what I love? Cake.” Miss Cackle was starry eyed with longing as she gazed out the window in the general direction of Mrs Cosie’s Old Mill Tea Rooms, having skillfully tuned out most of Miss Hardbroom and Miss Drill’s petty spat with the ease of long familiarity. “I just adore cake, Miss Drill.”
There was a pause as both women turned from their discussion to face the Headmistress. “No, really,” Constance said dryly, “I’m shocked.”
But Miss Drill, never one to let one of Miss Hardbroom’s spiteful moods stop a capitol idea from coming to fruition, ignored her with aplomb. “Aha! Cake, Miss Cackle,” she declared, hitting the table for emphasis, “That’s exactly what’s missing - the day would be absolutely perfect with some cake.”
Miss Cackle nodded vigorously in agreement, her eye’s shining behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “Quite right, Miss Drill! Yes, a marvelous idea, I’ll let Miss Tapioca know - unless you’d be willing to fetch some from Mrs Cosie’s, Constance?”
Constance frowned. “I shouldn’t think so, Miss Cackle,” she said, knowing how little she cared for confectionery of any kind, and how little a trip to the tea room fit into her plans for the day. “Why don’t you go, Miss Drill? All that running about must be good for something, after all.”
Miss Drill shot her a look. “I wouldn’t want to damage the pastries by running back with them, Miss Hardbroom,” she said, “and besides, you can transfer to the school after, can’t you? So really, it would be twice as fast if you went.”
“And Miss Tapioca cannot simply bake the two of you something herself, because…” Constance drawled, unimpressed with Miss Drill’s reasoning despite its accuracy. She looked instead to Miss Cackle, hoping the other woman would see sense.
No such luck.
“Because, ah…” Miss Cackle exchanged a look with Miss Drill. “Poor Miss Tapioca is rather run off her feet - what with the Welcome Feast tomorrow,” she said quickly, adjusting her spectacles and looking beseechingly at Constance. “And as Miss Drill said, it would be much faster.”
Both women stared at her with hopeful eyes, and Constance sighed. “Yes, alright,” she muttered, pushing her chair back with more force than was necessary as she rose from the table. “If only to save Miss Tapioca the trouble.”
She would do as Miss Cackle asked - anything to get some peace from Miss Drill’s particular brand of obnoxiousness, quite frankly - but she wouldn’t pretend to be pleased about it. “Being used to fetch and carry like some sort of servant,” she muttered to herself, pulling the school gate closed behind her with a clang. “As though I’m not the Deputy Headmistress - and for cake, of all things! Miss Cackle had best be prepared to assign the Sunday night patrol to someone else, this year. Preferably Miss Drill.”
Entering the forest, she grumbled under her breath as the skirt of her dress snagged on some brambles which over the summer had grown into the path. With a huff she yanked her dress free, stopping to inspect the hem and frowning when she caught sight of the small tear in the black fabric.
“Blast.” It would require more than just a simple mending spell if she wanted it to fix permanently; she dropped her skirt back to the ground in resignation. The offending plant still sat innocently (or not so innocently, as was the case for this particular bush) on the edge of the path, and with a quick pointing of two of her fingers, it was zapped into nothingness. “Good riddance.”
If only all nuisances (such as oh, I don’t know, P.E. Teachers) could be dealt with in such a manner, Constance thought snidely to herself as she marched at a steady pace down the path, forgoing transference so close to the Ordinary world. A few minutes later and she had reached her destination, the bell above the door to Cosie’s jingling quite merrily as she entered.
“Miss Hardbroom!” Mrs Cosie hurried between the tables toward her. “If you’re looking for Miss Cackle, I’m afraid she isn’t here.”
Constance nodded. “I’m aware,” she sighed, though a sliver of amusement at Mrs Cosie’s reaction bled into her tone. The proprietress’s assumption that she was here to fetch Amelia, and her nervous assurance that Amelia was not on the premises was just amusing enough to wash the worst of Constance’s foul mood away. “I’ve been sent to fetch cake for her and Miss Drill, if you would be so obliged.”
“Ah, of course! I’ve just finished some lovely tarts, and I’m sure I have some cheesecake left from this morning - Miss Cackle’s favourite, you know. Oh, and the lemon loaf for Miss Drill, mustn’t forget that…” she muttered to herself as she walked away. “I’ll just be a moment, Miss Hardbroom, unless there’s anything I can get you?”
“No, thank you.” Her eyes, which during the conversation had been taking in the familiar interior, fell upon a woman seated in the corner by the window, a tea cup and empty plate in front of her on the table. Constance observed her curiously for a moment; there was an old fashioned carpet bag on the floor beside her chair, and some sort of large black case propped up against the wall behind her. How peculiar. But then, Ordinaries always seemed strange to Constance, who did her absolute best to avoid them whenever possible. Except of course, those times I am inveigled to fetch and carry confectionery by my employer, she thought sardonically, displeased once again as she was reminded of the indignity of her task.
Mrs Cosie’s voice interrupted her musing. “Very well, I’ll be right out then.” She hurried away, leaving Constance to stand stiffly in the entryway, ready to wait out the long minutes it would take the woman to choose and package each of the baked goods.
Just as she was contemplating taking a seat at one of the tables, the young woman who had been seated by the window approached her and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear - but did she say Miss Cackle? As in, Cackle’s Academy? Are you a teacher there? Do you know Miss Bat?”
Immediately flooded with suspicion, Constance glared at the woman. “And who,” she snapped out, “are you?” It was certainly a ruder response than was necessary, but she didn’t trust strangers who took an interest in the school - never mind the fact that the woman was an eavesdropper, which Constance felt were not to be tolerated under any circumstance.
The strange woman flushed and jumped in place. “Oh!” she said, and held out her hand with a smile. “I was told to meet Miss Davina Bat from Cackle’s Academy here at ten o’clock.”
Both women turned to glance at the clock on the far wall, which indicated that it was eleven-forty-nine. Constance ignored the outstretched hand and raised one severe eyebrow. “It is nearly two hours past the time of your meeting, Miss...” she let the sentence trail off, and watched as a flush overtook the woman’s face.
The hand previously outstretched rose to brush short bangs back in frustration. “Dear me, I’ve done this all backwards, haven’t I? My name is Maria, I’m here to assist Miss Bat in the classroom.”
A strange woman showing up claiming to be a new hire, an Ordinary person knowing about the school - it was all highly suspicious. “Miss Cackle hasn’t mentioned anything about a new… teaching assistant.” Constance made sure her tone was as derisive as possible, and felt satisfied at the embarrassed flush it caused. “Once Mrs Cosie returns, I will take you to the school. Miss Cackle will clear everything up, I’m sure.” And as she spoke, Mrs Cosie entered the room once more, arms laden with several pastry boxes tied neatly with string. “Here she is now,” Constance continued, relieving Mrs Cosie of her burden. “Thank you, Mrs Cosie, I’m sure we all very much appreciate it.”
“Oh, not at all Miss Hardbroom! Please let Miss Cackle know my door is always open to her.”
Constance nodded even as she thought, she really doesn’t need the encouragement. Still, no need to be impolite. “I shall. Good day to you.” She turned back to Maria and scowled. “Well? Fetch your things, girl, we haven’t got all day!”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” The young woman rushed back across the room to grab her ugly carpet bag and big black case, and rushed back to Constance still shoving a plain brown hat onto her head. “Alright, I’m ready!”
Mrs Cosie smiled knowingly and held the door open so she would not have to fumble about with her armful of packages. “Good luck with first term,” she said, “to both of you.”
Maria beamed. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to come back and tell you all about it! Goodbye!” Then she turned and they began the walk back up to the castle. If she had been alone, Constance would have transferred (it was half the reason why she had been sent to fetch the cake in the first place, after all) but as it was, she was forced to make the trek through the woods all over again. It wouldn’t have been half so bad, if Maria hadn’t started humming under her breath.
She ground her teeth together and sped up.
Maria began skipping to keep pace, still humming all the while, and defeated, Constance slowed down once more. Humming was bad enough; skipping was not to be borne.
“I’m from Austria,” the girl said suddenly. “Salzburg, a little town in the mountains. It’s very beautiful.”
“If you like it so much, I suggest you return,” Constance snapped.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Miss Hardbroom! - It is Miss Hardbroom, isn’t it? Yes, good, - The Reverend Mother sent me here, I couldn’t bear to let her down.”
Reverend Mother? Constance gave her a derisive look. “You are a nun?” The girl couldn’t have been less nun-like if she had tried; no older than twenty-five, in her brown hat and ill-fitting grey woollen travel dress, she was hardly a picture of pious Catholic grace. Indeed, she seemed to Constance more of a vagabond than a nun. Or perhaps, she thought, still suspicious, a grifter.
Maria laughed. “Not if Sister Berthe gets her way!” She tipped her head back to gaze at the trees. “No, I’m only a postulant. But I would very much like to be a nun, someday.” She tilted her head to the side and sent a smile in Constance’s direction. “I’ve never thought about teaching before, but I do so love music. What do you teach, Miss Hardbroom?”
“Potions,” she said shortly. “And if you are lying about your new position - for whatever reason - I will turn you into a newt.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t get the chance to make good on her threat; Miss Cackle welcomed the both of them with open arms, telling Constance that in the time she’d been gone, Davina had woken up and explained everything. “From Austria! Quite extraordinary. You know, I’d no idea the nuns there were even aware of us. But I suppose in a different country there are different rules. Still, quite extraordinary, wouldn’t you say Constance?”
“Indeed, Miss Cackle.” An extraordinary mistake, perhaps. Miss Cackle and Miss Bat rushed the girl off for a tour, and Constance realized she would have to hold her tongue.
“You are pleased, I suppose,” she said to Miss Drill as they watched Maria being ushered out of the staffroom, “to have another Ordinary on staff, even if only on a trial basis.”
Miss Drill smirked. “Of course. Soon enough we might even out number you lot, if you’re not careful.” And Constance was left scowling as Miss Drill went out to do who knows what - and frankly, who cared. Certainly not Constance, who sat in her seat at the staff table, fuming silently because Miss Drill, as obnoxious as she was, was right. And what was worse, it seemed nobody else was concerned.
The problem, of course, was not only that Maria was non-magical; if that had been all, Constance was certain she could have managed - even if she did so with a lot of tongue biting and liquid help from her potions cupboard. No, the real problem was that Maria was defiant, disorganized, disruptive. A distraction. In less than a week, she had managed to be late to four separate chanting classes; trip over the stairs and knock Constance into a wall, breaking her last vial of Wide Awake potion; start a sort of impromptu choir of first years in the hall, disrupting the third year’s potions class; and to top it all off, she had been late for the first staff meeting of the term.
When she brought all this up, however, Miss Cackle just sent her a stern look over the top of her spectacles. “Only a few hiccups here and there, Constance, really! Give the girl a chance, she’s still finding her feet.”
Miss Drill nodded from her seat beside them. “Yeah,” she agreed, “plus it’s difficult, you know, starting fresh at a new job - a magical one - and in a whole new country, too. It was hard enough for me, and I’m English!”
“And she really is helping Miss Bat immensely,” Miss Cackle continued. “I’ve heard some wonderful things from Davina, and caught a few lessons myself. I shouldn’t think we’ll have any trouble with the Yule Concert this year!”
But Constance was not to be placated. “It will be a miracle if we all survive the month, never mind the full term with the way the woman knocks people over and causes accidents in my potions class!” She scowled. “And if Miss Bat requires help from a non-magical to maintain order and teach her students, perhaps she shouldn’t be teaching any longer - perhaps it’s time for retirement.”
Unfortunately for her, Miss Bat had just entered the staffroom and heard it all; wailing, the chanting teacher ran into her cupboard and slammed the door with a bang.
The three teachers winced and looked at each other in resigned dismay. Miss Cackle frowned. “Who knows how long she’ll be in there sulking. And we were doing so well this year, too.”
At Miss Drill’s look of admonishment, Constance sighed. “Oh, alright.” She got up from the table and stalked toward the supply cupboard. “Miss Bat,” she said, giving a weak, reluctant knock. “I suggest you stop this sulking at once and come out to have a rational discussion.”
Constance barely heard Miss Cackle murmur, “Oh dear,” before the cupboard door swung open very suddenly, nearly bonking her straight on the nose.
“How dare you, Constance Hardbroom! I should turn you into a toad!”
“Don’t be such a child,” Constance scowled, “you’re being ridiculous. And careful with that door, you nearly hit me.”
Miss Bat swung the cupboard door wildly, angry eyes watery with unshed tears. “And you’re being unnecessarily cruel! I hope I do hit you, maybe it will knock some kindness into that shrunken heart of yours!” And with that, she slammed the door of the cupboard shut again, leaving the staffroom in a sort of horrible, ringing silence.
Miss Drill cleared her throat. “Well, that’s that, then,” she said awkwardly, and then, “Tea, anyone?”
“No,” Constance snapped, and transferred away before she could say anything else and earn herself a reprimand from Miss Cackle for her troubles.
That night at dinner, Miss Bat’s chair remained empty and Constance was forced to take on dinner supervision as a punishment. And it was a punishment truly, for she was joined by Maria (on time for once, miracle of miracles; perhaps she had learned her lesson) and forced to sit through a long hour of incessant chatter and humming. By the time the meal was nearly over and it was just the last of the third years who were on clean up duty that night - a punishment for something, though she didn’t know what, and how embarrassing to have been punished herself on the same night as her least favourite students - Constance was quite ready to strangle the annoying woman. And then -
“I’d like to thank each and every one of you for the precious gift you left in my room earlier today.” Maria leaned back and smiled placidly at Ethel as she wiped down one of the tables, Enid and Mildred beside her collecting dishes.
Constance frowned and watched the girls exchange nervous glances, Jadu, Ruby and Maud even turning to nudge each other. She asked sharply, “What gift?” and felt her suspicions rise at the guilt flashing across the faces of the students. “What is she talking about, girls?”
But Maria only shook her head. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s a secret between the girls and me, Miss Hardbroom. But it was so thoughtful of them, knowing how nervous I’ve been, how hard it is to be a stranger in a new place - knowing how important it is that I feel accepted.” She looked at the girls then, no longer smiling, and said, “It was so kind of you girls to make my first week here at Cackle’s so warm, and happy, and pleasant.”
And Constance watched in astonishment as one by one the girls' faces crumpled; even Ethel, who for most of the little speech had remained unaffected, began to shrink in on herself. “What’s wrong with you all?”
Maria glanced at her. “They’re alright, Miss Hardbroom, they’re just happy.”
When Mildred dropped a plate to begin crying in earnest, Constance sighed. “Enough, girls, get to bed before you start breaking things.” One by one the teary eyed, shamefaced students left the room, and Constance waited until the last one was gone before confronting the woman beside her. “You will tell me what that was about this instant.”
Maria only shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.” Then she gave a careless little wave and walked toward the door, calling out, “Goodnight, Miss Hardbroom,” over her shoulder. And that, it seemed, was the end of it.
But her confusion would not allow the matter to rest; that night Constance found herself tossing and turning in her bed, trying to come up with any sort of reasonable explanation for the students baffling behaviour.
Constance never did find out what the whole thing had been about; when she asked the next day, Miss Cackle merely brushed her off with a careless, “Don’t trouble yourself, Constance, it’s all well in hand.” But this did not comfort her in the least, and she spent the next few weeks wondering if there wasn’t some conspiracy from which she had been left out.
(It certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.)
By the time midterm was upon them, Constance was more certain than ever that she had been deliberately excluded from something which the other staff were all fully aware of; each time she entered the staff room she came across at least one whispered conversation, hurriedly hushed the moment the participants noticed she was there. Though she did her best to ignore it, that old fear of exclusion which had plagued her so as a younger woman, and which she hadn’t ever managed to fully eradicate, reared its ugly head. It caused her a great deal of anxiety and turned an already stressful time of year into a Herculean effort in self control.
It was a miracle she had gotten through midterm without turning them all into frogs, and by the time the students had left for their half term visit home she was more than ready for some peace and quiet.
“Hello! Miss Hardbroom, over here!”
However, it seemed peace and quiet would not be within her grasp. Maria waved at her from her place on the ground by the stream, and Constance thought about ignoring her, pretending she hadn’t heard her greeting. Then she sighed and changed course, heading toward the young woman with a poorly concealed frown.
She watched as Maria, not wearing her usual brown hat, shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up at her with a warm smile.
She had a face meant for smiling, Constance observed; cheeks flushing easily with joy and wide blue eyes filled with wonder. All of which was framed by short hair, ruffled slightly by the mountain breeze, and the unbidden thought that she was quite attractive flashed through her mind. What a ridiculous thing to think! Constance scoffed and forced herself to focus on something else.
“It’s halfway to winter, that dress is hardly appropriate.”
“Oh, Salzburg gets much colder this time of year! Besides, I haven’t got anything else in such good wool - when we enter the abbey, our worldly clothes are given to the poor. Miss Cackle’s given me some fabric - I make my own clothes, you see - but I’ve hardly had the time.” She twisted onto her side and stretched, reaching out a hand to pluck a wildflower from the grass. “I’ll have time now though, with the students gone until Tuesday.” She stood, dusting off her woollen dress carefully. Then she reached up to tuck the flower into Constance’s hair and stepped back, smiling as though she hadn’t just done something completely unthinkable. “Well, I’d best get on with it, hadn’t I? I hope you enjoy your walk, Miss Hardbroom, the weather is absolutely lovely today.”
And Constance was left standing frozen in the meadow as Maria strode back toward the school, humming under her breath.
The Monday before the students returned found Constance in rather a good mood; she’d hardly seen hide nor hair of Maria after that strange moment in the meadow, and at last had managed to relax. Though late autumn, the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining down warmly through the multicoloured leaves. She walked placidly through the woods, only straying from the path to turn into a small walled clearing at the center of which sat a private garden, cultivated by her over her many years at Cackle’s. She hoped to spend a quiet hour or two tending the plants, relaxing in private contemplation. She did not expect Maria to be hanging from the branches of the tall oak tree overlooking the garden; she did not expect her clothing to blend so ably with the changing leaves; she did not expect to be startled into yelping by a sudden voice from above calling out, “Would you like an apple?”
Heart racing, Constance looked up to see a face that was unfortunely becoming more famliar every day several feet above her peeking down through the canopy of leaves, a single hand outstretched, the reddest of apples held loosely in its grasp.
“What,” she gasped out, and then, “No, of course n- what in God’s name are you doing?”
Maria lifted the apple to her mouth and took a delicate bite. “Are you sure? It’s perfectly ripe.” She swallowed and waved the apple through the air. “And you really shouldn’t take the lord’s name in vain.”
Constance rolled her eyes and said sharply, “You are an assistant teacher, not a circus performer!” She scowled. “You’re going to ruin your clothing, climbing trees like a monkey.”
“They’re allowed to get a little roughed up, they’re only play clothes.”
What on earth? She frowned questioningly. “Play clothes?”
“Yes, I know it sounds childish - but you make potions, surely there’s something you wear so your usual dresses don’t get dirty.”
“Indeed,” Constance said, feeling baffled by the whole ridiculous thing; the woman was having a conversation with her while hanging in a tree! “I wear an apron.” Aprons were sensible; aprons were practical; aprons made sense, unlike the situation she had somehow found herself in. A tree!
“An apron! Of course, I should have guessed. And when you play, what do you wear then?”
Play? She frowned. “Play what?” Certainly she didn’t engage in sport - but then, Maria must know that, for there’d been an entire argument about it in the staffroom not two weeks ago. What, then, could she mean?
“I mean - just, you know. Play.”
She did not know; Constance didn’t imagine Maria meant the sort of idle, ill conceived nonsense the students were prone to getting up to - but beyond that, she didn’t have a clue. “On occasion I play chess with an old friend, the headmistress of another witching school. I of course dress as I do every day here at the school, with the addition of my cloak and hat for the flight.” Immediately though she could tell that was not what the other woman had meant at all. The possibility that she was missing something obvious frustrated her, but before she could do anything but scowl, Maria was already speaking.
“I’m no good at chess, I'm afraid.”
Her stifled frustration made her mean. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” she drawled, “as it’s rather more intellectual than singing.” Or tree climbing, she thought, glaring up at the woman above her.
Rather than get upset though, Maria only laughed. “Oh dear, you remind me ever so much of Sister Berthe - one of the nuns in the abbey. She was always criticizing me too. If teaching ever loses its shine, you might consider a career change.”
Constance scowled. The idea that she would give up her post at the school to be a nun was completely laughable. “Was it perhaps your impertinence that got you sent away?”
Maria blinked coyly. “It was mentioned a time or two, yes.”
“Well, I can see why,” Constance said, “and I must tell you that I do not want you here any more than the nuns seem to want you there.”
“Hmm,” Maria studied her face for a long moment. “I follow the path God leads me down,” she said at last. “He has led me here.” She smiled and took another bite of her apple. “Perhaps I will be better suited to this; I’m not sure I’ll make a very good nun.”
“Need I remind you that you are here on a trial basis?”
“Oh,” Maria said, head tilted, “how could I forget when you’re always so quick to remind me? Such thoughtful kindness - I really must thank you.” She brushed aside some hair from her forehead and plucked a vibrant yellow leaf from the branch upon which she sat. “Without your kindness I shouldn’t have felt half so welcome, Miss Hardbroom. I am quite grateful.”
Constance had heard it before, had seen the exact same tactic in action used against the third years; Mildred Hubble’s little gang, plus Ethel. And still, even knowing it for what it was - by the code, the woman wasn’t even looking her way and still she felt outmaneuvered. Blast it all. “I am not a child, nor have I committed any misdeeds.” But still, still Maria did not look her way; it angered her; it shamed her. She shoved it all aside and resolved to end the conversation there. And then -
There was a creak, then a crack; Maria came tumbling down from her branch and landed with an, ‘oof,’ in the corner of the garden, tangled in amongst the bushes and wildflowers. The apple tumbled down with her, rolling to a gentle stop at Constance’s feet.
The shock of the sudden fall had frozen her where she stood; before she could get her bearings and rush to help the other woman up from the ground, Maria had already rolled herself out of the bushes and onto her feet. “Oh dear,” she said, tugging her dress free from the garden, pulling leaves and petals from her hair, “I hope I didn’t crush any of your plants too badly, Miss Hardbroom.” She glanced back at the bushes she’d landed in searchingly. “They seem alright to me, but I’m not any sort of expert.”
Constance shook herself out of her haze and started forward. “You’re not hurt?”
Maria looked over her scraped palms and elbows and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” She reached down and picked up the apple, dusting it off once and taking another bite. “Mmm, this really is a good apple.” She swallowed and looked at Constance, eyes mischevious and lips smiling, smiling, smiling. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”
Was the air suddenly very warm? She couldn’t tell, but it felt rather unseasonably hot just then. Constance swallowed. “No, thank you,” she said, and very pointedly did not look at Maria’s mouth.
It was strange, she was strange. Where most everyone in the castle wore black (excepting Miss Drill’s obnoxiously blue sports gear and the occasional pink sweater of Miss Cackle’s,) Maria dressed almost exclusively in greys, browns, beiges, off-whites. Grey dress, brown hat; beige skirt, cream shirt; brown dress, grey jacket; every time Constance caught sight of her, she was wearing earthtoned clothing. She would never declare herself any sort of authority on fashion, but she couldn’t help but notice the discrepancy between Maria’s bright (oftentimes too bright) personality and her bland, inoffensive wardrobe.
So it came as quite the shock to enter the staffroom one chilly late November morning and see a vision of apricot, of subtle yellows and peach tinted oranges, of silk and linen and ribbons; Maria stood by the window with a cup of tea, the early morning light shining through, the air around her lit up like a halo. And then she turned to smile a silent hello and Constance fumbled her way into a chair, nearly tripping as she went.
”Oh dear,” Maria said, “are you alright?”
Embarrassment made her snappish and short. “Fine.” And then, “Aren’t you cold?”
“Hmm? Oh, my dress! No, the castle’s warm enough. When Miss Cackle gave me this fabric I just knew I had to make something beautiful with it.” She turned from the window then, moving toward Constance, skirt shimmering in the light. “What do you think? Isn’t it lovely?”
Constance clutched the tables edge until the wood dug into her palms. “It’s highly impractical.”
Maria hummed. “Roses aren’t practical either, but we still enjoy them for their beauty.”
“I can think of three separate uses for roses in potions; at least two for cooking. I can’t think of a single use for such a dress in a school.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled and put down her teacup, sliding a step closer to Constance as she did so. “But is it not beautiful, Miss Hardbroom?”
Shaking, Constance pushed back from the table and stood. “It’s impractical,” she repeated, and left the staffroom as quickly as she had entered, unable to stand the conversation any longer.
It wasn’t until later that she thought to question why Maria had chosen to dress in such a thing - and by the time she thought to ask, it was too late.
“What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”
Miss Cackle shuffled some papers around on her desk. “Just what I said; gone. There was some business about a phone call from Austria - I assume she’s gone back home.”
Constance felt - she wasn’t sure what she felt. “Is she coming back?”
Miss Cackle shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Did she say why?”
“Yes, there was a note, actually - but I don’t see why you care; you’ve wanted her gone since she arrived, haven’t you? I’d think you’d be glad.” Miss Cackle shuffled the papers areound a bit more, before pulling out a single sheet, folded neatly in half. She handed it to Constance absentmindedly. “Here.”
Taking the note, Constance nodded and left the Headmistress’s office in a daze; was she glad? She should be, Miss Cackle was right about that; she’d wanted Maria gone and made no secret of it. She should be glad.
She knew what gladness felt like, and this wasn’t it.
In the privacy of her room Constance unfolded the note at last. It was short, hardly more than a few lines in neat, tidy cursive; I’ve gone back to Salzburg, it said, I’m not sure when I’ll return, or if I will at all.
Please know I’ve truly loved working at Cackle’s, and even if I do not return I should be forever grateful for the chance to get to know you all.
Forgive me, and with greatest affection,
Maria
Well. Constance folded the note back up, emotions still sitting in a muddle somewhere between relief and regret - but when she turned to place the paper on her bedside table, she stopped in surprise. There on the pillow sat one of her dresses, folded neatly - the dress she had been wearing, Constance realized slowly, the same day Maria had first arrived. The one which had been torn on an overgrown bramble, and which now upon unfolding, Constance could see had been expertly repaired.
She clutched the note in one hand, and the dress in the other, and sat down hard upon her bed. It was not gladness she felt, not at all. She trembled. Well, she thought. That’s that.