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359 M.E.
Overnight, a foot of snow had fallen on the school, and practically everyone was outdoors already. In the grand Atherton tradition, teams had formed, dormitories were fortified by snow walls, and everyone tried to conquer everyone else. There was no trophy for winning, but it conferred bragging rights and a certain degree of status, at least until the next snowstorm.
Penny sat at her desk, staring at her Sahasran textbook, trying to ignore the shrieks and shouts from the grounds. From time to time, she would plug her ears with her fingers, but this only worked until her arms got tired, or until she had to start writing. Somehow she had left this until the last minute—something she almost never did—and now she had more than ten pages to translate before tomorrow. Granted, she could easily ask Miss Fletcher for an extension, but it had always been a point of pride with Penny that she never needed extensions.
She had nearly figured out the grammar of a particularly tricky sentence, when there was a knock at her door, and the words went scattering out of her mind like pearls from a broken necklace.
“Yes? What is it?” she snapped.
The door opened to reveal Penny’s governess, Miss Fletcher, as well as Eleanor Rath and Corrine Ripley, both bundled up in thick fur hats and cloaks.
“We were just going out,” Eleanor said. “We were wondering if you wanted to come along.”
“To defend the honor of Queen Freyda Hall!” said Corrine.
“No, thank you,” said Penny. “I’ve got this translation to finish.”
“Oh, go on, dear,” said Miss Fletcher. “You can give me those pages next week. There’s no rush.”
This was the problem with being more studious than one’s own governess.
“No, it can’t be next week,” said Penny firmly. “I have an Immani translation due next week. And that calculus problem set. And my essay on Themaseki history. And the diorama I’m building of the Immani Curia.”
“A diorama of the Curia?” whispered Corrine. “Holy Finster, Penny, that’s insane, even by your standards.”
Miss Fletcher looked pained. “My dear girl, it’s admirable that you’re trying to make the most of your penultimate year at Atherton. But there is no need to try to learn all of human knowledge in a few short months. Your social life is important, too, and—”
“My social life consists of these two,” said Penny, pointing at Eleanor and Corrine. “And we spend plenty of time together. I don’t need to go outside and make an ass of myself in the snow in order to see them.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Very well, then. As long as we’ve met our quota of your time for today, Penny. Come on, Corrine.”
They left in a bit of a huff. Penny felt bad and resolved that she would see them later and apologize. Miss Fletcher looked as if she was about to deliver a lecture on good manners and one’s duties to one’s friends, but before she could really get started, there was another knock at the door.
“Oh, bother it all,” fumed Penny. “Who is that, now?”
Miss Fletcher opened the hall door to reveal a tall woman with wild, curly black hair and dark eyes, wearing a stained and icy traveling cloak. Miss Fletcher let out a gasp of surprise, then slammed the door in the woman’s face.
To anyone else, that would probably have looked like the height of rudeness, but the previous year, Penny and Miss Fletcher had been attacked in this very parlor by a magysk assassin sent by Penny’s aunt, Queen Muriel, to find Edwin Sigor. That woman had shown up like this—out of nowhere on a normal day when nothing seemed amiss. It didn’t seem entirely beyond the realm of possibility that this was yet another sorceress bent on death and mayhem.
There was another knock and a rather pleasant alto voice saying, “I’m very sorry. Have I got the right room? Is this Penny Ostensen?”
Miss Fletcher held up a finger to her lips, warning Penny to be quiet. As if the woman hadn’t seen them in the parlor.
“Hello?” the woman went on. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I’ve got a very important letter for Lady Penelope Ostensen.”
She didn’t sound especially dangerous. She sounded helpful and pleasant and polite. Besides, if this woman was a sorceress, she could blow the door down eventually if they didn’t let her in. Penny went to the door, brushing aside Miss Fletcher’s frantic, whispered objections, and opened it.
“Who are you? And what’s this message you have for me?”
The woman pushed back her cloak, revealing a short tunic, a pair of baggy Loshadnarodski riding trousers, and a worn leather satchel. “My name is Callista. A colleague of mine received this from the sender and passed it on to me.” She took a letter from the satchel and held it out.
As Penny took it and turned it over in her hands, she started to ask, “Who wrote it?” But then she saw the seal on the back. It was the royal seal, but in blue wax, rather than the black or gray that her aunt and uncle used. “Oh, Finster’s balls,” she groaned.
“It’s from Edwin Sigor,” the black-haired girl said, beaming.
Miss Fletcher turned red. “Edwin Sigor? How dare he write to you, my dear girl! After what he did, he has a lot of nerve—”
“Yes. Yes, he does,” said Penny. She tossed the letter on her desk and rubbed her temples, feeling an ache starting there. “Listen, Miss...Callista, could you wait with Miss Fletcher in her room for a few minutes? I’d like to read this in private.”
After some initial hesitation, Miss Fletcher took the messenger girl into her own parlor, saying something polite about tea and scones. The door shut, and Penny was left alone, eying the letter warily.
“Blast it all,” she said, her chin quivering.
She had done so well in the past few months. She had finally stopped thinking of Edwin every waking minute, and the way she had accomplished this was by giving herself more work than three ordinary schoolgirls could have tolerated. She was studying four languages and several branches of natural philosophy. She was taking classes in traditional Kenedalic dance in her spare time. She was learning the history of lands most of her classmates couldn’t have located on a map. Miss Fletcher had obtained a book on anatomy and physic that girls weren’t normally supposed to read, and Penny had dissected a number of unlucky rats she had trapped in the school kitchens.
At first, it didn’t seem to help, but then two or three days went by when she was so busy she forgot to feel brokenhearted. And then a week went by. And then sure enough, thoughts of Edwin were a dull ache she barely felt anymore.
But now he had written to her. What on earth could he possibly say? She stared at the letter, wondering if it might not be better to toss it into the fire unopened. No, it was best to face one’s fears. She picked up the letter, broke the seal, and started reading.
The salutation, “Dearest Penny,” gave her some pause. But maybe that was how he’d been taught to write. She saw that he wanted them to write back and forth. That seemed ill-advised, but at least inoffensive.
Then she came to the second paragraph, and her heart seized up like a broken mill—cracking and falling and overflowing.
I still think about you all the time. I still love you. I’m very sorry that I lied...
That was as far as she could get before she burst into tears. “Fuck him!” she thought, wiping her eyes. “Just fuck him. How dare he do this to me again?”
I’m also sorry that I can’t apologize in person. Hopefully I’ll be able to do it soon, though.
Oh, sweet Ovida. He wanted to see her again. She was furious at him for saying so, because now she had to confront the fact that she wanted to see him, too. Almost nine months now since he’d left, and she still wanted him back as badly as ever.
Nothing had changed. With patient, dogged struggle, she had built up a wall against her feelings, and here he’d smashed it all down with a few sentences. Fuck him. Damn and blast him.
“It’s not fair,” she whimpered, wiping her eyes. She put a pillow over her face as she cried, so that Miss Fletcher couldn’t hear her next door and come running to console her. Penny didn’t think she could stand being comforted right then.
When she was done crying, she tossed the rather damp pillow aside and went over to her desk to write her reply.
Dear Edwin,
I thank you for your letter. Please convey my thanks, as well, to your network of spies or scouts, or whoever these people are who conveyed the letter to me. The woman who brought your message to Atherton must be very brave. Do not risk her life again in this way.
Do not write me again. I will not write you back if you do. Nothing good can come of our corresponding. My heart can’t take this, and I imagine yours can’t, either. If you really do care for me, as you claim, then do me this favor: give me time to get over you.
Penny
She wavered a bit, worried that perhaps she had been too brutal. Or that perhaps she had been too equivocal and kind. But eventually she decided she had written more or less exactly what she wanted to say. So she sealed the letter, went over to Miss Fletcher’s study, and handed it to Callista.
“I’m guessing it’s not good news,” said the messenger sadly.
“No, it’s not,” said Penny, aware of how red her eyes and face must be. She held her chin up and dared either woman to breathe a word of sympathy. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, miss. I do not think we will meet again, however.”
When Callista was gone, Miss Fletcher tried to put an arm around Penny and give her some tea.
“Thank you,” Penny said. “But I really do have a great deal of work to get done. That will help me more than tea, I can assure you.”
In point of fact, however, when Miss Fletcher had shut the door again, all Penny did was to curl up in her blankets and cry some more.