The Headmistress by Milena McKay
Of Woolgathering At Staff Meetings & Entrances Well Made
Slim, long-fingered hands were taking her apart, touch after skillful touch, stroke after determined stroke. She groaned and buried her face deeper in the pillow, biting through the material, no longer embarrassed by being on her knees, or by being this loud, by being this utterly removed from her normal shy self. Was she the one screaming? She was probably keeping half the hotel awake with these obscene sounds. Sam tried to care, desperately tried to find in herself a sliver of shame at her reaction to that touch, but her lover was ruthless, and soon she lost all perception of her surroundings except for those fingertips unerringly finding her center, time and again, dismantling her control and with each heartbeat pushing her farther past the point of no return. When she came to, her face was wet and gentle lips were kissing her tears away. Delicate arms surrounded her and Sam inhaled deeply, a faint scent of jasmine filling her senses.
* * *
Sam sipped her coffee and tried to hide the creeping blush she knew would be tinging her cheeks behind the thick, white mug. Why could she never control these sudden bouts of memories that would overtake her at the most inopportune moments? She smiled into the steam. Idiot. She hadn’t been able to control her reaction three months ago when she’d screamed after having one of the most powerful orgasms of her life, and time and distance certainly had not helped matters at all.
It was true, what with Joanne constantly reminding her how distracted she had been lately, and just this morning, as she was getting ready for this staff meeting, she found a portrait in her notebook. In charcoal, her own face was looking at her, the resemblance striking. And the artist had managed to capture that very faraway look, the distracted one, for which Joanne teased her mercilessly. It appeared that her mentor wasn’t the only one who noticed her daydreaming, for her pupil, favorite troublemaker, and brilliant artist in the making, Lily Easterly, had also cottoned on to Sam’s spacing out during classes. The portrait had surely been done during their last math class when Sam had forgotten herself for a second. Which clearly was enough for the astute and a bit too perspicacious and precocious Lily, because she had rendered Sam perfectly, down to the slight shading on her sharp cheekbones where, Sam was certain, a blush must have been spreading at the time.
Lily had just started her freshman year of high school when Sam returned to teach at Dragons, but especially in the past year, they had formed an unlikely bond that went deeper, due to how different both of them felt in their rather uniform surroundings at times. Although the opening-up was mostly one-sided, with Lily confiding her thoughts, her secrets, and her crushes to her teacher, Sam felt a deep connection to the girl. And if the portraits that Lily would occasionally sneak into Sam’s bag or notebook were any indication, the kid certainly saw right through Sam. As scary a thought as that was.
To distract herself from musings of being transparent to her friends, she looked around at the thirty-odd members of faculty and support staff assembled haphazardly around the Mess Hall central table. They looked like a ragtag bunch. Jeans, sneakers, and oh god, were those leather pants on Jen Rovington? Her sturdy frame did those skin-tight things a lot of justice. The faculty members sat around or mingled, speaking in hushed tones, probably gossiping or recounting last night’s party to those who’d missed it, munching on the enormous spread of muffins and cupcakes. Sam looked down at herself and had to smile. In her favorite flannel shirt and black skinny jeans, her feet clad in red Converse, she was very much a lesbian cliche. She just hoped nobody would interpret her attire as such and instead attribute it to her usual student loan-strained financial circumstances. After all, the shoes were ratty, she must’ve had this pair for over five years.
Bored, tired, yet strangely wired, Sam tried not to think of shopping for clothes and footwear. That way madness and heartache laid. So she just sighed and reached for her mug again. Avoiding stores was how she’d ended up with the five-year-old pair of Chucks. They looked all right, she mused. They probably had a couple more years in them. As did the fraying cuffs of her shirt. Plus, it wasn’t like she had money to spare. She had her dreams of a backpacking trip to Europe all planned out, but even with her frugality and her plans to sleep on campgrounds and in hostels, she’d still cut into her meager savings at the end of her much-awaited five weeks on the continent. But that was next year. This year she had to pay off more of her debts and really, Europe wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were her Chucks.
The clock on Sky Blue Tower beat ten times and a massive ginger tomcat, Willoughby, punctual as always, made his way leisurely into the crowded room, hissing to prevent any attempt at unwanted attention from the humans. Not that anyone would dare. They’d all learned their lessons, some the very hard way. He beelined towards the windowsill and took his time endeavoring a rather graceless—due to his bulk—leap onto the crimson velvet cushion set strategically in the sunspot. After circling his bedding a couple of times, Willoughby, sprawled on his back, all four paws in the air, oblivious to the rodents effectively taking over the manor.
Despite being the school mascot and de facto only cat in residence, with supposedly extensive mousing duties, Willoughby had a very interesting routine, one which he observed almost religiously and demanded that others—chiefly the humans inhabiting what he surely thought of as his domain—respected it as well.
Willoughby followed the sun. Morning ‘till evening, the tom moved from one windowsill to the next, along with the arc of the sun, laying on the soft, worn cushions, specially placed on those windowsills for him. He did not allow anyone to get close to him or to touch either him or the cushions. Beyond that, he was unbothered by anything occurring around him. He cared little for the students, as long as they gave him a wide berth. The wider, the better. And they did, after some of them had sported nasty scratches from trying to pet him. Willoughby was nobody’s pet, and that was well known around the school. Sam kind of liked that about him.
But Willoughby’s arrival did not only herald the exact hour, it also meant one other thing. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Orla Fenway was late for a staff meeting. Hell, late for anything. She was famous, nay notorious, for being ridiculously early for every engagement. And yet, Sam realized, she was nowhere to be found at this last staff meeting of the school year. She caught Joanne’s gaze and raised her left shoulder in a clumsy attempt at a shrug. She knew Joanne was curious, and she also knew it was a rather well-known fact that, under normal circumstances, Sam would know what was keeping Orla. The whole school was aware that Orla favored her, with Sam serving as her left hand since the right hand was the elderly—and these days rather forgetful—school nurse Ruth Trufault, who was quietly dozing in her oversized chair by the empty hearth.
Sam was just about to go on a reconnaissance mission to look for Orla when the small side door into the Mess Hall opened, and the Headmistress made her way into the massive room. She looked even more tired than she had yesterday, worn and beaten down somehow, and Sam saw Joanne’s eyes narrow in obvious concern.
“Ah, good morning, dear colleagues. Apologies for my tardiness. Been unavoidably delayed, I was. Where’s Ruth? Ah, there you are, sweetheart, good to see you, missed you yesterday at the bash, but we had fun, didn’t we all, my dears?”
Joanne’s eyes narrowed further, and Sam just bit her lip when they landed on her. She was just as dumbfounded by what was happening. It was surreal. The normally put-together, on-time, serious-to-a-fault when it came to school business Orla Fenway was rambling. Moreover, she was doing so while looking disheveled, carrying a bottle of whiskey, and wearing yesterday’s clothes. And, by the look on her stressed-out and anxious face, she hadn’t even had any fun in or out of them. Something was seriously wrong.
Sam darted a quick look around the room that was now rife with tension. The crowd was collectively holding its breath. Even Ruth was now awake and staring at their uncharacteristically flustered leader with wide, bleary eyes. Only Willoughby’s soft, unbothered snoring could be heard.
After it seemed like the Headmistress had taken forever to doctor up her mug at the buffet that was set up on the side, Orla sat down and took a long slurp of her coffee, spreading a big stack of documents in front of her.
“Right, I guess one can only avoid the news for so long before it catches up with you anyway?” She gave Sam a reassuring smile and turned back to the papers in front of her. “It seems like it was just yesterday that I started at Dragons, and yet it’s been twenty years. Where did the time go? I know, I know, it’s all very cliche, but I can’t help but be a touch nostalgic. The majority of you have been here for years, and life at the school is often hectic and messy, and days fly by so quickly. I just hope you all know how important you are to this institution. From our oldest resident and my Deputy, Ruth, who has been in her position for twenty-five years to Sam, who has held the Math Chair only for three years.” Orla’s smile was so fond, so full of absolute affection, that Sam found her heart clenching. “Though with Sam also having studied at Dragons, she might be the elder statesman here yet.”
Orla laughed, but it sounded hollow to Sam’s ears, so she didn’t join in.
“I mention you all being seasoned Dragons and Dragonettes, my dears, because what I’m about to tell you will not be a major surprise to anyone. This place, once a proud overachiever, has fallen on some rather desperate times. The last time Three Dragons topped any chart of private schools in any discipline or sport was over ten years ago, and I believe that was entirely a fluke. The Academy has been battling for its soul, for its sheer existence, for longer than my tenure here. God knows, I took over in hopes of turning its fortunes around. Three Dragons has stood on these rocks for over two hundred years, the crises, economic downturns, and world cataclysms aside, it has weathered storm after storm, depression, war, pandemics, and more war. You all know I have tried, especially in the last five years, with the reforms proposed by the Board of Trustees and some of the changes to the Board itself …”
Orla took a long look around the table, as all the faculty members now sat straighter, worry etched on their faces. Her red, tired eyes were somber as she lowered them to leaf through some of the papers in front of her.
“These are the resolutions taken by the Board in the past year since Fredrick Tullinger passed away and his son Joel became a trustee. They are either to cut funds, to change and radicalize our curriculum further in the attempt ‘to return to our Christian roots’ and to steer the school farther from its secular present, back towards its religious past. By hook or crook, I either ignored them, fought them, or obfuscated my way around them.”
She smiled cheekily and winked at Sam, who found herself smiling back this time, remembering their late-night sessions and brainstorms on how to circumvent some of the directives in question. They’d done all right, all things considered.
“However, two weeks ago I received a sternly-worded summons to Boston. It seems the trustees, some of them more esteemed than others, have finally taken a longer, more sober look at the situation at Three Dragons. And according to them, it is beyond dire. We spent days in consultations—I guess you could call some of them screaming matches—but in the end, they made some rather drastic decisions regarding the school.”
If the massive Mess Hall was silent before, now one could hear the proverbial pin drop and the mouse scratch in the corner. Though Sam figured that, while the pin was indeed proverbial, the mice were very real. Willoughby’s snoring continued to be an indicator of how he felt about the crisis at hand, in general, and the critters, in particular.
“What sort of decisions, Orla?” Joanne was the first to find her voice.
“I don’t know much. We went over the budget, which they were considering shrinking further. The admittance, the attendance, the faculty. We looked into everything. What could be cut, what could be saved.”
“They’re looking to cut faculty?” Joanne, while the Art Chair, was also responsible for half a dozen photography and other art-related classes. Everyone in the room knew that the arts were usually the first thing to be cut when funding was scarce. One look at the older woman’s drawn face told Sam what she was thinking. All of Sam’s protective instincts kicked into gear. Her fear, her anxiety about her home, her family all bubbled up.
“But they can’t! Dragons already has seven students per staff member, and we aren’t even considering that not all of them are teaching, we are always counting resident faculty in that number!”
“Ah, here’s my fire-breathing Fourth Dragon right when I need her!” Orla laughed at Sam’s outburst and made the same joke she’d been making ever since they’d met years ago, when Sam herself was a quiet nine-year-old wallflower, hiding from her classmates in the basement of Sky Blue house or on Amber Dragon Cliff.
“Before you deafen me with more questions, I really have no clue what their plans are. They will be here tomorrow though, so you may as well ask them yourselves. However, I rather expect that there will be no need for questions at all since they’re coming specifically to present the new changes or whatever it is they’re planning for the school.”
“They’ll be here?” All heads swiveled towards the hearth, where Ruth Trufault’s usually squeaky voice sounded with surprising clarity. “Why, those rascals have avoided the island like the plague for years.”
“I think you mean some of the previous trustees, Ruth. You all know that there has been some turnover on the Board, with Roswell and Tullinger passing away recently.”
“Roswell was a good one, he was. Irreplaceable,” Ruth wheezed, and Sam could see her eyes fill with tears.
“Well, they did replace him, dearest. And no, unlike Tullinger, whose good-for-nothing son took over from the old curmudgeon, Roswell’s heirs declined the position. Much to my chagrin, as Roswell Junior is a great friend of mine.” As Orla’s hands rustled through the pages in front of her, Sam was fairly certain Roswell Junior was one of Orla’s special friends, kind of in the same vein as the man from last night. Which, all things considered, would’ve worked perfectly for the school, to have one of the trustees on their side like that. Except it appeared that Orla’s luck was running out.
“Ah, here it is.” The Headmistress pulled out a sheet from the stack. “Sir Timothy Bowbridge Rodante Nox graciously accepted the position.” Orla cleared her throat and read, “‘I hereby welcome the undertaking and the enormous responsibility of turning around the dire fortunes of the storied New England Three Dragons Academy for Girls, and communicate my commitment to lifting the school from the doldrums it has hit in the past half a century.’” She put the paper down. “His Lordship issued this press release yesterday.”
“Tell me you were not quoting just then.” Jen Rovington, standing tall in her rather amazing leather pants, laughed. Sam agreed with the sentiment, the wording was so pompous and ridiculous. But since Orla just lifted an eyebrow in the PE teacher’s direction, her laughter died down.
“I was quoting.”
“Who talks like that? ‘Doldrums? Dire fortune?’ I mean, who in the world?” Not willing to give up without at least a final dig, Rovington pressed on.
“Nox? Lord Timothy Nox of the New York Noxes? They’re some kind of British nobility, I think his father is an Earl or something or other, I guess hence his title.” Joanne reached across Orla to look at the press release herself.
“Any relation to Magdalene Nox?” David Uttley’s voice rang clear among the cacophony of others, and suddenly not even the mouse in the corner could be heard anymore.
They all knew of Magdalene Nox. Most people in their line of work knew her by name. Others knew her by reputation. Precious few were blessed with having never heard of her at all. The venerable and esteemed-in-some-circles—and much accursed in others—Magdalene Nox had a whole system of reforming boarding schools named for her. The Nox Method, which Sam thought was just a lazy way of naming things. It really should have been the Efficient, Effective and Deadly Method. Sam supposed people who named things just didn’t have her imagination.
With Sam’s major in Math and her Ph.D. in Educational Theory, she’d had the dubious pleasure of studying the Nox Method. Squeeze the institution until it bleeds dry, destroy the foundation, dismantle everything the school lives and breathes for, and leave a cookie-cutter, a spit-and-polish, lifeless monstrosity in its wake. Sam had to admit she didn’t remember much about the Education Management curriculum since she knew she wasn’t terribly interested in running an institution. But her professor was a particular opponent of the Nox Method, and so Sam remembered the hatred with which he had taught the class.
“Wait, didn’t she work for Trinity in Connecticut like five years ago? I know she fired half the staff, cut the number of Chairs in half, and…” Jen Rovington’s voice broke with something akin to fear.
“She started at Rodante Academy, it’s where she made a name for herself. Then went to St. Mary in Boston before Trinity. Decimated that school. Just tore it to shreds,” Joanne whispered, her apprehension palpable.
“I’m getting confused. Can we all go back to David’s question? What’s the relationship between this fancy-pants Lord Timothy something-or-other and Magdalene Nox?” Rovington wiped her suddenly pale face and reached for the bottle Orla handed her after she’d poured a generous drop of whiskey into her own coffee.
“He’s her husband, he is.” Ruth’s squeak drew all heads to the hearth, where she peeped at them from her cozy recliner and pulled the comforter tighter around herself.
“Magdalene wasn’t a Nox when she started,” Joanne’s voice was quiet, her tone steady, belying the concerned expression on her face. “She married into that family when she was Deputy Headmistress at Rodante Academy. Then she took over that school and, through years of reforming the old institution, came up with her infamous approach. I think she wrote her Doctorate thesis about it.”
“So the husband of the inventor of the Nox Method, the most ruthless reformer of private schools in the US, just became a trustee on our Board? Did I get that right?” Rovington gulped down whatever was left of her brew and poured more whiskey into her cup. The Headmistress just nodded and offered the bottle to Joanne, who accepted with a grim shrug. To Joanne’s right, Sam refused, but Orla polished off the remainder of the booze, shaking every last drop into her mug.
“Seems about right, dear.” Orla made a face after taking a sip. “I honestly don’t know much. I actually met Magdalene Nox some years ago, when the Board was still paying for me to attend all sorts of conferences and represent the school.” She paused, either for effect or to carefully consider her thoughts, Sam did not know.
“Well, don’t keep us all on tenterhooks now, Orla!” The whiskey was clearly making Rovington braver.
“Let’s just say, if we get out of this with no more than having a Nox on the Board and nothing else, we will have dodged an enormous bullet. Because if Magdalene Nox follows her husband and somehow sets her sights on Dragons, she will ruin us all, my dears. She will ruin this school and everything we hold dear.”
Sam’s heart stuttered in her chest as Orla threw back her mug and choked on the dregs of coffee and whiskey, coughing. Rovington jumped to her feet to pound her on the back, and Joanne was rummaging in her purse and producing a tissue, but Sam could barely see or hear their scrambling or the cacophony of sounds surrounding her. Her thoughts running wild from all the revelations coming her way, Sam glanced to her left and her heart stopped beating altogether.
Right there, in the massive oaken doors to the Mess Hall, stood a tall, willowy figure and observed the situation unfolding in front of her from behind large aviator glasses. Her head was slightly tilted to the side as if she was paying close attention to the less-than-dignified scene playing out in front of her, but the corners of her mouth were curled in a disdainful smirk, showing exactly what she thought about what she was witnessing. Finally, when Orla’s cough was reduced to an occasional wheeze, the figure stepped into the light, her four-inch, red-soled heels the only speck of color aside from her flaming red hair. Her steps produced a loud clacking noise that penetrated the chaos in an instant.
Sam’s mouth was dry, and as the woman took off the large glasses with a flourish, she couldn’t help but gape. She knew she probably looked ridiculous, like a total rube, but in that moment there was absolutely nothing else for her to do but stare at the newcomer. Sam felt rooted to the spot, completely bewitched, and helpless to move or say anything. It was a familiar feeling. Hell, she had just been reminiscing about that very state of helpless abandon delivered by those same long, perfectly manicured fingers that were now holding the clearly expensive glasses.
“Well, this is cozy, Doctor Fenway. I can see why the school is millions in debt and dead last in all the state and regional classifications. With its faculty gossiping and imbibing second rate alcohol at…” She paused dramatically and raised her hand to look at a stylish large watch that was hanging off her slim wrist. “Ah, 10:30 AM. Isn’t drinking on school grounds against the school charter, my dears?” The velvety voice practically spat the last words, clearly mocking Orla’s customary term of endearment that she’d used just minutes ago. Which to Sam meant only one thing. She must have been standing in the doorway long enough to hear Orla talk about her. To hear them all talk about her.
With the black dress hugging all her lithe curves, the woman took several more strides into the Mess Hall, each step sounding like a gunshot. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam could see Willoughby stand up, stretch, take in his surroundings and vacate the premises to proceed to his next sunspot. Sam had a distinct sensation that most of the people in the room would have followed him, given half a chance.
“My name is Magdalene Nox. I am the new Headmistress of Three Dragons. And you are all fired.”