Pegasi and Prefects (14 page)

The sun catches her hair, white and platinum all at once against the creamy pallor of her skin. She’s not good looking, not in any usual way, with that thin plain pointed face and over-large eyes like a fairy or insect. Still, in her own way, she’s utterly beautiful. I want her to have anything she wants, anything in the world.

Besides, if it was Ember, left out here to die or be hunted. . .

“We’ll find a way to make it work,” I promise. I’m dismally aware that I will promise her anything, at this moment, with the light catching the ends of her eyelashes, making little golden stars at the tips.

I would also do anything at all to change the fact that she’s superficial, Charm-using Diana’s adoring friend, not mine.

After the second visit to Sunflame I become completely shameless about pursuing the first place among Rosalind’s friends, neglecting my own two pals in the process. I might have been a little muddled in my feelings that first night at Miss Roberts’ cottage; Rosalind is, nevertheless, a friend worth having.

Every now and then my conscience pricks me just a little. For all my frank dislike of Diana Struthers, I don’t think I’m unkind by nature, and even though I know Esther finds Diana’s obvious frustration at finding me always at her own elbow killingly funny, I sympathise with Diana in a way. She deserves it, of course. Any girl low enough to use Charms and Glamours to her own personal advantage is not worth the time of day, and it’s entirely clear that Diana takes advantage of Valerie and Rosalind in the most disgusting way.

And. . . well, I would have loathed an interloper pushing in, if I had been the one to be Rosalind’s original special friend. I don’t pursue that thought further. I have never seen the point of equivocating: if I want something, I reason, I might as well be straightforward in getting it instead of denying it and approaching it in a hole-and-corner way. I don’t see why friendship should be any different than going after a ribbon in a gymkhana or a place in the First Eleven. Be sporting in defeat, of course. Even so, it’s better to be open about competing than pretending you don’t really want it and that you’re not doing your best.

After all, I’m perfectly polite to Diana always, whatever the provocation.
I
can’t help it if Rosalind's face lights up in welcome when I go to join them, and if the conversation always drift eventually around to pegasi and pixies. It’s not my fault that Rosalind and I share the precious secret of Sunflame, and it makes a bond between us. It’s not my fault, either, that Diana couldn’t ride with us even if we weren’t keeping the little rainbow baby a secret.

Most of all, isn’t my fault that Rosalind is a Fable Empath and a born horsewoman. I wish I'd realised before that I have a kindred spirit at the school, someone else to whom mythical beasts aren’t merely a pleasure but a passion, that the bespectacled little mouse is the only one who can keep up with me when I fly and understands entirely how I feel.

“Gracious, that fire is glorious.” I lean back in the rocking chair my parents have sent from home, letting the darning fall back onto my lap. Matron had returned two pairs of my stockings from the wash along with a few acid comments about whether I was intending to ink my legs to hide the holes like a baby in the first form. I have to admit the thought did enter my head.

Rosalind looks up and smiles at me. She’s at the desk helping Diana with her French prep., or rather doing the whole thing for her. I’m too contented and pleasantly sleepy to feel in the least resentful.

“You look half-asleep,” she says.

Beside her, Diana shifts sharply, shooting her a glance. Me taking away Rosalind’s attention is a new thing, and not one that Diana appreciates.

“I am. It was a good game.” I yawn behind my hand. School House had a practice game after lessons against the combined other houses, and although we’d lost, it had been exactly the way I like hockey, with light sharp rain to keep us fresh and cool, mud and laughter. I’m so proud of the way the players are shaping, in all Houses and forms. I have some good inter-school matches arranged, and the First has already made a decent showing against various ladies teams in Cornwall.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Diana’s tone is acid. “You know what Matron said about your darning.”

Rosalind reaches out for the heap of lisle on my lap. “I can do it for you if you like. I don’t mind darning.”

I catch her hand, blocking it. “I can do my own darning,” I say, firmly. “You don’t need to baby me; you have your hands full with your own chores, without needing to pick up anyone else’s.” I raise an eyebrow at Diana, who scowls.

“Rosalind
likes
darning and sewing,” she says in a tight voice. “She doesn’t play games, so she has plenty of free time.”

I glare at her. I’ve been watching Diana and the way she treats her so-called friends much more narrowly since befriending Rosalind. Now I’m looking for it, I can see the unnatural intentness with which she gazes at them when she turns on. . . well, the Charm. She’s not keeping the other girls under her thumb through any virtue of her own, or even merely through Rosalind and Valerie’s weaknesses, but by directly manipulating them with magic. It’s not against school rules, precisely—although evading her chores is—but it’s something no decent girl would do. For all Diana’s family seems all right from what she says, she behaves like a rank outsider.

As if to show just how much she cares about my opinion, she’s doing it now, her fingers brushing at the loose ends of one of Rosalind’s plaits, turning her full attention on the smaller girl. “I appreciate so much the way you help,” she says, very softly. The easy blush rises to Rosalind’s cheeks and her eyes shine behind her thick glances. I detest seeing it; it feels like a new, itchy jumper against bare skin.

“You do sew beautifully, my girl,” I say, not picking or choosing my words, just wanting to break the connection between them. “Your embroidery is ripping.” It’s true enough. On the few occasions on which Rosalind is not fully occupied playing personal maid to Diana, she works on the most wonderful sampler, all flowers and fairies made in tiny delicate stitches.

Rather to my surprise the faint rose on Rosalind’s cheeks becomes a flaming red and she turns from Diana, not to me, but away from us both, as she mumbles something. Diana and I both stare at her in puzzlement. I’ve obviously succeeded in distracting her from Diana’s charms; I just can’t figure out why her response to a casual remark is so dramatic. I know she’s becomingly modest, but I’m sure she’s been complimented on her work before.

I think of my bookmark, with its exquisitely worked pegasus, tucked inside the book on raising gryphon cubs that my sisters clubbed together to give me for my last birthday.

I lean back in my chair, rocking gently as I go on with my darning, and leave the other girls be for a while. Charms and Glamours, after all, clearly aren’t everything. The utter sweetheart.

For all that, the more I care about Rosalind, the more convinced I am that Cecily is right about her needing rescue. Something should be done about Diana, for Valerie’s silly sake as well. I suppose, as a Senior Prefect, I have the right to interfere. It’s just all complicated and tangled because I’m hampered by how badly I want to supplant Diana as Rosalind’s true friend, how obvious I’ve been about it. Any way I interfere with Diana’s activities will look like jealousy and possessiveness.

Maybe that’s what it truly is, at the root. I don’t want to leave myself open to an accusation I will have trouble denying.

Meanwhile, Diana continues to trample all over the other two girls, while I, the girl with the most chance of exerting any real influence over Rosalind, says and does nothing. I’m not unconscious of Cecily’s reproachful looks at me when Diana is extraordinarily demanding. I shrug helplessly at her in response. What, truthfully, can I do?

Weekend walks into the village are a precious privilege. The ability of girls from the two upper forms to go down into the town and look at the shops and visit the teashops is fiercely cherished. The absolutely most devastating punishment a senior girl can be given is gating. Obviously, another reason for the cruelty of the penalty is the prospect of being banned from any games played away from Fernleigh Manor; I have made it clear that any girl missing from a team for such a reason will incur my strong displeasure. For all that, it’s really being kept from shopping, overly stewed tea and cakes with suspiciously sweet cream that is the most terrible fate for most of my schoolmates.

I’ve never really seen the point, myself, although I sometimes go along with Cecily and Esther for the company. I’d really rather be flying or practicing at the nets than staring into the windows of dismal antique shops and milliners. This weekend, I keep my Saturday appointment because it gives me a chance to be with Rosalind and because I don’t want her spending too much time alone with Diana. Shameless, like I said.

The two of us fall behind as we take the rather pleasant road to the village. I’m happy and in no hurry to trade the glowing autumn trees lining the road for the rather dull Victorian village. It adds to my happiness that Diana is in a simmering sulk, striding ahead in front of us, instead of claiming Rosalind’s attention. Rosalind at first seems a little unhappy with Diana’s black mood and starts to make up the distance between us. I grasp her arm firmly, pulling her slightly back. After a moment, she stops trying to catch up. She lifts a questioning eyebrow at me.

I search for a way to explain why I don’t want to her to fuss around mollifying Diana. In the end, I go for simplicity. It’s always better to be straightforward.

“I don’t think Diana likes me very much.”

“She just doesn’t know you well enough. She doesn’t know how wonderful you are.” I search Rosalind’s face for a sign that she is joking or evading, and see nothing but simple, friendly loyalty. She really does seem to think that anyone, even Diana, would like me if they had the chance. It makes me want to blush a little myself.

“I’m not so certain. It’s a little awkward, being loathed so much.” I laugh a little. “You know, you don’t have to have just one set of friends. Why don’t you come with my crowd, sometimes? We’re not such a bad gang.”

The colour leaves Rosalind’s face. She shakes her head, jerkily, and then quickens her step, pulling me along with her. She gives me the impression of a high-strung unicorn shying away from a stranger.

It’s curious. I could swear that she is more than just shy of my friends, she is terrified, like Cecily said. It simply doesn’t make sense. Well, maybe a little. Esther can be a bit unsettling while Gladys can be a little loud and inclined to set fire to things, but neither of them really justify this level of nervousness and aversion. As for Cecily, well, she is Head Girl. If Rosalind was a second former caught planning a midnight feast, I could understand being awed by Cecily. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure hiding Sunflame is the first school rule Rosalind has broken in her young life.

“Can’t we just be friends, the two of us?” Rosalind asks at last. She’s looking down at her feet, the soft lines of her mouth unhappy.

“Rosalind, don’t be a little idiot.” I give her a light, chiding pressure on her arm and search for the words to reassure her. I can’t, I feel, have her being afraid of the people who mean most to me. “My pals are awfully nice, truly. I mean,” I correct myself more truthfully, thinking about Esther and Gladys, “Cecily’s awfully nice. All the lower formers come to her with their troubles and get sound advice and chocolate biscuits. You don’t need to be frightened of Cecily, of all people. Esther—well, Esther can be queer sometimes, but she’s just too clever for her own good, and she always backs her friends up in a pinch. Gladys can shout a bit, and lose control of her flames, but she’s a good sort too, honestly. You’d like them all if you gave them a chance.”

She looks unhappily at me, not saying anything. The country road is becoming a village one; soon we will be on the High Street.

Eventually she says, very quietly, “I’m sure they’re all grand. I don’t really know why you still bother with me—you’re very kind. I just don’t feel safe around them.”

It’s an extraordinary confession, I feel. I grapple for the right thing to say. “You’re not afraid of me, at least,” I say in the end, helplessly.

“I knew from the first you were different,” she says simply.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe because I could feel that Ember loves you. I simply knew you were good and kind. Diana just had to be wrong about you.”

“Diana?” My grip tightens on her arm, so that when I stop dead, she’s forced to stop walking as well. Rosalind looks up at me with dismay.

“Charley, dear, forget I said anything. Please?”

I force myself to keep my tone even. There’s something in my throat fighting to escape. I shove my free hand in my blazer pocket, to prevent it shaking. I’m not even really sure what is making me so afraid.

“Rosalind, what precisely has Diana been saying about me?”

My tone was far too rough. There are tears welling up in her eyes now. I feel like an unconscionable beast, to make her cry like that. Part of me just wants to soothe her, grin and make light of it all. The problem is that there is something tight and afraid and anguished clenching my heart, and I need to know what Diana has been saying about me, at the same time as dread of what I’m going to hear is making me feel sick. I think of beautiful Esther with her little touches and teasing almost-kisses, that she never directs to anyone but me, even though Cecily is her dearest friend. I think of what I must seem like to the others, with my cropped hair and boyish nicknames. Of Diana’s nastiness about the innocent little bookmark. I clench my hand in my pocket.

Rosalind touches her lips with her tongue, those huge blue eyes fixed pleadingly on me, as if waiting for me to relent. “She just doesn’t understand you,” she repeats. “I know you couldn’t mean anything bad. Not really bad.” A tear actually escapes each eye; one runs down her face while the other is caught on the rim of her spectacles, glimmering there in the yellow autumn sun. The detail fascinates me horribly. I feel terrible guilt for causing her misery with my brutality.