In Enigmate, Chapter VB

Ella continues the story:

Prologue / Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter IIIA / Chapter IIIB / Chapter IV / Chapter VA

~ * ~

The long hand ran slowly around the face of the clock, sweeping away the seconds: Three minutes left.

A pencil eraser poked her neck, and Marie-Claire glanced behind her. George gave her a quick smile before continuing his hurried notes. With a sigh, Marie-Claire looked back down at the blank page of her notebook. Two minutes left. She slid her notebook into her backpack and zipped it shut.

‘And for Monday, scan “Ode to the West Wind” starting on page fifty-three of our anthology, and come prepared to discuss the significance of the metric variations. You are allowed to work with classmates on this assignment. Enjoy your weekend.’

At once the class lept to its feet and streamed into the hallway; George picked up Marie-Claire’s backpack and looped his arm around hers, keeping her close in the press of students. ‘Christine, what are you afraid of?’ he sang quietly.

‘I’m not going to get the part.’ She curled her fingers more tightly around his arm, breathing hard.

‘Don’t be silly; and stop pinching me. You’re not the only one in suspense.’

Marie-Claire relaxed her hand. ‘Everyone is saying that Annabelle will get it.’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘She takes voice lessons.’

‘She needs them more than you do.’

‘And she’s ever so much prettier than I am.’

‘She’s also an idiot.’ He pulled her shoulder against him. ‘Tu, cum per faciem non sis infima, per abundantiam litterarum es suprema. Shut up half a minute and let us get to the door.’

Subdued, she matched his rushed pace to the door of the dean’s office. Already so many students had crowded there that they could scarcely come within ten feet of it.

‘Up you go.’ George bent down and lifted her onto his shoulder. ‘See it? Who’s Raoul?’

Marie-Claire squinted at the sign posted on the door:

Phantom: George Eric Paling
Christine: Marie-Claire Cygna Overman
Raoul: Ender Rafiq Emmanuel

She bit her lips to keep back a smile. ‘Ender someone-or-other.’

George swore and let her slide back to the ground.

‘But you’re Phantom!’ she added triumphantly, letting her smile shine out again.

He smiled wryly. ‘I get to creep on Annabelle?’

‘Maybe.’

Someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned to a young man slightly taller than herself. He grinned with perfectly white teeth. ‘You’re Marie-Claire?’

‘Yes,’ she said, shaking the hand that he offered.

‘Abigail pointed you out. I’m Ender; I think that you’re in precalc and Catullus with me.’

‘Yes, I believe so. Congratulations.’

‘Same to you.—And Paling, looks as if we’re destined to be perpetual rivals.’ He smiled again; George nodded coolly.

‘We’ve been vying for top of our class since primary school,’ Ender explained, ‘but I’ve given up this year, decided that to be good I don’t have to be best.’ He glanced to George and then back to Marie-Claire. ‘I’ll see you again, I guess. Ciao!’

‘You too.’ Still smiling, Marie-Claire turned back to George, who sighed.

‘When are you going to switch classes?’ he asked with an impatient air.

‘I don’t know whether I will.’ The smile had left her heart, and she let it fade from her face. They turned back down the hallway.

‘I thought that you wanted to be in calligraphy with me.’

‘I do, I really do; but Daddy wants me to take precalc.’

‘If you wanted, couldn’t you persuade him?’

She sighed. ‘I’ll try, but I have to find the right time.’

‘I don’t think that you care enough.’

‘I do; honestly, George, I care a lot.’

He shrugged.

‘Honestly. I’ll try to ask him tonight. I haven’t had a reason good enough until now.’

‘I’m not good enough?’

‘To him. You’re the only reason I want to change. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry. I’m really sorry.’

He ran a hand over her hair. ‘It’s all right. It’s not you.’

‘And even if he won’t let me change, we have all our other classes together; and I’ll see you at rehearsals.’ They had reached the glass doors at the front of the school, beyond which waited her father’s car. ‘Thanks for carrying my backpack. I’ll see you Monday.’

‘You too. Take care of yourself.’ He held out her backpack while she slipped her arms through the straps and settled it comfortably on her back. As she started to walk away, he added, ‘Wait, you’ll see me at rehearsals? What did you get?’

The smile surged back to her face. ‘Christine.’

In a few steps, he caught up with her and suddenly, on her forehead between her eyes, kissed her. She stood there trembling; she was not a princess, not even a princess in disguise; she was only a plain peasant girl, without beauty or grace, without any charm, even without courage; and somehow she felt the prince’s lips against her face. He must be mistaken: yet surely he knew more than she. With clumsy fingers she brushed a few hairs from his face. ‘All right, I’ll see you Monday,’ she said shyly, and slipping from his hands, turned and, without pausing to put on her scarf—for her face was already warm—ran out the door to the car.

‘How was your day, Mica?’

‘Well, thanks. And yours?’

‘Oh, fine.’

‘Daddy, the audition results were posted today!’

‘Were they.’

Marie-Claire silently ran her fingers along the glass of the window; the school was already out of sight, and she sighed.

‘What audition are you talking about, Mica?’

‘For the play. Remember?’ She did not dare give him time to answer. ‘Daddy, I’m Christine, one of the main characters!’

‘Excellent, I’m proud of you,’ he said distractedly, searching with one hand in his briefcase.

She hesitated. ‘I was wondering,’ she began.

‘What now?’

‘May I drop precalculus? I’ll—’

‘No.’

‘But Daddy, I don’t need the maths credit, and I—’

‘I said no, Mica. As much as I love you, I don’t want to spoil you completely. Maths and science are important areas of knowledge.’

‘It’s so much work,’ she said, with a slight sigh in her voice, ‘and now I’ll have rehearsals.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said automatically; but she wondered what George would say, and whether he would be angry.

Once in the house, Marie-Claire ran straight to the spice-scented kitchen to announce her news to Jane.

‘I knew you’d do well, miss,’ Jane said, with an approving nod. ‘The gingersnaps will be done in five minutes.’

Marie-Claire smiled. ‘You’re magical.’

‘I am your fairy godmother, miss, and I shall grant you three wishes.’

‘I wish to drop precalculus,’ Marie-Claire said with a sigh.

‘Haven’t you asked Dr Overman yet, miss?’

‘I asked him today, and he said no.’ She took the form, filled out neatly in blue ink, from her backpack and set it on the counter.

‘You’ve got everything but his signature, miss,’ Jane said, surveying it over her shoulder. ‘You were even brave enough to get the dean’s signature yourself.’

‘Not really; George did come with me.’ Marie-Claire folded the form in half, hanging her head so that her hair fell around her burning face.

‘Now don’t be sullen, miss.’ Jane opened the oven and shut it quickly, but still the scent of ginger breathed through the room. She returned to the counter and unfolded the form with a thoughtful nod. ‘I’ll try a spell or two; these are magical gingersnaps, after all. ‘And if I can—’ She stopped as the doorbell rang. ‘Run along, now, miss; I’ll bring them to your room when they’re done.’

Marie-Claire picked up her backpack and dragged her feet up the stairs. Perhaps, she thought, George would not so much mind her taking precalculus now that they would see each other at rehearsal.

O goddess! sing the wrath of Peleus’ son,
Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought
Woes numberless; for so had Jove appointed.

She had scarcely returned her books to the shelves when she could hear footsteps coming up the stairs with the scent of ginger. ‘Ave Marie-Claire,’ Abigail called.

‘Moritura me salutas? I hope not,’ Marie-Claire said with a short laugh as Abigail entered with a plate of hot, crip cookies and two teacups of milk. She still wore her brown sweater and long braid, now with the green sneakers.

‘Where shall I set this?’ she asked. ‘Jane sent it with me.’

‘Anywhere, I guess.’ Marie-Claire sat down on the rug and Abigail sat across from her, setting the plate between them.

‘How are you?’ Abigail asked.

‘Well, thanks. You?’

‘Quite well. I heard that you’re Christine: congratulations.’

Marie-Claire smiled, a little shyly.

‘Ender said that he met you.’

Marie-Claire nodded. ‘He seems nice.’

‘He’s a good kid,’ Abigail agreed. ‘So you’re dropping precalculus? Why?’

Marie-Claire shrugged. ‘I may not after all, because Daddy doesn’t want me to; but I thought that it would be too much work now that I have rehearsals.’

‘Really? I’d have thought that you could manage it.’ Abigail’s dark eyes sharpened, and Marie-Claire felt heat rising in her face again.

‘I’ll see,’ she said.

‘You’re a terrible liar,’ Abigail said indifferently, ‘but if you really want to pretend that that’s the reason, I’ll let you.’

Marie-Claire broke a gingersnap in half and slowly swirled it around in her milk. ‘Thank you,’ she said awkardly. ‘All right, I want to be in George’s class.’

Abigail nodded solemnly. ‘That’s better.’

‘Do you know him at all?’ Marie-Claire asked.

‘A bit.’ Abigail tossed her head from side to side in the Indian sign of affirmation, though she was not at all Indian in appearance. ‘He’s smart and good-looking but doesn’t keep friends well. Don’t get too attached to him.’ She looked sharply at Marie-Claire again. ‘Ender and I and some others study Catullus together during lunch; you’re always welcome to join us.’

‘Thanks.’ Marie-Claire smiled a little. She looked down at the plate again and noticed the corner of an envelope poking from beneath her cup. ‘What’s this?’ she wondered aloud, taking it out. It was addressed in neat cursive to Miss M. C. C. Overman; there was no return address, but it was postmarked Berlin. ‘It must be from—’ My mother, she was about to say but stopped. Carefully, she tore open the end of the envelope and took out two cream-coloured pages, both covered with the same fine cursive, beginning: Elsbeth Auerbach mater tua carae filiae suae amorem missit.

‘Do you want me to read it to you?’ Abigail asked.

‘It’s Latin,’ Marie-Claire said breathlessly.

Ego quoque te desideravi, quare litterae tua acceptae mihi placuit. Si potes, saepe rescribe et mitte effigiem. Iampridem bibliothecaria nosco multa de finibus vostris relata quae tibi nescienti posthac scripsi.

‘She’s missed me, too,’ she said at length, ‘and she liked the letter. She wants me to write more often and send an—effigiem?’

‘Portrait,’ Abigail said promptly. ‘She means a photograph, I guess.’

‘She’s a librarian,’ Marie-Claire went on, ‘so she’s heard a good deal of news about Anguo, and she’s writing it here.’

Abigail leaned closer, and Marie-Claire offered her the letter. Abigail ran her eyes over the first page. ‘Are you sure that you want to read this?’ she asked.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s technically illegal.’

Marie-Claire turned her head to one side. ‘You told me to ask her for news in the first place, though.’

‘I know; and I shouldn’t have.’ Abigail sighed, and her eyes were blank, her face a locked door. ‘I wasn’t really thinking of the danger to you. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ Marie-Claire said as bravely as she could. ‘What’s the worst thing that could happen?’

Abigail ran a hand over the letter. ‘We could be caught with it. But I won’t tell anyone; and you mustn’t either, not even George.’

‘I shan’t. But if we were caught—?’

‘I don’t know.’ She paused, running her fingertip along the edge of the paper. ‘No one does.’

Marie-Claire nodded. Very softly, she asked, ‘Will you read it to me?’

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