WPO 5

Chapter 5

The headmaster who received my letter, recommendation, and transcripts from my previous academy was not politely courteous. Rather, he seemed to regard me—dressed in city fashion as befitting the first day—as a fastidious young lady. I had no way of knowing which of these had crooked the headmaster’s mouth: that I came from Sidore, the capital;

that I lived in the white mansion behind the hillside vineyard; or that I was the eldest daughter of the proud Moremon family. The headmaster simply busied himself devouring what he said was a walnut pie his wife had baked,

showing not the slightest interest in my academy life. His eyes gleamed only at the part about how, now that the Moremons had come to Olga, we would naturally make a substantial donation to the parish chapel.

“Hello. I’m Flona of the Moremon family. I’d like to get along well with everyone in Olga.”

I could tell who the notorious Trilla was without anyone pointing her out. What caught my eye at once was the red ribbon tying up her pretty brown hair in a slightly off-kilter way. Our first impressions of each other were unpleasant, like a button fastened wrong pulling the fabric taut.

“Miss. Just a moment. Mick! You should take her hand!”

The day I finished touring Olga and passed through the front gate of the white mansion, Mr. Asher, who had been pulling weeds in the garden, scolded Mick with a face gone white. Mick, unskilled in etiquette, simply stood there blankly while I gathered my long skirt hem alone and prepared to climb down.

The hem of the skirt dragging at my feet, the trouser-like undergarments hidden beneath, the weight of the underskirts—all bound a woman’s legs. Only Mr. Asher had perceived that I was not in a position to leap down lightly as Mick could. Whether thanks to Father’s discipline or not, today Mick rushed over the moment the cart stopped and took my hand to help me down.

“Mick?”

“Whoa….”

The academy had been built close to a stream that reportedly swelled with muddy water whenever it rained. It was merely two brick buildings dividing the upper and lower grades, and the vegetable garden and walking path behind could not be called the work of professional gardeners. I could only long for my previous academy, which had rented a secluded castle and even boasted separate resting areas.

“Now, a seat….”

Desks that looked as though they had been salvaged from wartime were lined up long, and boys and girls shared a single classroom. It was somewhat fortunate that they at least separated us into rows and sections.

“Lady Moremon, please sit over there.”

The female teacher, whose smiling impression seemed quite gentle, indicated a seat with her finger. Students from sixteen to nineteen took lessons in the same classroom. Those preparing for the royal school apparently took time to receive special lessons from invited instructors.

“Um… hello?”

“Hello.”

While cold wind came through mouse holes in the thin walls, my seatmate spoke to me. Her blue ribbon hair, seemingly braided to pass the morning hours, was quite neat. I envied her attire—comfortable underskirts without layers of petticoats beneath.

“I’m Donica. My father’s apple farm is near the white mansion.”

“Ah… I think I know. Mick introduced me last time.”

When I let slip praise about how the farm was lovely enough to warrant an invitation, Donica blinked her innocent eyes. Donica, a year younger, fidgeted with her hands and rolled a wrapped lemon candy to the left. It seemed to be Olga’s way of expressing friendliness.

“Lady Moremon has come at just the right time. Trilla, Lori, Donica—have the three of you reached an agreement?”

I heard the teacher’s energetic clap at a moment when I, having transferred today, knew nothing of the academy’s progress. Beside me, Donica inhaled deeply as if about to plunge into water. As if bypassing my assumption that this would be a literature class, a voice came clearly from the back.

“Lori and I have reached an agreement, but Donica and Angela won’t agree.”

The student who finished speaking primly was Trilla Loughton. She must have had a clash of opinions with her seatmate Donica. Donica, who had seemed like a gentle foal, raised her hand and cried out as if in protest.

“But Teacher. Angela isn’t here today because she has a fever. Trilla is unilaterally—”

“Unilaterally? You didn’t say a word when I told you what you and Angela prepared was no good. Why do you say different things in front of the teacher?”

As Mick had warned, Trilla’s tongue was sharp as a fish bone. I turned my head and glanced at the back row without meaning to—not to pick a fight. Students at my previous academy, even if they had an opinion they dearly wished to express, either wrote it in lengthy prose or spoke as if composing poetry.

Using language that openly attacked the other party resulted in point deductions for both sides. It was like seeing a miniature version of the social circles one would enter upon adulthood. The underwater psychological warfare that the teacher couldn’t see had been quite formidable.

“Teacher!”

“No, Teacher!”

“Listening to Angela and Donica’s opinion is favoritism. The work we prepared already drew the most students.”

I, who did not know the reason for the fight splitting into three or two, was merely a transfer student from out of town. The teacher maintained neutrality, only nodding at both sides’ opinions. Refined finger-pointing went back and forth, and one by one students began to stand. In a moment of mental chaos, I caught Trilla’s gaze staring at me as if challenging me to a duel.

“Flona Moremon.”

The target of Trilla, who had been explaining her own work, shifted to me in an instant. Twenty students with triangular eyes fixed their attention on me. Trilla, who was playing queen at the Olga Academy, spread her lips wide.

“You must have been quite flustered coming here for the first time today. We were too rude to a noble lady. Sorry. But as the teacher said, you came at just the right time. If you’d come any later, you might not have had a role to take.”

I let pass in one ear her boasting that the Loughtons were Olga’s one and only noble bloodline. The main point, as expected, came only after her bragging ended.

“Moremon. You and I are similar, so I’ll speak comfortably. Abandon that country bumpkin girl beside you and prepare with me. Don’t you think we’d suit each other well?”

At Trilla’s single word, my seatmate beside me, who had been squirming, seemed to have given up on me. The academy’s curriculum was not standardized, so I did not know what Olga’s main focus was. At my previous academy, failing literature, mathematics, or art evaluations earned one animal-like noises. There had been private consultations about once a month suggesting that the more instruments one could play, the more advantageous for Rocam admission.

Olga’s academic style seemed unique, but I learned anything well and my hands were deft. Therefore, I would not bet on the side that had been glaring at me like a thorn in their eye from the moment I stepped off the cart.

“I don’t know anything yet. For now, may I hear both sides and then decide?”

Thinking of the future, I had not completely rejected Trilla, the queen of Olga. I was praising myself for a bold move that kept a foot in both camps.

“Oh my.”

“See? I told you she’d be like that.”

The two girls on either side of Trilla furrowed their brows menacingly. The climax was when my seatmate Donica, seemingly moved, grasped my hand and lifted it. It was the teacher’s words that pushed me, bewildered by not knowing Olga’s atmosphere, to the edge of a cliff.

“Good. Let’s not fight. How about dividing into two teams to prepare the stages we’ll present at the Katree Labor Festival?”

“Two stages? The boys are already short-handed as it is.”

Apart from Trilla’s prickly reply, the conversation that had been circulating finally sorted itself out. In places with strong regional character, students sometimes built their records by participating in labor festivals or spring banquets. Prestigious academies like those in Sidore had similar evaluation criteria, but other regions each had their own standards, it was said.

“The Olga Academy is famous for staging generally excellent and moving performances. Since your opinions show no sign of narrowing. How about it? Finding however you can the people you lack and successfully putting on a stage is also one of the important evaluation criteria.”

I did not know the date of Katree’s traditional Labor Festival, but seeing that even village-level Olga participated, it must have been large in scale. Students showcased skills honed on stage to earn evaluation points. It was a teaching method unique to Olga, where teachers and fields of study were not diverse.

“Lady Moremon… no, I’ll call you Flona from now on. You must choose which of the two stages you want within at least two days. I believe you can do it.”

“Of course, Teacher.”

I would not do something as foolish as rebelling against a teacher who would write a year’s worth of academy evaluations. Even the somewhat absurd matter of stage evaluations had to be accepted if it must.

“This is great, Flona!”

Donica, the very symbol of an innocent young lady, believed she would be on her own stage. I gave a courteous eye-smile and looked back. I intended to make my final decision after hearing Trilla’s opinion that her stage was Olga’s best.

“Look at that. That’s the look of someone keeping us in check.”

“You’ve already sided with Donica.”

Whether they split into two groups and clashed was none of my concern, but the flow of the situation was strange. One side smiled far too brightly, and the other bared its fangs far too much.

For the first time in a while, I wanted to go home rather than stay out.