The General approached Cinders Alley in mid-train, already frowning.
This is insupportable. Why doesn’t he do something about the noise?
The children were singing, as if in defiance, most of them with hands over their ears but a few of them beating time on their desks. There were twenty-five of them, including the entire extended Patel clan, some of whom did not even live in Strawberryfield, all of whom were hoping for free toys. Twenty-five at once was unheard of, and there were nowhere near enough seats or surfaces or pencils for everyone. It was standing room only in Cinders Alley.
The General had no context for this, of course, but twenty-five seemed a good number for making an impact on the school-aged population of Strawberryfield — even if she was used to teaching, well, one. And with enough books on hand so that everyone who needed one (again, one person) could have one. She had some cough drops in her purse in case her voice started to give out, and a box of pencils and a packet of chalk.
“…row by row, hand in hand, we all stand together!”
“Aw, that was a short one,” Ted and Maria’s girl, Bethany, complained.
That is an old one, the General thought. She hadn’t heard that one since Mr. Rose bought Erik that idiotic picture book. She had taken her daughter aside and taught her the correct version and the history behind it, that was what you called a “teachable moment,” but Erik had persisted in asking to hear it until he realized his uncle disliked it for some reason.
Was he four years old at the time? My gods, what a waste of a perceptive intellect.
But Erik was not her responsibility. These children, on the other hand…
“Good morning!” she declared, smiling. She set her purse down on the only available flat surface, a warped plank balancing on orange crates, and began to unpack.
“Oh, my gods, no,” Soup said. He abandoned his pencil and paper and took off, clutching his hat to his head.
“Master Rinaldi, you have not been dismissed!” the General cried. “Master Rinaldi!” He had vanished before she could put together a shield spell to stop him. She supposed she might summon him back…
Bethany raised a hand, “Excuse me, General D’Iver, we don’t dismiss people. A lot of us kids have got jobs. We gotta go when we gotta go.”
“Jobs?” said the General. She leaned forward and put both palms on the desk. “The vast majority of you, from what I can tell, are not of age fourteen or older. What are you doing with jobs?”
“No age restrictions for family-owned businesses!” the Patel children chorused by rote. They were used to getting rid of the police.
“Or churches, or workhouses,” Josette enumerated on her fingers. “Or newspapers. Or registered non-profit organizations.”
“Or kids over twelve with parental permission,” Emily said. She turned and added to Josette, “It sucks now I can’t pretend Shirley’s my mom.”
“You should get a corset and stuff it,” Bethany said. “Then you can pass. You want one of my mom’s?”
“Then guys try to touch my butt,” Emily said uncomfortably.
“Quiet down, please. Quiet!” the General said.
They did, but it was more curiosity than respect.
“I am not conversant in Marselline child labour laws, so I will have to trust the group consensus on this matter. I therefore deduce that there is nothing like a record of attendance, or even a sheet of paper with your names on it?” There were no drawers in the makeshift desk to store such a thing, and the papers in the cardboard box were blank.
Petey lifted a hand and said, “Are you a fuckin’ cop, lady?”
“Excuse me?”
“What happened to Miss Hyacinth and toys?” Carlos asked tearfully.
“Stop crying, little boy. You are in an institution of education, however poorly equipped. You must…”
“What’s going on with Seth?” Josette demanded.
“Yeah!” said the school at large, hands raised.
“I’m sorry, are you children unaware of even the basic concept of raising your hand and then waiting until your teacher calls on you? What kind of cargo-cult system is Mr. Zusman running?”
“We are not a cult!” said Lilavati Patel. “Seth doesn’t care what gods you like.”
“Or what colour you are,” Bethany said.
“Or if you have a great big goddamn steel plate in your face,” Emily snarled.
“Or a job!” Henri said.
“Does he care about educating you at all or are you more of an all-inclusive social movement?” the General asked acidly.
“Fuck yeah!” Petey said, and there were noises of agreement all around.
“Both those things. We’re both,” Henri added.
The General folded her arms across her chest. “So, sort of a small army of reservists, yes? The Basic-Math-and-Literacy-and-Nothing-Else Corps?”
“You have kidnapped our leader and you’ve had him boxed up in your basement for a week,” Josette said, arms also folded.
“He is no longer in the basement,” the General said. She shook her head and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Apparently the most expedient solution is too cruel — although I will admit Mr. Rose’s particular variation was a bit of a safety hazard. However, because Mr. Zusman would not cease arguing the illogical position that it would be better to allow the complete dismantlement of the school than for me to come teach you, I have put him in a coma.”
“Whaaat?” said… most of the school. The entire front row put hands to their faces like the three wise monkeys.
“Contain yourselves,” the General said coolly. “It is magical rather than medical. I will remove it when I return home this evening. Hyacinth will store him someplace warm. This is undoubtedly the most rest he has gotten in days.”
Josette snatched her switchblade out of a pocket and engaged it. “We are going to go get him NOW!”
Bethany reached over and yanked hard on her threadbare coat, “Josie, no. Don’t mess with her, that’s Maggie’s mom.”
“Maggie’s mom?” said Josette. She fumbled the knife and dropped it point-down in the table.
“She can’t get all of us,” Emily muttered, but not with much certainty.
“Call emergency services,” said a low voice from somewhere in the back.
“She’ll drop you before you get to the phone,” Bethany replied with a firm nod.
There were more mutters of uncertainty and no further weapons were drawn.
The General suppressed a smile. So, being Magnificent D’Iver’s mother cuts more ice in this particular milieu than being General D’Iver. Very well.
“As you are reservists rather than terrorists,” she broke in. “I see no ethical barrier to negotiation. This evening, after a day of enforced bed rest, I shall release your leader — in time for Twelfth Night. If you will accept my tutelage for the day as… as a specialist, in remedial history, science and humanities.”
“Don’t patronize us,” Petey said.
“I am entirely serious.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am excited at the prospect.”
“Are you gonna get the heat under the bridge?” Josette asked.
“Heat?” said the General. She frowned and considered the bridge. “Show me.”
The air around them lit up in interlocking strands of red, white and green.
“Wow,” Carlos said. He reached up and touched one of the threads of light. His hand went right through.
“How perfectly ridiculous,” the General said. “A centralized location is much more efficient, and there is no point in anchoring it to the bridge…”
“Train,” Bethany said. The subtle vibration was rattling her pencil.
“That, however,” the General said tightly, “should be anchored to the bridge with all speed.”
She disentangled the sub-par heating spell with a wave and did a few quick sums in her head. Distance… Area… Decibels…
“Geometry, children!” she announced in full voice, which was quite capable of shouting down shells and cannon fire, cold or no cold. “A fundamental understanding of geometry is key! Does he teach you geometry? And logic chains! If/then statements! Hypothetical syllogism! If (level of vibration) in (defined areaschool) reaches (defined level of vibration) then (level of vibration) in (defined areabridge) equals null!”
She parenthetically indicated the main support of the bridge, and applied the spell.
The train went quiet.
“Holy shit,” Henri said, which came off incredibly loud.
The tables and desks were still rattling, but subtly, and sparks sprayed from overhead. The cardboard box for the pencils, currently empty, worked its way to the end of the teacher’s desk and upended itself. The General retrieved and replaced it.
“I said she was Maggie’s mom,” Bethany scolded him. “Didja think she was gonna be less scary, or what?”
“The remaining vibration and the pyrotechnics are still distracting,” the General said. “I may have missed an underground support or two. An architectural schematic is highly desiderated. I will visit the City Planner and see what records of pre-war construction I can find. A more comprehensive system should be designed, but as a stop-gap, this will suffice.
“I will also have to deal with the heat on a temporary basis.” She sketched a quick circle with a pristine piece of chalk from her purse while the poleaxed children stared at her. “Pardon me, little girl in the front row with the illegal knife?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Josette said weakly.
“‘Sir.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ I am military, and we are egalitarian. Do you still wish to wound me?”
“Nuh-uh.” She broadly shook her head.
“A pity. Can I convince you?” The General removed her greatcoat and rolled up her sleeve. “I will show you how to do it efficiently,” she offered. “It is necessary to heat the school.”
“Do it, Josie,” Bethany said, grinning.
“Don’t do it, Josie,” Emily said, wide-eyed.
“I will not attack, I will only defend, and I will allow you to land one. I will not use magic or dirty tricks. My word is my bond. As I said, it is necessary to heat the school.”
“Uh, uh, uh…” Josette said.
“If you should happen to inflict more damage than I am capable of dealing with, I will need to go home and have Hyacinth stitch me up. You may tag along and rescue your well-meaning but incompetent leader.”
Emily frowned. “Josie… Get her.”
◈◈◈
“Self-defence may be broadly defined as a humanity,” the General said, rolling up her other sleeve.
Josie was holding her switchblade in front of her and visibly trembling. The children had formed a traditional ring around them, shorter ones in the front. It was eerily quiet. Nobody wanted to pass an opinion on what might happen next.
“I am not about to lunge out at you, Miss Chevalier,” said the madwoman who had taken over the school. “Your stance is good, if not your attitude. Blade towards your opponent, never stand flat-footed, be prepared to block with your arm — and keep moving.
“As this is an artificial situation and I have not yet threatened you in any way, I will excuse you for standing stock still like a deer in headlights, Miss Chevalier. Under ordinary circumstances the correct response to a threat is to run away as quickly as you can — as Master Rinaldi unintentionally demonstrated earlier. You have no military objective and no need to engage, being reservists. Your personal safety is paramount. Awareness and discretion are the better part of any self-defence regimen.”
She sighed. “I despair of ever teaching Calliope. She may require some kind of a minder for the rest of her life. However, if one is press-ganged into fighting a Brigadier General for the honour of one’s schoolteacher, Miss Chevalier’s strategy is not a bad one.”
The General raised both hands, and also her voice, to make sure she impressed her new troops to a man, “And I will add that we are now so divorced from reality as to become ludicrous. The bout in and of itself has no applicability in real matters of defence, it is merely a teachable moment. Miss Chevalier’s performance will bear very little resemblance to her actual skill — so there is no excuse to run her down for any perceived failure. If I hear any insults or jeering in her direction, I will call the match in her favour and slice open my finger with her blade like a sane person.”
What a rare sentence, the General thought. She made note of it for later. Rare sentences made excellent triggers for spells.
“Uh, should I, uh…?” Josette said.
“At your leisure, Miss Chevalier. Use the edge, not the point. Slice, don’t stab. Stabbing can lose you your weapon. Go for distance. Distance is damage.”
“Uh…”
“I shall do my best not to let you injure me so badly that it scars either one of us for life, Miss Chevalier. This is a novel situation for you, but not for me, and I have every advantage… just not a knife.”
“Hokay,” Josette huffed. She took a few more deep breaths and ran forward, head on.
The General dodged sideways, and the little girl ran her blade through thin air. “As a frontal assault, that was awkward and telegraphed, Miss Chevalier. Blade first, not head first, you are not going to knock me over, my centre of gravity is notoriously low. You are frightened of hurting me. Stop being nice. Redirect your momentum. Press your advantage. Blade first, Miss Chevalier!”
“Get her, Josie!” Emily cried. She gasped and clapped both hands over her mouth.
“You are allowed to be supportive, Miss… I apologize, I do not know your name,” the General said, dodging multiple blows. “We will need to improvise a roll call at some point, after you are all satisfied I am not affiliated with the police.” She was but slightly out of breath.
Henri cupped hands to his mouth and declared, “My name is Henri De Fiore, I live at 341 North Sabot Street, I illegally wash dishes at Zino’s Pizza and you are definitely not a cop!”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence. Master De Fiore, and I will do my best to remember the name, but I find myself rather distracted at the moment! Miss Chevalier, control your movements. You are flailing. You will exhaust yourself.”
“Well, then hold still, damn it!” Josette said, panting.
“Not yet.”
“Come towards me!”
“I will not attack. I keep my word, Miss Chevalier. The fact that you must press every assault on your own is also to my advantage, I do apologize. I should have mentioned it. You must excuse me, I have a cold.”
“What?” Josette said, hopelessly. “You’re sick too?”
“Don’t give up, Miss Chevalier. I have promised to let you land one, but you must work for it.” She raised her voice, “Some encouragement, please, for Miss Chevalier, who is taking on the insurmountable for all your sakes!”
“I hope she gets you in your smug face!” Emily called, hands fisted. “And I’m Emily Rafaela and you better remember it! You guys!” she told the rest of the class, waving a hand. “Be distracting!”
“Yeah, screw this, I’m cold!” Petey said. “I’m Pierre Saint Pierre! It’s confusing as hell! Kill her, Josie! Like, literally kill her! We can throw her in the canal!”
“I’m Lilavati! And that’s Cousin Seeta and Cousin Sanjay and Cousin Patrick and Cousin Manu and Cousin Angela and Cousin Indra and Cousin Timothy and Hasan-bhai, and Amet-bhai and Rajesh-bhai, and we’re all Patels so you’re gonna have a heck of a time! You can do it, Josie!”
“I’m Charlie Zamora and if you don’t stick her, I will, Jo-Jo!”
“I’m Sarah Cobb, and by the way, you can all stop calling me ‘Cornflakes!’”
“I’m Bethany Toussaint and you all better not call me ‘Pinky,’ either!”
“Jonathan and Natalie Perkins, over here! Hey, don’t forget us, crazy lady!”
“I’m Kelly Weaver! And that’s my big brother Joe, an’ my little sister Edith!”
“We live over the bakery!” Edith said.
“Trade names, huh?” Joe added. “Go figure!”
“I’m Maria Shaw!”
“I’m Marie Desjardins and don’t get us mixed up!”
“This is an interesting strategy,” the General managed at a gasp. “I don’t suppose any of you children are either Kirk Douglas or Spartacus, are you?”
“Hey, I’ll be those, too, if it’ll mess you up,” Joe Weaver said, lifting a hand.
“Admirable!” the General said. “Miss Chevalier… I must say… Pardon my shortness of breath… But the longer this goes on… the better I become at… predicting your movements… You are… less experienced… and will not learn as quickly… to predict me. You must be… opportunistic… and fast…”
“You’re… faster!” Josette cried, similarly tired.
“No… I can tell… what you are going to do… and I have… more time to react.”
“Oh, screw this — Oh, my gods, another distraction! It’s huge!” Josette shrieked and pointed and then dove forward, blade first.
The General lifted her arm to ward off the blow, turned it expertly and leaned back but not aside. “Thank you!” she said. “Excuse me.”
She strode to the blackboard and pressed her bleeding arm to the circle. The area under the bridge became instantly warm, and a scattering of miniature fireworks appeared over the board, in silver and blue — Twelfth Night colours.
“Forgive me, but civilian life is not as quick to punish whimsy and I am becoming eccentric. A sacrifice circle is merely a convenient target, it need not be elaborate… or permanent.” She pressed her hand over it and removed the chalk and the blood with a deconstruction.
This resulted in a handprint. The rest of the board was nowhere near that clean.
She sighed and cleared the whole thing, leaving a brief orange glow. “I have lost Mordecai’s edict against stealing, but it is not as if that was information you did not already have. Mr. Zusman’s emotional instability…”
Josette collapsed to her knees and burst into tears.
“That is quite all right, Miss Chevalier, you have been through a stressful ordeal.” The General pulled a handkerchief out of her purse, dropped to one knee and offered it. “There, there.” She stood and rolled down her sleeves. A quick-clotting spell and a repel charm would prevent the cut on her arm from staining her dress. “Take as much time as you need, we will continue without you.”
Emily ran forward and wrapped both arms around her friend.
“Or… something of that nature would be appropriate, I suppose,” the General allowed. She cleared her throat and applied a cough drop. “The rest of you can… do your best to find space for note-taking…” She waved a hand at the assortment of too-few desks. “Perhaps Mr. Zusman has a blanket in with his personal items. I will…”
“Do you, like, not get you just got into a knife fight with a seven-year-old?” Henri said. “Or what?”
“Reality is frequently absurd, Master De Fiore. I have learned to cope with it. Are you children experiencing difficulty with the transition? Do you require some manner of instructive song?”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna help,” Cornflakes said dully. She did, however, make for the desks and chairs. Dad just punched me in the face, next time, please don’t burn the steak. Twinkle-twinkle. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
Carlos sat down also, but not in a chair. He started to cry.
The General abandoned Mr. Zusman’s trunk and threw down the dusty blanket. “Master Zamora, I find your lack of emotional maturity frustrating. Do you require something less complex? A… a colouring book or something of that nature? How old are you?”
The boy in the roughly knit sweater held up four fingers disconsolately. “An… An… An… Anna half!”
“I see. Have you given any thought to a nap?”
“He’s just hungry, General D’Iver,” Bethany said. She sat down next to him and slung an arm around him.
“It cannot possibly be later than nine-thirty, I have just been past the clock at the bus stop. Didn’t you have breakfast, Master Zamora?”
“I don’t like the soup kitchens, they’re cold!”
The General blinked at that and considered. “Bethany… Miss Toussaint, if you are capable of providing me with more information, I would appreciate it.”
“You hafta wait in line to eat at a soup kitchen, sometimes it’s hours, and that’s cold,” the pink girl said. “Charlie just has a sweater. And he doesn’t have food at home ’cos his big brother doesn’t, like, take care of him or anything.”
“Hey!” Carlos cried, and swatted her.
“Dick!” Bethany replied. She stood up and flounced away toward the desks.
The General crouched and examined the loose knit of the boy’s sweater. It was unravelling in places, fuzzy and stained. “Uniforms,” she muttered. “There is a reason we supply our troops with uniforms. There are no supply ships for the reserves.” She stood and addressed the rest of the class, “Excuse me, how many of you children are hungry at the moment?”
She counted twelve hands, including Emily and Josette.
“Amet Patel, your name is the same as the man who owns the delicatessen, are you related?”
“Yeah, that’s my dad,” said Amet Patel.
“Uncle Amet!” said some of the other Patels.
“Excellent. Is he open at nine o’clock in the morning on a bank holiday?”
Amet shrugged. “I mean, we live over the deli and I’ve got keys, so basically, yeah.”
“And would he be willing to accept a personal cheque?”
Amet, Hasan, Rajesh, Lilavati and many of the lesser Patels goggled at her.
“I dunno,” Amet said. “But, I mean, I’m not totally sure we have a store policy for gold doubloons or unicorn turds either.”
“I can be very persuasive,” the General said. She put on her greatcoat, buttoned and straightened it. “We will…” She sized up the poorly dressed children and the snowy surroundings. “No, I will take orders and go by myself.
“We’ve got the keys!” said the Patel children, brandishing string necklaces which had been stuffed down shirts and in pockets.
“No, that will not be necessary,” the General replied. “But thank you.”
◈◈◈
“…two pastrami on rye, one with yellow mustard and one with brown, and one chicken salad with extra dressing,” the General informed a terrified Amet Patel, who was barefoot in striped pyjamas and nightcap, and brandishing a baseball bat with nails in it.
He had a bruise under one eye from a previous encounter with a D’Iver female, but he had no more idea of what he was dealing with then than what he was dealing with now.
The General smiled at him. “Also, little Amet and Lilavati and Rajesh and Hasan and all of their cousins say, ‘Hi.’”
The dark-haired woman standing behind him in the window gave him a shove. “Baalam, let her in, she has the children!”
Staggering, Amet Patel stepped aside.
“No, thank you, I prefer the front door,” said the General. She descended gently as if on a wire.
Amet Patel took the stairs two at a time and opened the door with shaking hands.
“I notice you have quite a lot of tables and chairs in here,” said the smiling woman who could fly and had possession of all his children.
◈◈◈
There were exclamations and pointing long before General D’Iver was near enough to provide a greeting or any explanation. She was being followed by floating furniture, a dozen chairs and four large tables, and five more Patels, who had been permitted to walk.
“Lila!” shrieked one of the Mrs. Patels. She barreled into the school and snatched her daughter, beating the General by a good minute.
“Hi, Mom!” Lila said, grinning. “Maggie’s mom is teaching the school today! Wow, huh?”
Mrs. Patel had already moved on to Amet and Hasan and Rajesh, smoothing their hair back and snatching their shoulders and turning them around.
“I apologize for my tardiness, there was a minor altercation with the police,” the General announced. “Fortunately, all the receipts were in order. Mr. and Mrs. Patel, I hope you are satisfied with the condition of your children,” she added in a lower voice, which was not quite free of disdain.
Three Patels were now examining the children. The most senior Amet Patel, who had attained the rank of Lieutenant during the war, saluted the General and bowed to her. “I knew it would be fine, General D’Iver. The children, they are always so nervous.” He gestured to the middle Amet Patel, who seemed to be engaged in ascertaining if youngest Amet still had all of his fingers.
“They are not used to magic like we are,” said the eldest Mrs. Patel.
“Rajesh Francios Patel, you will come home with your Auntie Kamala and I this instant!” said the younger Mrs. Patel.
“Geez, Mom, why?” Rajesh said. “There’s sandwiches!”
“I’m surprised to find you teaching school in Strawberryfield, General D’Iver,” said the eldest Amet.
“I find this neighborhood more agreeable than…” The General sorted through a shoebox of loose memories — the island, the boat, and, very briefly, the estate. There was a lot of yelling involved, and explosions. “Others,” she finished with a vague gesture. “I will return your furniture this evening. Undamaged.”
“Take as long as you need, we’re not open until tomorrow afternoon.” Amet waved at his extended family. “Amet, Chetna, Kamala, leave the babies alone and come home. They will learn great things today.”
“I will try,” the General said bravely.
◈◈◈
By the time the furniture was arranged and the sandwiches distributed, it had gone past eleven o’clock and the General had to allow some of the children to depart for their afternoon shifts with nothing more than a meal and a rudimentary lesson in self-defence. Also, a few children with morning work showed up in search of toys and had to be brought up to speed on the knife fight and why the trains didn’t make noise anymore. Some of them required sandwiches — the General had purchased a dozen extra.
She addressed the blackboard, irritated: “All right, now I believe I had some kind of lesson in mind when I arrived over two hours ago…”
She sighed as another silent train trundled by overhead. The cardboard box with the pencils in it, which she had stuck down, remained as it was. The one with the loose papers and the brick keeping them down wandered over the edge of the plank and spilled.
“STOP!” said the General. She waved her hand and clenched a fistful of air. The fluttering papers stopped just as they were and the brick and the box halted inches from the ground.
“Are we still gonna sing when the trains go over like Ann?” one of the new arrivals asked in a low voice.
“We are not gonna do anything unless she says it’s okay,” Bethany replied, staring at the frozen papers. The other children were sitting unusually straight and composed — even though some of them were eating sandwiches.
“A brick is useless,” the General snarled.
She leaned over and plucked it from the air, then heaved it into the distance, overhand. It went about ten feet and then rolled end-over-end a few more.
“Have you children noticed that people who have a natural talent in something do not bother to train it, depending on mere virtuosity to carry them through? I have!”
She pointed at the substandard desk and commanded the papers, “Get in your box and stay there!” This was not strictly necessary, but it seemed appropriate at the moment.
She unwrapped another cough drop. The bag was already half-gone.
She smiled. “Now. Singing. Thank you for reminding me, Master Wyrzykowski.”
“You can just call me Pavel…”
She nodded to him, “No. Are you children aware that you have been singing a version of the Third Coalition Anthem when the trains pass overhead?”
“‘The Frog Song’?” Josette asked, hand raised.
“I believe the actual title is ‘We All Stand Together,’ but yes.” She began to write words on the pristine blackboard. “It was part of a popular animated short…”
“I can’t read cursive!” Carlos volunteered through a mouthful of sandwich.
The General snapped the chalk in her hand. “I will point to the words and you will pick it up as we go along, Master Zamora.”
“Okay,” he said doubtfully.
“…an animated short film.” She drew out a new piece of chalk and continued to write. “These are the original lyrics. There are not many of them, as I’m sure you know. It was primarily an instrumental piece…”
Emily raised her hand, “There are vocals, sir, it’s just not words.”
“Thank you, Miss Rafaela. I do try to be exact. However, my patience is wearing thin, and the next child who interrupts me without waiting for me to call upon them will be silenced like the trains. As I was saying, there are not many words. The Third Coalition was the last. The First and Second Coalitions had their own original anthems penned. The Third, if I may say, was a kludge. Morale was low. Sarcasm was high.”
Petey put up his hand and said, “Unh!” but not any words.
“The song was filked,” the General went on, firmly. “Which is a ridiculous term, but, to the best of my knowledge, valid. It means that we kept the melody and made up new words. Mr. McCartney would have been justified in suing us, but so far to my knowledge he has not. Yes, Master Saint Pierre?”
“The First and Second and Third Coalitions of what?”
“What?” said the General. She staggered. “Of nations. In the war. The war with Prokovia. Oh, my gods, we’ve just had it!” She pointed frantically to the left of her, which was where she tended to picture the recent past, as if on a timeline. “Seth was in the war! Hasn’t he ever mentioned the war? Being in the war?”
Marie hesitantly raised her hand and waited for a nod. “Um, it hasn’t really come up, sir.”
General agreement from the rest of the school: “Pretty sure he didn’t like it.” “Yeah.” “Yeah.”
General Glorious D’Iver considered her history lesson in progress on the board. She had intended something cute and amusing — and relatable. A microcosm of the macrocosm. And so you see, children, I have irrefutably proven that history is relevant to your personal experience, and fun. Now let’s have science…
Oh, gods, what do I do now?
She couldn’t put a cute little flower box in the window as an eye-catching flourish when the house had no windows… and no walls… and no foundation!
What the hell has he been teaching them? He has every day with them! What in every god’s name does he do with all that time?
But this was at odds with the fact that it had taken her over two hours to get to her cute little history lesson and now she had no idea how to teach it.
I could… I could possibly explain that it was an alliance. A friendship, put simply. And then go on teaching the Third Coalition Anthem when they have no idea why we had the war in the first place. Do a little magic and hang the flower box in midair and I suppose it is possible they will build a house around it.
How does Maggie say that? “Yeah. Right.”
She wiped the board with another deconstruction, this one came off quite a bit brighter and left some scorch marks. She picked up the chalk and began to draw. “This is what Anatolia looked like at the end of the Veaceslav War — that was the war before the Great Undertaking, which is what we called the last war right up until we lost it. Do you notice anything odd about it? Yes, Master Zamora?”
“It looks like the big one is taking a wee all over the little ones,” Carlos said, hand raised.
There were some stifled snickers, but nobody wanted to risk a real laugh.
“That is quite an astute observation,” the General said. “Yes.” She indicated the long finger of outlined territory. “This is the Veaceslav Corridor, a so-called ‘Zone of Free Trade’ established by a treaty. Nobody was particularly happy with it.
“Prokovia had attempted to assert sovereignty over all this territory here…” She shaded in the map with long strokes of the chalk. “…because they claimed the Slavish living there were ethnically Prokovian. Which makes as much sense as saying all the toys in the toy store are mine because the wind-up dog has brown eyes like I do. Do you understand?”
Joe raised a hand and inquired, “Why didn’t we throw them out of the store?”
The General sighed. “We can’t, they live here.” She labelled Prokovia — in block letters, for Master Zamora’s benefit. And then Marsellia and Gundaland and Avar-Abenland and others. “We all live here. We find it more expedient to compromise than murder an entire country.
“Everyone knew they only wanted a piece of the eastern coastline, and easy access to it, so we gave them that… only much smaller.” She re-outlined the Veaceslav Corridor so they could compare it to the attempted land grab. “Also we took this chunk out of them and gave it back to Piastana as reparations. That means… Well, essentially that means as punishment for acting a fool on an international scale.
“But as I said, nobody was happy with this, particularly with the stream of wee running down the middle of it. Avar-Abenland was cut off from their own territory as a result. Miss Cobb, your nose is bleeding.”
Cornflakes turned bright red and covered her nose with a hand. “Oh, shit! Goddammit!”
There were again muted snickers among the children, as when Charlie compared the Veaceslav Corridor to a stream of wee.
“…I seem to find myself without a handkerchief. Does anyone have a leftover sandwich napkin for Miss Cobb?”
Emily gravely offered her a few. Cornflakes swatted her away and drew a stained, crumpled wad of tissues out of her coat pocket. She jammed this under her nose and then pinched it shut and tipped her head back with humiliated resignation.
The General noted the bloodstains on the tissue. “Miss Cobb, is this some kind of chronic condition with you?”
Cornflakes snapped her head forward and snarled, “Yeah, it’s called my dad drinks and he knocks me around! A lot of us have that!” She flung a gesture at her nervously-smiling classmates. Some of them exchanged heavy glances, but there was neither agreement nor shaking of heads, as if all their necks had suddenly frozen.
The General delicately set down her chalk. “I see. And where is your father at the moment?”
Cornflakes shooed a hand at her. “Don’t bother, don’t bother. He’ll just knock me around harder. Seth doesn’t even try to talk to him, he just takes me to the police. They take pictures of me.” She snorted. “I got a file. I guess they’re filling out a bingo card and when they get all five letters they’ll do something. I only sleep at home when it’s cold outside.”
“I do not intend to ‘talk’ to your father. However, if you do not wish to make it easy for me to find him and… and deal with him, I am certain I can do so with magic.” Or a phone book, she added to herself. It is quite possible I will use a phone book. Perhaps as a bludgeon.
“Uh…” said Cornflakes. She fumbled her wad of tissues. Seth had never threatened to pull out the magic on her, although she was pretty sure he could do some. The heat. And the butterflies.
But of course, he’d never done anything as impressive as muting the trains…
“We live at 318 North Sabot Street, sir. Unit A.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have some kind of a job that he needs to be present for to continue to provide you with food and housing?”
“I-I mean, you’re not gonna break his legs or…”
“Not if he requires them to provide you with the bare minimum of care, no. There are alternatives. I must beg all of you to excuse me. I believe I shall require no more than an hour, given the distance. In the meantime you may…” She sighed. I wish I’d left the Anthem on the chalkboard, that might have been more amusing for them. “You may independently study geography and eat sandwiches.”
◈◈◈
Unit A was on the ground floor, no levitation necessary. She knocked on the door. “Good afternoon! Are you Sarah Cobb’s father?”
“What?”
“Are you Sarah Cobb’s father? Do you, in a legally-binding sense which would be difficult to subvert without involving an orphanage, have the care of her?”
“What’s the little twit done now?”
The General smiled. “Ah, yes. That will be all the talking I require.”
◈◈◈
The General set down her purse and addressed her silent, staring students. (She suppressed a sigh. She had lost a few old ones and picked up a few new ones. She hoped the others had explained in her absence about the lack of toys.) “I apologize. I needed to take some personal time to purchase more cough drops, also some more food.”
She set the paper bag with the cough drops and the drugstore pastries down beside her purse and began to unpack it. “Miss Cobb, I have glued your father to the ceiling…”
“Oh, my gods…”
“…of your apartment. To the ceiling of your apartment. I will provide you with written instructions for his removal, and also for re-adhering…”
“Re-adhering?”
“…That is, for sticking him back up there when you feel it is necessary. I have written it down, just remind me to give it to you before you leave. I find myself very distracted today. You will have to let him down for work, so I advise you to make yourself as safe as possible before doing so. You may glue him to the ceiling again immediately if required.
“The spell is, strictly speaking, a curse. If you happen to encounter him out of the house, it will adhere him to an appropriate surface, out of harm’s way. You need not fear accidentally blasting him into the stratosphere — which is the layer of earth’s atmosphere above the troposphere, and in a rhetorical sense quite a long way away, not that all of you have any context for any of that.”
Now she allowed herself the sigh. She leaned heavily on the desk and continued in a colourless voice, “New students, please tell me your names. First and last. And if you are hungry, eat something. And if any of you are being abused or exploited, please inform me immediately or come to Hyacinth’s house at 217 Violena and I will deal with your complaints in the order in which they are received.
“And if your clothing is inadequate for the winter… I don’t know. I suppose I can put something together. Damn it, I’ve lost nearly a dozen of you already.” She thudded her fist on the warped plank. “At any rate, if you come to 217 Violena with any problems you may be experiencing, I promise you we will not use magic to harm you.
“But I suppose you won’t. You have only known me for five hours and you have very little reason to believe I’m not trying to kill you when everything else seems to be attempting it.”
“And you locked our real teacher in the basement, General D’Iver,” Bethany put in.
“Yes, there is that.” She straightened and cleared her throat. “All right. Names! And then, if at all possible, we will review the causes of the war…”
◈◈◈
General Glorious D’Iver arrived home at seven o’clock, in snow and darkness, after returning the borrowed furniture to the delicatessen. Her shoulders were rounded under the greatcoat and she kicked every step on her way up to the porch instead of picking up her feet — which were damp and sore.
There was no victory to claim, not even a moral one. She had managed to explain the Veaceslav Corridor, blowing up the train tracks in Avar-Abenland, and the Great Undertaking through the First Coalition, never again coming anywhere near Paul McCartney and “We All Stand Together.” She had no idea how much information any individual student might have absorbed and could neither test them nor assign homework.
She did not feel that she had in any way fulfilled Lieutenant Patel’s expectations of teaching “great things.”
The windows and roof were lit up with twinkling bottle lights and the glowing tree was visible through the particoloured leaded glass, but the front room was otherwise dark. Unoccupied. It was cold. The mage lights in the ceiling popped on when the General opened the door, and she shuffled glumly past the tree to investigate the kitchen, where it was warm.
Everyone, barring Barnaby and Room 101, was in the kitchen. Most of them had soup in front of them. Maggie and Erik were eating theirs, Milo and Calliope were sitting near theirs and otherwise engaged (Calliope with Lucy, Milo with the table-top — to which he had applied his face). Mordecai was stirring a pot on the stove and Hyacinth was in the pantry.
Seth was on the floor, where she’d left him that morning, only now with blankets and pillows.
The General dropped her purse on the floor and shrugged out of her coat, which also went on the floor. “I was unavoidably detained,” she said hoarsely. “I did not expect you to wait dinner, so you need not apologize.”
“Do you want tomato or vegetable beef, sir?” Hyacinth asked, holding cans. “We also have stew.”
“Tea,” said the General. “But I am not able to sit down just yet.” She crouched down to wake the schoolteacher and fulfill the last of her obligations — however half-assedly.
Calliope nudged her with a bare foot. “Glorie, that was really mean how you left him down there. Cin and me and Em can’t move him. He’s huge. And Em has that thing with his lungs.”
“Magnificent…”
“I’m on drugs and I don’t know what you did to him to get him like that,” Maggie answered, with no further prompting. She dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. “Discretion, sir.”
“…And was there anything more than usual wrong with Mr. Rose?”
“He barely got here and he has allergies,” Calliope said.
Milo lifted his head and sneezed plausibly into a tissue. He blinked and looked around. Oh, gods, now she’s in here. He still couldn’t get enough energy together, mental or physical, to go upstairs and get changed. They threw him out of the library because of the arson and he had to spend the rest of the day in a pub — and not even as Ann.
He felt guilty and embarrassed and stupid about that (and he was scared they’d say he couldn’t have books anymore at all) but mad too.
Arson is everything on fire, Ann, not one toy monkey on accident. They let people smoke cigarettes on purpose in the study rooms…
I know, Milo. But there really wasn’t anything you could do to explain it.
No. But it’s still stupid and I hate it.
I know, honey.
Seth shot bolt upright and recoiled from the General’s touch. “Ne me touche pas! ….Ah! Oh, my gods!”
Milo nodded and clasped a hand to his chest. Oh, yeah. Solidarity, brother.
Seth didn’t notice. “I’ve been asleep… All day…?” He looked around. “On the floor. I’ve been asleep, all day, on the floor. I’ve been asleep all day on the floor!”
“You really have that ‘sentence structure’ thing down pat, Mr. Zusman,” the General said dryly.
“Take it easy. Let me get a look at you,” Hyacinth said. She put the soup cans on the table and lifted a hand.
The General stood and blocked her. Easily. It was like a tin of sardines in here. “No. He is not feverish, we have unlawfully imprisoned this man for nearly a week, and I have promised several dozen concerned children with very complicated lives that I will send him back to them tonight. This information precludes your inaccurate application of magic.”
“Hey!” said Hyacinth.
“You went,” Seth said. “Reine des Cons! C’est pas…!”
“Mr. Zusman,” the General said. “The last time you started trying to order me around like a servant, I put you in a coma, so please…”
“I-I-I specifically asked you not to go!” he said. “And you… you pushed me over anyway and you went! Were you somehow not hearing me when I told you the only reason they come to school at all is because they trust me? I can rebuild the school, but not that! How much damage have you done?”
“I have cursed Sarah Cobb’s father, and the man who owns the deli is not very happy with me. The two incidents are not related. I have left some scorch marks on your blackboard. I have silenced the trains. I have enchanted your boxes of pencils and papers so they no longer spill. I have repurposed your brick. Your improved heating charm is anchored there and it is buried in the ground under your ‘desk.’
“I fed the children. I have also sent many of them home — or wherever they are currently sleeping — with enchanted stones that cast automated heating charms. Similar to your toaster, Mr. Rose, but with no unnecessary moving parts. Ah, and I made Miss Chevalier cry. I am sure there is much more, at least it feels like it, but I am very tired now and liable to forget.”
Seth was making a very small smile that was not voluntary. “Did you kill him?”
“Miss Cobb’s father? No. I glued him to the ceiling. He can continue to support her as well as he is able when she lets him down.”
“He’ll hurt…”
“No. I have made it very easy for her to glue him up there again, as is necessary. Mr. Zusman…” She sighed. “I have been uncharitable in my estimation of you. You are dealing with multiple issues of which I was unaware until today. However, you are dealing with them badly. For the moment I choose to believe you lack the necessary training, skill, and possibly intelligence, rather than that you are lazy or do not care. I will reevaluate when I am more rested.
“Due to my own shortcomings, which I will also do my very best to investigate in the following weeks, I cannot do — and indeed do not want to do — your job. But I am confident that I would do it much better than you — right up until the point where I killed myself. If you should ever require my assistance, and you do, you know where I live.” She offered her hand for shaking.
“What?”
She offered it again, more firmly. “I want to help you, Mr. Zusman.”
“Oh.” He still hesitated a moment, his expression was doubtful, but he shook the hand.
“Do not forget Calliope’s old shirts and your drawing of a butterfly and Mr. Rose’s shoes and whatever else Hyacinth wishes to load you up with before she allows your release,” she said. “And here is a rock with an automated personal heating charm affixed to it. You may keep it in your pocket.” She dropped a piece of gravel from Cinders Alley with a runic symbol scorched on the top of it into his hand.
Milo stood up so fast he upended his chair. Oh, goddammit. That’s what I was trying to do with all those contraceptive charms! How does that tiny little sucker work?
But Seth had already put the rock in his pocket.
“I have decided against soup and tea, Hyacinth,” the General said. “I am going to bed.”
Maggie sat up. “Mom, it’s Twelfth Night. The presents…”
Mordecai dropped the spoon in the pot of soup. “Oh, my gods, it’s Twelfth Night. It’s Twelfth Night and I have made canned soup…”
And I couldn’t fix the monkey, Milo thought with a sigh. Stupid library. Arson is a lot of things, not one…
“I don’t feel like presents,” Erik said softly.
“Nobody wants presents,” Hyacinth said. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“Hey!” Maggie said.
“The presents will still be there when everyone doesn’t feel like shit, Maggie,” Hyacinth said firmly. “Calendars are stupid. We’re poor people. We can have a bank holiday whenever the hell we want.”
“I’m really sorry, Hyacinth,” Seth said. “For all this…”
“Do not apologize to the person who kidnapped you,” Hyacinth said. “You really are sick, you know? In the head. Come on.” She patted his shoulder and turned him around. “Let’s get you home before the General glues me to the ceiling.”
◈◈◈
Seth slowed down and cautiously approached Cinders Alley. Not that she had said anything about mines or bombs, or those clever little runes you could stick on a person’s body to make their blood boil away — you could even put those on chaff and throw them — but she did say she might’ve forgotten some things. And she’d seemed very tired and low on impulse control and it wasn’t as if she didn’t know how. And probably a lot worse that he was unaware of.
He was carrying a file box with the little handles punched in the sides, which Hyacinth had swiped from Barnaby and filled with all the things they wanted him to have. He’d made out like a bandit this year. He had clean shirts for days. And an almost-full box of tissues. And art that he had no idea how to display! You know, without any walls and all.
Better than that year Mom and Dad gave me a car! What am I supposed to do with a car, anyway? I can’t afford gasoline.
He was wearing Milo’s shoes.
I am not allowed my own shoes anymore, he thought with a sigh. Oh, and I’m fired from the newspaper.
But that was his own fault.
He set the box down with a crunch and stepped into Cinders Alley. The feel of gravel, mud and snow was as familiar as carpeting. He wriggled his guilt-ridden charity shoes into it and pressed both hands over his mouth to stifle an unhinged laugh.
“Made it,” he said, mousy-quiet. “Home. Made it home.”
Wow, I really do have that ‘sentence structure’ thing down pat.
He tipped his head back. The sky above was starry and threaded with clouds. The gaslamps hardly made a dent in the night, and nobody put any Yule lights on a railway bridge. It was not cold, but that was only because he had a magic rock. He sang out, “I’ll be home for Twelfth Night, if only by escape!”
A small voice whispered, “It’s him!” like a secret fairy and for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming…
Smaller shadows stirred among long shadows, and piles of junk — and tables and desks which were indistinguishable from the piles of junk. Cinders Alley was alive.
Seth frowned and shook his head. He took a step backwards and almost trod in his box of gifts. “Oh, no, my dears. It’s Twelfth Night. You should be home…”
“Screw home, my dad’s stuck to the ceiling back there,” Sarah said, grinning.
“What home?” Josette said.
“It’s still warm under the bridge,” Emily added pragmatically. Even though she had a personal heater now.
“This is home,” Soup said firmly. “Despite the military coup.”
“You’re just annoyed you missed sandwiches,” Josette said.
“Oh, no, it’s late. Are you hungry?” Seth said. He collected the box. Hyacinth had sent him off with several slices of bread and butter, and hot soup in a can, which she resealed.
“The Basic-Math-and-Literacy-and-Nothing-Else Corps of Reserves and their visiting specialist with the unheard-of personal cheques have provided a selection of goods from the nearest bodega,” Emily declared.
“We got hot chocolate!” Carlos said.
Multiple hands found purchase on his hands and arms and sport coat, and pushed him in the general direction of home.
“Did you know Maggie got you fired?”
“We tried to make ‘em give us your papers but they wouldn’t!”
“What are you gonna do now?”
“Teach school,” Seth said. He smiled and shrugged. “I suppose we’ll get the money for it somewhere. Like this dinner.”
Soup and Sarah had matches, and Seth had most of a box of tea candles in his trunk — still there after all this time. A week was an eternity when everyone was hungry and cold.
“You’re not all very mad at me for leaving you like that, are you?” he asked them softly.
“Nah,” Sarah said.
“You didn’t want to,” Josette said.
“Well, no, but…”
“Train,” Soup said.
The children giggled at Seth being mystified by the silent train. Silent trains were old hat. The sparks sprayed like fireworks.
“Do you know ‘The Frog Song?’” Carlos asked him, smiling. “We rewrote it like the government!”
“We’re basically a coalition, anyway,” Emily said, aside. She took Soup’s hand and swung back and forth with it while they sang down the train.
