Frostwing Academy | ONC 2024

3 - The Ride Home

After signing the next twenty years of my life away in Dean Yoren's office, I leave Frostwing Academy and make my way down to the train station. Cold mountain air whips at my skirt and tugs at my hair, sending carefully tended brown locks into wild disarray. I clutch my cloak tightly with one hand and hold onto the railing for dear life with the other as I descend the wooden staircase, praying to all the saints the bolts that fasten it to the mountainside hold. A copy of the contract as well as a list of items I need to bring with me when I officially start at the academy are tucked into a pocket of an old, worn brown second-hand satchel.

I still can't believe that the saints have saddled me with the surliest, ill-tempered gryphon imaginable. It's not even possible to get another partner. As Dean Yoren explained, in addition to compatibility, partners are matched based on age—any available gryphons are either too young or too old for me.

No matter how I look at it, I'm stuck.

Thanks, Father, I mutter as a great blast of wind freezes me in place. I press up against the mountainside, face turned towards the rock until the wind subsides. How in the world am I supposed to live here?

Teeth chattering, I hurry to the station platform as quickly as I can. The train stops at Frostwing Academy only twice a day and I don't want to spend the night here if I can help it.

The main building is a small wood and stone affair with a ridged metal roof. Bits of melting snow cling to the edge, tiny droplets falling like rain onto the faded boards of the platform. A young man a few years older than me is the only employee I can see. He sits behind a glass partition streaked with watermarks and smeared with dust from the mountain. Advertisements years out of date are plastered on either side of the window.

I walk up to the window and rap on the glass, getting his attention. The man swivels towards me, tipping his dark blue cap back. Grey eyes rake over my face and his expression shifts from boredom to interest.

"How can I help you, miss?" His accent carries the same rolling notes as the gryphons.

"How long until the train arrives?" I dig into the satchel and pull out my return ticket, holding it up to the glass. The man leans forward, breath fogging up the glass as he peers through the dirty pane. He pulls back and glances up at something above the window.

" 'bout another thirty minutes."

I look around the platform and sigh. There are only two benches and one of them is currently occupied by an old mountain couple and a goat. I nod to the man and make my way to the open bench, sitting down and pulling the folds of my cloak over my lap. I stare at the tracks, fingering the worn trim of the cloak between my gloved fingers. I should be spending my time preparing for my début in the summer; instead, I'm stuck on a mountain with a goat who's currently defecating little round balls all over the platform.

Girls who I thought were my friends have shunned me; invitations to balls no longer show up at our door. There's no money to go out to the ice shops or the theatre. Everything I have ever known, everything I've come to rely on—it's gone. Crumbled to dust beneath cruel Fate's boot.

Anger bubbles up inside my chest with each jaunty bounce of shit and I turn my head away, biting the tip of my right thumb to stem the scream that threatens to rip my throat to pieces.

I must have made some sort of sound because I hear the old woman ask, "Are ye a'right, missy?"

All the anger in me snuffs out like a candle flame, replaced by intense embarrassment. I just broke one of Mother's cardinal rules—I let my emotions get the best of me in public. I manage to nod before putting my back to the couple.

"Must not've gotten in," the husband murmurs to his wife as the goat bleats.

They—they think that I'm upset because I didn't get into Frostwing? Laughter rises like bile in my throat and I clamp down harder on my gloved thumb. My shoulders shake as I struggle to keep my wits about me. Oh, bless their poor little hearts.

If only.

The piercing whistle of the train slices through the mountain air. My chin jerks up and I turn around on the bench. The ground beneath my feet rumbles as the train approaches the station, belching black smoke like a demon.

My savior appears in the form of a massive forest green engine, hauling a dozen cars behind its hulking wrought iron exterior. I rise from the bench as the train eases past me, wheels screeching as the brakes are applied. Something squishes beneath my heel and I turn my foot up to see that I've stepped on one of the goat's droppings.

Ugh.

I scrape my shoe against the platform, smearing a thin brown streak along the boards.

The train comes to a halt, plumes of smoke billowing upwards. With a great sigh, the beast settles and lies still. The conductor emerges from the first car, settling his dark blue cap on his head. Wisps of white hair curl over his ears, which get pushed back as he puts on a pair of spectacles.

"Tickets, please."

Eager to be off the mountain, I rush up to him and present my ticket. The conductor looks at it, then punches the ticket before handing it back to me. "Second class starts at car three, miss." He points down the line of dull green cars.

I hesitate, eyes fixed on the faded gold "1" on the car behind him. The conductor watches me, then adjusts his glasses, looking over my shoulder. The stupid goat bleats and butts its head against my leg. I jump, an unladylike squeak passing my lips. The old man mutters an apology, yanking on the goat's collar as his wife hands the conductor their tickets.

Pressing a hand to my heart, I hustle down the platform to the third car, praying the couple and their evil beast are in third class. There's no one to hand me up, so I grip the scuffed brass rail and enter the car.

Second class is comprised of sixteen mismatched padded chairs upholstered in either paisley or faded flowers. Four chairs are grouped around a single table, two facing the engine, and two facing the caboose. I slide into an unoccupied table and set my satchel on an open chair, nose pointed towards the engine. There are four other people in the car with me—three at one table, one by himself at another. The same newspaper I read this morning is folded on the table; I shove it away from me and lean back, the rough weave of the chair's padding bunching my dress up around my bum. Sliding my hands beneath me, I smooth out my dress as elegantly as possible.

The lone man catches my eye from his seat and tips his hat, ashes from his cigar falling onto the scratched tabletop. I give him the briefest of nods and avert my gaze, staring out the window. It'll be dark by the time I get home. Hopefully Mother hasn't called the constables to search for me. That's just what this family needs—another scandal.

I sigh, breath fogging up the window. My stomach rumbles and I press a hand to quiet its protests. I've not had anything to eat all day, save for a muffin and weak coffee purchased off the trolley this morning. I brought enough money for the cab ride home and a few extra coins I managed to scrape together. That ought to be enough to buy a decent sandwich and another tiny cup of coffee. Saints know our larder at home is getting small. Mother will have to sell another cabinet to pay the grocer soon.

A whistle pierces the air, making me jump in my seat. I look up to see the conductor walking through the car, nodding at us passengers. "Trolley will be through once we're underway," he says as he passes. "Expected arrival at Morval Station is 6:45 pm."

Three more sharp blasts follow this announcement and the train jerks forward. I feel the wheels grab at the tracks, setting the engine and its cars into motion. My stomach growls and I settle in for the long ride home.