Milthorne Manor [#Wattys2016]

Chapter 5

"Welcome, each and every one of you, to Milthorne Manor. Before the day goes any further, I feel it is only right to inform you of our rules." The apparent spokeswoman for the Headmistress continues, folding her hands in front of her, unconsciously mimicking the older woman sitting beside her.

I notice as a newcomer reaches for her fork, only to have her mentor snatch at her wrist, dragging it below the table again. From the crimson climbing up her neck, and the ashamed, confused look on her face, I can tell the girl is being scolded quietly for her breach of protocol by her savior.

I find myself wondering if she knew that it's impolite to start eating before the head of the table finishes speaking, and gives the command to begin the meal, and then mentally scowl. She shouldn't have to know, but "good society" demands it. It demands perfection in all things.

"Now darling, you wouldn't want to be made a fool, would you?" My mother asks in my ear, "Nice girls know that they must always be on their best behavior. No one must know if you feel alone, or if you feel anything at all. All they must ever see is perfection."

I feel my hands dig into the fabric of my skirt.

I'm done. I'm done with your societal niceties and stupid, overrated mind games. Just wait, Mom. I turn eighteen, and I'm gone. I'll be somewhere, I don't care where, climbing mountains and laughing and singing at the top of my lungs with people who don't care how straight my back is when I sit, or if my legs are crossed, or if my hair is perfectly arranged. I'll-

"Meals will be served at precisely eight o'clock, twelve o'clock, and six o'clock. Punctuality is required, otherwise kitchen detail and a demerit may be given. Six demerits will result in discipline, and if the offenses are repeated, can result in expulsion. Also, each of you will be expected to appear in your uniform at any event held outside of your dormitory, including meals."

I can sense Hebe shrinking into her seat across the table from me as the words filled the room, as if trying to hide her lack of a uniform.

"Curfew is at eight o'clock in the evening, and lights out is at nine. Disobedience will result in immediate expulsion. There will be no fraternizing with anyone of the opposite gender in any circumstance other than casual interactions with our institute's staff during a semester here at Milthorne Manor. Divergence from this will result in five demerits, and kitchen or laundry duty for the entirety of the month. These are not all of the rules here at the Manor, but they are the most often questioned. Your dorm-sisters will inform you of the remaining expectations."

As the ebony-skinned young woman bends to catch the Headmistress's next words, Natalia's warm breath stirs the hair around my ear.

"The girl speaking is called Hera. She is Headmistress Milton's favorite spokesperson."

"Why does she need one?" I blink at her, curiosity gnawing at me.

"The Headmistress apparently suffered some damage to her vocal cords, and can no longer speak any louder than a whisper."

"How did-"

"The Name Day tests will begin tomorrow, and Order Initiation will follow the day after. Please, do not feel alarmed if you were unaware of these events, they are not things you can study for, and are merely our way of celebrating your unique personalities and encouraging bonding within the student body. Your schedules will be assigned tomorrow as well. Does anyone have any questions?"

A few hands are raised here and there in the room, but for the most part, the newcomers, like myself, merely sit and let the deluge of information sink in. In the end, I manage to summarize my thoughts and feelings on my current level of experience with my new school into a single sentence.

This is really weird.

So weird, in fact, that I'm starting to question the truth of the chant that has kept me going through the past few weeks: It's better than a public school. I am seriously considering the possibility that public school would have been better than this for my exile. Frankly, though, when I was given the option of an inner-city high school and a drunken uncle to keep an eye on me, versus a private boarding school in Scotland, I thought the choice was fairly obvious. Unfortunately, my mother, bless her status-obsessed cardiac muscles, saw that coming, and managed to pick the most bizarre location in town for me.

As permission is granted to us to partake of the meal and soup is served, I move my spoon from plate to mouth mindlessly, the attempts at small talk directed at me from nearby girls falling on deaf ears. Utterly absorbed in my irritated thoughts, I barely catch it when Hera speaks up again.

"Hebe, come nigh."

Head held high, Hebe has apparently recovered from her earlier panic, and she jaunts over to the head of the table, where the Headmistress sits regally. As she leans in to hear what she has to say, and the dark haired girl's demeanor rapidly shifts to an immature pout, my eyes catch the blur of a painting on the wall behind them.

A man, perhaps in his thirties or forties, stares back at me. Daubed onto the canvas with oil paints, and mostly hidden in the shadows, the ancient-looking portrait stirs me somehow. The man looks slightly confused, perhaps even wistful. His eyes are dark, and maybe it's the lighting, but in that single moment, I see a glint I know all too well.

Madness.

I don't see Hebe stalk out of the room, scowling, or hear the girlish giggles and chitchat that wafts around me. The quiet noises of clinking cutlery and discussions fade, and I simply study the man trapped in the painting. I observe him, trying to make out his features, which are almost obscured in the gloom of the outer edges of the room.

He is aged prematurely, strained by something, that much I can see. His once-blond hair and beard are flecked with grey, and the planes of his face are stark. He looks tired, even slightly unkempt, and my thirst for understanding finally gets the better of me. I whirl to face Natalia, and ask her abruptly,

"Who is the man in that painting?"

"That is Nathaniel Milton, the man who turned Milthorne Manor into the school it is now. He's an ancestor of Headmistress Milton; why do you ask?" Natalia continues to eat daintily, not even bothering to give more than a halfhearted glance to the portrait, clearly uninterested during her concise explanation.

I pull my attention away, and stare into my soup, unable to define what exactly is roiling within my head as I notice the Headmistress watching me, an enigmatic expression crossing her face for the briefest of moments.

"Just curious."