The Woodlands (#1 THE WOODLANDS SERIES) (COMPLETE)

13. ASSESSMENT

If I had known this was the day, I wonder if I would have done anything different. Could I have stopped the horrible events that unfolded before my eyes?

Maybe.

Probably not.

I had worked late into the night, putting coats of oil and endlessly sanding my jewelry box. I was obsessing over it, wanting to make sure every part of it was perfect. Not even admitting to myself how much it meant to me.

Now that I was back in the workshop, after a restless nights’ sleep, I stepped back and tried to appraise it critically. It was certainly eye pleasing. It didn’t look like something I made and I couldn’t help wondering where I had pulled it from. How was I able to create something so good? It was not like me, or at least not what I thought I was like. A sense of unfamiliar pride swelled inside me. I was nervous, but satisfied that this would be good enough. The dream crept back into my mind, a shiny, haze of a picture. My own workshop, my own work.

“Don’t worry, Soar, it’s fantastic!” said Henri, putting his long arm around my shoulders. I took a deep breath. He smelled wonderful, like a combination of freshly sanded timber and oil. I could tell by the dark circles under his eyes that he had been here all night, his usually flawless appearance showing some cracks, a hair out of place, a crinkle in his shirt.

Henri had been the moral compass of the group. From what I had gathered, life in Birchton was even harsher than in Pau. Henri had been raised in an extremely strict environment and his appearance reflected that. His ash-blonde hair was always neatly combed back. His uniform was always impeccable. Outwardly, he looked like the perfect student, serious and dedicated. But there was such a warmth and kindness to him. He was always looking out for us, trying, to no avail, to get the group to settle down at meal times and in class. I admired the fact that despite his hard upbringing, he had managed to keep his soul intact, unlike many of the other students. He was the one that we would look to, in case we had gone too far, and he would always let us know, but in a kind and measured way. Having someone look out for me wasn’t something I was very used to. In Pau, everyone looked after themselves. I only knew one other person who behaved like Henri, or at least used to.

“Thanks, I love yours,” I said, thinking it was not enough but not knowing what else to say. I ran my hands over his impressive desk. Henri had constructed a strong-looking desk out of the pale orange-colored timber of his hometown. It was deceptively complicated. Upon closer inspection, you could see the craftsmanship that had gone into it. The top, lockable drawer that slid open effortlessly and the carved handles made it look extraordinary. Each one was shaped like a delicate birch leaf, curled perfectly to allow the opener to grasp it and pull with ease.

As I shut the drawer, Mister Gomez stormed in looking like a terrified mole, squinting and crashing into things. I suppose, for him, this was an assessment of his teaching skills, and for us to do poorly reflected directly on him. But when he took in the superb creations his students had produced, his shoulders, tensed and almost touching his ears, seemed to relax a little. Until his dark eyes glanced at Rash’s wobbly-looking table.

“Listen up everyone. We have until twelve to finish. Rasheed, I suggest you attend to the wobbly leg on that table.” He proceeded to walk around the workshop, pointing out minor issues that needed to be fixed. When he came to me, I was just about to pick it up and take it over to the sanding bench. He put his hand on my wrist. It was all sweaty, but I did my best not to pull back.

He said, “Leave it, Rosa, I don’t think there’s any more you can do.” I think I must have looked hurt or worried because he quickly followed it up with, “You surprised me, girl, it’s excellent work,” then he gruffly snatched the box out of my hands and placed it towards the end of the judgment line.