The Meanings of Lost

Chapter 7

This had been dedicated to @Guima12 for all of the support and excitement for this story and wanting Ambrosine and Diana to really meet up for a while.

Diana:

I think I'm going to be sick. Right here in Stonewall, right on the peppy social worker's shiny black shoes. I don't know what more stupid: the fact that I let Bruce tell me his plan in the first place or the fact that I'm actually going along with it.

Stonewall is a school right outside of London, made out of an old castle. The whole place had been transformed. The front gates were modern, but still kept out intruders. The main areas had been turned into classrooms of a sort and the detached buildings had become dorm rooms and locations for specialized classes.

Miss Apcott, the social worker,  glides down the white hallways of the girls' dorm, passing the deep blue doors and kitchens in the dorm rooms. School kids, not in uniform but well dressed nonetheless, sat and stood in all the nooks and crannies, quizzing each other, studying or reading. As I walk by the rooms, it's hard not to notice that almost every door is open, where I can clearly see students lying on their beds, their laptop screens in easy view of anyone coming through the corridors. Not once did I see a video game or movie on the screens. It seems that there are no disciplinary problems here. I believe it would be frowned upon to vomit in such company.

My amazement is short-lived because we soon reach a regal staircase. It spirals all the way up to the top of the building and Victorian-era lanterns that have been remodelled to work with electricity line the walls. At the very top is a large Gothic chandelier covered in sequins. 

We walk up four of the five levels of the girl's dorm room. The fourth floor is much like the first: quiet. But it is different too. It has much more of its original castle-like look. There are many more windows and nooks for children to study in. There are a few more decorations on the walls, seemingly put there by students, and every door has a wooden plaque upon which the names of the two occupants have been carved and painted in gold. It's nicer all around. 

We pass the kitchen. It has a few more appliances and there is a fruit bowl in the center of the island that cuts it off from the corridor. A note made with sharpie has been taped on, saying to take food for the brain before you study. There is also a ceramic cookie jar with a note to reward "thyself". As we walk down the corridors, students greeting us politely as we pass, until we reach door 457. It's closed. 

"We can check the common room." I nod as she turns on her heel, but I linger, staring at the gold print. 

Ambrosine Rosefsky 

&

Emmeryn Chiarotti

Before she notices, I follow her. She leads me through the maze of hallways and doors until we reach a more modern section. After going down a few steps I find myself looking over an open concept room. It still has many of the castle-like looks, but the walls have been removed in favour of mantles. Two sides have been removed completely and replaced with glass, giving students a marvellous view of London and the River Thames. We go down the steps and are met by a door. Another wooden plaque says For students of the fourth floor only. In smaller letters, it states that guests must receive a key from the office. Luckily, we stopped there on our way here.

Miss Apcott pulls out the silver key and opens the door. 

The door clicks and again I'm shocked by the quiet. Lounge chairs, couches and comfortable nooks line the walls. Fancy carpeting covers the wood and stone floors so that students may sit comfortably upon it. In a far-off corner, I note the stools, tables and coffee and tea makers. The biggest thing in the entire room is the trophy case, filled with images and awards won by the girls on the fourth floor, either for the school or just for their floor.

"Ambrosine." Miss Apcott says in a disappointed voice as we walk up to a group of six girls playing cards. "You know your grandmother frowns upon such behaviour."

"We're not betting." Ambrosine replies. "Also, it's school mandated that we play games such as cards to improve our problem-solving skills and attention to detail. Also, I don't care what Grandmother thinks. And haven't you said that I need to stop acting so odd? Normal children play cards." 

Her classmates are quite good at ignoring the conversation. I don't see a change in any of their faces. She puts down a joker on the pile of cards and everyone sighs. She puts down another card, and the person to her right shakes her head. This happens a few times until she all out of cards.

"I'm President," she declares. Then she gets up. "Okay, we can talk until they have a President Butthole."

"Mind your language young lady, your-"

"Grandmother frowns upon such behaviour, I know."

"It's not nice to call your friends buttholes."

"It's a title in the game. Last person left with cards is President Butthole and has to give the President their two best cards in exchange for the President's two worst cards in the next round."

"We'll be talking about this later, young lady. Now right now I'd like you to meet-"

"Hello, Diana Prince." She cuts Miss Apcott off and I'm ashamed to admit that a smile comes to my lips as the woman's face goes red. Ambrosine extends a hand to me and I shake it. She had a firm grip this time 'round.

It's just Ambrosine, probably read an article somewhere, she assures herself so quietly only someone with mindreading could pick it up. 

"Ambrosine," Miss Apcott says, "this is, as you know, Diana Prince, she is now your legal guardian until such time as she no longer wishes to associate with you or until the court case is over and you can finally be in good, capable hands. She has already been briefed on your predicament, insane attachment to the school, all allergies, as well as to make sure that you stay out of contact with anyone involved in the case. Living arrangements and how you will proceed from here are up to the rest of you. Miss Prince," she turns towards me, "you have my number for when things inevitably go wrong. Also, I'd recommend you just leave the girl in the school's care and just sign permission slips. If you want to discuss something with her, that's up to you. And Ambrosine?" The girl looks up from her shoes. "Try, okay?" She leaves with her sour mouth in a pout.

Ambrosine looks at me for a second. "When I was three I accidentally told my grandmother 'My skirt doth billoweth' when we were at a park on a windy day. I'd been studying Shakespeare you see. Since then she's been paranoid that the theatrics of my parents are a bad influence on my mind and soul. If you can't tell, Apcott is in my grandma's pocket."

I smile. "No concern of mine, skirts that doth billoweth in the wind are the best kind." She smiles.

"So," she looks at her watch, "it's almost supper. I'd suggest, if you want to talk the thing over, we go to the dining hall. It's designed for such things. Although I have to change first."

"That would be lovely," I tell her with a smile.

~~~~~~~

Hi, all my lovely readers. Just a quick reminder to please VOTE and SHARE and COMMENT, to help others find and enjoy this fan fiction. Also, this recently hit 100 reads!!! Ahh!! Thank you all so much for your love and encouragement and support!

-Beneath_the_Willows