Iron & Ice #ONC2024

Chapter II

 The letter comes two weeks later–two weeks during which none of my teachers allow me any sort of a break. My training must continue on the chance that I have passed the test and been accepted to the Academy. If I am to have any hope of blending in with my new peers, I have to keep studying.

My lessons with Alice, in particular, become more frequent and more grueling. She pushes me through endless rounds of Latin and Greek. She drills me on the different ways to curtsy or bow to Patricians of different standing. She puts me through my paces on the differences between High and Low English. She teaches me how to pour tea for guests, and how to write a letter of invitation, or one of thanks, or of condolences, or merely of friendship.

She teaches me the languages perfected by young, society misses in crowded ballrooms and fancy soirees–the language of flowers, the language of fans, the language of handkerchiefs. She shows me how to assemble a bouquet to send a message–which flowers mean what and how the meanings change if you pair them with other flowers. She teaches me how to flick a fan to communicate with another lady or a gentleman in secret from across a ballroom. She shows me how to hold or drape or fold a handkerchief to indicate different things.

My lessons with Meadow, too, become more grueling. She takes me on long hikes in the countryside outside of London. She drills me in combat forms and pattern dances for hours on end. She shows me how to salute like a soldier, and how to fight with the thin, delicate blades currently favored by the high-castes.

My lessons with Teacher, though, are over. He has done his bit; he got me through the written and oral portions of the test, with only, I suspect, one flubbed question. Until classes start at the Academy, I have a bit of a reprieve from intellectual pursuits.

Which is a shame. My studies with Teacher were always my favorite parts or my days at Corvus House.

❅❅❅

The letter arrives only a few hours after Lord Corvus. He has been away for almost a month now, and I watch from my bedroom window as his carriage deposits him at the door. He fascinates me, perhaps because, despite having lived under the same roof as him for half a year, he is still a stranger to me.

I am amazed that anyone has bought our ruse, that anyone thinks we are related, for we look nothing alike. I am small and fair from too little vitamin-d. You don't get much of it when you've lived your whole life underground. He is tall and lithe and dark, with swarthy skin and black hair and eyes. His mother, Alice told me, was a Spanish princess, a younger daughter married off to an English lord in the hopes that Britannia might be more inclined for an alliance.

It is raining as Lord Corvus climbs out of his carriage. Unlike most of the Peerage, his conveyance is unmarked–a plain, black thing with no crest to indicate who rides within. Today, he looks disheveled and tired. His skin is paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his piercing eyes. His hair is tousled and damp, his cloak spattered with mud. His boots, too. His housekeeper will have a fit if he tracks any onto the carpets.

It is he who brings me the letter when it is delivered.

I miss its arrival completely, thanks to my lessons with Alice, and when he lets himself into the sitting room that we have been using as something of a deportment classroom, Alice and I are conversing in French about the latest fashions. I am particularly impressed with myself. After only six months of study, I can hold a conversation in French now, which is much more difficult than Latin or Italian, or even Greek. French has so many exceptions and odd rules that conjugation is a minefield, and spelling and pronunciation are even worse.

Luckily, I am good at memorization, because I'm fairly sure that's the only way to learn to speak French well.

Alice doesn't notice Lord Corvus at first, as she lectures me on the different types of fashionable sleeve shape–who knew there was any such thing?

Lord Corvus watches from the doorway, a small, bemused smile on his lips, as he turns a thin, white envelope over and over in his hands. The crest of the royal family is emblazoned on the front.

My mouth goes bone-dry, making me stumble midway into a question about types of lace–types of lace! Really! I have become someone who asks questions about different types of lace. It's absurd.

Alice whips around. "Is that...?" she asks.

Lord Corvus says nothing, just holds it out to me. It's unopened; he hasn't read it. I half-expected he would. I hoped he would, too, so that I might have some clue towards what my future holds.

A shallow grave, or the Academy? Davina's freedom, or her continued suffering.

I slit the red wax seal with the jeweled dagger I've started to carry at my waist. Every Patrician I've come across carries one. The only time I've been without it in the last few months was during the test, when we weren't allowed to bring in any weapons.

I slide a folded paper out of the envelope. It is heavy, sturdy cardstock. There is an official-looking emblem stamped on the back. My hands shake as I unfold it. Smooth it out on my lap. My silk skirt rustles pleasantly. My rings flash in the light of a hundred candles.

I swallow thickly, and I start to read.

For the attention of Lady Daphne of House Corvus, Patrician Second Class:

Dear Lady Corvus,

We at the Royal Board of Examination are pleased to offer you a place at the Royal Academy. With a cumulative score of 298/300, you have tested in the top percentile of students...

And so on. My scores are listed beneath the test. In the written portion, I have been awarded a score out of 100 possible points for each subject. In the written test, I scored a perfect 100.

On the physical test, my score is 99/100. They docked me a point for being beneath the average weight and height, but I knew they would. In truth, I expected a harsher score for that.

And on the oral, I have a score of 99/100 as well, with only half-credit awarded for my answer to the Classics expert's question.

I let out a long breath that sounds a bit like a quietly-deflating balloon.

Alice peers over my shoulder and lets out a loud whoop.

Lord Corvus beams. He takes the letter from my hands, and I don't even have the energy to be annoyed.

He lets out a long, impressed whistle. "Top percentile," he says warmly. "Congratulations, Daphne. I think these are the highest marks since, well... since me, actually."

Alice giggles.

"Well done," Lord Corvus says with surprising feeling, given that we are barely more than strangers. "Shall I inform our mutual friends, then?"

Mutual friends. This is how he always refers to the Allmother and the Sisterhood.

I nod mutely. I think I have lost the ability to speak.

"Sincerely," he says, handing me back the letter. "Very well done, Daphne. I'd wager no Patrician's done better."

It is the highest praise he could have given me, to be better than the best. I start to smile. I can't stop it. I grin at the letter as he strides out of the room, hands in his pockets, whistling a merry tune as he goes.

I did it, I think numbly. I did it. Hang on, Davina. Just a little longer. They're coming for you. They're coming.

Chapter Word Count: 1314

Total Word Count: 4315