Page 3 of The Headmistress

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Sam exited the cottage and looked around into the evening dusk. In comparison to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket or other islands off the coast of Massachusetts, Dragons Island was small and utterly unremarkable. And that was fine by Sam. Dragons did not get the tourist crowds the other islands got, but they were better off for it in Sam’s eyes.

Around her, the school grounds lay in eerie quiet, sheltered from the ocean wind and the town’s prying eyes by three massive cliffs, bearing the names of the legendary dragons: Amber, Viridescent, and Sky Blue.

Fairytale had it that, once upon a time, in order to escape from the minutiae and ruin of men, the dragons had settled on the island, retreating to live amongst its massive rocks. They sought peace, and they’d found it by transforming into the three cliffs that guarded the island on the east side, effectively protecting it from the fury and the clamor of the ocean.

The rocks were illuminated by the sole beam of the Eye Lighthouse, and the legendary Three Dragons stretched in front of her, with the Academy and the school grounds tucked safely between them, like their crowning glory on top of the plateau surrounded by thick pine woods.

This walk towards the cliffs was picturesque, away from the school and the town huddled on the beach down below. The wide-open spaces had always soothed Sam’s racing thoughts, even as an introverted and restless child who’d avoided her peers and could not sit still for very long. She had walked this path so many times, had run it, had skipped it. Sometimes she’d fallen, skinned her knees on the sharp rocky surface, but she always rose, feeling the massive Dragon Cliffs watching over her, their gaze benevolent, their enormous shapes protective over the lonely orphan. A charity case in a rich girls’ school and a closeted lesbian in a conservative institution, Sam Threadneedle had always felt awkward. And equally, the cliffs always watched out for her when she felt like the sole round peg in a square hole. She would squeeze herself in it, but it did not feel right then, and it felt uncomfortable still to this day.

They were watching over her now as she trudged up toward her favorite place in the world, past the school to her right, delving deeper into the rocks. She knew every twist and turn of the desolate, narrow road winding up to the cliffs and around the school, and yet whenever the imposing mansion appeared, it always took her breath away. As chiseled and elegant as the Dragon Cliffs were massive and brawny, the Academy reigned over the magnificence of nature as proof of enduring humanity and the fruits of its labor and craftsmanship.

Yet these days very little was left of said magnificence or elegance of old. The school lay sprawled on acres and acres of land that needed tending and care and a considerable investment. The buildings themselves—the Main Hall and its wings that served as dormitories holding the three school Houses, and the surrounding campus and support structures—fared slightly better than the grounds, but that was a testament to the stonemasons of that time, who’d known their craft and had wielded the chisel and hammer to build things that lasted for centuries.

Still, the feeling of decay, of disrepair, was permeating the air, even if only for someone like Sam, who was raised on these grounds and who’d run amok among these walls. She could see the cracks, the gaping wounds in the soul of the school itself, not just in the sagging of a roof or the leaking of a ceiling.

Perhaps it was a poor woman’s allegory, but to Sam’s mind schools reflected society with great precision. With the American public at a crossroads, torn at the very seams of the fabric that made the nation, and splitting further, the school had been undergoing the same kinds of changes over the years. The Board of Trustees remained largely the same, as the positions were occupied for life, then passed on to heirs along with all the other property, unless a person wanted to abdicate their responsibilities towards the school. To Sam’s knowledge, nobody had ever resigned, as the role wasn’t too onerous but very prestigious. Change still happened on the nine-person Board, and it did not always lead to bigger and better things.

In the past twenty years, these nine people had slowly but surely choked the life out of Three Dragons, either with a tightening of the purse strings, or, more recently, by trying to impose a stifling conservative curriculum. The latter changes materialized with the new trustees stepping into their role. They’d called it ‘a return to the roots’ since the school had begun as a religious institution. Nowadays some of the decisions the board took made very little sense. Orla, who was progressive to the core, kept them at bay as best as she could, but even for someone who was as removed from the gossip about the battles the Headmistress waged with the trustees as Sam was, she could hear the distant rumbling of an impending storm.

Orla had not been able to gain much ground with the Board in her tenure as Headmistress in many aspects of the school management, but for much of her time at Dragons, she had stemmed the tide of the incursions into the school curricula and admission requirements. Which meant there was a very tenuous detente that could blow up at any moment and cover the school, its thirty faculty, and roughly two hundred students with the debris of uncertainty. But the detente was also unsustainable because it was staving off any progress, leaving the school in quite a desperate state. Something would have to give and soon.

Sam took a moment to look back at the majestic building before turning towards the water, slowly making her way to the very edge of the Amber Dragon Cliff. She raised her face, enjoying the cool breeze ruffling the flyaways from her braid and the foaming ocean underneath that was relentlessly trying to overcome the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in front of it. She understood the impetus. After all, that was what Sam had done all her life. Try, strive, overcome.

This was her favorite place in the entire world, a secluded spot on the chiseled rock overlooking the enormity of the water, yet still sheltered from the storms and the destruction they brought. The structure of the cliff was thus that it created a sort of crevice where little Sam as well as big Sam hid hertroubles from the world, rocked to safety by the roar of the ocean and the whistle of the wind. Her spot—as that was the only thing she had ever called the place—also had one of the most exquisite perks going for it. In spring and early summer, it carried a distinctive, fresh and sweet scent, as several evergreen shrubs and vines of wild jasmine grew along the rocks towards it. And that sweet perfume had always signified home. The only home she’d ever known. This unwelcoming place, this uneasy peace, even if the edges of it were consumed by so much uncertainty, made Sam inhale this scent with her whole chest and close her eyes at the almost painful familiarity of it all. No, she never fit in, but if she tried really hard, she could at least pretend that the wild jasmine bloomed for her alone.

She reached into her messenger bag where the familiar weight of a book that she rarely left at home was just as soothing. The worn-out cover of The Light Princess—a centuries-old Scottish tale of a girl with no tether, no purpose, and no connection—felt comforting against her chilled hands. During nights like these, when she felt alone in the world, the book seemed uncannily similar to her own life.

She swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat at the anxiety that consumed her, and with one last look around her at the Amber Dragon Cliff, Sam whispered a quick prayer towards the dark and menacing skies above. She made a wish. A wish for change.

2

Of Woolgathering At Staff Meetings & Entrances Well Made

Slim, long-fingered hands were taking her apart, touch after skillful touch, stroke after determined stroke. She groaned and buried her face deeper in the pillow, biting through the material, no longer embarrassed by being on her knees, or by being this loud, by being this utterly removed from her normal shy self. Was she the one screaming? She was probably keeping half the hotel awake with these obscene sounds. Sam tried to care, desperately tried to find in herself a sliver of shame at her reaction to that touch, but her lover was ruthless, and soon she lost all perception of her surroundings except for those fingertips unerringly finding her center, time and again, dismantling her control and with each heartbeat pushing her farther past the point of no return. When she came to, her face was wet and gentle lips were kissing her tears away. Delicate arms surrounded her and Sam inhaled deeply, a faint scent of jasmine filling her senses.

* * *

Sam sipped her coffee and tried to hide the creeping blush she knew would be tinging her cheeks behind the thick, white mug. Why could she never control these sudden bouts of memories that would overtake her at the most inopportune moments? She smiled into the steam.Idiot. She hadn’t been able to control her reaction three months ago when she’d screamed after having one of the most powerful orgasms of her life, and time and distance certainly had not helped matters at all.

It was true, what with Joanne constantly reminding her how distracted she had been lately, and just this morning, as she was getting ready for this staff meeting, she found a portrait in her notebook. In charcoal, her own face was looking at her, the resemblance striking. And the artist had managed to capture that very faraway look, the distracted one, for which Joanne teased her mercilessly. It appeared that her mentor wasn’t the only one who noticed her daydreaming, for her pupil, favorite troublemaker, and brilliant artist in the making, Lily Easterly, had also cottoned on to Sam’s spacing out during classes. The portrait had surely been done during their last math class when Sam had forgotten herself for a second. Which clearly was enough for the astute and a bit too perspicacious and precocious Lily, because she had rendered Sam perfectly, down to the slight shading on her sharp cheekbones where, Sam was certain, a blush must have been spreading at the time.

Lily had just started her freshman year of high school when Sam returned to teach at Dragons, but especially in the past year, they had formed an unlikely bond that went deeper, due to how different both of them felt in their rather uniform surroundings at times. Although the opening-up was mostly one-sided, with Lily confiding her thoughts, her secrets, and her crushes to her teacher, Sam felt a deep connection to the girl. And if the portraits that Lily would occasionally sneak into Sam’s bag or notebook were any indication, the kid certainly saw right through Sam. As scary a thought as that was.

To distract herself from musings of being transparent to her friends, she looked around at the thirty-odd members of faculty and support staff assembled haphazardly around the Mess Hall central table. They looked like a ragtag bunch. Jeans, sneakers, and oh god, were those leather pants on Jen Rovington? Her sturdy frame did those skin-tight things a lot of justice. The faculty members sat around or mingled, speaking in hushed tones, probably gossiping or recounting last night’s party to those who’d missed it, munching on the enormous spread of muffins and cupcakes. Sam looked down at herself and had to smile. In her favorite flannel shirt and black skinny jeans, her feet clad in red Converse, she was very much a lesbian cliche. She just hoped nobody would interpret her attire as such and instead attribute it to her usual student loan-strained financial circumstances. After all, the shoes were ratty, she must’ve had this pair for over five years.

Bored, tired, yet strangely wired, Sam tried not to think of shopping for clothes and footwear. That way madness and heartache laid. So she just sighed and reached for her mug again. Avoiding stores was how she’d ended up with the five-year-old pair of Chucks. They looked all right, she mused. They probably had a couple more years in them. As did the fraying cuffs of her shirt. Plus, it wasn’t like she had money to spare. She had her dreams of a backpacking trip to Europe all planned out, but even with her frugality and her plans to sleep on campgrounds and in hostels, she’d still cut into her meager savings at the end of her much-awaited five weeks on the continent. But that was next year. This year she had to pay off more of her debts and really, Europe wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were her Chucks.

The clock on Sky Blue Tower beat ten times and a massive ginger tomcat, Willoughby, punctual as always, made his way leisurely into the crowded room, hissing to prevent any attempt at unwanted attention from the humans. Not that anyone would dare. They’d all learned their lessons, some the very hard way. He beelined towards the windowsill and took his time endeavoring a rather graceless—due to his bulk—leap onto the crimson velvet cushion set strategically in the sunspot. After circling his bedding a couple of times, Willoughby, sprawled on his back, all four paws in the air, oblivious to the rodents effectively taking over the manor.

Despite being the school mascot and de facto only cat in residence, with supposedly extensive mousing duties, Willoughby had a very interesting routine, one which he observed almost religiously and demanded that others—chiefly the humans inhabiting what he surely thought of as his domain—respected it as well.

Willoughby followed the sun. Morning ‘till evening, the tom moved from one windowsill to the next, along with the arc of the sun, laying on the soft, worn cushions, specially placed on those windowsills for him. He did not allow anyone to get close to him or to touch either him or the cushions. Beyond that, he was unbothered by anything occurring around him. He cared little for the students, as long as they gave him a wide berth. The wider, the better. And they did, after some of them had sported nasty scratches from trying to pet him. Willoughby was nobody’s pet, and that was well known around the school. Sam kind of liked that about him.

But Willoughby’s arrival did not only herald the exact hour, it also meant one other thing. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Orla Fenway was late for a staff meeting. Hell, late for anything. She was famous, nay notorious, for being ridiculously early for every engagement. And yet, Sam realized, she was nowhere to be found at this last staff meeting of the school year. She caught Joanne’s gaze and raised her left shoulder in a clumsy attempt at a shrug. She knew Joanne was curious, and she also knew it was a rather well-known fact that, under normal circumstances, Sam would know what was keeping Orla. The whole school was aware that Orla favored her, with Sam serving as her left hand since the right hand was the elderly—and these days rather forgetful—school nurse Ruth Trufault, who was quietly dozing in her oversized chair by the empty hearth.

Sam was just about to go on a reconnaissance mission to look for Orla when the small side door into the Mess Hall opened, and the Headmistress made her way into the massive room. She looked even more tired than she had yesterday, worn and beaten down somehow, and Sam saw Joanne’s eyes narrow in obvious concern.

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