Page 8 of The Headmistress

Sam could not help the small chuckle followed by a sob, both escaping her unbidden. How humiliating. But the fingers in her grasp held hers a little firmer, squeezing reassuringly, and she focused on trying to answer and maybe talk her way out of the impending panic attack.

“Ah, if I say Star Trek, will the answer signal the end of our night?”

“I guess that would depend on the captain of choice.” The woman's low voice held a tinge of a smile, and Sam felt the fingers intertwined with hers relax.

“Janeway, always Janeway. Coffee and let the world burn.” For the next hour, they debated Star Trek theories and fangirled over a certain redheaded captain. The panic attack never materialized.

* * *

Spurred by Joanne’s order, Sam flew up the old, wooden staircase with its expansive ornate banister, following the two women who had already made great headway down the winding corridors of the Academy. Despite her high heels, Magdalene walked briskly—the staccato of her steps echoing loudly in the empty hallways—Orla's usually much more measured steps sounding hurried, no doubt to keep up with Magdalene’s longer stride. When Sam finally rounded the corner that allowed her to observe the two figures, Magdalene sped up her steps, probably simply because she could, and Sam felt a distinct pang of pity when Orla finally stopped and doubled over, dropping her hands on her thighs, breathing hard.

Magdalene halted too, a couple of steps away, watching the older woman dispassionately. For reasons yet unfathomable to herself, Sam slipped into an alcove, unseen by the women but within clear earshot.

“Running is a bit different from running one’s mouth, isn’t it, Doctor Fenway?” Magdalene’s low voice was laced with contempt.

“If you don’t want to hear people badmouthing you, you shouldn’t hide and listen through doors.” Sam thought she’d heard a groan, as if Orla still couldn’t quite get her breath back.

“I wasn’t. The doors were open. I have ears. I stood there for over ten minutes, in plain view—not that anyone cared enough to turn—waiting for someone to notice me, or for an opportune moment for me to finally break through the onslaught of gossip and be able to interrupt you.”

“Now you’re just splitting hairs, Nox. But…” Orla’s voice faltered slightly. “I do apologize. I have no idea who you are outside of the rumors and newspaper articles about you. And you do have a reputation.”

“Ah, the perfect non-apology apology.I lied viciously about you, but it’s your own fault. Spare me, Doctor Fenway. Now, if you could show me to the Headmistress’ office and start packing?”

Sam thought perhaps she should reveal herself. She was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable with her own eavesdropping, seeing as she was doing exactly what Magdalene had done just minutes ago. Aside from being mostly in the wrong, Orla had one point: one rarely heard anything good about oneself, or about anyone else for that matter, by listening in.

“Look, Nox—”

“No, you look. I have been on the premises for less than half an hour and you have already started disparaging my character, insinuating that I got this job because of my connections, rallying the faculty against me sight unseen. Have I missed anything? Now, my office? Preferably sometime before the trustees arrive?”

That seemed to snap Orla out of her stupor, and she appeared to finally gather enough stamina, and perhaps dignity, to lead Magdalene down the hall in the direction of the Headmistress’s office. Sam took her time, digesting what she had heard.

She felt slightly dirty and decidedly in the wrong for having piled on the woman based solely on some innuendo and rather disparaging gossip. She also knew that her own opinion of Magdalene Nox was heavily clouded by what had transpired between them in New York, and the distinct possibility that Sam had unknowingly slept with a married woman. A married woman who clearly hadn’t valued their encounter enough to even give Sam her name.

Still, Joanne was right, there was too much at stake to get bogged down by one’s hurt and bruised ego. If the earlier display was anything to go by, Orla was outclassed and outmatched by a formidable opponent, hungover or sober. As Sam approached the Headmistress’ office, the raised voices coming from inside let her know that Joanne had been right, and Orla needed help indeed.

“… I have no idea what gives you the right to throw me out like this! I want to speak with the trustees!” Sensing that Orla was a second away from being obliterated, Sam pushed the door open and stepped into the office that had been Orla’s for the past twenty years.

Aside from the abundance of macrame everywhere, Orla’s time at the helm showed in the trophies and certificates lining the walls, along with what looked like hundreds of books scattered over every available surface. Sam had always loved the cozy and lived-in atmosphere of the space, but now, with the polished and elegant Magdalene Nox standing in the middle of it all, it felt shabby and old. Sam’s mind disloyally supplied, ‘like Orla,’ and she wanted to slap herself. She owed the older woman everything. Surely a little loyalty was the least she could project.

“I see that chaos reigns not just in the spaces you occupy, Doctor Fenway, but also amongst your staff. Do they practice simply walking in without knocking? Are manners too much to ask for in this place?”

Sam could hear Orla’s low growl and feared she might simply jump Magdalene at any moment. It was becoming abundantly clear that Sam should proceed immediately with the mission she’d come here to accomplish. And that wasn’t ogling the way Magdalene’s dress hugged her delicate shoulders and toned arms. She knew the shape of those muscles, of that sinew, how it flowed from articulation to bone, she had traced them herself, with her fingertips, with her mouth… Her face must’ve shown exactly where her mind had gone, for Magdalene’s eyes sparkled with something akin to anger and Sam took a step forward to forestall it.

“I apologize for the intrusion. And for not knocking. I assumed that, in the ongoing ruckus, neither of you would hear me.” Orla breathed in deeply, despite still glowering at Magdalene, whose lips twitched as the only reaction to Sam’s opening salvo.

“Ah, Sammy, are you here to save me then? I assume Joanne sent you? How gracious of you all to look after your old headmistress.” Orla chuckled theatrically, and her shoulders sagged. A game of chess was afoot, and strategically Sam felt now wasn’t the time for her to show her hand and to make it appear like Orla needed saving, even if she was clearly desperate for said salvation.

“I just thought that, since it has been announced that the trustees will be here soon, instead of tomorrow as we were informed earlier, you’d like to gather the paperwork and all the necessary documentation to prepare for that meeting? I can help Headmistress Nox in the meantime with whatever she requires.”

“Headmistress Nox? I see how it is, Sammy. Burying me already?” The dirty look Orla threw her way felt like a physical blow.

“No, Orla, you‘ve had a long night and might need—” Sam did not have the opportunity to finish her sentence as Orla pushed past her and out the door.

“Save it. I will see you at noon, Nox.”

Sam watched with trepidation and not a little hurt and betrayal as her mentor left the hallowed space of her own office. Sure, Orla probably hurt more than most right now, with the trustees not having the grace to properly inform her of the change in her situation, of her actual dismissal, but there was no need to lash out at Sam for simply trying to help. It stung just a bit.

She still stared, dumbfounded, at the door that took the former headmistress out, when the gravelly voice behind her made her jump a foot in the air.

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