All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [172]
And sitting, watching them, her glasses reflecting flames, was Miss Westin, her hands steepled on the desk.
“She’s our guidance counselor?” Fiona whispered.
Miss Westin looked like a spider in the center of a dark web . . . one that no student dared get close to. Just like the repellent field that Eliot seemed to have around him. Maybe he and the Headmistress had something in common, after all.
“Come on.” Eliot crossed the room, moving deeper into the dark, away from the crowds. He settled into one of the high-backed chairs across the desk from her.
Fiona caught up and sat in the other chair.
“Good morning, children,” Miss Westin said. She pulled out two file folders with their names printed on the sides and set them down.
“Good morning, Headmistress,” they said in unison.
“No sound may leave the confines of this desk,” Miss Westin said. “This session is completely confidential even from your parents.”
Eliot glanced at Fiona and she shot back the same curious look. Why the secrecy? It was just their class schedule. Like Audrey wouldn’t know what it was in a few hours anyway.
But maybe that was the point: Their mother would know in a few hours, after they’d signed up for their elected classes . . . and too late to make any objections. This would be entirely their choice. How often did that happen?
“Miss Post first.” Miss Westin opened Fiona’s file.
Miss Westin scanned her official Paxington record. From across the table, Eliot saw an account of her duel with Donald van Wyck, and photographs of her looking ferocious in gym class.
“Your performance last semester was remarkable,” Miss Westin said.
Fiona sat up straighter, basking in this rare praise from the Headmistress.
“Most freshmen, however, fail to maintain their grades in the second semester,” Miss Westin went on without looking up. “They are either too stupid to keep up with their studies, or more concerned with their social agendas to grow and excel.
“So,” she said to Fiona, “shall I sign you up for Mythology 102 and Mr. Ma’s classes and call it good?” There was a challenge in her voice.
It was wasted on Fiona, of course, because she had already decided to take that advanced fighting class, Force of Arms.
“No, ma’am,” Fiona smugly replied. “I’ve already picked out an elective.” She opened the catalog and turned it for Miss Westin to see.
Miss Westin smiled.
That smile chilled Eliot to the core. The only thing that came close was the lethal permanent grin of the crocodile oracle, Sobek. There was nothing unusual in her smile—just perfectly white and straight, but ordinary teeth, and yet Eliot sensed death in her bite.
Miss Westin glanced at the catalog. “Force of Arms?” One eyebrow arched.
“Is that a problem?” Fiona asked.
“There are prerequisites.” Miss Westin flipped to the next page. At the top, the Force of Arms entry continued.
Fiona looked startled, as if she hadn’t seen this before.
It read:
PREREQUISITES: For sophomores or older students. Must have parental/guardian consent. Must pass a test of minimal expertise.
“Oh . . .” Fiona started to pull the catalog back, and her forehead wrinkled.
Miss Westin, however, kept the book, pinning it to the desk. “Perhaps,” she said, “in light of your record, it would be appropriate for me to waive to sophomore requirement . . . if you could manage to pass the qualifying test and obtain a signed permission slip.”
Fiona licked her lips. “I can pass any test, ma’am.”
Fiona, though, made no comment on the signed parental permission slip. That would be the tricky part.
Miss Westin made a few marks on Fiona’s record. “Very well. Let us hope that your talent for passing tests translates to real-world challenges.”
Miss Westin then closed her file and turned to Eliot’s.
Eliot had near identical grades. There were photos of him in gym class, too (although he looked more clueless than heroic somehow in his shots). There were also several handwritten notes on Paxington stationery.