John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

Also, the cream was not on the table, so I could not ask for the cream, which was our code to ask if we were facing a punishment. If all were well, you poured the cream for the person who asked; if not, you spilled a little bit.

I was waiting for breakfast to end, thinking there would be a moment of confusion while we queued up for our first lessons, and I could exchange a whisper or two with Victor and discover what happened. But even that hope was frustrated. Before breakfast ended, there came commotion at the door, and the Headmaster appeared.

The Headmaster was dressed, as he nearly always was, in his full academic regalia. Above his suit of charcoal gray, he wore his flowing academic robes of black, trimmed with white ermine and dark blue velvet. Around his neck he wore a chain of office, from which depended a jeweled starburst. Down his back draped that silly scarf academicians wear, which they call a hood. His mortarboard was trimmed with ermine.

I do not know how many schools in England still have their professors dress in robes. Headmaster Boggin, in addition to whatever duties he had as Headmaster (heading things, I suppose), taught Astronomy, Philosophy, and Theology. For Astronomy, we were allowed to dress as normal. For the other two classes, we had to don black robes of our own before lecture, no doubt to impress us with the gravity of the subject.

Headmaster Boggin was broad at the shoulder and thick through the chest, like a wrestler or a blacksmith might be. His face was dark and weathered and craggy. His overhanging brow gave him a frown of stern command; yet the lines around his eyes and hook nose showed grave good humor.

His hair was red and, unlike every other man I had ever seen, he wore it long, though tied with a black ribbon in a ponytail flowing down his back, like a pirate or a Chinese mandarin. He was clean-shaven, and the tiny reddish stubble from his imperfectly shaven jaw seemed to give a rough blush to his cheeks, as if he were in high spirits, or red-faced from some passionate exertion. His jaw was large and strong. The ghost of a little smile seemed always to be fading in and out of existence on his lips.

With him were his secretary, a thin and gray hollow-cheeked man named Mr. Sprat, and his rough-looking sidekick, Daffyd ap Cymru, who dressed in brown leather. We had to call him by his last name; the grown-ups called him Taffy. He was supposed to be some sort of groundskeeper or gamekeeper or something for the estate. None of us could ever remember seeing him do a lick of work.

When the Headmaster stepped suddenly through the door, with his two flunkies in tow, Dr. Fell rose to his feet and offered him his chair.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Ananias,” said the Headmaster solemnly, while Mr. Sprat scuttled around to hold out the chair at the foot of the table for the Headmaster, and Mr. ap Cymru sauntered after, looking over the gathering as if trying to assess who might or might not be armed. When the Headmaster gathered his robes and sat, by some sleight of hand it seemed, he was now at the head of the table, and Dr. Fell was at the foot. Ap Cymru and Sprat took positions to either side of the Headmaster’s chair, like supporters on a coat of arms.

“Please don’t allow me to disturb your normal routine,” the Headmaster intoned in a genial voice. His voice was a deep basso profundo, like a thunderhead talking. “I am sure whatever your normal breakfast table conversation might be, is suitable for me. Think of me as your guest.”

No order was ever disobeyed so blatantly. Dr. Fell stared at the Headmaster without expression, like a machine on standby, awaiting further input. Mrs. Wren’s good humor had evaporated. She looked like a wild-eyed rabbit, petrified, and nibbled her toast with tiny bites. Even the cool Miss Daw seemed subdued, although, with Miss Daw, such a thing was hard to tell.

A few minutes crawled by in frozen silence. The Headmaster asked for nothing more than a cup of coffee with cream: but it required three members of the Cook’s staff to come scurrying out of the kitchen to make sure all was in order. The Headmaster sipped the coffee and thanked the Cook, who backed out of the room, bowing and smiling.

Well, I saw a chance. I cleared my throat and said, “Please pass the cream?” For the Cook’s man had brought a silver creamer in on its own plate, surrounded by chips of ice, for the Headmaster.

Victor said, “Permit me…” and stood to reach for it.

The Headmaster, however, picked up the creamer and, using his right hand to hold back the drapes of his left sleeve, leaned across the table toward me. He seemed to loom like an approaching thunderhead in my vision. I thought the distance too far, since there were two empty seats between us, but he leaned farther than I could guess, or the distance was less than I thought.

“Ah, no; please permit me,” he said in a voice like a genial earthquake. “But, Miss Windrose, you seem to be drinking only orange juice this morning. This seems odd. For what particular purpose did you require the cream, Miss Windrose?”

Every eye was now riveted on me. Time seemed to slow, get slower, and finally freeze, as everyone around the table—Mr. ap Cymru, Mr. Sprat, and the assistant Cook—all waited for me to say something.

Across the table from me, a slow sneer of impatience was forming on Colin’s features. Evidently, he did not think it should be so terribly difficult to think of something clever to say. Impatience? Disgust, rather. He thought I was letting the group down.

Whatever it was that was so obvious, I couldn’t think of it.

Headmaster said, “Why did you want the cream again, Miss Windrose? Surely I am not to pour it over your kippers?”

I sat in miserable silence.

The Headmaster merely smiled, and said, “Here, well, why don’t you keep it near till your memory returns, then?”

He set it down so abruptly on the tablecloth that a little cream slopped out onto the linen.

“Oh dear,” he said, smiling, settling back into his chair like a mountain sinking into the sea. “It seems that did not go as planned. Well, fortunate for me that, as Headmaster, there is no one to punish me for my little slips, is there? Rank hath its privilege, as they say, what?” He looked around, as if expecting a polite laugh.

No one laughed.

“Very good,” he said, not one whit disturbed by this reception. He sipped his coffee, one sip, put it down in his saucer, and straightened up a little in his chair as if he were about to make an announcement.

“Since we are all sharing breakfast together so comfortably, let me just say to all of you, staff and students alike, that this institution has a deep interest—I am tempted to say a crucial interest—in the upcoming meeting of the Board of Visitors and Governors. Fundamental changes are in the offing. Fundamental changes. There should be no real cause for alarm. We can go about our daily business as we always have done—one big, happy family, dedicated to learning and improvement.

“However, I would like to emphasize that we must put our best foot forward. Our institution here, is, I dare say, unique, and some of what goes on here may be subject to misinterpretation by certain less generous souls. But is there a way to lessen, may I say, mute, this threat?

“Well, ladies, gentlemen, children, we have all been on this Earth for some years now, and I trust that we all know how to act. We all have high spirits; some of us have very interesting hobbies. But let us all dedicate ourselves, yes, dedicate, in keeping those high spirits and those unusual habits in their proper orbit.

“I am speaking as much to the staff here as to the student body, for how our charges behave, is, ultimately, a reflection on the care with which we have carried out our duty.