Catherine Fisher: Obsidian Mirror

Patten howled. A great howl of pain and fury. He leaped back, flung down his foil and grabbed his wrist. Blood was already dripping through his fingers. “He’s sodding mad! It’s a sharp sword! I’ve been stabbed! ”

Clatter. Shouts. The cardboard balcony rippling backward into a dusty, oddly muffled collapse. Hands grabbing him, tight around his neck, hauling him back, snatching the weapon from his fingers. He let them. He stood calm, breathing hard, in a circle of staring boys. He’d done it. They couldn’t ignore him anymore.

Abruptly, as if a spotlight had come on, brilliant glare blinded him. He realized Wharton had snatched the mask off him and was standing there, staring in astonishment and fury at his white face.

“Jake. Jake Wilde! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He tried not to smile. “I think you know the answer to that. Sir. ”

“Where’s Seb? What have you…”

“Locked in his room. I haven’t hurt him.” He made himself sound cold. Icy. That’s what they should see, these staring, brainless kids, even though he wanted to scream and shout in their faces.

Behind the teacher, Mark Patten had crumpled onto the stage; someone had a first-aid kit and was wrapping his wrist in a tight white bandage that immediately went red. Patten looked up, his eyes panicky and furious. “You’re finished in this school, Wilde, finished. You’ve really flipped this time. My father’s one of the governors, and if they don’t expel you there’ll be hell to pay. What are you, some sort of sodding nutcase?”

“That’s enough.” Wharton turned. “Get him down to the med room. The rest of you, out of here. Now! Rehearsals are canceled.”

It took a while for everyone to go, an explosion of gossip and rumor roaring out into the corridors of the school, the last boys lingering curiously. Wharton kept a resolute silence until there was no one left but Jake and himself in the hall, and the echoes from outside fading away. Then he took his glasses off, put them in his jacket pocket, and said, “Well. You’ve really made your point this time.”

“I hope so.”

“They’ll expel you.”

“That’s what I want.”

Eye to eye, they faced each other. Mr. Wharton said, “You can trust me, Jake. I’ve told you that before. Whatever it is, whatever’s wrong, tell me and—”

“Nothing’s wrong. I hate the school. I’m out of here. That’s all.”

It wasn’t all. Both of them knew it. But standing in the ruins of his stage, Wharton realized that was all he was going to get. Coldly he said, “Get out of that costume and be at the Head’s office in five minutes.”

Jake turned. He went without a word.

For a moment Wharton stared at the wreckage. Then he snatched up the foil and marched. He slammed through the fire doors of the corridors, raced up the stairs and flung open the office with HEADMASTERprinted in the frosted glass.

“Is he in?” he said, breathless.

The secretary looked up. “Yes, but…”

He stalked past her desk and into the inner room.

The Head was eating pastries. A tray of them lay on the desk, next to a china mug of coffee that was releasing such a rich aroma that it made Wharton instantly nostalgic for his favorite coffee shop back home in Shepton Mallet, where he’d liked to read the papers every morning. Before he’d come to this hell-hole of a school.

“George!” The Head had his elbows on the desk. “I was expecting you.”

“You’ve heard?”

“I’ve heard.” Behind him, outside the huge window, the Swiss Alps rose in their glorious beauty against a pure blue sky. “Patten’s gone to the hospital. God knows what his father will do.”

Wharton sat heavily. They were silent a moment. Then he said, “You realize what this means? Wilde’s got us now, exactly where he wants us. That was criminal assault and there were plenty of witnesses. It’s a police matter. He knows if we don’t get him out of the country, the publicity for the school will be dire.”

The Head sighed. “And Patten, of all boys! Are they enemies?”

“No love lost. But the choice was deliberate. And clever. Wilde knows Patten will make more fuss than anyone else.”

There was deep snow on the alpine valleys, gleaming and brilliant in the sunlight. For a moment Wharton longed to be skiing down it. Far from here.

“Well, we expel him. End of problem. For us, at any rate.” The Head was a thin streak of a man, his hair always shinily greased. He poured some coffee. “Have a pastry.”

“Thanks. But I’m dieting.” How did the man stay so skinny? Wharton dumped sugar in the coffee gloomily. Then he said, “Clever is one word for him. Sadistic is another. He’s wrecked my play.”

The Head watched the spoon make angry circles in the mug. “Calm down, George, or you’ll have a heart attack. What you need is a holiday, back in dear old Britain.”

“Can’t afford it. Not on what you pay.”

“Ha!” The Head stood up and strolled to the window. “Jake Wilde. Bit of a problem.”

Wharton sipped his coffee. The Head was a master of understatement. Wilde was the absolute rebel of the school and the torment of everyone’s life, especially his. The boy was intelligent, a good athlete, a fine musician. But he was also an arrogant schemer who made no secret of his loathing of Compton’s School and everyone in it.

“Remind me,” the Head said grimly.

Wharton shrugged. “Where to start. There was the monkey. He’s still got that stashed somewhere, I think. The fire alarms. The school concert. The mayor’s car. And who could forget the Halloween party fiasco…”

The Head groaned.

“Not to mention writing his entire exam paper on Hamlet in mirror-writing.”

“Hardly in the same league.”

“Bloody annoying, though.” Wharton was silent, thinking of Jake’s hard, brittle stare. You did say you wanted something totally original, sir . “If it was me, I’d expel him just for the way he says sir .”

“I’ve bent over backward to ignore all of it,” the Head said. “Because his guardian pays top whack to keep him here, and we need the money.”

“I don’t blame the man. But we can’t ignore this.” Wharton touched the foil; it rolled a little on the table and the Head picked it up and examined the sharp point.

“Unbelievable! He could have killed someone. I suppose he thinks as he’s the school’s fencing champion he could handle it. Well, if he wants to be expelled, I’m happy to oblige.” Dropping the sword, the Head came back and touched the intercom button. “Madame. Would you please send for—”

“He’s here, Headmaster.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Jake Wilde. He’s waiting.”

The Head made a face as if he’d eaten a wasp. “Send him in.”

Jake came in and stood stiffly by the desk. The room smelled of coffee, and he could see by the gloom of the two men that he’d defeated them at last.

“Mr. Wilde.” The Head pushed the pastries aside. “You understand that your actions today have finally finished you at Compton’s School?”

“Yes. Sir.” Now he could afford to sound polite.

“Never in my career have I come across anyone so totally irresponsible. So utterly dangerous. Have you any idea of what the consequences could have been?”

Jake stared stonily in front of him. The Head’s tirade went on for at least five minutes, but all of them knew it was just an act that had to be played. He managed to tune out most of it, thinking about Horatio, and how tricky it would be to get him on the plane. A few phrases came to him distantly. “Incredible folly…honor of the school…returning home in disgrace…”