Pennyroyal Academy (5 page)

“I am Rumpledshirtsleeves, the tailor troll, and I shall instruct you in the
dernier cri.
I am the finest tailor in all the land, a fact that lies hill and dale beyond any rational dispute.”

Malora let out a skeptical cluck. Evie noticed that once again she was exceptionally casual, one arm crossed over her chest, the other running strands of silken black hair through her fingers. She seemed to have no fear of running afoul of the staff.

“Many is the girl I've encountered in my travels convinced I have nothing to offer by way of fashion. I invite you to look in their closets now and see whom they are wearing.” He clapped his hands and a team of trolls half his size waddled out from an archway. They wore voguish suits that seemed out of place with their stray ear and nose hairs and protruding facial growths. The assistants moved in unison, expertly using tapes and chalks to measure the cadets.

They disappeared again, then returned to distribute knapsacks to each of the girls. Inside each knapsack was an official Ironbone Company uniform. One by one, Rumpledshirtsleeves dismissed the girls through another archway to don their new dresses. As Evie awaited her turn, one of the miniature trolls approached and held out a bulbous hand.

“Necklace.”

“Sorry?”

“Necklace,” he said, pointing at the dragon scale.

“But this is . . . very important to me—”

“Leave her, Rabeneau,” said Rumpledshirtsleeves. He hobbled over and slid his stumpy fingers under the scale, inspecting the slash of black blood across its surface. “Kindly return the favor by tucking it into your uniform, won't you?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Taking pride in your appearance is not the same as vanity,” he announced, sending more girls through. “It is vitally important that you understand the difference.”

Evie followed Sage through the archway and found a hall lined with small alcoves. One of the assistants pointed her toward an open one. She drew the curtain shut and took a deep breath, alone at last. She saw herself in the wall mirror and felt a surge of embarrassment. This is what she had looked like climbing down from Remington's horse, filthy and bedraggled. This is what all those girls had seen. It was a wonder Maggie and Demetra would even speak to her. She opened the knapsack and found herself strangely nervous.
What if I put it on and still don't look right?

She pulled the linen uniform from the knapsack and held it in front of her. It was a tunic dress, the same brilliant blue of evening sky in winter, with white sleeves and trim. She peeled off her spiderwebs, then slipped the cool fabric over her head and ran her arms through the sleeves. The moment it washed down her body, something inside of her changed. She felt silly even thinking it, but the dress somehow seemed to make her more human. She slid a tiara as delicate as spun sugar into her chestnut hair, plucking out a stray twig, then tied the trimmed white belt loosely around her waist. She studied herself in the mirror. The girl staring back was a complete stranger.

Who am I?

She could happily have stared into that mirror the rest of the night, but Rumpledshirtsleeves's assistants kept the girls moving along. As she emerged from her alcove, she balled up the spiderwebs and chucked the sticky mass into a rubbish bin.

The newly outfitted Ironbone Company had finally finished processing. They were led down a circular stair, through one of the castle's rear gates, and into a small bailey where the Fairy Drillsergeant waited. She had them fall in line, then began reciting a dry list of rules and regulations. Evie's mind wandered back to that mirror. Moments ago, there had been a very real shift in the way she viewed herself. It was further confirmation that she had done well to listen to the Fates by coming here. Yet standing with the sisters of Ironbone Company—and one brother—two things cast a pall over her budding confidence.

Beyond the bailey's far wall, a punch of ominous dark clouds rolled out from behind the Glass Mountains. They may well have been thunderheads sweeping the land with much-needed rain, but something about them troubled her.

To distract herself from the clouds, she removed a small silver compact from the knapsack and rolled it in her hand. It was standard issue for all cadets. It contained a mirror and pressed powder, nothing more. But what gave Evie pause was the engraving on the lid.

There, etched into the silver, was the official Pennyroyal Academy coat of arms. Its four quadrants depicted a princess, a knight, a dragon, and a witch.

T
HE CADETS OF
Ironbone Company followed the Fairy Drillsergeant through the serpentine, packed dirt streets of campus as she pointed out the major structures. Evie glanced up at a series of carved granite rain heads, strange beasts leering down with wide eyes and flaring jaws. Somehow the Academy's man-made buildings had the ability to make her feel small and insignificant in a way hundred-foot trees never did. After a few minutes' walk, the soaring towers and thick walls all began to look the same. This was meant to be their orientation, but it only disoriented her further.

The Fairy Drillsergeant offered up tidbits about historic princesses who had passed through these very streets—Blackstone, Dorothea, Snow White—as well as the more famous princesses of the modern age—Mariana, Middlemiss, Torgesson. Each name made her company-mates' eyes go wide, and the mention of Dorothea nearly brought Maggie to tears, but Evie was just as oblivious to these women as she had been to Rapunzel. Perhaps there was something to this memory curse business after all . . .

“Here we have Hansel's Green,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant as they emerged from a claustrophobic alley into a wide expanse of rippling emerald grass. “And across the way are your barracks. Now, what I've showed you today is only a fraction of our campus. But I want you to understand that the names you know aren't just characters in fairy stories. They're real people. And each and every one of them trained right here at Pennyroyal Academy. If you work hard and the Fates agree, a fairy may someday tell your story as well.”

Evie pondered this as the Fairy Drillsergeant led them across Hansel's Green to their barracks. She looked at Malora, who seemed so
different
from the others, taller and more confident, and it was easy to imagine parents telling children her story. Or Demetra, who so clearly belonged at the Academy. She would be an excellent person to spin tales about. But her, Evie . . . what would there be to tell?

“Isn't this exciting?” said Maggie, snaking her hand through the crook of Evie's elbow. “All the great ones here, and now us?”

Evie smiled and kept moving across the soft turf.

“Mum used to send me to sleep at night with tales of Princess Dorothea,” said Maggie. “She was always one of my favorites. I keep trying to picture her here, but it doesn't seem real.”

On that Evie could agree. None of this seemed real. If her own mother could see her now, she would scarcely believe her eyes . . .

Finally they reached the building with a sapphire-blue standard cracking in the wind. A woman stood outside. She was tall, wearing a blue tunic dress similar to theirs, hands clutched to her chest in anticipation. Her flowing brown hair was shot through with gray. There was a soft and warm energy about her, a powerful aura of kindness. This was a distinguished princess in the twilight of her career.

“Welcome, cadets, welcome! My name is Princess Hazelbranch, your House Princess,” she said in a voice like fresh-baked bread. “This barracks is your home for the year, so please, come in and get settled. We still have a few more things to do, and we're rapidly losing our sun.”

Evie glanced at the hard wall of gray drifting steadily over the mountaintops.
From the looks of those clouds, we might lose the sun for a few days.

Inside, the Ironbone Company barracks was surprisingly cozy for such a large building. Aged spruce timbers ribbed the vaulted ceiling. Torches glowed from sconces above ornate, wood-framed bunks with small footlockers at the ends. Round-headed windows ran the length of each wall, and bearskins lined the center aisle.

As the cadets filtered in, Demetra led Evie to the latrines at the far end of the barracks. She sat her down and brushed days' worth of dirt and detritus from her hair, then scrubbed the dried mud from her face and arms.

“Sorry about this, but it's got to be done,” she said, working a coarse brush under Evie's fingernails.

“It's all right.”

“One of the benefits to being raised in a castle is that I've learned the value of looking after my appearance.” She suddenly stopped and stepped back. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you don't, I just . . .”

“I know I look a mess,” said Evie with an apologetic smile. “I haven't had a chance to bathe since I left home.”

Demetra leaned in again and used a fresh cloth to wipe Evie's face clean. “I hope you'll forgive me for saying that. I haven't had much experience with common—” She caught herself, then blurted out, “I mean, nonroyals. And quite honestly, I'd prefer to forget all about that distinction while I'm here.” She stood again and looked down on Evie with a smile. “There. You look bloody gorgeous.”

Evie studied herself in the mirror. How could that girl, cleaned and groomed and uniformed, be the same one who earlier that morning had torn open a termite nest with her hands, scooping the carrot-flavored insects into her mouth for breakfast while Remington slept?

“Right, let's go claim our beds before they're all taken,” said Demetra, leading her out of the latrine and back through the bustling barracks.

Evie couldn't help but smile. Girls were settling in, putting their meager personal items in the footlockers, and chatting with one another about who they had been back home. None of them stared at her. None of them laughed at her. None of them even noticed her. It was bliss.

“I've held these two,” said Maggie, indicating the bunks on either side of hers. “Whichever takes your fancy—”

“Blimey!” shouted the girl at the next bunk. She dropped to a knee and dipped her head. “I didn't know you was gonna be here, Your Serene and Exalted Highness!”

Demetra looked around in embarrassment, hurrying over to pull the girl to her feet. “I'm only a cadet, no different from you.”

“Touched by the royal hand! Me da won't believe it!”

“That's Anisette,” said Maggie with a smile. “She's a Blackmarsh girl, too.”

“Are you?” said Demetra.

“Through and through, Highness—”

“Then I order you to call me Demetra.” She walked past Evie and staked her claim to the bunk on the far side of Maggie's.

“Anisette,” she said, shaking Evie's hand.

“Uh . . . Evie.”

“Evie, pleasure.”

Anisette went back to her unpacking. Evie looked at her bunk, then watched the other girls, unsure what she was supposed to be doing. She put her knapsack inside the footlocker, then sat down to listen.

“Me da's a cobbler on Blackmarsh high street,” said Anisette. She was rough-edged, as was Evie, but with a loud, infectious spirit. Evie liked her immediately. “Any time you need shoes mended, Highness, you come see him. Unless you royals just throw 'em out at the first little scuff.” She winked at Evie with a smile.

“Please, just call me Demetra. I can't bear that title.”

“Right. Demetra. Well, you come see us. Best cobblers on the Slope. Course, I'm a good sight better than he is these days, but don't let him hear it—”

“Ah, so that would make you a princess of the sole, then,” said Malora with a smirk, her friends from the coach, Kelbra and Sage, trailing behind.

Anisette looked at her with cinched eyebrows, unsure how to respond to the insult. Before she could, Malora turned to Demetra. “I've come to tell you that the kingsblood princesses are over there, if you'd like a bit of space from these street girls.”

There was a moment where no one spoke, each waiting for Malora to complete what must surely be a joke. But she only looked down at Evie with a cold smile.

“Did you really come all the way over here just to insult us?” said Anisette, but the moment was cut short as Princess Hazelbranch approached, reading from a parchment.

“Cadet . . . Eleven?”

“Offer stands,” said Malora to Demetra, and then she and her friends walked off.

“Is there an Eleven here?”

“That's me,” said Evie, standing.

“Come along, dear.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the Infirmary. Or have you already forgotten your memory curse?” She chuckled at her own joke as she walked away. Evie followed, then hesitated. She looked back at her friends. Only moments after finally starting to feel like she belonged, she was being singled out and led away because she was different.

By the time Ironbone's cursed cadets had traversed campus and reached the Infirmary—there were quite a few more than Evie had expected, including Sage, who always looked as though she hated the sensation of being alive—the sun had nearly reached the horizon. This would be the first night in many where Evie could sleep soundly, without worrying that a goblin or wolf was creeping up through the undergrowth. She found herself actually looking forward to the night.

Light flooded the Infirmary through a glass ceiling, while nurses in white dresses moved swiftly amongst the sickbeds attending the unwell. The girls were asked to gather near a treatment area, which consisted of several tables surrounded by shelves of tiny bottles of blue and black and green and yellow potions, exotic powders, bubbling chalices, and clay pots filled with unknown substances.

Evie had been one of the first called forward. She sat before the Academy's chief caregiver, dowdy and droopy-eyed Princess Wertzheim, and answered yet another series of questions. She made one last attempt to explain that her memory wasn't faulty, but when Wertzheim started to probe further into her family history, Evie decided to abandon the cause. She hadn't told a soul about her mother and father because she felt protective of them, and would rather drink the odd potion than expose them to these strangers. So when Wertzheim mixed her a small vial of red liquid, she choked it down without complaint.

Now, as she waited for the others to finish their consultations, she started to notice strange things about the Infirmary. Statues of men and women, boys and girls, were strewn about the room. Some stood next to bunks, but most were shoved into the far corner, as though the Infirmary doubled as a royal garden's storehouse. In addition to the statuary, animals roamed the floor unchecked. Goats, ponies, and what seemed to be an entire flock of ducks trailed behind the nurses as they made their rounds. Lizards clung to walls. Pigs and swans napped together on one of the bunks.

A fox walked past on its hind legs, as though it was a person. Her eyes followed it, and found Sage standing behind her. She had a face like a pear leaf, soft and round and tapered into a sharp chin, though always darkened with hostility. Still, for Evie, it was a familiar face in an odd place. She decided to start a conversation. “Lost your memory, too, then?”

“As if it's any of your business, I've lost my sense of humor.”

Evie chuckled nervously, unsure if it was a jest.

“I'm happy you can laugh. I can't.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . .” Sage scoffed and turned toward the table, where a nurse was feeding a cadet a spoonful of smoking yellow liquid. But Evie missed the cue and continued talking. “Why do you reckon they keep all these animals and things in here?”

“They're not
animals
,” said Sage with a huff. “They're people with curses.”

A dog lying at the foot of one of the bunks scratched its ear. Evie studied it, trying to imagine how this could be a person, when, in the same bunk, the statue of a boy lifted its head. It was alive, its calcified skin pliable, trapped somewhere between stone and flesh. When she was ten years old, Evie had stumbled upon a wounded fox cub. It looked as though it had met with an owl or hawk and somehow survived, but only just. She knew it wouldn't survive much longer. She had the strangest sensation then, an intense compassion for the cub mixed with revulsion at its horrific wounds. The same sensation came over her now when she looked at the statue. Or boy. Whichever it was.

She could feel the uncomfortable tickle of someone's eyes on her, so she turned and found a squat, fat pig. It chuffed and snorted, but its eyes never left hers. It was disconcerting, a bit too intense for such a placid farm animal, so she stepped away and pretended to admire some multicolored vials on a shelf. But the pig followed.

“What do you want? Go away.”

Its bristled snout twitched as it took in her scent. She looked to her fellow cadets, as much embarrassed as alarmed, but none seemed to notice what was happening. When she tried to edge away, the pig darted forward. She backed into the shelf, vials shattering on the floor.

“Help!”

The pig's snorts grew louder and more insistent. It lunged at her again, and she tripped over a green-headed mallard, falling to the floor amid a flurry of quacks.

The pig stood only feet away, its body shuddering like the injured fox cub in the forest. Several nurses approached, but kept their distance, as though it might come after them next.

“What's it doing?” called Evie.

“Stay calm!” said Wertzheim. “Don't move!”