Spirit Riding Free: Abigail's Diary Page 7

  Spirited energy? Lucky fidgeted. “I know I’m not supposed to run, but—”

  The headmistress held up a hand, stopping Lucky mid-excuse. A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. At the other end of the hall, a few students poked their heads out of the tearoom. Eavesdropping. Who could blame them? The scene in the hall was oodles more interesting than the idle chitchat they were forced to engage in while sipping tea. “Must I remind you that running inside is not appropriate behavior for a young lady of society?”

  “Yes, Madame Barrow. I mean, no, you don’t need to remind me.” Lucky shuffled in place. Sarah Nickerson’s head appeared next to the others. She smirked. Lucky wanted to holler, “Mind your own business, Sarah!” But she didn’t.

  “And yet… you ran.” The headmistress raised an eyebrow. Lucky scratched behind her ear. She was starting to feel itchy, as if allergic to the headmistress’s intense and unblinking gaze.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you asking me if you’re sorry?”

  “Um, no, but it’s just that…” Lucky’s stomach growled. Loudly. “It’s just that I didn’t want to be late for morning tea.”

  “Come with me,” the headmistress said. As she turned around, Sarah and the other eavesdroppers darted back into the tearoom. Lucky sighed. There’d be no scones today.

  The headmistress’s office contained lots of lovely things. A collection of china plates graced the walls, lace doilies draped every surface, and a pair of lovebirds twittered in a wicker birdcage.

  “How many times have you visited my office this school year?” Madam Barrow asked as she settled into her desk chair.

  “I’m not sure.” Lucky had lost count.

  “Eight times, Miss Prescott. Eight times.” Lucky nodded. The incidents streamed through her mind. She’d slid down the entry banister. She’d climbed a ladder to check out a bird’s nest on a school windowsill. She’d eaten a cricket on a dare. And there was all the running. “I’m beginning to think that I’m sharing my office with you.”

  That was a funny thought. Lucky giggled, then tried to take it back but made a snorting sound instead. “Sorry.” It was a well-known fact that Madam Barrow did not possess a sense of humor.

  The headmistress tapped her fingers on her desk. She seemed more upset than usual, sitting as if a plank were tied to her back. Lucky hadn’t been invited to sit, so she stood just inside the doorway, doing her best not to fidget. “This is a finishing school, Miss Prescott. Do you know what that means?”

  Of course she did. She’d heard the motto hundreds of times. “Preparing Young Ladies for Society.”

  “Correct. Young ladies, such as you, enter this school as unformed little lumps of clay. Under my guidance and the tutelage of your teachers, you are shaped—formed—into finished works of art.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression.

  Lucky didn’t like to think of herself as a lump of clay—or a lump of anything. And she was not quite sure why she had to be turned into a work of art. Works of art were stuck in museums, behind glass or on pedestals. Works of art stayed in one place. That was much worse than being stuck in recitations.

  The headmistress opened her desk drawer and took out a piece of writing paper. Then, using her marble pen, she began to write. She paused a moment, glanced up. “You’ve put me in a difficult position. Are you aware of this?”

  “I didn’t mean to.” Lucky felt a tingle on her ankle, the beginning of a blister. Those shoes were really the worst. Why did every part of her uniform have to be so stiff? She shifted her weight, trying to find relief.

  “Are you listening to me?” the headmistress asked.

  “Yes.” Lucky stopped moving. “I won’t run anymore. Really, I won’t. I mean, not inside. Unless there’s a fire. I have to run if there’s a fire. Or an earthquake.”

  The headmistress sighed. “Miss Prescott, I want all my students to succeed, but I’m beginning to question your chances.”

  That sounded very serious. Lucky didn’t set out to break the rules or to test the headmistress’s patience. It just happened. “I know. I’m really sorry. Truly I am. But I saw this cowboy outside and I wanted to…” Leaving school without a parent or guardian was strictly prohibited, and by admitting this, she’d just made things worse.

  The headmistress turned red, as if she’d painted rouge over her entire face. “I find I am near my wits’ end. How can I be expected to put up with such continued willfulness?”

  Willfulness? Lucky wondered. Was it willful to want to see a real, live cowboy up close? Was it willful to want to get somewhere quickly? Was it willful to want a scone? If so, then why was being willful such a bad thing? The problem, in Lucky’s opinion, was that there were too many rules and way too much sitting. She couldn’t help that her legs got twitchy.

  The headmistress began writing again.

  “I didn’t mean to bump into you. I’m sorry, I really am.” Lucky leaned forward. “What are you writing?”

  The headmistress wrote a few more lines, then signed her name with a flourish. After folding the paper, she applied a blob of wax and pressed the school’s seal into it. “The question you must ask yourself, Fortuna, is What am I made of?” She held out the letter. “Please deliver this to your father after school. You are dismissed.”

  Lucky reluctantly took the letter and was about to head out the door when the headmistress cleared her throat. Oh, that’s right, Lucky thought. She turned back around and said, “Thank you, Ma’am.” The headmistress nodded. Then Lucky made her escape.

  On previous occasions, upon leaving the headmistress’s office, Lucky had felt a wave of relief. But never before had the headmistress said she was at her wits’ end. And never before had she written a letter with a secret message to Lucky’s father. There could be nothing good in that letter.

  Fortuna Esperanza Navarro Prescott fought the urge to run as she tucked what she believed to be her doom into her pocket.