Spring had taken winter's place. True warmth was still some way off, but young hearts, as we know, pay little heed to cold air. Another cluster of students had gathered in the yard, ready to go wall to wall despite the presence of a professor. This time it was two upper-year students facing off. One of them still refused to lower his wand and stood with his arm outstretched, every muscle in his strong body taut, glaring at his opponent with open fury.
The Headmistress, who had been observing the judging for some time, finally spoke.
"Good afternoon. Excuse me, Professor, but I would also like to deduct points from Mr Selden — the same number you have just taken from Mr Darcy."
"For what? I'm the injured party here!" The young man's tone — and his stance — showed complete disregard for any authority.
"For pushing him with your insults!" a girl from the opposing side called out. "It's only fair!"
"I didn't hear any of that."
"Professor! That doesn't mean it didn't happen. Miss Greenwood…"
"Miss Greenwood, I rely on my ears — and my eyes. My ears heard nothing. My eyes see one raised wand and one broken nose, and they belong to different people."
"In that case," Miss said evenly, "look more closely at the eyes above that bloody nose. Do you see any gloating there?" One might briefly assume she was taking sides — but not for long. "Whereas in the others I see nothing but foolish pride." Pride sent an avalanche of snow down onto its defender, but she paid it no mind.
"It's all very hard to prove," the professor insisted, understanding her point.
"Very convenient, isn't it? Let us suppose I'm wrong, and Mr Selden is indeed an innocent victim. Then if he doesn't learn to defend himself — or at least find defenders willing to risk themselves for him — he will remain a whipping boy. What good will that do him? And if I'm right, he will learn that it is possible to provoke others into breaking the rules and walk away untouched."
"But force is not the answer. Students should learn to resolve conflicts with words."
"I agree. However, we are not in Parliament, nor in an academy. And, as I understand it, the subject of their dispute was neither political nor scholarly."
"Maybe it makes no difference to you whether they use wands or fists?"
"In principle, you're right — it makes no difference to me. But that isn't the point just now."
"It's not worthy of a wizard."
"In life anything can happen. Better to be prepared."
"If we follow your approach, we'll end up with a school full of broken noses," the professor persisted.
"I'd rather see bloody noses than insulted mothers. Noses mend faster than hearts." Her voice softened slightly. "I'm not claiming this will remove the problem entirely. But I hope it will reduce the number of conflicts driven purely by personal advantage." Then her tone firmed again as she turned to the student, whose nostrils flared with resentment, though the earlier anger had gone. "Minus ten points for Mr Selden."
The returning birds and the bright sun — promising a swift renewal of nature, the coming of warmth, long evenings, and a clear, star-filled sky — give many people a certain boldness, a readiness to attempt more than they usually would.
"Miss Greenwood? Good afternoon." A young man in a student's robe peered through the half-open greenhouse door.
"Hello, Tobias. Why didn't you go to the village with the others?"
"May I speak with you?" He looked slightly abashed, but resolute.
"Yes, of course. Come in."
The woman stood at the far end of a long wooden table. Half-empty flowerpots, woven seed bags, clay bowls of dry mixtures, and glass vials of liquid preparations were laid out before her; a barrel of soil stood on the floor nearby. Before her visitor arrived, she had been humming a beautiful, melancholy tune — only the melody, for obvious reasons — and fell silent at the first creak of the hinges. Sad melodies always came to her when she was in a good mood; when her mood was bad, none came at all.
"What would you like to talk about?"
"About my feelings for you."
"The hour of reckoning…" For a moment her gaze stilled, fixed on the empty air ahead, while her hands continued pouring the mixtures into the pots at the same steady pace. "All right. What sort of feelings do you have for me?"
"I love you," he said firmly after a short pause.
She set the measuring scoop aside with care and rested her palms on the table. Lifting her head, she turned her calm face towards him and studied him closely. He stood straight and, though tense, met her gaze with defiance.
"And what exactly do you love about me?"
"Exactly?" The question caught him off guard. "I don't know. It's a feeling. It either exists or it doesn't."
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully.
"I may be wrong, but I don't think so. In my view, what you're describing — forgive me — is desire. That is not a bad thing, within limits, but love is more conscious than that. If we are to continue this conversation, we should first decide which of the two we are speaking about."
The challenge vanished from the student's face. He had not expected a conversation at all. He had been certain he would simply be shown the door — proof enough, in his mind, that he had done what he claimed. Now he found himself wishing to leave of his own accord.
"I'm not rushing you."
There was no retreat left. The young man sat down on a chair by the door and fell into thought. The Headmistress quietly resumed her work.
"Both," a voice finally came from the shadowed doorway.
"That's brave." The Headmistress set her work aside again.
"Do you like that?" The young man stood and braced his fists against the tabletop.
"Bravery is a good quality — provided it isn't the only one."
"Well. Then I'll try. You're clever."
"Are there no clever girls you know? I'm quite sure there are."
"They're no match for you."
"I have my doubts about that. Still… I'm simply older. Much older. In the long run, age can be a disadvantage." Youth always speaks in absolutes.
"Anything can happen in life."
"Who's arguing…" the woman murmured, almost under her breath.
"Besides," the young man went on, "and this is what's most remarkable about you — you don't look much older, and you don't behave like it either."
"Well, that's hardly a sign of great wisdom." She truly wasn't certain about much of what she did, and now felt partly responsible that the conversation had reached this point.
"No," he answered with conviction. "Quite the opposite. It's good. When someone doesn't look down on you, doesn't assume you're foolish or incapable. When they explain and show — instead of forbidding and punishing."
"That's why I have the Heads," she said with a faint grin. "They do the dirty work for me."
"You're cheerful — alive!" The young man relaxed, almost carried away by his own fervour.
"Only thanks to all of you," she said softly. He probably did not even hear it.
"You're never thrown off balance. You never flinch — as if you were carved from stone."
"Believe me, that's just a defensive reflex." Inside, she was in turmoil. She knew that, as Headmistress, she should not — and did not wish to — conduct herself like this with a student. At the same time, his words gave her an undeniable, uncomfortable pleasure.
"You're not afraid of anything." His admiring gaze rested on her face.
"No. I pretend." There was bitterness in her voice as her eyes dropped back to the table.
The pots there were finished, so she turned to the shelves behind her and scanned the labels on the tightly packed drawers. The one she needed was on an upper shelf. Rising onto her toes, she stretched upward and had just hooked her fingers around the box when another pair of hands lifted it easily and placed it into hers.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly above her head. She kept her eyes on the box. "I like the way you move." He did not let go of it at once. "The way you smell…" He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath.
Without looking at him, she pulled the box firmly towards herself until his fingers released it. She turned, set it on the table, glanced at its contents, then at the large pots on the floor, weighing her choice, and moved towards them.
His words followed at her back. "I like your voice. Your lips. Your eyes…"
She chose one — not the largest, but still heavy. Tilting it onto its edge, she began to roll it, but it slipped free and continued across the floor on its own towards the table. She watched it go with visible irritation.
"I like the way you look — gentle or severe…"
She picked up a pair of garden shears and cut into the thick fabric of a gravel sack. The cloth split with a sharp tear. She drew an uneven breath and exhaled hard.
"Stop it, please," she said through clenched teeth, fighting to keep her voice from breaking into a shout.
"Stop what? Telling the truth? You did want it."
"Not that. Everything else."
"But I'm only trying to help," the young man said, once he understood what she meant.
"No. You're not helping — you're patronising. I didn't ask for help. This much, at least, I can manage on my own." Even so, a note of despair kept breaking through.
"You mean — without magic?"
"What?" Only then did she realise how carelessly she had exposed herself in front of a student, and she did not manage to compose her expression in time.
"Oh — forgive me…" He grew flustered in turn. "No one is questioning your right to hold office. Everyone knows you're a witch. One of us. It's just — something happened, and you lost the ability to cast." Her eyes widened further. "The girls say you were cursed, and that…" He swallowed and looked down. "That only a kiss can break it."
"The one of true love, I suppose?" The absurdity steadied her; her voice turned dry.
"Do you still doubt my feelings?!"
"Not at all. Only the treatment." Her tone was calm again. She sat on the bench and leaned back against the table. "You're nearly finished with school, aren't you? And you're not a fool. Yet you believe in fairy tales." The boy stood with lowered eyes and said nothing. "You earn points outside sport as well — which means you study. Tell me: how many curses do you know that are lifted by a kiss?" No answer. "None? That's what I thought." She drew a breath, wondering whether this had been his real purpose in coming, and went on. "Now — in order. Sit down. Who told you I can't do magic?"
He sat beside her on the bench — too close. She gave him a look of reproach touched with tired gentleness and shifted away. He accepted the distance.
"We have eyes. All this time, no one has seen you cast anything. Even at feasts — everyone does, except you. It's noticeable." She kept her gaze on his face. Slightly embarrassed, he added, "The girls were joking, really. No one thought it might be true."
"Except you. And why are you so certain I could do it before?"
"You studied here," he said, spreading his hands. "You were in our House. There are witnesses — ghosts, portraits. They remember you. They told me what you were like." She barely resisted the urge to ask what she was like. "Strong. Not just magically. Though that would be enough — there's more than that. I've noticed it myself. In certain moments — when you're startled, for instance. Like with the poltergeist last time. You always seem to promise yourself you won't react again — and still you do. But that's not what I mean. You make particular gestures. I recognise some of them — non-verbal magic. The reflex is still there."
"I hadn't noticed," the woman whispered, startled by what she heard.
"You see! I know you. I have the right to say I love you." The young man leaned forward eagerly. To his surprise, she did not react — she set still, absorbed in thought.
"Yes… unfortunately, yes."
"Unfortunately? Why?"
At last she rose and moved away from the table towards the cupboard. From there she could meet his eyes and still keep her distance.
"You're a good man, Tobias. Brave, intelligent, observant… handsome. If you recall everything you said here and think it through carefully, you'll see that those two feelings are closely linked. The first can exist without the second. The second cannot exist without the first. I'm sorry — I don't love you. That doesn't mean you lack anything, or that you are unworthy. As you said at the beginning, they are feelings. They either exist or they don't. They may be recognised by the mind, but they cannot be produced by it. The second without the first may lead to another kind of relationship. So — when you fall in love with someone else, and if you still value my company then, we may become friends. Not before."
"Why?"
"Because otherwise you won't be able to fall in love with someone else."
"But I don't want to fall in love with someone else. What if there is no one else? What if you're the only one?"
"No," she said with a soft smile, "there is no 'only one' until you choose to make someone so. Don't spend your time on me. Look for her. When you find her — and when you both decide — that is when the rest of the world is meant to fall away."
The young man listened in quiet pain to the advice of the woman he was supposed to stop loving. He had no idea how that was to be done.
"Have you already made your decision?"
She felt the ring on her hand and turned it slightly on her finger, unnoticed by him.
"I believe I have."
Outside the greenhouse, a friend paced up and down the path, waiting.
"What were you doing there so long? I'm freezing out here."
He looked as dark as a storm cloud. Giving his friend a weary, irritated glance, he set off towards the castle with heavy steps.
"You won't believe it. I can barely believe it myself… I was talking about my feelings."
"For that long?" His friend actually stopped, trying to imagine what there was to talk about. "Well?"
"What do you think?"
"Shown the door?"
"Of course."
"One never knows," the other muttered with a shrug. "It's been so long." He stressed the last words.
"Say that again."
The unfortunate companion understood very quickly how badly his irritation might land.
"Sorry… I mean — I feel for you."
***
The deputy visited the Headmistress quite often — both on school matters and, once again and again, to check how things stood with her memory. And if the first topic increasingly energised the Headmistress, the second — irritated her each time more and more.
One day the old witch found her already in a foul mood. She looked angry and unsettled — cheated, even. The feeling was written plainly on the face that turned towards her the moment she stepped into the office. In the portrait behind the desk, the man stood with his head bowed in quiet sadness — he had already paid his due. The strict deputy did not so much as blink.
"Has something happened, Headmistress?"
Struggling with resentment, the Headmistress did not answer at once.
"It has," she said at last. "I've finally reached the end of this book." With effort she lifted the edge of the enormous volume lying open on the desk, then let it fall shut with a heavy thud, sending up a cloud of dust. "You might at least have hinted that I should have started there."
"I didn't expect it would take you so long," the witch replied dryly, with a trace of reproach.
"I wasn't in a hurry," the Headmistress shot back with mild sarcasm. "History is not my strongest subject."
The deputy and the portrait exchanged a look. He spread his hands — as if to show that whatever he knew should not have influenced the process anyway — and to conceal that he would have preferred this moment never came at all.
"What is all this about?"
"What exactly?"
"What exactly?!" the Headmistress demanded. "My father is the chief villain of the century; my name appears on the list of those who died in the battle between him and the School; I am very much alive, sitting here, and I don't remember a single thing about it. That exactly."
"What makes you so certain it is you on that list, and not simply a namesake?"
"Because I can listen and I can count." She fixed the witch with a hard stare. "I studied here. That was obvious from the start. The portraits and the ghosts remember me — they simply prefer not to speak to me. Like you. And then you let it slip yourself. The professor"— she jerked her head back towards the portrait — "was my Head of House. He died when I was eighteen. According to the same list, he died on that very day. My present age makes it perfectly reasonable to conclude that I was about eighteen at the time. And in the other register I found no students with the same name."
The man in the frame remembered how, five minutes earlier, she had burst back into the office, breathless and blazing with sharp, bright anger.
"You knew. You must have known. Even if you died earlier — who am I? A ghost that cannot leave? But this is flesh. What is happening?"
"I… All I knew was that you were dead. I didn't know you were alive until…"
She had turned away with a strained sigh and dropped into the armchair.
"I do not know what is happening to you," he had said quietly.
"But most importantly," the Headmistress went on now, "your young friend told me on my very first day that the scar on his forehead was left by my father."
"And you still can't remember anything?" the witch asked wearily.
"Not a single memory. Nothing even sounds familiar."
"What could make you remember?" The question, though directed aloud, was meant for herself. A heavy sigh followed, and the witch lowered herself into a chair.
"Perhaps that isn't the aim?" the portrait ventured, trying to intercede for his former student. "Perhaps something happened out there, and the school is the last refuge."
"Then we ought to know about it," the witch insisted.
"Then you know my view," the man replied dryly, after a brief pause.
"And you know mine." The deputy's voice regained its firmness. "No. I will not allow this family to be drawn in. Only as a last resort — and only when I am entirely certain that… that it is safe. It would not be good for them either."
The woman watched the two of them with open contempt. She did not even attempt to ask questions — she knew she would receive no answers. At last she rose without a word and went into the bedroom.
The woman watched the two of them with open contempt. She did not even attempt to ask questions — she knew she would receive no answers. At last she rose without a word and went into the bedroom.
"What if he is right?" she thought, staring at the ceiling above her bed. "What if there is no one and nothing left for me out there? Who was I there?"
Here, she had been entrusted with a school. They knew she had no experience whatsoever, and still they trusted her. She listened to the professors' advice, to the requests of the Board, observed, monitored the moods of staff and students, tried to consider every factor before making a decision. Many of the students liked her — though she did not indulge them — and that, she believed, meant she was doing something right.
"Oh, Mary. Again? I was certain Dorian was long gone."
"It isn't Dorian."
"What is it this time?"
"He's in love with you."
"Tobias?" Purely feminine instinct made the Headmistress pause, master it, and continue evenly. "Well, I should think that's a good choice…"
"And I want to be like you!"
That was harder to agree with. It did not, however, alter the essence of the matter.
"Then it isn't as hopeless as last time. But you don't have much time.."
She had students here. So different in temperament, yet so alike in essence. The professors were the same. Through them she saw that life did indeed exist. Through them she learnt about living — as she learnt about the world through books. Indirectly. Bearing responsibility, yes — and yet remaining, for the most part, an observer.
She had a teacher here, at any hour. A kindred spirit. Someone whose mind engaged hers, who cared for her, who — for reasons she did not fully grasp — loved her; someone she tried not to disappoint; someone she loved in return.
"Come on, wake up! This is ridiculous — you don't stand a chance! She's in love with a portrait! She's mad! He was her teacher twenty years ago!" The clear, ringing voice of a girl echoed down the empty corridor in both directions. "She's a pervert. And so are you."
"So that means all isn't lost yet," a young man replied stubbornly after a brief pause.
"Are you insane? Go to hell!"
A girl burst out from beneath the archway and nearly collided with the woman who, a moment earlier, had been walking briskly along the passage, halted by the tirade directed at someone still hidden behind the stone wall.
"Oh! Headmistress! Good evening."
"Good evening, Miss Pierce."
There was a pause. The woman's initial embarrassment slowly settled into a firm, impassive composure, while the girl's startled confusion sharpened into defiance. The defiance did not last long. It faltered under that unnerving emptiness of gaze, and colour rose abruptly to the would-be blackmailer's cheeks.
"Sorry… I mean — excuse me. May I go? I'm in a hurry."
"Of course," the woman replied evenly. "I'm not detaining you. On the contrary, you wished to tell me something. And you have already said it — some time ago."
Fear flooded the girl's eyes. Muttering, "Thank you… Good evening…", she hurried away without looking back.
The woman drew a slow breath and resumed her walk when an uncertain voice sounded behind her.
"Miss Greenwood?"
"Yes?"
"Is it true?"
"Yes."
"But why? It's pointless… there's no future in that kind of relationship…"
"Just as there is none in ours. So why?" After a moment she softened, taking a few steps towards the young man. "Listen to me. I do not expect from this relationship more than it can give. I do not need more. Your position is different."
One kindred spirit in the whole school. And it was enough. So long as she did not remember, they would remain together. She touched the ring on her finger. She loved him too — the way she was able to do this. It could not be otherwise. Why was she blocking those memories? If something was happening in that other world, then the old witch was right — she needed to know. But then she would have to go back.
***
It was a glorious spring day. A fresh wind moved through the mountains, the forest, and the school corridors, driving damp air from every corner it could reach. The sun shone with deliberate warmth, as though intent on thawing the cold earth at last, and not a single cloud dared interfere. The whole school had spilled outdoors — to walk, to play, to revise for examinations.
It was Sunday. The Headmistress had nothing pressing to do, and did not wish to invent anything, so she decided — like everyone else — to accept this rare gift of weather. No less than the sunshine, she enjoyed the freedom of crossing the crowded grounds without attracting undue attention. She never wore a robe or hat, and though on weekdays she dressed with a certain strictness, on warm weekends she allowed herself comfortable shoes, loose trousers, and a coloured blouse.
In such attire, with her quick, light stride, an air of easy detachment, and a habit of turning her head at every insect that darted past, she could easily be mistaken for a senior student. She did not attempt to look younger; it was simply her natural state of mind — though it required effort to sustain amid so many genuinely young people, whose very presence reminded her of her age. Yet she firmly believed that if one did not trouble time, time would not trouble one; if one did not count the years, one would not age.
That, precisely, was who she wished to be for the students — a prefect over the prefects.
They understood this quickly. They knew that when she appeared, there was no need to leap up and greet her — unless they had business with her; no need to put themselves in order artificially — a blush was sufficient; no need even to halt an argument or a scuffle. They also knew that she would not tolerate insincerity, would not reward informers, and would not take anyone's side if they were unwilling to stand up for themselves.
"Miss Greenwood!"
She was gliding past a stone bench beneath a large tree when the call reached her.
"Miss Greenwood!"
She altered her course and headed towards the voice.
"I would say 'good afternoon', but although the day is splendid, mine is not."
A boy with large grey eyes, bright curls of fair hair, and freckled skin sat hunched over a thick book. He was turning its pages back and forth with mounting desperation.
"Tell me your secret — how did you pass history? I wrestle with it every night, but no sleeplessness potion, however strong, helps." He lifted his hands helplessly, taking his fingers-bookmarks out.
The Headmistress paused beneath the spreading branches and considered.
"I believe I wrote it myself," she said at last, lifting her fingers thoughtfully from her chin. A mischievous smile touched her mouth.
"How's that?" The first-year's face fell in astonishment; his eyes widened.
"Do you like fiction?"
"Adventures…" he admitted, slightly apologetic.
"Then you already hold half the tickets." She sat down beside him, bracing her palms on the stone and crossing her ankles beneath the bench. Her voice took on a playful rhythm. "Invent your own hero. Let him walk through these pages. Consider how he gathers a proper company for his enterprise. Who would be useful to him? How would he win them over? How would he hold them together? What conflicts would arise among them on the road — and how would he resolve them? Who are his enemies? What sort of people are they? What drives them? How would he oppose each of them — with words, perhaps, or with steel? What would his minstrel sing? How would he marshal his warriors?" She tapped the book lightly. "You will find different answers here. Some will prove wise; others foolish. The book will show you which is which — if such distinctions exist at all."
"And which side should my hero be on?"
"That depends on who he is," she replied lightly. "Which depends on you." Her eyes were laughing. "Whoever he chooses to be, only you will know."
The woman moved on. She left the castle and walked along its outer walls. She had no particular destination — she simply followed her gaze, turning wherever it led her. And so she went, unhurried and light, until — quite out of nowhere — a boulder dropped at her feet.
There was no time to be afraid. She sprang upward instinctively, clearing the obstacle rather than stumbling over it.
"Headmistress!"
"Oh! Miss Greenwood! I'm so sorry!"
A cluster of first-years — boys and girls — came running towards her.
"It's all right…" she said, though the belated fright had already caught up with her.
"Please forgive me — I forgot to adjust for the wind!" one of the girls blurted out.
The Headmistress examined the stone, then licked her finger with exaggerated seriousness and held it up, testing the faint chill that brushed against it. A few children giggled.
"Well," said the girl, "while it was still a grain of sand."
"Oh!" The Headmistress looked mildly embarrassed. "What sort of game is this? Tell me."
The cheerful flock rushed back to their starting point, tripping over one another in their eagerness to explain the rules, to demonstrate how to select the right grain of sand, how to cast it properly. Laughter rose again. The children returned to their game with renewed excitement.
Then, from behind a large sprawling bush nearby, there came a loud bang.
In the next instant, all of them — the children and the Headmistress alike — found themselves standing in the middle of a forest.
"What happened? How did it.." She looked around, disoriented. Then she gathered herself. "Is everyone here? Is anyone hurt?"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Everyone's safe."
"Everyone's here."
"But where are we exactly?"
"In the woods, obviously."
"In the forbidden part?"
A chorus of anxious sounds followed.
"All right. Don't panic. It's going to be fine. All right?" She lifted her hands and, like a conductor drawing out the final fading chord, stilled the rising panic. "Now. Does anyone understand what just happened?"
"I did it."
A dark-haired, pale boy stepped forward at last. He had not moved immediately; he had stood for some moments under the astonished gazes of his classmates. Now he approached with his head bowed, fingers twisting together.
"I heard a strange noise behind me and got frightened," he said, staring at the ground. "I wanted everyone to be safe…"
"And so you brought us to who knows where?"
"To the forbidden forest?"
"Yes, thank you — very safe!"
"How do we get back now?"
The murmur swelled again, climbing up the tree trunks, threading through roots and branches.
"Don't turn on him." The Headmistress said quietly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "He was trying to protect you. Do you see? He could have escaped alone. We will find a way out — if we search, not quarrel. Has anyone been here before? Now would be an excellent moment to admit past mischief." She waited. "No? Where were you trying to take us?"
"Not here," the boy muttered. "To another forest. But I didn't have the strength."
She frowned slightly.
"It's remarkable that you managed anything at all. There's a blocking spell on the school grounds."
A deeper silence followed. The most unsettling thing was that the forest itself was silent too — as though listening to uninvited guests.
"It's a pity you can't just take us back," one of the boys sighed.
"Shut up," a girl snapped.
"It wouldn't have worked anyway," another said under his breath.
"What did you say?" The Headmistress felt her heart falter. "What does 'anyway' mean?" Her eyes moved quickly from face to face. "How do you… Does the whole school know about this?"
"Don't worry, Miss Greenwood! We didn't tell anyone!"
"And we won't!"
"No one will!"
"Never!"
"But… why?"
"What's the fuss?"
"You're brilliant without magic!"
"You've never treated us differently. Why should we treat you differently?"
Her fingers were still cold. Sweat had not yet dried at her temples. But her heart, warmed by their simple certainty, began to beat faster, sending heat back into her limbs. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the trunk of a fallen tree.
"You have no idea what you have just done. Please — when you grow up, keep thinking like that."
The children had barely begun to absorb her words when the ground trembled beneath their feet. A few seconds later came the dull, irregular thunder of many hooves.
The woman rose at once. The children instinctively pressed in around her. Every sense sharpened.
"Centaurs. I bet."
"Are they one of those forest creatures who don't like visitors?"
"Yes."
"And the sort after which you might need bone-mending infusion?"
"Exactly."
"Attention. Everyone stands behind me and keeps a low profile."
"But you…"
"Do as I say."
At last they appeared on what might generously be called a road — a broad, grassless stretch of earth where tree roots broke through the surface. A herd of horses emerged. Only they were not horses. Above the mighty bodies of the animals rose the mighty torsos of men — all male — clad in leather ammunition that barely concealed their bare chests.
The leader lifted his hand, and the creatures halted at once, forming a semicircle before the intruders. Dappled shadows slipped across the sculpted muscles of man and horse alike, blurring the line between species, between word and meaning.
"Put down your wands."
The command was sharp, unyielding. It snapped the woman back to the present. She turned and saw her group bristling, wands raised like the spines of a porcupine.
"Lower your weapons," she said evenly, forcing her voice steady.
"Wands first," the centaur replied.
"They're children. They won't harm you."
"Children of wizards. Tell that to someone else."
"They won't harm you," she repeated. "Because I tell them so." The words were aimed not only at the centaurs, but — perhaps more pointedly — at the students. "We are not here because of you. Do you see a wand in my hands? You've frightened them."
"Keep your hands where I can see them," the leader said after studying her closely. "Lower the weapons."
The warriors took a free stance.
"Children," she said quietly, "lower your wands."
"Are you sure?"
"They're centaurs."
"Yes. And do you remember what you said about differences? It's the same thing."
The porcupine's spines smoothed out.
"What are you doing here?" the leader demanded. "Students are not permitted in this part of the forest."
"I know. I apologise. We were transported here by accident. We're trying to find our way back. Could you help us?"
"We have already helped you," he said coldly. "We left you alive. Do not expect more."
He flicked his hand. The small army moved past them with impassive dignity.
"If you could at least tell me which way the castle is. I would really appreciate it." She called after them, but not one of them looked at her, "No? That is a pity."
She watched them disappear between the trees, then turned back to the children, who were still holding their breath.
"Well then," she said briskly, "we return to Plan A."
"To Plan A?"
"There was a Plan A?"
"I must have missed it."
"Plan A," the Headmistress clarified, "is to get higher and work out where we are in relation to the castle. You learn levitation in first year, don't you? Then you ought to manage this together. Can you lift me above the treetops?"
"Why you and not one of us?"
"Because if someone falls, it had better be me."
"But you're heavier."
"Weight is irrelevant. You won't be lifting me with your hands. Will you?"
"No."
"And there are plenty of you."
They tried — singly, in pairs, in clusters, then all at once. There were stumbles, brief elevations, hurried recoveries, repeated assurances that nothing was broken. In the end they perfected the art of cushioning a fall and lowering her gently to the ground. What they did not perfect was height. The children were soon flushed, breathless, and plainly disheartened.
"Well. The C's. At least lift me as far as the lowest branch of that tree. I'll manage the rest myself."
They achieved this, and the woman began to climb — with energy, with knowledge, and even with a certain pleasure. Soon she disappeared from sight, swallowed by the young foliage of the branches. The students waited below, talking excitedly. Their hum drowned out the sound of the old witch's arrival. She was usually calm and composed, but now she looked as though she had never expected to find them all in one place, safe and sound.
"Praise the saints! I did it! You're still here! All? Yes, all. No, wait. Someone is missing. Where's the Headmistress?"
"There!" the boy pointed upwards.
"On the tree."
"How did that happen? Who put her there? Which one of you did it? Answer me."
"I did! Oh — it was her idea! Honestly!"
"It's true!"
"To see where we are. And where the castle is."
"Folks, good news! We're not that far away," the Headmistress' ruddy face appeared upside down from a branch and met the stunned face of her deputy.
"We have better news," a smiling little face poked out from behind the old witch.
"How did you find us so quickly? How did you even know we were lost? The alarm system is broken — did you know that? How could it have happened?" The Headmistress bombarded her deputy with questions as they walked back to the school, as though returning from a picnic in the woods.
"One centaur rode up and said he had met you in the forest. He pointed out where to look."
The two women looked at each other in surprise.
"He explained his action by saying — I quote — 'a sorceress has never looked at me with such admiration.'"
One of them blushed.
"I hope you didn't disappoint him."
***
The young Headmistress had never seen so many people in her office. The space before her desk had been cleared to accommodate a dozen chairs; the cabinets of books and curious objects were screened off, lest the 'guests' begin asking unnecessary questions. Someone had even thought to improve the ventilation. Sorcerers and witches, members of the Board, parents of the 'affected' children. It had been decided to hold the meeting in the headmaster's office precisely in order to limit the number admitted.
"The barrier has been restored. However, we do not know by whom or at what point it was removed. As soon as the breach was discovered, we searched the castle and the grounds. We found no one. Surveillance has now been established, and the borders will be monitored more closely."
She stood behind her desk, the tips of her fingers resting lightly against the wood, and delivered her report in a clear, steady voice.
"How was it discovered?" This time, unfortunately, the press were present.
"I heard that a first-year boy," one of the witches interjected, "I believe his name is Damien, transported several people — including you, Headmistress — into the depths of the forest."
"That is correct. It was an instance of spontaneous magic. Rare at that age, but not unheard of. He was badly frightened. He will be a powerful wizard when he learns to control himself."
"Damien? First year?" someone else exclaimed. "I know him — he lives near us. A very odd child. Reserved. Might he have done it deliberately? Some sort of revenge on his classmates?"
"He was among friends," the Headmistress replied with gravity.
"Friends? Him? I would never have imagined it. He keeps to himself."
"I am glad the school has helped him open up."
"And in the forest you were attacked by centaurs." A quill hovered expectantly in the air.
"They did not attack. They were patrolling their territory. We had trespassed, albeit unintentionally. We reached an understanding."
"An understanding with centaurs?" a wizard burst out. "They are savages — dangerous. Why did you not return at once? You exposed the children to risk!"
"The risk would have been in attempting to move everyone back immediately. It was a miracle no one was injured on the way there. To take some and leave others in an unknown place would have been unthinkable." She paused. "As you may already know, it was the centaurs who ensured our return. One of them informed the school of our location. I would suggest reconsidering your view of them."
"How ardently you defend them. Do you sympathise with them?"
"I am attempting to be fair." She did not flinch. Whatever impression their appearance had made upon her had already been dismissed. It had been a moment, nothing more.
"As fair as you are in matters of discipline?" one of the few familiar voices asked. "At the beginning of the year you assured us you were here to learn, not to introduce reforms. And yet I hear that now the difference between a duel and a fistfight is considered negligible."
The teacher was right, the Headmistress thought as she surveyed the crowd. They now had their reason, and they would bring everything up against her. But she was prepared. It was not difficult to stand firm when one had no intention of lying and no doubt about one's own decisions.
"First of all, you must have misheard. I am not fighting magic or sport, but abuse and violence. And yes, I do not care what instrument it is carried out with. Secondly… you have misheard again — I gave no such instructions to the professors. That is my approach. If one of my colleagues has found it worth adopting, then perhaps there is sense in it."
"As well as making students do servants' work?"
"You have been misinformed there as well. No one is made to do anything. On the contrary, they take the opportunity to earn points of their own accord. Not everyone is allowed to throw a ball, as you know. Moreover, each student has only one such opportunity. And the tension among the 'servants' has eased a little, which benefits not only the school."
"If you're so cunning, perhaps it was you who arranged the encounter with the centaurs — to ease tensions in the forest as well?"
"Are you serious?" There was not a trace of indignation in the young Headmistress's voice or bearing. The pause, the lowered tone, spoke only of shock — that such a thought could even have occurred to someone.
The questions dwindled. After receiving assurances that they would be informed as the investigation progressed, the visitors withdrew. When the door closed behind the last of them, those who belonged to the school — portraits included — stirred at once. The final accusation had angered most of them, and they were already speculating about possible consequences.
Meanwhile, the man with the scar on his forehead approached the Headmistress.
"You wiped the floor with them," he said with quiet satisfaction, "and with such composure. Have the children trained you so well?"
"Not the other way round," she laughed in response. "Though, to be honest, my knees are still shaking." Then she studied him more closely. "Do you not allow for the possibility that he was right? That it was I who arranged it?"
"No." There was not the slightest doubt in his face.
"Why? I am the daughter of the one who gave you this," she pointed to his forehead with her eyes. "I belonged to the House that has always been your main rival, famous for its guile and was considered a forge of evil wizards. My name is on the list of those who died on the day of your battle with my father... You didn't trust me so much before." The man seemed about to express surprise, but she forestalled him. "You told me that I never considered you my enemy. You didn't say that it was mutual."
"Your name is listed among those who stood with the School."
"As was the name of everyone who studied there at the time, I imagine. I think my memory was erased. For what purpose? Reformation? And this — is it some sort of examination?"
"Nonsense. A person who did what you did," his gaze filled with respect that bordered on admiration, "has no need of reformation. Nor could such a person have done what they accused you of. I was unjust to you once. I would ask your forgiveness — if you could remember it."
"That was a long time ago." She spoke as though he were describing someone else entirely — and in truth, for her, he was. "Who knows what sort of life I have lived since? I may have changed."
"Not a fraction."
"Not a fraction," the portrait wall echoed quietly from the dimness.
"But I remember nothing. The walls of the school do not help. I think I am the one who is blocking it. Perhaps I did something terrible — and do not wish to recall it." She paused before adding, "Do you know anything about a cliff? It rises above the sea. The water below is always raging…"
"The cliff?" He started slightly. "A rock with a cave? Rain, storm…"
"No," she interrupted gently, steering him back. "No. The sun is always shining there."
"Listen," he said, lowering his voice, though the gravity remained. "Something terrible was done to you. And I am certain it is because of that person that you do not wish to remember."