Below lies the ninth chapter of the full-length novel, The Girl with the Strawberry Eyes. If you’ve not read the first nine parts, I strongly suggest you go back and do so. You’ve the option of choosing either an EPUB file or a PDF, or reading the work in the space below. New chapters will be added every Wednesday. Cheers and Happy Reading.
Frost Bites, I
(Earlier that afternoon…)
The clock had struck twelve exactly fifteen minutes previous, which meant that Alexandra Frost was exactly fifteen minutes late for lunch. Frost, however, did not mind.
Lunch was usually a time to be anticipated, as that was the only time during the school day when she had ample time to read for pleasure. The fact that the dining hall tables were built from beautiful black wood … that the only lights in the dining hall were subdued pockets of amber … that the voices of the diners never rose above a soothing murmur … made the space seem more like a library than a dining hall. Which, of course, made it all the more suitable for books and the like.
“Alexandra? Alexandra, are you still listening?”
Frost, who had been seated at her desk with her chin resting upon the heel of her palm, and who had been staring at precisely nothing, straightened her posture as she snapped back to attention. “Of course I am, sir. What you’re saying is terribly interesting; I couldn’t imagine my attention being paid anywhere else.”
“Alexandra, how many times must I tell you to dispense with this ‘sir’ business?”
“Apologies, sir.”
“There you go again! It is not ‘sir’, nor is it ‘Professor Lancaster’. It is Theobald. It is only fitting you call me by my first name if I am going to call you by yours.”
“But I never asked you to—”
“Alexandra, we cannot hope to become true colleagues if a wall of formality exists between us.”
“You don’t think that’s inappropriate inside of school, si— Er, Theo … bald?”
“In other classrooms? Certainly.”
“But … you don’t allow the other students in class to call you by your given name.”
“Because the other students haven’t got your spark, Alexandra. That, my dear girl, is the difference.”
Theobald—Professor Lancaster—was a portly, red-cheeked man deep into his fifties, who wore a brown walrus mustache, and sported a full head of graying brown hair that was always combed, slicked and parted. He wore a tweed three-piece suit as per usual (today’s being brown), and a polkadot bow tie (today’s being burgundy). He taught Anthropology and Advanced Placement European History, thus explaining why the shelves of his classroom were filled with bits of pottery, scraps of paper from some long-lost book or another, and pieces of jewelry that may or may not have been worth quite a sum in the right market. There were even a few medieval tapestries hanging from the walls. Every item was neatly labelled in Professor Lancaster’s fine script, and every one of them had, apparently, been procured by Lancaster himself on one of the countless archeological expeditions he led during summer holidays.
However, at present, the tweedy academic wasn’t at all concerned with his collection of minor archaeological prizes; rather, his beady brown eyes were focused on the book in his hands. It was quite a large volume, this, and completely black—its leather cover, as well as its pages.
“Now, as I was saying, Alexandra,” said Professor Lancaster, “this which I hold in my hands is, unfortunately, only a replica of the Muse Book.”
“The … Muse Book?” said Frost.
Professor Lancaster sagged with exasperation. “I knew you weren’t listening.”
“Sorry, si— Um, Theobald,” said Frost. “I was…. Daydreaming is the correct word, I suppose.”
Lancaster wrinkled his nose. “Really? You don’t seem like the daydreaming type. You’re usually so focused.”
“Well, this is a special circumstance,” Frost said, her eyes brightening.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“I actually don’t know if I should. It’s kind of a big secret.”
“Well, now you must tell me, Alexandra. It’s never a good thing to leave your colleague with a tease.”
“It’s not a tease,” Frost insisted. “I don’t tease. It’s a secret. One that’s enormously important to me, and therefore cannot be spoilt for any reason whatsoever.”
“Very well,” said Professor Lancaster, “I promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“Swear on your tapestries.”
“I swear on my tapestries. Not a word.”
“Good,” said Frost. “So”—she checked to make sure that they two were indeed the only ones in the classroom—“I’ve bought an aeroplane.”
Professor Lancaster blinked. “You’ve bought an aeroplane model? I hardly think that’s something worth keeping as a secret, Alexandra. Unless, of course, you’re petrified by the idea of being perceived as a girl with hobbies. God forbid any of you Vauxhallians doesn’t spend every waking hour with her nose buried in a textbook—”
“I didn’t mean a model,” said Frost. “I meant an actual aeroplane.”
“An actual aeroplane?” Professor Lancaster echoed. “Alexandra, don’t be absurd. The very last thing that you are is a pilot. Are you really in such a hurry to destroy yourself?”
“I’ve read a mountain of literature on the subject,” Frost said indignantly. “Deep, technical books loaded with enough detail to make even the most experienced aeronaut scream. I’m not going to destroy myself.”
“Alexandra, blast it, you speak with the hubris of youth. I would have thought you of all people would be above such empty theatrics.”
“These aren’t theatrics and this isn’t hubris. How am I supposed to gain experience as a pilot if I don’t fly?”
“The solution,” Professor Lancaster sniffed, “is as elegant as it is simple: refrain from flying!”
“I obviously can’t do that.”
“I promise you, Alexandra, it probably isn’t as difficult as you’re thinking.”
“Begging your pardon, sir—”
“Theobald.”
“Begging your pardon, Theobald, but you’re behaving as if I bought some top-of-the-line aerofighter, not a rinky-dink Cloudskipper.”
“A rinky-dink Cloudskipper,” Professor Lancaster huffed, “can still be flown into the side of a mountain.”
“I’m thrilled you have such faith in my abilities.”
“You haven’t got any abilities, Alexandra. That’s the issue here.”
“All the more reason to practice every day, no?”
“No.”
Frost narrowed her eyes.
“Enough of this,” Professor Lancaster grunted. “I’ll not argue with my star pupil over trivialities. You wouldn’t believe how many relationships are spoiled by trivialities.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this a triviality,” Frost muttered.
“The Muse Book,” Professor Lancaster grunted, “is what we were talking about.”
Frost felt more than a little irritated at having her Cloudskipper daydreams so handily dismissed, but she still managed to force herself to sit up straight and pay as much attention as she could. She reminded herself that she wasn’t suffering the man’s pomposity for the sake of it; this entire performance was, as it always had been and always would be, a means to an end.
“I thought you said it was a replica, sir.”
There would be no more of this “Theobald” nonsense, however.
Professor Lancaster looked slightly rankled at having had his plans for increased familiarity foiled, yet he only cleared his throat (“Ahem, a-HEM”) and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is a replica. Highly unfortunate, that. The real Muse Book is, at present, in the hands of my good friend, colleague and—ahem—intellectual peer, Doctor Nasir al-Sadiq.”
“I see,” said Frost. “And what is it that makes the real Muse Book so special?”
Professor Lancaster titled his head in disappointment. “Christ Almighty, you really weren’t paying attention, were you.”
“It’s less a question of whether or not I was paying attention, and more a question of how I could have so easily forgotten what it was I had been paying attention to.”
“Hilarity,” Professor Lancaster sniffed. “However, so you know, the Muse Book is, for its owner, a source of never ending creativity.”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir. How can a book be a source of never ending creativity? Does it have an infinite amount of pages?”
“Ah, the hilarity continues,” Professor Lancaster said drily.
“I wasn’t trying to be facetious,” said Frost. “I’m genuinely curious. Because I genuinely don’t have a clue. It’s a book, sir, not a genie.”
“The Muse Book is not a normal book, Alexandra,” Professor Lancaster impatiently. “It speaks, child.”
“So … it’s alive?”
“It speaks in poetry!”
“What? Now I’m even more confused.”
“Entirely my fault, I’m afraid,” said Professor Lancaster. “This damned thing”—he unceremoniously tossed the Muse Book replica onto his desk where it banged loudly—“cannot illustrate my points properly.”
“That’s too bad, sir,” said Frost, trying her best not to sound bored. She hadn’t forgotten that her staying with Professor Lancaster was all a means to an end. However, it really was difficult for her to feign interest after Lancaster had not only shot down any discussion about her new Cloudskipper, but now seemed intent on impressing her with the replica of a nonsensical artifact. She suddenly found herself longing for the quietude of the dining room.
“I wonder, Alexandra,” said Professor Lancaster suddenly, “would you prefer it if I gave you an actual demonstration with the real Muse Book?”
“Not … particularly, sir.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been teaching for long enough to know when a girl is brimming with curiosity.”
“Sir—”
Professor Lancaster held up a hand for silence. “It will be an honor to fulfill your desire, Alexandra, for I exist to satisfy you.”
“Sir?”
“That is the role of any teacher, is it not?”
“Per … perhaps not in the way you’re thinking—”
Professor Lancaster waved his hand dismissively. “It’s exactly as I am thinking, child. And it is also, so you know, not a difficult thing to accomplish. I did say that Doctor al-Sadiq is my friend, did I not. It’s a wonder that man has any friends at all, seeing as how his vanity rivals that of Apollo. Nevertheless, it is settled: we shall visit him on that rat-infested island he hides out on, and demand a full, satisfying demonstration of the Muse Book. This weekend should do.”
“Apologies, sir, but I must have misheard. You want us to travel to an island … together … this weekend?”
“You do not agree with the idea?” Professor Lancaster said impatiently.
“Of course not!” Frost cried. “Students can’t just go off on weekend excursions with their teachers! It’s highly inappropriate. Highly.”
“If I were not me,” said Professor Lancaster, “and you were not you, perhaps I would agree with this sentiment. However, precisely the opposite is true, and thus I cannot agree. I will not. We shall visit Dr. al-Sadiq this weekend and it will prove ever the enlightening experience. See if it doesn’t.”
“Apologies, sir—”
“You really need to start calling me Theobald, Alexandra.”
“—Sir, travel to anywhere this weekend—or any weekend, as a matter of fact—is an impossibility because weekends are for practicing—” She caught herself just in time. She had no desire to bring up the topic of her new Cloudskipper only for it to be unceremoniously shot down again.
“The weekend is for practicing … what?” Professor Lancaster pressed.
“Dueling,” Frost quickly supplied.
“Dueling?” Professor Lancaster echoed. “Alexandra, I’ve seen you perform at Fencing Club—”
“You … you’ve watched me at Fencing Club, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Numerous times. I’m quite handy with a blade myself, though this belly of mine might indicate otherwise. Anyhow, I’ve seen with my own eyes just how formidable of a duelist you already are, and I think it’s completely absurd that you’d even consider burning away your weekend for sake of a hobby you already excel at.”
“But, sir—”
“No no, Alexandra, there will be no more: if we want our relationship to prove substantial, then we must put in the effort to make it so.”
“Theobald?”
Both Frost and Professor Lancaster looked up to find another student standing in the doorway—a solid, athletic girl with a broad, handsome face, fierce brown eyes and thick black hair that hung over her shoulder as a single side tail. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t know you had another meeting,” she said.
“Ah, greetings, Ofelia,” said Professor Lancaster. “Is it already time for our meeting? Fascinating how easily the minutes and seconds can just slip through one’s fingers. Very well, Alexandra, it seems our conversation has come to an end. I trust I shall see you at the same time tomorrow.”
“Of course,” said Frost flashing her overbite as pleasantly as she could. She tugged on her backpack and turned for the door. “Until tomorrow, sir.”
“Fare thee well, Alexandra. Hopefully, by tomorrow, we will finally rid ourselves of the lingering vestiges of formality and progress to more relaxed pastures.”
“I’d like to walk her to the Dining Hall, Theobald,” said Ofelia. “I want to talk to her about Cheese & Chibbits.”
“Cheese & Chibbits?” Frost repeated with an embarrassed chuckle. “The drama society? I’ve never thought of myself as an actor.”
“That’s what everybody says until they hit the stage,” Ofelia said with a warm smile. “But your voice carries a wonderful timbre, Frost. And you enunciate beautifully.”
“Which certainly is a flattering thing for you to say,” said Frost as her cheeks warmed. “But the unfortunate reality is that I probably haven’t the time—”
“I’d still like to talk to you anyhow,” said Ofelia. And considering the way that her eyes bore into Frost’s own, there wasn’t much room for refusal.
“Yes, please do talk to her if you must,” Professor Lancaster sniffed. “But try to be quick about it, hm? The hour is almost at an end.”
And so, Ofelia hooked her arm with Frost’s and led her into the corridor. “I’m curious, Ortiz,” said Frost after they had taken a few steps, “what on God’s green earth convinced you that I would make anything even resembling an adequate actress?”
Ofelia quickly looked her up and down. “You would be a fine Orlando,” she decided.
“Orlando?” said Frost. “As in Virginia Woolf’s Orlando? Has that even been adapted into a play?”
“It’s about to be.”
“I suppose,” said Frost after a deep breath, “if there truly is something as a dream first role, Orlando might be it. Though, admittedly, I’m not terribly confident in my ability to portray a man—”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry?”
The girls had turned a corner, and now Ofelia had stopped walking and stared directly into Frost’s eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do with Professor Lancaster, and I’m asking you—begging you—to stop.”
Many thanks for reading(!) And now, on to Chapter 10….
Or,
if you liked what you read, and would like to devour a completed work in one go, why not give my romantic novella, Knits, a gander? Get it here.
But
if you want to give a proper saga a go, filled with memorable characters, twists and turns, and knotty nesting narratives, then please do consider the book where it all began, the first volume in the Season of Clocks story: The Many Perfect Midnights of Meredith Hill, available here.
