Conspiracies (Mercedes Lackey) - By Mercedes Lackey Page 0,49

machines. Sure enough, there was a workout already programmed into it; “all” she had to do was follow it.

“Is this usual?” Elizabeth panted, as Wallis went over to survey the students on the second set of machines.

“No, at least, not from what I know,” Spirit replied. “It’s something they announced for this semester after Halloween.” And I was too busy with trying to make it through my first semester and survive the Wild Hunt to think about it at the time. I wasn’t even sure I’d be alive to worry about Winter Term classes. “Everyone has it, too, you don’t get a choice like you do with the other PE classes.” That was new, too; almost everything else here at least gave you the illusion that you had some control over what you were taking.

“What are they trying to accomplish with this?” Elizabeth muttered, sounding as if she was talking to herself more than to Spirit.

“What do you think? You got the ‘welcome to Oakhurst’ talk,” Spirit replied, straining against the machine. “Those enemies out there, that war that Doctor Ambrosius keeps talking about. This is to get us ready to face it.”

“Damn right it is, and don’t you forget it, ladies,” Mr. Wallis snapped, coming over to see what they were doing. “Put some back into it, White. There are old ladies in nursing homes that can do better than you are.”

He stood over them, making occasional feints at the controls, as if he was thinking of making the program harder than it already was. Elizabeth looked in despair; Spirit just forged grimly on. Her hair was so sweat-soaked now that it was plastered to her scalp, and every time she licked her lips she tasted salt.

Mr. Wallis moved on in a regular circuit, barking at them like a drill sergeant, hammering them with insults. At least after the switch to the next set of machines, he did let them have bottles of water.

By the time they got to the showers, which Spirit sorely needed, she ached all over and felt as limp as overcooked spaghetti. She had the feeling she was really, really going to hate this class.

At least the new schedule gave her a decent amount of time for that shower.

* * *

The class following the conditioning class was the undemanding literature class—undemanding because this semester was covering books she’d already read in her homeschooling studies. She was able to just coast through that one. Mr. Krandal was not exactly the most inspiring teacher in the world, either—he could make Lord of the Rings boring—so it was a good thing she had, really. What he was doing to Madame Bovary should have been a crime, and she wasn’t looking forward to his nitpicky tests. The one on Silas Marner had been … well, one of the questions had been “What did Silas go looking for when the baby crawled in through the open door.” I mean, come on, Spirit thought resentfully, as Krandal droned on about Emma Bovary’s dress purchases in such detail you’d have thought he was planning on wearing them himself. It wasn’t important what he was looking for, it was important that he left the door open so the baby could crawl inside!

She’d gotten that question wrong, too, which only made her madder.

After that was one of the magic classes, and somehow she wasn’t surprised when Ms. Groves gave them all handouts on the Wild Hunt. Which was kind of like, as her mom used to say, “closing the barn door after the horses are out.” But at least it meant she could coast on this class for a little bit, too, which given that conditioning class, was probably a good thing. Maybe by the time Ms. Groves moved them on to something she didn’t already know, Spirit would be used to the conditioning class and wouldn’t feel quite so baked.

At lunch, she could tell that Muirin had just gone her three rounds with Mr. Wallis by the not-quite-dry hair and Muirin’s general look of weary shock. The two of them stood in line to get their food, and after a moment, Muirin finally gave her a sidelong glance. “My God. There is an eighth circle of Hell, and Mr. Wallis is in charge of it.”

“Oh yeah,” Spirit agreed fervently. “I don’t want to think about what I’m going to feel like in the morning.”

“Would you believe he knew exactly how many donuts I ate yesterday?” Muirin asked bitterly. “He was positively gloating. He