so we hastened into the cavern from which the rich aroma of stew emanated. The huge chamber could have been a Viking hall, from bare flagstones to immense rafters. Miss Lilyvale walked to a dais at the end of the room; there the remaining teachers were assembled, including—to my dismay—Vesalius Munt. His staff was otherwise made up of females, a bevy of dull pigeons clad in stone and fawn and charcoal and ash. A great black cauldron was perched on sturdy iron before this assembly, with a matronly cook standing next to it.
When Taylor and I sat, to my astonishment I beheld the mutton stew already ladled into a bowl, and a respectable portion at that. Several platters had been set along the roughhewn table, piled high with rustic bread, and mugs of steaming black coffee sent bittersweet curlicues to the distant ceiling.
“Is . . . is this usual?” I marvelled. Taylor had made no move to lift the pewter spoon, so I folded my hands in my lap.
“What?” she returned peevishly.
“Is the fare always so good? It smells divine.”
“Well, that of all things doesn’t matter in the slightest,” she retorted languidly.
This was peculiar, and likewise was it cause for a pulse of concern that none of the girls appeared happy about the fare; they regarded their bowls with slightly less dismay than I had once levelled at my cousin’s genitalia. Before I could ask why, Mr. Munt rose from his chair and raised his hands elegantly skyward as we folded our fingers together.
“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,” Mr. Munt called out in sonorous tones. “May He create in us humble gratitude for this nourishment, and may this fine meal strengthen our bodies that we may serve our Lord with greater steadfastness every day. Amen.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand,” the girl across from me muttered after we had repeated the closing word of the prayer. She had a thin, sallow face and limp ash-coloured hair.
“Oh, do hush, Fox, your efforts at humour are dreadful,” Taylor crooned snidely.
“Now!” Mr. Munt exclaimed. “The time has come for our daily Reckoning. I adjure you as I always do to be thorough, and above all truthful, for the narrow path to purity lies solely in confession. First, Miss Werwick reports that the advanced Latin class did miserably poorly on their surprise examination. Let them stand and explain themselves.”
A block of twenty or so girls rose, looking as if they had been asked to face the Spanish Inquisition.
“If you will not volunteer further information, it is my honour-bound duty to call upon you,” Vesalius Munt said reluctantly. “Please raise your hand if you were the highest scoring student in Miss Werwick’s class?”
An awkward older girl with a belly slightly wider than her hips and a queer shoulders-backwards posture lifted what resembled a flipper.
“I scored nineteen points out of twenty, sir,” she said tragically.
“And do you think you ought to escape punishment for your triumph, Robinson?” Mr. Munt persisted.
Robinson took a long pause. Her classmates regarded her as one might a crouching lion being sighted down a rifle barrel—frightened, threatened, still dangerous.
“Yes.” She set her teeth; the others flinched. “Yes, I think that earning so high a mark means I ought not to be punished.”
“Oh no,” whispered the lacklustre girl called Fox.
“Well, that won’t go at all well,” Taylor echoed in a singsong fashion, though she sounded more intrigued than appalled.
“What—” I began.
“Enid Robinson,” Mr. Munt boomed, his facial creases deepening to holy fissures, “do you think that vanity relieves you from the shame of having failed to assist your fellows?”
Robinson jerked, a hare caught in a trap. “No, sir.”
“Perhaps you imagine that worldly accomplishments will cause God to overlook the sin of self-satisfaction?”
Perhaps Robinson meant to reply to this last, but she was prevented.
“An example must be made!” Mr. Munt’s soldierly command rang through the hall, and his ever-roving grey eyes glinted. “Robinson, please lead the queue of girls being punished for Latin infractions and waste no time about it—in addition, you can replace luncheon with prayer in the chapel for the following fortnight.”
Robinson paled but ducked her chin. I watched as the hapless Latin students picked up their bowls and carried them to the cauldron; one by one, they dumped the stew back into the vat. They then strode out of the dining hall.
This, I thought, is very much worse than I supposed.
Suddenly several hands shot into the air, a giddy springtime of sprouting fingers. They