Free Pegasi and Prefects by Eleanor Beresford Page B

Diana’s silly talk. Unfortunately, there’s no actual rule I know of forbidding speculating about summoning elves, nonsense as that sounds.
    I really wish there was some kind of guidebook on being a good prefect. Someone like Cecily would know how to handle this, and do it firmly and tactfully. Me, I let it slip, taking comfort in the fact that Gladys has not challenged Diana either.
    Within a few moments, I am drinking milk and chatting with Gladys and Corona, who are both keen on hockey, about my plans to set up a hockey match against the local Women’s Institute. Hockey is far more interesting than Diana’s silliness.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    ROSALIND
     
    I find myself peeking at Rosalind with a faint puzzlement in the evenings, thinking about the odd conversation at the dance. Sometimes I catch her thoughtfully watching Diana or myself instead of getting on with her own prep, as if she’s weighing us in the balance. There’s no clue in the level line of Rosalind’s mouth as to how the two of us measure up.
    I try to put her out of my mind, pretty successfully. I have too much on my hands, struggling to keep up with the work of the Sixth on top of my other duties and still spare some time to see Ember and Miss Roberts, to spare a strange new girl more than a passing thought.
    To be fair on myself, Rosalind doesn’t exactly force herself on one’s attention. She’s excused from games so I don’t see her on the playing fields, which is where I seem to spend most of my time, either practising with the First or taking practices or giving extra coaching. And… well, it’s not exactly unjust that being Diana’s chosen bosom friend is enough to drop anyone several pegs in my estimation. I detest the way she bobs around in Diana’s wake, hanging on her every word. As if Diana ever said anything a decent girl would find worth listening to.
    It’s not until well after another Saturday, in which I never ended up paired with Rosalind at all, that she suddenly claims my attention. In English, of all places.
    The argument has clearly been in full swing for a few moments, before I notice it. There’s a glorious autumn day out the window, and in my head it’s hot Australian sun, and I’m wheeling and circling above a herd of magical brumbies on Ember’s back, the warmth of that sun beating down on us both. In my defence, I’ve barely seen Ember, let alone ridden him, in a fortnight. I’ve done my best to keep my word to Cecily about sneaking out; besides, I constantly have my hands full now, taking extra prep. and overseeing practices. All in all, I can’t be blamed if I let my mind wander a bit.
    I detest English, in any case; it usually consists of Miss Evans standing in front of the class posing self-consciously, declaiming poetry or plays in her dreadfully affected manner while Valerie and Frances clasp their hands in adoration. Silly girls, acting like a pretty face and curling golden hair are the most important thing in the world, when anyone can tell Miss Evans has less brains and backbone than a teacup. She and Miss Spears are inseparable friends and cut from the same showy cloth.
    I’m not conscious of what is going on until I hear the last voice I expected to hear raised.
    “It’s utterly dreadful.” Rosalind’s voice is shaking a little, her pointed face very pale with the effort of contradicting a mistress when she hardly says a word in class, like the little mouse she is. “And untrue. We shouldn’t have to study such trash.”
    “Do I take it that a schoolgirl sees herself as more capable of judging deathless poetry than I am?” Miss Evans’ voice is very cold. “This passage describes the ultimate celebration of the relationship between magical beasts and man. It’s only in the glory of the hunt that their true beauty is revealed, and their existence reaches its culmination in death, in a mystical union between monster and hunter. You’re just an inexperienced