Free The Empress's Tomb by Kirsten Miller Page A

trophies on the walls. Instead, dozens of dusty photographs clung to the dingy plaster. In one, a well-known painter posed beside her masterpiece at an exhibition of modern art. Another photo had been snapped at the recent inauguration of New York’s first female senator. The rest of the pictures spanned at least four decades, but they all shared two things in common. They each focused on famous women—directors, writers, CEOs, and surgeons. And in each one, hidden somewhere in the background—her face blurry or half concealed by a champagne glass—was Principal Wickham. Even in the black-and-white photos taken in the days when women never left the house without their hats, gloves, and stockings, she looked a hundred years old.
    â€œI had a hunch I’d be seeing you soon, Miss Fishbein,” the principal murmured without looking up. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”
    I plopped down in one of the hard leather chairs. While I waited for her to finish her paperwork I stared at a defective smoke bomb that sat on her desk. The fuse was singed, but it hadn’t burned.
    â€œSo,” the principal finally said, laying down her pen and removing her bifocals. When her eyes met mine, I realized that even without her thick glasses she could see things that others couldn’t. “What do you make of that?”
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked in my most innocent voice.
    â€œThat is the cause of the disturbance yesterday. I believe you would call it a stink bomb. A particularly effective one, I might add. Whoever made it deserves a suspensionfrom Atalanta and a scholarship to Harvard. I’d ask if you knew anything about it, but I’ve seen your chemistry grades, Miss Fishbein, and I doubt if you’re up to the task.”
    â€œDo you have any leads?”
    â€œNot one,” said the principal. “Perhaps I should ask your friend Kiki Strike to take the case.” She delivered the blow so smoothly that I barely realized I’d been hit.
    â€œKiki Strike?”
    â€œPlease don’t play dumb, Ananka. Your grades are atrocious, but I know you’re intelligent. Kiki Strike was a student here a couple of years ago. I checked the files after your mother mentioned her name. She seems to think your friend is the same girl who keeps making the papers.”
    â€œThat was all just a hoax, Principal Wickham.”
    â€œSo they say. But I don’t believe everything I hear on television. Now, Miss Fishbein, let’s be honest. What you do when you’re not at school is none of my business. But staying awake between the hours of eight and four is a requirement here at Atalanta. If you don’t think you can manage that, I believe your mother may have a few other options for you.”
    â€œYes, Principal Wickham. But I
have
been staying awake.”
    â€œHave you? So to what do I owe this visit?”
    â€œMy cell phone rang in Mr. Dedly’s class. It was an emergency.”
    â€œOh dear,” said the principal, shaking her head in exasperation. “I think you’re well on the way to making an enemy of Mr. Dedly, Ananka. What, may I ask, was the emergency?”
    â€œA friend of mine who goes to school uptown just got mugged.” I expected her to scoff, but instead she nodded solemnly.
    â€œYes, one of our students was recently mugged as well. By squirrels, strangely enough. I must say, I’ve never been a fan of squirrels. Greedy little creatures. All fur and teeth. But the paintings around town are impressive. The person behind them has great talent, but that’s another matter, isn’t it? Is your cell phone off now, or do I need to confiscate it?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. It’s off.”
    â€œThen I suggest you don’t miss another of Mr. Dedly’s fascinating lectures. But, Ananka, if I see you again, I won’t be so lenient. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes, Principal Wickham,” I said,