Free Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel, Cat Kimbriel Page A

of pant and skirt pockets that
had been designed for something long and narrow. Now that the children were
back in their own little groups, I was left with fragments of etiquette running
through my head. Saturday breakfast was relaxed in more ways than one. I
remembered something about whom you spoke to during sit-down dinners . . . .
    “ Miss
Sorensson?” I turned to see the pretty, slightly plump Miss Wolfsson. “Miss
Rutledge has gone to Professor Livingston.”
    “ Should
I follow?” I asked.
    Looking surprised, Miss Wolfsson paused and then said: “I
would just wait here—that way a footman could find you.”
    “ Thank
you,” seemed the best response, which was how I left it. Miss Wolfsson thanked
me for my courtesy and moved down the table. After a huddled conference with
two other young girls, she headed for the food buffet and soon returned with a
bowl of oatmeal.
    Apparently thinning the oatmeal had already improved the day
for several people, including my possible peers and elders. The students in the
back room were now heading for the buffet.
    It was interesting that the older students had not appeared while
the professor was there. Students being punished cleaned up their own messes,
even if it left the place in shambles. Were the older students all off studying
or working in some fashion—on boundaries, as Miss Smith put it?
    So far, so good. Even on the worst day, the food could be
made palatable, and the indoor, sweet-scented water closet was going to be a
wonderful gift. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t get my skirts dirty as fast as I did
going to an outhouse. Cousin Esme—Professor Livingston, I needed to remember
that—was willing to teach me ritual magic.
    Otherwise? As I saw it, I knew just enough to get myself in
trouble. Like, don’t talk across the table to people on the other side, only to
the people to your left and right. That was a formal thing, but I suspected it
was better to be too formal than too casual. Clothing was going to be tricky,
what with “carriage gowns” and such, but I figured I had time to assemble
things, so I would not borrow trouble worrying about it. Miss Smith’s gown was
a simple pale green wool garment with long sleeves and a scallop pattern
embroidered on the bodice. If necessary I could make something like that.
    Now I wondered if I should just sit quietly, or if I should
try another tea while I waited for a guide.
    The decision was made for me; a slender young woman with
blonde curls framing her face entered the room and walked straight to me.
    I had no idea what to do. I decided to err on the side of
complete courtesy and stood up to greet her.
    “ Miss
Sorensson? I am Margaret Rutledge.” The vowels were stretched a bit, the “t” a
soft popping sound behind her front teeth. She was English! Her accent was
audible but easy to understand, and I suspected it meant she came from a
wealthy, educated family.
    “ I
am pleased to meet you,” came out of my mouth. “I hope you are feeling better.”
    “ Yes,
much better,” she replied, her hands clasped loosely before her. She held a
blushing brown shawl closed over her pale yellow dress. I took note of how she
was hanging onto her shawl.
    Miss Rutledge said, “Professor Livingston has asked me to
give you a tour of the house and grounds. Have you finished eating?”
    “ Yes,
I have.”
    “ Well,
then let us begin with the first floor of the main building. Then the school
and dormitory, and finally we will get our coats, and I will show you some of
the grounds.” Miss Rutledge led me out into the entrance hall.
    There followed some of the most bewildering hours of my
life. Now, I can laugh at how confused I was, but this house might as well have
been a queen’s mansion—it was that foreign. No one was currently in the guest
bedrooms on the ground floor, so Miss Rutledge led me around to see both of
them. One had an octagonal shape, and both had special storage areas above the
bed alcove, which I