Free Liaison by Anya Howard Page A

Those historians who were acquainted with the rare manuscript discounted it as the delusional testimony of a half-mad pagan fanatic, but the few educated minds who had actually read it without religious bias considered Catullus’s notes some of the most practical and easily understandable manuals of demonology ever recorded. In the past, my personal infatuation with ostentatious ritual had allowed little credence for the importance of such an unelaborated work. Something within me had changed; for once, I had no consideration for what aesthetic ambience I came away with. All that mattered was finding the information that I sensed was to be found within the diary’s pages.
    Later, after morning had come, I at last put the diary away. I went to the schoolhouse and opened class. My thoughts were on the ritual that awaited me to finish and of all my eyes had drank in the night before. My teaching duties did not interfere with the fidelity to my cause; I performed with mechanical, yet flawless, self-possession. This worked, so that even when the whispering little discussion between two of my pupils escalated into impertinent disruption, I reacted but was undaunted.
    The familiar, comfortable strictness that I had feared to exert over the past few weeks came back to me. In my most implacable voice, I ordered the women—Rosemar, and her daughter, Gildemar—to their feet. They obeyed with giggling apologies that only confirmed my suspicion that unless the situation was handled with a firm hand, I would soon lose all respect in my own classroom.
    Without a second thought, I ordered them to lift the hems of their frocks to their hips. The daughter’s mouth fell open, and her mother crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow to deliver me a most disproving look. It was this matronly haughtiness that had to be humbled first. Snatching up my crop, I strode toward Rosemar so swiftly that she jumped.
    “Dare you, sir!”
    “Madam, you will remain silent or I shall send for your good husband straightaway.”
    Her pretty mouth puckered angrily, but there was a frightful blush in her cheeks.
    “There shall be no more impertinence demonstrated in this classroom, madam. Now, you two shall lift your frocks, bend over your chairs, and hold firmly to the seats.”
    I caught the terrified glance exchanged between mother and daughter, but solemnly they complied, lifting their frocks ever so fastidiously. Each wore a pair of white silk underpants with scalloped lace hems. Sublime complement of sensuality and innocence were these delicate garments. As they turned and bent over their seats, a couple of gasps elicited from the rest of the class. I ignored it, poised myself behind Rosemar, and laid a steadying hand over the small of her back. As I raised the crop over her backside she let out a low, agitated groan and her shapely buttocks clenched in expectation beneath the silk undergarment. At the first thrash of my crop she shrieked loudly, but the following strokes I dealt so rapidly she hardly had time to gasp between them. Fifteen sound strokes I dealt her, and warning her not to move from her properly humbled position, I proceeded to the daughter. Gildemar received the same number of thrashes, but I allowed her to lower her frock when the punishment ended. Only Rosemar, I deemed, needed further chastening, not only for her challenging behavior of before, but to set an example to the rest of the class. Thus was the daughter allowed to sit back in her seat with a discomforted pout to keep her company while her mother remained bowed over her chair. I returned to the lesson they had interrupted, at ease for the first time within my sphere. And though I spied an occasional teardrop fall from Rosemar’s face to her seat, not a single peep or whisper did I hear from any of my pupils for the remainder of the day.

8
    Irmhild was standing under one of the apple trees outside as I left the schoolhouse that afternoon. A small wicker basket lay at her