Truth Cursed

I was only eight years old when my aunts cursed me. It was, in my opinion, an extreme punishment for cutting Aunt Fenella’s corset stays and hiding biscuits in my room. Seven years later, standing on the doorstep of the worst place in the world for an oddity like me, I vehemently maintained that view. And I would tell the same to anyone who asked me, because I was physically incapable of telling a lie.

Perhaps cursed was a strong word, but it was the one I’d adopted in the beginning. Fighting against the affliction of forced honesty with every atom of my energetic little body, I’d called it what it was. A curse.

They meant well, I supposed. I glanced back at my aunts’ retreating carriage as it trundled away from the finishing school where they’d deposited me. Moral zeal might account for any number of atrocities. Good intentions, and all that.

The conveyance swayed out of sight down the lamplit, rain-slicked street, like a lumbering, glistening spider. Good riddance.

Shifting in my too-tight boots, I looked nervously up at the neatly painted door in front of me. I pulled my hood over my head and made sure that no black strands had escaped my braid. The rain-streaked plaque beside the door gleamed in the light of the oil lamp that hung over it, heralding Miss Tepsom’s School for Gently Bred Young Ladies. I shook my head at the doomed venture I was about to embark on, and pulled the bell.

The tones echoed inside, followed by a brisk click of heels. The door was opened by a petite blonde housemaid, a good three inches shorter than I. She stepped back without a word and held the door open for me. I entered and stood on a braided mat in a darkly paneled foyer. The maid closed the door behind me and looked up at me expectantly, still saying nothing. I did not know what to do. I stared back, feeling large and out of place. After a long moment, the maid twitched her pert nose, then turned on her heel and walked across the foyer and through a doorway directly ahead.

I could not stand in the foyer indefinitely, so I followed. The door led into a short, narrow hall with a closed door at the end of it. The maid rapped sharply on the door, then entered without waiting for an answer. She strode into the room, and I hovered in the doorway.

The room was an office. A small fire crackled in a grate, with two striped armchairs and a tea table before it. A woman sat at a desk by the window, and did not look up when we entered. The fire instantly made me feel a surge of relief; perhaps the headmistress would not be a chilly dragon like Aunt Fenella, whose hearth was always cold and swept. The lady behind the desk betrayed nothing dragonish in her appearance, anyway. Gently parted brown hair was pulled away from a thin face, and her eyes were narrowed at a sheet of paper that she inspected with the help of a quizzing glass on a chain.

The blonde maid cleared her throat rather ostentatiously, and I inched further into the room.

Yes. Thank you, Iris, the woman said patiently, and the maid left without a word. The woman set the paper down on her desk, covered it with another sheet, and tapped the quizzing glass against her palm as she squinted over at me.

Well, don’t just lurk near the door, child, come here, she directed in the same patient tone. I approached her desk, happy to receive some instruction. Which one are you? she asked, inspecting me from head to toe.

Cressida Hoth, ma’am. I bobbed an awkward curtsy in case it was the thing to do. I had never curtsied before, so a nervous laugh bubbled into my throat, but thankfully did not escape. I was anxious to make a better impression on this woman than I had made on the aunts when I’d first met them. I would prefer not to be cursed a second time.

And are you pleased to be here, Cressida? the woman asked, startling me with a question that seemed beyond formalities.

Not really pleased yet, ma’am. The truth popped out immediately, as it always did. I suppressed a wince.

She contemplated me for a long moment without responding. Her pale blue eyes looked tired. I am Miss Tepsom, she said finally. I hope you will be pleased eventually. She still did not smile, and I thought her tone a little dry, but I felt relieved that she had not asked me anything else, yet.

My palms began sweating inside my secondhand gloves.

Miss Tepsom rose to her feet. Do you have better-fitting clothes in that portmanteau?

My cloak was too short and barely closed over a dress that stretched tightly across my chest. No, ma’am. The curse didn’t make me embellish, but nerves did. Aunt Millicent says there is little point in buying me new clothes when I grow an inch every other day.

I took serious umbrage with Aunt Millicent’s logic, and clearly, so did Miss Tepsom. She regarded me with undisguised disapproval. I chose not to add that my parents had left me very little money, as the aunts frequently reminded me, and most of it was now invested in my education, rather than a well-fitting wardrobe. Miss Tepsom’s next words indicated that she had read between the lines.

My school is an exclusive one, she said. You will notice that its very name evokes the sort of young lady I welcome here. Your guardians managed to convince me that you qualify. I confess I feel some reservations, but I believe in giving a person a chance. And you? Now that you’re here, how do you feel?

My breath caught in my chest, and I waited, hoping desperately that she would complete the question with about being here, or something specific. Questions were my bane, but personal, open-ended questions were my ruin. She said nothing more, only watched me expectantly as familiar symptoms slowly crawled over me.

My honest, undignified response floated to the forefront of my brain, trying to push its way past my lips. With the slightest resistance, my head began to pound, my windpipe closed, and spots danced at the corners of my vision as no oxygen was allowed to pass into my lungs. The truth would choke me if it wasn’t set free.

Only once, I’d pushed past the initial, terrifying symptoms and refused to answer my aunts. I’d uncontrollably thrashed and seized, then blood oozed from my nose as I’d finally passed out from lack of oxygen. This resulted in a splitting headache and weakness for hours afterward, and I’d seen true fear in my aunts’ eyes as they instructed me to never try to withhold the truth again, lest it cost me my life.

This wasn’t worth such a risk. But I almost would have preferred to pass out than utter the words that burst forth in a mortified rush.

I feel frightened, exhausted, and sad that the aunts have given me up, even if I do hate the sight of them. The words continued to spill out of my unwilling mouth. Apparently, I felt a lot. I feel hot and itchy and achy, my backside hurts from the coach, I am hungry and thirsty, I have cramps from trapped wind, and I’ve a terrible need to use a privy. Ma’am.

The added formality at the end of my indecent speech only seemed to intensify the extreme impropriety of the rest of it. Miss Tepsom’s mouth dropped slightly open, and I wondered if it was too late to run down the street and catch my aunts’ carriage before it left the city. I was a fairly fast runner.

Well, she finally said with a touch of severity. "I suppose I did ask. I can see immediately that you do not suit. But you are here to be finished properly, and I am not one to shirk a challenge. If you tend toward recalcitrance, I will not be giving any second chances, Cressida Hoth. Consider this your only warning."

I blinked away tears of shame. I’d embarrassed myself hundreds of times, but it never got any easier.

Classes begin tomorrow, and you may take the rest of the evening to settle in. Your background is humble, but respectable. However, you have an air of a churlish country calf about you, and will have to work very hard to acquire the genteel sheen possessed by my other students. I have no qualms about sending you home if you do not adapt. Miss Tepsom looked directly at me. Is that understood?

Yes, ma’am, I answered quickly.

Iris will show you to your room.

I ducked my head to hide my burning cheeks and turned to scurry out the door.

Oh, and Miss Hoth?

I turned back miserably.

The privy is down the hall and to the left.

After a relieving visit to the tiny privy, I followed Iris back down the hallway and through another door to the right of the foyer. It led down another hallway, with a staircase at the end. The drafty house was all paneled in the same dark wood, and our heels echoed as we walked; I had yet to see a rug or carpet upon the floors. Nothing hung on the walls. I set my jaw and clutched my portmanteau as I followed, determined to pretend my first meeting with Miss Tepsom had not been a devastating humiliation. We ascended the stairs that led to a narrow corridor and passed six doors before we reached one at the end of the hall.

Iris pushed the door open without knocking and waved me inside. This is your room, she said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was surprisingly rich and elegant. She clicked away as I stepped through the door.

I had a roommate. A girl sat listlessly on one of the beds and looked up when I walked in. She was slight, with a thin face and a single dark braid over her shoulder. She looked mournfully bored.

In between the two beds, there was a small window that overlooked the street. An oil lamp sat on a table below the window, and hooks and shelves jutted from the walls. The other girl had several dresses and a cloak hanging on the hooks on her side, as well as some assorted items shoved onto the shelves.

I took off my cloak and hung it, trying not to mind the steady observation of the girl on the bed. I unpacked my portmanteau, folded up my undergarments and nightdress, and hung my spare dress on a hook. I stowed the portmanteau under my bed. After that, there was nothing left to do to keep myself busy, so I sat on the bed and met the unswerving stare of the girl across from me.

You must be my roommate, she said, after a pause. It seemed an unnecessary observation, but conversation had to start somewhere.

Yes, I said. I tried to infuse some pleasantness into my voice, but it sounded somewhat hollow. I’m Cressida.

Rubia Feldingham, she said, eyeing me. Feldingham Fields? I shook my head in apologetic ignorance. Feldingham Fields are the finest, she sighed in a bored monotone. She inspected my worn boots and took in my black dress with the tight sleeves, then stared into my face. It was unsettling.

Did you like Miss Tepsom? she asked after a moment.

Um, I don’t know. Not really, I said.

Rubia nodded, but her dark eyes narrowed slightly.

Why not? she asked. I’d hoped for agreement and commiseration in return for my honesty, not more questions. A prickling feeling of dread stole over me.

She seems severe, I answered.

I don’t like her hair, she said. I didn’t answer, not sure what one should say to that. You’ve got rather long hair, she added. Is it curly?

A bit, I said, resisting the urge to smooth my braid.

Mine will have to be curled when I put it up, she said sourly.

That will be lovely, I said, anxiously hoping she would prefer to speak about herself. When will you put it up?

Mother says when I am sixteen, she said darkly. A year away. She rolled her eyes, pulled her braid forward, and retied the cream ribbon at the end with more vigor than seemed necessary.

We’re the same age, then, I said.

Are your people well-off? she asked boldly, now folding her hands primly in her lap.

I stared at her for so long, my cheeks burning, that my symptoms began to set in: my answer mentally blotted out all other focus, vision blackened around the edges, throat and chest tightened. I coughed through my response. No.

Goodness, you look ill, she remarked, looking me over like a sow at the fair. You’re rather larger than me. Mother says I am delicate, which I suppose is preferable. Her eyes glinted. Although my brothers often said, if she’d felt the wrath of my teeth as often as they had, she’d never call me that. Do you like having a woman’s shape already? she asked abruptly.

The personal nature of her prying, and my compulsion to respond, flooded me with a fresh dousing of humiliation. My aunts had asked embarrassing questions often. I’d fervently prayed those days were behind me.

Um . . . no. I don’t know. Not really, I answered in heated confusion. I would much rather not discuss it.

Rubia’s returning expression was mutinous. Do you—

I suddenly felt compelled to make myself clearer. Don’t ask me questions like that again, I interrupted, abandoning all attempts at cordiality and even allowing a note of danger to creep into my tone.

Rubia slumped sullenly and twitched aside the net curtains to peek out the window.

It’s going to be awful here, and now I have a horrid roommate. She sighed.

My new school was in the city of Savinrue, many miles to the west of the small hamlet where I was raised by my father’s sisters. The chilly autumn morning when they had bundled me into the coach felt like days ago, instead of mere hours. It had been easy to lose track of time after the first hour of bone-jarring coach travel, but finally, as the sun emerged, high and bright, the land to the north had become level. My breath caught as the mountain was revealed. I’d glimpsed the forbidding, impassible crags of the southern and western ranges before, but they were nothing to Mt. Vindeca, the emblem of Dernmont and majestic home of the royal family.

I’d barely taken in the sight of the forested slopes and the sky-scraping, snow-capped peak before my coach was swallowed by the city of Savinrue, nestled in a valley of Mt. Vindeca’s foothills. The city’s unfamiliar closeness and activity overwhelmed my senses. Even now, sitting in my new bedroom past the dinner hour, the cacophonic clopping, creaking, whirring, and shouting stacked atop each other, impossible to distinguish. The noises bled through the chilly, thin glass of the dormitory window.

I tried to pass the evening by taking in as much as I could see from my window. However, as it became apparent that Rubia could only be intimidated into silence for a short time, I left the room to escape my roommate less than twenty minutes after I met her.

Leaving Rubia to roll her hair in rags and keep her questions to herself, I wandered down the hall of bedrooms, counting eight doors in all, four on either side of the long hallway. I could hear the voices of young ladies through a couple of the doors, but was not ready to seek out more new acquaintances yet. I was now afraid that every person I met would bring her own special brand of torture to the conversation. Perhaps Rubia was simply trying to bypass social niceties and move on to being fast friends by asking personal questions. Maybe that’s what girls our age did? I didn’t know, as I hadn’t had a friend in recent memory. But regardless of the secret workings of young ladies’ friendships, the nature of my curse brought forth a passionate antipathy to the idea that I would have to confess intimate details about myself at the whim of another.

I quietly passed my room on my listless journey back down the bare hallway. My door was farthest from the stairs I had originally come up, but near a second staircase going down the opposite way. Hoping that this staircase would lead to a currently unoccupied part of the house, I quietly descended, lightly gliding my hand over the polished surface of the banister.

The staircase curved out into a silent hall, with a door directly opposite. I pushed the door open and stepped quietly into a large, bare room. It looked how I imagined a smallish ballroom might, with polished floors, a fireplace, and some chairs lining the walls. A piano and a harp stood at one end, with a cabinet in the corner behind them.

I walked across the room, my heels clacking against the wooden floor. I brushed past the harp and piano, which smelled of dusty wood, oil, and paper, and inspected the cabinet. It was rather like a wide wardrobe, and I wondered if it stored music books. There was a lock, so I doubted its doors would open, but I gave the brass handles at the center a tug anyway. I was surprised when they pulled open easily. It did not contain books.

It was packed full of swords.

I froze, then threw a quick glance over my shoulder. Careful not to touch any of the swords, I peered inside as closely as I could. There were three rows of them, hanging from wooden slats with holes for the blades to drop through, the slats affixed at staggered heights so that the large, round cups at the handles would not bump each other. The swords seemed to be well used, and not at all decorative. The blades shone, but the leather strips wrapped around the grips were worn, and the cups showed black spots. My knowledge of weaponry was slender, but I thought they looked like fencing swords. At eight swords to a row, there were twenty-four in all.

Blinking, I shook my head in confusion, wondering why they could possibly be needed at a school for gently bred young ladies to learn ladylike accomplishments. As I finally shut the doors and turned away from the sword case, I realized just how heavy I had been feeling since I’d arrived. Now, a lightness began to fill me, and the ghost of a smile touched my lips. Perhaps my education at Miss Tepsom’s would not be completely dull, after all.

By the next morning, it seemed that most of the students had arrived. I managed to stay out of everyone’s way and engaged in only minimal conversation with my sulking roommate. The school hummed with the activity of girls settling into their rooms, bidding family farewell, and making friends. I sat on my bed reading a book I had swiped from the library (which I’d found opposite the music room), when a bright, clanging bell rang up and down the hallway. I pushed The Ancients of the White Mountain underneath my pillow and opened the door to see heads popping out of rooms all throughout the dormitory.

Miss Tepsom was gliding down the hall, solemnly ringing a large, brass bell. She stopped in the middle of the hall and spoke in a voice that I had to strain to hear, as she did not bother to raise it. You have all had ample time to get settled and are required in the dining room for luncheon in ten minutes’ time. Please be tidy and punctual.

I took a moment to smooth my hair and dress, then followed the other girls to the dining room. We took our seats at the single, long table, which barely fit in the narrow room. There were eight students on either side of the table, Miss Tepsom at the head, and at the other end sat a short, plump woman with golden-brown skin, a young, pretty face, and artfully arranged dark hair. The room would have been cheerful if the curtains had been open; as it was, the heavy pink drapes cut out all daylight, and the lamps set along the table cast a sickly sheen over the yellow walls. I tried not to look like I was staring at all my classmates, but I was vastly curious.

I was unsurprised at the cultural variance of the girls present. Even in Ramshire there was a clear spectrum of ethnic backgrounds. My limited experience indicated that Dernmont was a diverse kingdom, with native heritages blended for generations with the kingdoms from the southeast, west, and even from lands across the northern Wulfestar Sea. I had inherited my mother’s lightly freckled skin, generally considered an ancestral feature from beyond the sea, but little of her delicate bone structure. From my father I’d received my strong shoulders, brown eyes, and dark, unruly hair—striking traits he had not shared with my aunts, his two sisters.

What surprised me more among the assembled girls was the discrepancy in dress. The girl directly across from me wore a vivid fuchsia dress with luxuriously puffed sleeves and a snowy white pinafore frothing with lacy ruffles. Her dark brown, beribboned hair was carefully set in fat curls. The tall, blonde girl to her left was dressed more like I was, in a plain, dark grey dress of clean lines, and no pinafore. Her dress seemed to fit, however, while my sleeves strained uncomfortably where my arm had shot past the cuffs in a recent growth spurt. I noticed that most of the young ladies seemed to be dressed finer than I was, but I was relieved by the few girls in plain clothes that made me feel less of a sore thumb.

Miss Tepsom rose and rang her bell briskly, effectively silencing the small pockets of whispered conversation around the table. Quiet, now, quiet! she proclaimed unnecessarily. As you all know, I am your headmistress, Miss Tepsom. Do not call me Tepsom, or Miss T, or Mrs. Tepsom. I am no housekeeper; I am to be afforded your utmost respect. She straightened her spectacles and took in a deep breath through her nose.

Welcome students, to the inaugural year of Miss Tepsom’s School for Gently Bred Young Ladies. Based on our excellent credentials in private tutelage and the high demand for our services, we have chosen this year to begin training young women in this setting. Your families have seen fit to entrust your cultivation to our care, and it is a responsibility we do not take lightly. By the end of this three-year program, you will be well equipped to be the most sought-after socialites in Dernmont, sure to succeed in high society, or even at court. We have divided the classes according to our own criteria, but this may be subject to change. She gestured across the table elegantly. At the opposite end of the table is Miss Selkirk, your music and deportment mistress.

The pretty, plump woman nodded to us with dignity, but said nothing.

Miss Tepsom continued, "As you are well aware, you are here to learn. To acquire the accomplishments necessary to flourish, not only socially, but in many other settings. We begin lessons immediately, and there are no breaks, as you will be putting everything you learn into practice at all times. As you partake of luncheon together, I encourage you to converse and greet one another . . . with purpose. The intention in any social relationship is to learn more about one another. Sometimes, we must learn specific information without seeming to pry. I want you to practice just that." She sat down serenely and immediately began conversation with the startled-looking girl to her left, while serving herself potatoes. A hesitant hum of chat arose. My skin seemed to freeze and then heat, then freeze again as I anticipated the conversations that I was expected to take part in.

On my left sat Rubia, pointedly ignoring me as she droned about her brothers to the girl to her left. On my right sat a dainty girl with sandy hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon. She wore a striped blue silk gown with a neat linen pinafore. She glanced at me critically as she passed a basket of rolls. She seemed ready to begin Miss Tepsom’s task, so I forestalled her.

I am Cressida Hoth. What’s your name? I blurted before she could speak.

What sort of a name is that? she asked rudely, without answering my question.

It’s mine, obviously, I said, with pique.

"Oh, wait. I have heard your name somewhere. Is your family old? Is there a Hoth estate?"

Oh—um, I suppose so . . . and yes, there is, I answered, flustered. I hoped she would not inquire further into the matter. I didn’t like the idea of beginning my acquaintances by mentioning that my father had been shunned from his old, wealthy family for marrying my mother, a woman without title or dowry. I had only ever seen the outlands of Hoth estate, my father’s family seat, even though he had, technically, inherited.

My name is Marigold Florelli, she said, thoroughly buttering her roll. The Florellis are one of the oldest families in Dernmont. My father knew the queen’s cousin.

How nice for him, I answered, not sure how I was expected to respond to that. The oily salad of greens before me looked unappetizingly full of hairy little sprouts, but I heaped some on my plate anyway.

How old are you? asked Marigold.

Fifteen this autumn.

Is that right? she said with disinterest. I was fifteen last Evenfrost. Several months before you. How did you end up enrolled here?

My aunts saw the advertisement. I need to learn some accomplishments. We can just afford it. The information flowed out of my mouth in a rapid release of humiliation, and I felt my face turning beet red. I stuffed a bite of salad in my mouth and tried not to gag on the flavorless, prickly texture. Marigold’s mouth hung open at my unfashionably honest response. I swallowed and kept talking just to keep her from asking another question. Anyway. Those are the reasons, since you asked. Why did you come to this school?

Marigold smirked. Miss Tepsom is well acquainted with a family friend and asked mother as a personal favor if I could be her pupil. She said I would be a good example to the other young ladies who might not have been as gently bred as I am. As this was only the second student I had met, and both seemed rather insufferable, I was beginning to wonder what gentle breeding could really mean.

Oh, was all I could think of in response. I carefully used my fork to pull bones out of my hunk of cod as she talked.

It’s obviously necessary, she said serenely, thickly buttering another roll. I see now. So, why are you wearing black? Are you in mourning?

My parents died years ago, but the main reason is economical, I answered. The truth was embarrassing. At least my aunts always phrased such matters delicately, which kept me from saying something vulgar like, Black wool is the cheapest.

Marigold’s unimaginative prying into my background was tiresome, but not as intrusive as Rubia’s had been, so I eventually relaxed. By the end of the meal, she had extracted all the uninteresting details about my life that she could by simply asking. She wanted to know about my parents, their occupation and connections, where I had lived, and what my house had been like. I could see a glazed sort of light in her eyes as she asked, then told me why her corresponding situation was better, then asked again. My outpouring of honesty to her every question seemed to satisfy something in her.

Well, I can see you desperately need me as your friend, she said smugly.

Why is that? I asked tightly, folding the napkin on my lap.

Because you come from a rude, obscure background. And you speak very baldly, which is borderline uncouth. And I have succeeded overwhelmingly in our first assignment, while you have failed. And an acquaintance with me—

Would mean a constant stream of impolite questions? As pleasant as that sounds, I think I’ll do better without your help, Marigold. I spoke calmly, although my stomach was trembling as if I had just swallowed some of Aunt Millicent’s ham jelly. I was again rejecting one of the first offers of friendship I had received in years. This could not be a good way to start my career at Miss Tepsom’s. But the thought of being Marigold’s little project was repulsive. And I think I succeeded rather admirably, in fact. I have learned everything about you that you asked of me, as well as the fact that you have an excessive fondness for butter and gravy.

With a gasp, Marigold put down the spoon she had been licking gravy off of, and her soft pink flush darkened. You . . . oaf! she spluttered, then craned her neck side to side as if to see if Miss Tepsom or anyone else had witnessed her embarrassment. I didn’t know if she was hoping they had, or not.

Never mind, Miss Hoth, she hissed at me, laying her spoon down next to her plate, which had been scraped meticulously clean of all traces of gravy while she