Chapter 32: Tolerable Tutor
Clara and Morris had barely made it back to the Claves campus when the noise reached them.
At first, it was just a low buzz from the direction of the main building. Then there was the occasional shriek—of joy or horror, who could tell with teenagers. Students were streaming out of their classrooms, the library, and the cafeteria, all converging on the same destination.
“Ah, the midterm results must be up,” said Morris cheerfully. “Right on schedule.”
Clara gulped.
Not because she was worried about Iris’s performance—she was reasonably confident the girl would do well enough. No, the problem was far more insidious than grades. It was a feeling of dread born from having spent far too many nights reading novels and web serials when she should have been reviewing contracts.
If a villainess gets a higher score than the heroine…
Clara glanced at Morris, who was currently patting his pockets as though he’d misplaced something. It wasn’t much, but it was a variable.
“Professor, we need to go. Now.”
“I was planning to grab lunch before my afternoon—”
“Lunch can wait. I need you to come with me.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Clara, “but if there’s a problem, it would be very helpful to have a faculty member nearby. Someone who could, hypothetically, speak to the integrity of a student’s academic performance.”
She picked up her pace, and the bewildered professor jogged to keep up. They wove through groups of students heading in the same direction, and a familiar voice cut through the crowd just as they made it into the main building.
“Clara!”
Iris’s burgundy ribbon was slightly askew. Emma trailed behind her.
“I’m told the results were posted. Let us see them.” Iris’s tone was brisk, but there was a slight tremor in her words.
“My lady, I think we should be careful about—”
But Iris was already marching ahead. They followed her to the notice board, which was mounted on the far wall of the ground floor. It was a wide oak panel behind a pane of glass, and a sea of students pressed against it. There was a thick, unfortunate smell of clustered teenagers on a sunny day in an era before deodorants.
Clara scanned the crowd for auburn hair and didn’t find it. It’d be good if we could see Iris’s scores and leave.
“Can you see the board from here?” Iris asked.
Clara squinted and stood on her toes, searching among the roughly one hundred names on the overall ranking of second-year students. Vivienne was right at the top, of course, with Edward only a few spots below her, and Cecily also in the top ten.
And then, a fair bit below that, but still above Lochlann, Helena, Felicity, Philippa, and Charlotte, she saw it.
“You’re twenty-sixth, Lady Iris. Congratulations.” It was an impressive jump, considering Iris had been forty-fourth in the winter finals.
The girl scoffed. “I suppose that is acceptable.” There was a modicum of pride in her voice. Well, there was always pride in Iris’s voice, but this particular one, cautious with a hint of excitement, was a first.
Clara continued searching the lists and relaying Iris’s results. Thirtieth in Arcadian History, twenty-first in Natural Philosophy and—Clara smiled.
“My lady, you’re ninth in Mathematics.”
Iris inhaled sharply. “Ninth?”
“Of the entire year.”
Delight flickered across the girl’s face, and then gave way to indignation. “Ninth? Only ninth? Who are the eight above me? I demand to see—”
“My lady,” Clara interrupted gently, “ninth is exceptional. You were fiftieth last term.”
“I should have been first.” Iris’s cheeks were puffed adorably.
“You learned how to factor four days before the test.”
“And I mastered it, so clearly I should be first.”
Clara reached out to straighten Iris’s ribbon. “You did great, my lady.”
But when she was trying to nudge Iris away from the notice board, she saw them. Lochlann, Edward, and Helena, approaching from the back, with the crowd parting smoothly to give them space. Clara braced herself as Helena ran forward excitedly.
“Look! I’m first in magic!” the girl squealed.
No surprise there.
The prince caught up and gave her a pat on the head. “Well done, Helena.”
Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe he’ll just congratulate Helena for this, and they’ll leave.
His gaze traced down the rankings, and his smile slowly contorted into a frown.
“That’s impossible.” Lochlann’s voice carried across the hall. He turned away from the board, and his eyes locked onto Iris.
Here we go.
“Iris von Rhenia.” The prince moved toward her, and students scrambled out of his path. “You jumped forty-one places in Mathematics, and eighteen overall. In one term.”
Iris curtsied. “I am indeed quite pleased, Your Highness. Though I believe I could have done better in Mathematics.”
“Don’t play coy. Nobody improves that much in one term without—”
Edward cleared his throat, as if he were trying to stop Lochlann from saying the inevitable. But the Crown Prince plowed on.
“Without cheating,” he finished, his jaw tight.
Iris flinched at the accusation, and the murmurs around them multiplied instantly. Clara could hear some of it. ‘Did you hear, he said cheating’. ‘I did think it was suspicious’.
If this was going to go according to the cliché, the prince would now demand that Iris retake her exams in public. The school wouldn’t force her, of course, but at that point she’d be so humiliated that refusing it would be tantamount to admitting guilt.
And then—
“Fiat fragor.”
Clara held her hands against her ears as the thunder rang through the hall. I really wish he’d give a warning before he does that.
Professor Morris stepped forward, positioning himself between Iris and Lochlann. His back, which was usually slouched, straightened completely, and his face was stern. Clara had never seen him look quite like this.
“Your Highness. If you have concerns about the integrity of any student’s examination results, the appropriate course of action is to submit a formal complaint to the faculty council.”
Lochlann’s eyes narrowed. “Professor—”
“What it most certainly is not,” said Morris with authority, “is to level accusations of cheating in public.”
Who is this person? And what has he done with the meek man who lost his glasses under his own floorboards?
“And who are you to lecture me, Professor? After your recent disgrace?” Contempt dripped from the prince’s voice.
The professor didn’t balk. “I am the Claves Academy Chair of Magical Theory, holder of two research commendations from the Ecclesiastical Academy, and the youngest person ever given tenure.”
It took a second for Clara to register that her mouth had fallen open.
“My recent legal difficulties, which have now been resolved, do not diminish my professional standing. Nor do they entitle a student—regardless of his parentage—to challenge the integrity of this institution.”
The spectators had gone silent. The version of Emmet Morris standing tall in the middle of the hall, with dozens of students gawking, looked like someone you did not question when it came to academic matters.
“Furthermore,” Morris continued, “I have witnessed Lady Iris’s improvement myself, and I can attest to her newfound diligence. Frankly, Your Highness, I can only wish that more of my students would apply themselves as she has.”
Lochlann’s face had gone red. He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Edward placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper something. The prince’s expression cycled through fury, frustration, and something that might have been embarrassment before settling on a stiff neutrality.
“I see,” he said finally. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“How gracious of you, Your Highness,” said Iris, with a glowing smile on her face. “And I might take this opportunity to extend my wishes that the term finals are kinder on your own results.”
Edward let out the beginning of a laugh and quickly suppressed it into a cough. Lochlann scowled, turned on his heel and walked away, with Edward following behind. Helena hesitated, and her gaze lingered on Iris for a moment before she hurried after them.
As the crowd began to disperse to process their fresh gossip, Iris spun to face Morris.
“Professor, that was quite well handled. You looked almost intimidating! I did not think you had it in you.” Iris clapped her hands together.
Morris’s shoulders had already slouched back to their usual position; he looked a full head shorter than he’d been just a minute ago. “Ah, well. I can’t let the good name of academia be tarnished, can I?”
“You have risen in my esteem. I shall no longer think of you as merely a ‘tolerable tutor’; you are now an ‘adequate’ one! Oh ho ho!”
Clara watched the professor’s face as he processed this, and she felt a sudden, deep kinship with the man.
“Thank you,” he said weakly, “I think.”
Clara stood on the ground floor of the Westwick Plaza, watching Iris fuss over every detail of the hotel’s lobby for the third time in an hour.
“The flowers are unsuitable,” Iris declared. “I wanted orchids.”
“My lady, I believe your exact words were ‘something elegant’. The concierge chose lilies, which are often used in weddings.”
“And in funerals. Are we greeting my family or burying them?”
Emma, who’d been standing by Clara clutching a checklist, raised her hand tentatively. “I could run to the florist on Kettle Street, my lady. They had orchids in the window yesterday. I’m not sure if they’d be open on a Sunday morning, but I can try.”
“At least someone understands the gravity of the situation. Go, quickly.” Iris waved her off. “And make sure they’re purple!”
Emma curtsied and dashed out the door, nearly colliding with Major Ricardo on her way out. He sidestepped her neatly and approached Iris.
“Lady Iris.” Ricardo bowed. He was in his full dress uniform today, with a ceremonial saber at his waist. “The outriders spotted the von Rhenia convoy about an hour east. They should be here shortly.”
“Excellent.” Iris smoothed the front of her dress—a deep burgundy piece with golden embroidery at the sleeves, chosen after a deliberation so lengthy it could have passed for a general shareholders’ assembly. “How do I look?”
“Radiant as always, my lady,” said Clara.
“Suitably intimidating, my lady,” said Ricardo at the same time.
Iris considered both answers and nodded in satisfaction.
Clara turned to Ricardo. “Any word from the estate? About my… matter?”
He lowered his voice. “Priscilla wrote back. She saved the pills and is sending them with a courier—they should arrive next week.”
Clara was thankful that the head maid had kept the remaining pills. Hopefully, their contents would provide some clue as to what happened to Stella.
Ricardo continued, “As for the hiring records, they are in the duke’s study, so she’d need His Grace’s permission to access them.”
“Which means if I want to see them, I’d need to ask him while he’s here.”
“Yes. The decision of whether to talk to him is solely up to you,” said Ricardo. “At least for now, I haven’t found anything that would compel me to bring the matter to his attention against your wishes.”
Clara nodded. She’d have to ponder this later. If she wanted access, she could either come clean to the duke—or at least as clean as she had to Iris and Ricardo—or she could use some sort of appropriate excuse. There was time to decide, since the family would be here all week for the Claves exhibitions and the gala.
The next fifty minutes were spent in a flurry of last-minute preparations. Emma returned, slightly out of breath, carrying two full baskets of orchids. Clara arranged them in vases while Iris dictated corrections to the dinner menu, as if the hotel’s staff hadn’t already spent all of yesterday preparing. Ricardo stood at attention near the entrance, arms clasped behind his back.
Then the sound of hooves and wheels on cobblestone echoed from outside.
“They’re here,” said Iris softly.
Through the window, Clara saw four white carriages emblazoned with the two-headed eagle pulling up to the hotel’s entrance, escorted by a dozen guards in full armor.
Iris bounced outside, and Clara, Ricardo, and Emma followed.