Chapter 2: Not Very Ladylike

“Harlot,” Laura said under her breath.

“Trollop,” Aisling hissed.

“Tramp.”

“Slut.”

“Tart.”

“Floozy!”

“Hussy!”

“Whore!”

“You,” Laura faltered, “you... cunt!” The waiting room was nearly empty, so even their whispers seemed unnaturally loud.

“Ladies! “ said Florence, the headmaster’s secretary. “That will be quite enough!”

Laura Cross sulked, sucking on her bottom lip, her tongue playing along where it had split.

“Aw, did ya run out?” Aisiling said, her native accent creeping back in. “Bloody hoor.”

“Says the girl with the black eye,” Laura said with a smirk.

Aisling gently prodded her cheekbone. The skin around her eye was already turning a deep shade of lavender where Laura had punched her.

“By the by, Ay-sling, you have a little...” Laura brushed a finger under her own nose.

Aisling mimicked Laura’s gesture, wiping away a trickle of blood. Her face darkened.

“Should’ve punched you in the tit,” Aisling said, looking down at Laura’s breasts, straining against a bulky Christmas jumper. “Not that you’d have felt it, yeh fucken cow.”

Florence’s intercom buzzed. “Miz Graham?”

“Sir?”

“Miss Halloran first, if you please.”

“Of course, sir.” She gestured to Aisling. “In you go, luv.”

Aisling grunted and stood, straightening her blazer and pulling down her skirt. “Strumpet,” she said, nodding to Laura as if saying farewell.

“Slattern,” Laura shot back, but Aisling was already closing the office door behind her. “Hmph.” Laura crossed her arms and sank down in her chair.

As she waited, Laura watched Florence Graham go about her day. Laura found Florence puzzling – she had been head girl, three years ahead of Laura, Oxbridge material from head to toe. She had taken on the role of secretary – Florence insisted on that title, and would correct anyone who dared call her a “receptionist” – to save money for her gap year, even though she clearly didn’t need to, what with who her parents were.

And so Florence’s her gap year turned into three, her friends left for uni or just fell away, and she stayed at Woodhaven, fetching tea and answering phones for the headmaster. Strangest of all was how unbothered she was by it all. Florence’s old life had drifted away like so much dandelion fluff, and she’d simply watched it go. And there was the way...

Buzz. “Miz Graham?”

“Sir?” Florence chirped. As Laura watched, the secretary’s eyes seemed to lose focus.

“I’ll need ... another few minutes with Miss ... Halloran.” He sounded out of breath. “Ask Lady Cross if she’d fancy a cup of tea while she waits.”

Florence glanced at Laura, raising her eyebrows. Laura shook her head.

“She declined, sir,” said Florence.

“Very well. Back to it, Miz Graham.”

Florence blinked, the light coming back to her eyes. She shook herself a bit.

... And there the way Florence acted around the headmaster. Laura had noticed it before, in each of her many trips to the headmaster’s office. The intercom would buzz, and Florence’s back would go ramrod-straight, all expression leaving her face, her voice taking on lilting, almost ... girlish tone. Laura had mentioned it to the other girls in her classes, but they told Laura she was being silly and chalked it up to Florence being in love with the headmaster. What other reason could there be?

The door to the headmaster’s office swung open. Aisling paused in the doorway, looking flushed. Her normally pristine red hair had come undone and hung about her shoulders in wild, tangled waves. She looked down at herself, straightened her tie, refastened a button, and smoothed her rumpled blouse over her breasts. She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lace handkerchief.

Laura scoffed. “Twat,” she muttered.

Aisling didn’t respond. Her lips moved, as though she was talking to herself, so quietly that Laura couldn’t make out the words. She walked past Laura without a second glance, staring straight ahead, her back impeccably straight, still whispering as she left.

“Ginger bitch,” Laura said.

Buzz. “Miz Graham?”

“Yes, sir?” That familiar blankness.

“I’ll see Lady Cross now.”

The headmaster, Laura had thought upon their first meeting, was the most British person she had ever met, cartoonishly so, and subsequent encounters had not disabused her of this notion even a little. Even his name, Lord Alasdair Auberon Corvensthwick, was fairly bursting with Britishness. He was a great slab of a man, simultaneously hulking and doughy under a blocky, ill-fitting tweed jacket. His remaining hair was iron-grey, and clung to his scalp like a dying wreath. His office was forever redolent with the twin aromas of pipe smoke and gin, despite both being prohibited by Woodhaven’s bylaws. He looked especially blotchy today.

“One moment,” said the headmaster, typing away. He hit the Enter key with a flourish and turned to face Laura. “And done. Now. Lady Cross,” the headmaster said, peering over his half-moon spectacles. “Kindly be seated, if you would.”

“It’s just Laura,” Laura said as she sank into an overstuffed armchair. She’d been here so often that she imagined her bum had left a groove in the leather.

The headmaster tutted. “Come now. You are a lady, just as I am a lord. It is only proper that we should avail ourselves of the titles into which we–”

“It’s. Just. Laura,” Laura said through gritted teeth. “Alasdair.”

“Very well. Laura it is,” he said, his voice somehow both sniveling and condescending. “What brings you to me this fine afternoon?”

“You know why.”

“Humour me.” The headmaster took a sip of what was decidedly not coffee from his mug. “How rude of me. Would you care for a drink? You are eighteen now, and it is the holidays.”

Laura considered, sucking on her split lip. “Go on then. Could use one after the day I’ve had.”

The headmaster produced a bottle of gin and a rocks glass from his desk. “Ah. The good stuff. My little secret,” he said, pouring Laura three fingers’ worth.

“And you hide it so well,” Laura deadpanned. She held up her glass. “To?”

“To secrets. Cheers!”

“Secrets. Right. Cheers.” Laura downed her drink in one go.

“Now then. To business,” said the headmaster.

Laura sighed and pushed up her glasses. “Aisling and I got into a fight. Over a boy. He’d been seeing her behind my back. Or he was seeing me behind hers.”

“I see, and this was Mister...” He flipped over a blank sheet of paper, pretending to read.

“Callum Davies. Aisling told you all of this already.”

“She did, but I wanted to hear your side. Davies ... scholarship boy, isn’t he?”

“I hardly think that matters.”

“Of course it matters. Someone like that is ... beneath you, Lady Cross. Now, your friend Aisling–”

“Not my friend.”

“–your friend Aisling,” he continued, “someone of her ... heritage I could see with a boy like that. But you, Laura, you should–”

“Sir,” Laura said, cutting him off. “This kind of talk is highly, highly inappropriate, especially for someone in a position such as yours!”

“True enough,” said the headmaster, stroking his chin. “I do let my prejudices get the better of me sometimes. So, to continue, you and Miss Halloran thought it ... appropriate to come to blows in the corridors of the Literature department. Now she I can understand, what with the famous Irish temper of hers, but you–”

“Sir!”

“–you, Laura, are a lady, and it does not become you to behave in such a way, like some common–”

“Sir! That is quite enough!”

The headmaster leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “On that, we agree. Did you know, Lady Cross, how many times you have been in this office, in that very chair, this term alone?”

“Dunno, Alasdair. I must’ve lost count.”

“Fifty-seven. Fifty. Seven.”

“Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

“Yes. How droll. No, young lady, I believe there is something wrong with you. With your whole generation, really, but I’ve never seen someone quite so headstrong as you. And yet, so aimless.”

“I am NOT aimless!” Laura said. “I just don’t see the point in wasting my time in this posh shithole. I should be out in the world, going on adventures like my father! But no, he wants me to get a ‘proper education’, so I’m stuck here. With you.”

“You wound me, Lady Cross,” said the headmaster. Laura narrowed her eyes. “So the question remains, while you are ‘stuck here’, what is to be done about your behaviour?”

“Oh, yes, whatever indeed?” Laura rolled her eyes. “Is this going to take long, Al?”

“Not long at all, no. I think it’s time we try something new. If you’ll indulge me...” The headmaster swiveled his desktop monitor around to face her and hit a key. A new program window popped up, and the screen image dissolved into a swirl of soft colours, seafoam and cerulean and coral, pulsing, bleeding into each other. A faint, throbbing grey noise came from the speakers, underlaid with a barely perceptible music and ... was that someone speaking?

“Yes, very pretty, sir, but it is ... is the, uh, holidays, and I do need to ... to...” Laura trailed off, lost in the shifting colours. “I need to ... what was I...?”

“Shh, Laura, you just need to watch. Only five more minutes.”

“No!” Laura cried. Then it dawned on her. “You did something to Aisling! You’re doing ... something to ... doing it ... to me. I can’t ... why can’t I...” She struggled to stand, even to turn her head, but her whole body felt like it was made of wet sand. She sagged in her chair.

“A mild paralytic in your drink, I’m afraid.” The headmaster got up from behind his massive desk and circled behind Laura, careful to avoid looking into the screen. “A drop or two of aphrodisiac. Some other additives. My own little secret. I told you it was the good stuff, pet.” He stroked her long chestnut braid. “It will all make sense soon. Just give it five more minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Laura stared, unable to look away from the colours. Between the drugs coursing through her and the subliminal-laced music, she could feel her defenses crumbling. Her cheeks burned and her skin glistened, sheened with sweat. A low heat grew between her legs

“Remarkable,” said the headmaster. His hands were on her her shoulders, massaging her through the thick wool. Laura let out a quiet moan. “I knew you were a stubborn one, but this is unprecedented! I must make note of this, and tell ... tell...” His voice grew distant, and his eyes drifted to the screen. “I will tell no-one.”

A brief lucidity flared in Laura. “Who ... who will you tell, sir? Why are you ... unh ... why are you doing this?” she managed, before losing herself again in a pleasant haze.

“I will tell no-one,” the headmaster intoned, oblivious to Laura’s words. “We do not think. We do not question. We do as we are told. We do as the master says. We will obey. We must ... obey. We do not think...”

As her moment of clarity faded, Laura’s last coherent thought was how ... familiar those words seemed ... like she had heard them before ... in the music... under it, somehow ... over and over ... over and over...

Laura whimpered as she succumbed to the colours, sinking into a deep trance. “Do as we are told,” she echoed, taking on that same lilting emptiness she had heard in Florence’s voice earlier, that same distant monotone that now spilled from the headmaster’s lips. “As the master says ... will obey ... must obey ... do not think...”