Lowewood Academy

I stretched on the cushions on the floor, idly massaging my right hand as I listened to Lydia fuss with the teapot. My tiny house was quiet, peaceful and dark other than some candles we’d lit earlier. I was glad it wasn’t my turn to make tea: I was tired to the point of not knowing whether I was asleep or awake.

“Hey Lyds,” I called. “Is there still brandy left? Can you add a splash into my mug?”

“Sure,” she answered. There was some clinking, and she appeared in the miniscule living room with a tray that held two mugs and a plate of biscuits. As she set it down, she peered at me rubbing my hand. “Anything wrong?” she asked.

“Believe it or not, I hurt my hand spanking people,” I said with a slightly embarrassed grimace.

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“And what on earth is this meant to be, Abbotts?” Mrs Maker bellowed and I suppressed a groan. My attempts to hide my work behind everyone else’s had been a failure.

“A Victoria sponge cake, Miss.”

“I wasn’t aware they came in black; what have you done to it?” Everyone sniggered and I could feel my ears starting to burn.

“Erm, I think something happened in the oven, Mrs Maker.” I decided to go for vagueness, after all something had indeed happened in the oven. The cake had burned, that much was blatantly obvious. Mrs Maker sighed and gave me one of her patented half angry, half pitying looks.

“That much I gathered, young lady, however it is most unfortunate that ‘something’ only happened to your cake, Gwendolyn’s is beautiful”. It was too, a confection of light brown, dome-shaped, icing-sugared top and jam-filled goodness. My effort was more like a black frisbee.

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I looked at my face in the mirror and scowled at myself.

I had two bruises. Right in the centre of my flawless white cheek, two perfect oval bruises. Exactly the shape of Oliver Priestly’s fingers, where the main force of his hand had struck me.

Jesus. Whoever would have though the bastard could have snapped like that?

Dr Higgins had stopped me portentously in the corridor that morning.

“Aston-Beresford. What on earth have you done to yourself?” he’d rumbled.

“I walked into a door sir” I’d said, through gritted teeth. I was going to make Oliver Priestly pay. But my way. Not by snitching on him to a teacher.

Dr Higgins had looked as sceptical as a man bearing a strong resemblance to a basset hound can look.

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