Friday March 5th, 1937 It is weeks since we were called on to chase any junior years who had gone “over the top” and broken bounds, but when Miss Devinski called us just after breakfast we were sure that was the reason – being told to come ready to run, usually is. It was a surprise when we heard it was not a Songmark student who had gone missing, but a refugee girl who is being cared for by the authorities. Miss Devinski looked at Molly and announced it was someone called Megan, who Molly had met at New Year. Molly’s ears went right down, and she asked exactly why we would be chasing her. I was surprised that we got a clear answer; this Megan has been looked after by the furs in the special hospital on Meeting Island, but has apparently got bored and wandered off. Apparently there are some aspects of her condition that would alarm the general public. As we headed out at a trot towards the water-taxis, Molly explained that 'Megan' was the name she had given to a snow leopard girl who had been rescued from Captain Granite’s ship. She had been reduced to a “ship’s cat”, much the same state as Henrika who lives under Songmark (not that Molly has met Henrika) and although perfectly healthy, cannot exactly be counted as a sentient fur. That is definitely something that would alarm the tourists! There is a lot that can happen to people that it is just as well the world at large does not know. We arrived at the Meeting Island hospital for the first time this year, and found it much as we had seen it before. Evidently we are being used rather than the general police, for some reason. This time the phrase we had been given was “we’re visiting old Mrs. Luakina” and we were passed through the tunnel to the “sanatorium” in the crater, shielded from prying eyes. There are notices on the outside warning that it is used as a fever hospital; any tourists who do wander into range turn right round again at the prospect of highly infectious Parvo Virus or Sarcoptic Mange patients ahead! This was the first time Molly and Maria have been here, which says something about how we are trusted now. We had a hurried meeting with Jirry’s Aunt Millini, trying our best not to look at her hideously half-burned face where the fur never will grow back since the Gunboat Wars. Aunt Millini is looking frailer than ever, and indeed there are fewer “veterans” here than the first time we visited. The Papeete Influenza knocked three quarters of Songmark flat on their tails, but we are young and extremely healthy, and we all got up again. Quite a few of the residents here never did. Apparently this “Megan” does not talk, and behaves rather like one of our wild ancestors. She needs very little, eats food off the ground without using her hands, and spent most of her time eating and sleeping. Aunt Millini commented that she has been getting very restless as Spring arrived, and was often found in a high tree looking out towards the other islands. This morning she had vanished, and folk are worried about her. All the more so since nobody has had any ideas of what to do with her – she is young and fit, and can neither live with the public outside or be locked away in here forever. Our first task was to find her – Aunt Millini is very observant, and says “Megan” was often looking from her treetop over towards Main and Eastern Island. She has not been found on Meeting Island, and could not have used a water-taxi. Stowing away on one is hardly possible, either. It was time to put our tracking skills to the test! Though we are no bloodhounds, we first visited the nest that Megan made for herself and memorised her scent. Then we started to check all around the outside of the fence, a big job as it must be five hundred paces in circumference. Molly spotted the first tracks – a heavily indented set of prints showing where someone jumped from a tree branch over the fence. Quite a leap indeed, not one I would care to make myself. The rest of the prints were faint, and where they met the grass of the undeveloped side of Meeting Island they faded completely. We picked them up again on the beach; the Spontoonies tend to wear sandals, rather than going bare-pawed this time of year. Plus leopard tracks are fairly distinctive, in that their claws do not retract but leave prints not unlike a canine. The prints on the beach were heading straight towards Main Island, but we have swum these waters and know what the currents are like. Unfortunately nobody knows just when “Megan” broke out – depending on the tides she could have been swept East or West of the direct line. It had been a fairly calm morning, but even so the wind would have erased the tracks had it been more than six or seven hours ago – which puts it as the falling tide, heading Westwards. Megan might have been pulled right past Main Village, into the central waters! We hope she is a good swimmer. It would have been dark when she started, we know that much. So – back to the docks, a quick telephone call to update Miss Devinski then a hurried negotiation with the water-taxi pilot to head “that-a-way” as well as asking him where he thinks a swimmer would end up. Fortunately it is away from the main tide-race – but the central waters are awfully wide, and anyone still in them when the tide turns again could be swept right out to sea. By the time we had got half-way across, Molly’s ears perked up and she pointed behind us. Songmark’s Tiger Moths were joining in the search, though who was flying them was impossible to tell. They surveyed the area in grid sweeps, flying just above the wave tops where any swimmer – or even a floating body – would be spotted by the observer. They were still at it as we made landfall, a little North of the main delta coming out of the Sacred Lake river. We spent the morning searching along the shore, but the tide was coming in and washing away whatever tracks there might have been – and if “Megan” had climbed out on the rocks there would not have been any in the first place. The nearest telephone was in the Taiwanese village, where the Spontoonies were busy planting out rice seedlings in their fields and had been since dawn. Any Chinese species such as snow leopards would have been noticed by them, clothed or otherwise. One compensation was that we had an excellent fish and rice luncheon in an eating-house; no time was lost on the search as Maria ordered the meal while I got on the telephone to Miss Devinski. It seems Prudence’s dorm are also on the search, starting at Main Village and heading West to link up with us. As it happened, neither of us were the first to find Megan. We were following the river back towards Sacred Lake, where there is a sand bank that looks a nice picnic spot. There were four female furs there – an obvious Spontoonie lady guide, an exotic black jaguar, a rabbit lady and a large and unclothed snow leopard, who was begging fish scraps from the picnic the rest were having on the beach! Oh dear. Maria was the one who put it all together, recalling how few unfamiliar Euros are liable to be on Main Island this time of year – the jaguar was certainly pretty and exotic enough to be a film star, and we have heard who is looking for locations to film. “Miss Melson, I presume” is a good line. Unfortunately “Megan” has been found not just by any tourist but one with cameras and public reputation, who can tell the world about things we were trying to avoid getting out. (Later). Things look as if they have turned out for the best after all! Prudence and Co. arrived, and with them came one of the doctors who had been looking after “Megan.” I hardly liked the idea of trying to truss the leopard up and cart her back to Meeting Island – she is not a criminal after all. We all sat down and tried to think of a plan. The one that emerged was breath-takingly simple, and even Miss Devinski approved when she heard of it. There is a “jungle girl” already on Spontoon, who we have seen the occasional flash of fur from in the trees. But she is not the sort to pose for pictures. The story will be that another has been found, someone who was raised on a remote island by the jungle animals, Tarzan-style (one hears of this happening in India, and suchlike places.) Miss Melson says she always likes to film naturally staged rather than contrived action; having an actress with no lines to speak and unable to follow instructions will be a challenge but one she relishes. In fact, a few days of filming “Megan” should provide inspiration to produce a plot woven around the footage rather than filmed from a script. In return, “Megan” will be paid well, that is the locals will be paid to look after whatever needs she has. In one swoop we managed to remove the whole reason why she has to stay out of the public view – a real “wild-raised animal girl” is perfectly acceptable and exactly the sort of thing the Tourist Board would love to have! And she will be self-supporting, whether she knows it or not. Miss Melson could hardly wait to get the cameras rolling; the jaguar lady (Juanita, from Brazil) is to be cast as the conventional heroine, but they will just have to see how the plot develops. We were late back at Songmark, in fact it was almost dark and the supper was cleared away. Miss Devinski met us at the gate and somewhat grudgingly handed us passes for the evening and told us we had a reasonable tab set up for us at Mahanish’s – but if we ordered anything too unreasonable we would regret it. Hooray! A rapid bounce through the shower and change, and we were down the far end of the runway in twenty minutes, congratulating ourselves on our good luck. Our Tutor rarely praises anyone much, but I think today we made a good impression. Carmen was in a good mood; apparently yesterday on gate guard they gave Red Dorm a thorough “searching”, although they did not find any contraband. She joked that it was a good thing Liberty Morgenstern was not here trying to avoid extravagance – the dearest things on the menu are King Crab and King Prawns, and as a dedicated anti-monarchist Liberty would have to order those just so she could tear the heads off, rip the insides out and so demonstrate the triumph of the proletariat. Although we tried not to put too big a hole in the Songmark budget, the eight of us were as hungry as ever after running around Meeting and Main Island all day. Twice this week we get to dine here, this time all paid for! Prudence was extremely happy to find tripe on the menu – then, she is from Lancashire. She tells me she has memorised the word in two dozen languages, so she can ask for ‘Trippa’ in Italy, 'Caïos' in Spain and ‘Flaki’ in Poland. Molly wrinkled her nose and asked if there was anyone in the North who did not eat tripe – Prudence thought awhile, and remembered being told about three who disliked it. They turned out to be Enemy Agents, and finished up against a firing squad. I must say, if the chilli they served was a boxer, with that kind of punch it would knock all the competitors out of the ring. What Helen calls a “Five-alarm chilli” (though she spells it wrong – as I have pointed out to her, the Oxford English Dictionary says it has 2 ‘l’s, so there) is certainly one to set all the bells ringing. Molly moved upwind, complaining any splashes would eat holes in the table. One Nootnops Blue apiece (decidedly not on the tab) and we had to head back to Songmark before our passes expired – only at weekends are we free of such restrictions. Belle was saying Miss Melson was quite taken with me and my dorm, and had whispered that she could find us film roles. It is a good thing Molly did not hear that. Seeing my expression, Belle added that there were roles we could do perfectly well keeping true to our characters. I suppose it might be like that staid dowager Miss Murgatroyd who is frequently the butt of the Barx Brothers’ gags – she is not acting her bafflement, and when the Barx Brothers filmed here last year I heard her say she has never understood why people find them at all funny. We returned with about a minute to spare, and headed straight for bed being about twelve hours “overdrawn” on sleep this week. At least it is getting warmer now; the unheated rooms are comfortable now and the thin mattress feels as welcome as any feather-bed. Certainly, at Songmark one learns to appreciate the little luxuries in life – chiefly by not having any. Saturday March 6th, 1937 A day of ordinary hard work seems like luxury in its own right now. We have put a major dent in the pile of catch-up work that awaited us after Macao, and Helen and I being fortified by last night’s industrial-strength chilli we woke up feeling ready to bounce out of bed. The first-years have evidently found out the delayed effects of that dish, as reportedly when we were away there were alarmed howls from their dorms’ bathroom first thing in the morning and a panicked runner sent to a (wholly unsympathetic) Mrs. Oelabe. Helen suggested Mahanish’s put up warning signs about that. After yesterday, Molly opened up somewhat about her meeting with “Megan” when Captain Granite’s ship was raided. Though by species folk assume she is Chinese or at least from that part of the world, there is no way to tell now. Molly shivered, reflecting that Megan’s fate might have been hers. Megan is named after a friend of Molly’s in Chicago, who was killed as a bystander in a gangland shootout the year before we all started Songmark. Though she rarely refers to it, Molly has calculated her odds of still surviving this far had she stayed in her old life rather than coming here, and they are no better than Maria’s. Remembering the snow-leopard grooming herself the natural way by the jungle stream, at least we can say she is in a better place than when Molly first found her. It might be interesting to see the film she stars in – if only to see how anyone weaves a plot around whatever “nature documentary” type footage Miss Melson gets of her in the wild. Molly will presumably not like the story or that film company’s idea of a happy ending. It was a great relief after nearly a month away to pack our dancing costumes and head over to Casino Island along with Jasbir’s dorm and two first-year dorms who have settled down to an interest. There are no second-years much interested, which I always found odd. Still, they do have a kilikiti team which is winning quite a few matches, so they take part in local sports that way. It was a definitely windy day, and Helen was trying with no more than usual success to hold onto her breakfast as the water taxi bounced across the choppy waters. I felt it quite exhilarating; just the day to be out in a sailing boat with the sun on the water and the wind in the sails. Actually, although the big tour-boats are presumably painting and refitting in their berths right now, some of the more exotic tourists are here already. There was a big new J-class sailing yacht beating its way into the central waters, and those hulls are absolutely the top end of the market; there are hardly a dozen of them afloat. One imagines that Shepherd’s Hotel will be having some guests tonight and not in its cheaper rooms. Not all travellers insist on the “roast pig in a bun” or “Popatohi and chips” as supplied by the tonne to the tour-boat crowds. The dance class was its usual lively self, with many familiar snouts. This is something we can hope to keep coming back to – furs from South and Main Island often attend, and it is only a few cowries. If we can afford the water-taxi here next year Helen and I plan to be here. All traditional Polynesians dance – it is just what they do, learning as soon as the kittens and pups can stand upright. Not everyone is good at it or particularly or keen but a Native who could not dance is about as unthinkable as one who could not swim. The S.I.T.H.S. have almost given up challenging us, as we have settled into being friends rather than rivals – much as one feels competing against a team within one’s own village, the thrill of winning is less than against distant visitors with honour to uphold. We see many of the same faces as before even though several are now graduated and working; this is a fine social venue regardless of tourist season. Not having a local University as such, many of the High School pupils are older than one might expect and indeed their education seems to blend into technical classes that are the same as for adults, run on Moon Island at the military base for technical matters or Casino Island for filming and suchlike. Three hours of vigorous local dance is a definitely healthy and demanding exercise! Our first-years were drooping at the end of it all, and even for us it was very welcome to get through the showers “on the bounce” and head out across the street to The Missing Coconut for luncheon. Molly was persuading the proprietor to have a sample of her “fizzy pineapple” which went down surprisingly well. As the tourists often hang around here with their cameras in the hope of snapping flying lava-lavas as the dancers run down the beach to sea-bathe after a vigorous dance, it is a good place to showcase this season’s exotic products. Molly has been thinking of good marketing slogans, one of her few activities that please Miss Devinski. As production will be starting small, she has an idea of keeping the prices high and describing it as “expensive only compared to cheaper substitutes.” I think she needs a little more work on that one. Despite our busy schedule we spared an hour looking around the Casino Island shops. Eriksson’s Outdoors has one of those “Kelly Kettles” I used in Tillamook, which is quite tempting. But they are bulky things and most of our trips start with whatever we can stuff into our pockets, so for the time being it had to stay in the window display. We had a chuckle over the big display of highly polished, horn-handled hunting knives that tourists buy to pose with at the edge of the jungle – for a quarter of the price a plain locally made machete made from recycled car leaf spring will do a far better job and not raise a crop of blisters in ten minutes’ hard work. Molly likes to carry a sharpened Great War vintage entrenching tool, but that is just Molly for you. Jasbir headed off with Molly to meet up with young Meera and the rest of her Goddard Club who are currently using the Northern tip of Moon Island for their firing range. One presumes that as most of the settlements there are military, the prospect of loud bangs and the occasional descending hot motor-tube is less alarming than it would be in the gardens of the grand hotels. Meera has a lot to contribute having been one of the stars of the similar British Congreve Club that is trying to cross the English Channel with a postal delivery rocket. The Austrians already have a Rocket Post that mostly flies in the Winter, lofting mail packets over snow-bound or dangerously avalanching mountain ridges and saving a day or two against travelling around the lowland routes. The idea is that unlike an aircraft with large wings and surface area, a postal rocket has far less drag to be seized and thrown off course by the winds and flies so fast it is exposed for less time – plus it needs no runway either end. One imagines future postmen will be equipped with fire-engine type ladders to retrieve snagged postal rocket parachutes from trees and church steeples – plus a steel helmet if they predict too accurately where it will come down! Meera has mentioned that her Congreve Club is running liquid fuelled rockets, and that Roedean has tilted its sixth form science lessons accordingly to produce regular liquid oxygen supplies for the club. A decidedly enlightened place and quite deserving of its reputation, is Roedean. Beryl turned her nose up when she heard, and claimed that at Saint T’s her first year “stinks” class successfully made both phosgene and Lewisite. I have heard a lot of that school’s practical experiments – where other establishments have lab white mice to study, they have kraits and puff adders. Back to Songmark, hungry enough that a one-finger Poi supper went down quite well with enough sauce (Li Han has found a Casino Island shop selling bottles of black bean and Hoi Sin sauce – very exotic) and a large bowl of non-fizzy pineapple. On the second-year table I spotted Florence, who was deep in conversation with the rest of her team. She looked rather worried. Prudence is still rather sniffy about Florence, and not best pleased with me for pushing the problem in her direction. I honestly thought Prudence would be pleased that I didn’t set Molly the task of persuading Florence she is contemplating a “fate worse than death” worse than the traditional one. Not that Prudence or her friends ever get evangelical about their preferences, formation swimming aside (and she is certainly recruiting for her dorm’s replacements in that respect.) (Later) by dint of getting back early we have finally cleared the catch-up work. So our timetable is just as light as the other Songmark third-years, which is like saying having a hill fall on you is lighter than a whole mountain. We feel flattened enough as it is. Rumiko in the second year quotes the Japanese saying “Duty is heavier than a mountain; death is lighter than a feather” and indeed she always takes things very seriously. Being the sole representative of her country is rather more important to her than, say, Reet from Estonia or Morag from Scottish Darien. I have heard back from Judge Poynter, and have arranged to see him tomorrow night. Hopefully he has heard back from his enquiries in England; it has been months now but law lords are not known for making snap decisions and presumably there are no mobs of claimants to the Allworthy Estates wandering around Barrow-in-Furryness frantically waving pedigrees and birth certificates. If we follow Maria across to Europe after graduation – at least, after leaving Songmark – that will only be four months away, and I have had the title Lady Allworthy longer than that already. In Helen’s case it will be something like an inverse honeymoon; she is planning on marrying Marti later this Summer, and is taking a long trip away from Spontoon before settling into South Island. Not that she will exactly take root there; the life of an Adventuress traditionally takes her to all sorts of places. Sunday March 7th, 1937 It makes a nice change, to be able to lie in bed till breakfast at eight o’clock; some Sundays we have been trooping in from a night’s gate guard at that time – or more accurately, drooping in. It is a shame about Maria’s snoring, but of course she has to lie on her back as her horns tend to shred pillows lying on her on her side, and her muzzle hardly lets her sleep nose down. That is one thing I am grateful for, having a fairly round head lets me sleep in any position. Out to South Island with Saffina after breakfast (breadfruits are back in season) and a welcome greeting with Mrs. H and the family. Jirry is still away at sea, worse luck – but we happily did our share of the household duties, Maria and Molly pitching in with a will. Saimmi has been called away elsewhere, but Helen, Saffina and I have much to practice. We tended two of the shrines, and practiced half a dozen of the rituals. A surprisingly draining morning, as energetic in its way as anything our Tutors put us through. Saffina has heard a lot about our adventures, and is planning what to do this Easter. With her ancestry I rather doubt she would be too well received down in New South Thule, and besides she is not keen on the climate. Still, she says she has already seen snow once, when she flew within sight of Mount Kenya on the way to Songmark for the first time from her homeland. It is frightening to think, she has the Aleutians or a similar trip ahead of her at the end of this year. Saffina is about the only Songmark girl who has brought useful information to Saimmi, in terms of the rituals and such she uses at home (her Mother being a “hougan”, which is something like a lady vicar.) She has been telling us of the various things they are called on to cope with – Africa being a land of ancient mysteries that were half forgotten when the first pyramids were raised in Egypt. After our trip to Krupmark last Winter solstice we have been practicing hard at defensive and containing rituals, though we know we would not have stood a chance on our own against what was found there. Saffina has been thinking a lot about that trip, and has tentatively identified the shadow that follows Kansas Smith around through that young pig henchman. She is rather worried what Kansas Smith will do given the book she got away with. The priestess Oharu was very keen to recover that book, and the idea of it falling into the wrong paws is an alarming one. Someday either Kansas Smith or whoever is behind her will be back for the two fragments that are deep in Crater Lake, and we will have to be ready for them. Luncheon was excellent as ever, even considering Molly and Maria largely helped to cook it (Moeli is off at sea with her husband’s family.) It was rather odd to see Molly serving up the food – we can all cook well enough to get by and have done since our first year, but one usually imagines Molly as eating bully beef out of a hacked-open tin with a saw-backed bayonet for cutlery. I tried to imagine her at a civilised family table with half a dozen eager young fawns to feed, and eventually gave up. I could certainly imagine her lobbing them a tin of Maconochie apiece and a can opener and telling them to get on with it. For a change, I had to tear myself away after cleaning up luncheon, and head back alone to Songmark. It all takes time, getting over there, changing into my nicest “Euro” outfit with necessary accessories and then back on a water taxi to Meeting Island. It was a rare event being all alone in the third-year building, and having the bath all to myself with plenty of hot water. I took full advantage of the treat, especially as Helen was not around to object to various things. Meeting Island is getting quite busy in the week as all the various Ministries get ready for the tourist season, but on Sunday once the church services have finished it is as quiet as December with few open facilities and most residents heading over to Main Island for the countryside or Casino Island for the town. Judge Poynter’s house is looking very spruce in a new coat of paint; the good Judge certainly keeps up appearances despite everything. Apparently his housekeeper has the afternoon off, as Judge Poynter greeted me at the door himself. I was glad I had made an effort to smarten up, as he was impeccably turned out in a new lightweight tweed suit of the latest cut. He greeted me warmly and seemed much taken with my own outfit, though it is only a simple knee-length white summer frock with white gloves and lace-trimmed hat that I bought in Macao for less than it would have cost to post from England. The sitting-room was the same as ever, a definite museum of Victorian and Edwardian good taste with hardly a modern item to be seen. There was a radio but it was styled in rich dark walnut, looking rather as if it had been the prize-winning radio for the Great Exhibition of the 1850’s, had such things existed then. The leather sofa is most comfy, though being so well polished a rayon frock tends to slide right off it.  Judge Poynter brought out a sheaf of correspondence bearing the familiar shilling airmail stamps, and summarised what his colleagues had found out. The news is not encouraging; it seems the Allworthy family was not numerous and tended towards shady dealings. One of Lord Leon’s cousins was reported killed at sea in a gun-running expedition though his body was never recovered; another simply vanished in China. That was six years ago and it seems unlikely he will be returning to claim anything. But until nine years after their disappearance they are not legally proven as dead and are still theoretically in the running for the title. As to more certain Allworthy contestants, there is only one blood relative who claims the name; though about my age she is both illegitimate and decidedly lacking a pedigree being a wolf/sheep cross. I found myself wondering just what one of those would actually look like. She is barred (or possibly “baaaa’d”) two ways from inheriting anything, and indeed nobody is keen to establish precedent of a discarded chambermaid’s daughter getting the title. Rather unfair really; she is judged by Euro standards while my “marriage” to Lord Leon is accepted as binding since folk on Krupmark do so and that is where it was registered. Then, the Empire is full of Natives who are recognised as legally married under their own customs despite not exactly walking down the aisle at Westminster Abbey. Getting back to England this Summer to settle the claim will be difficult without a proper passport, and though doubtless I could get a convincing enough British one made in Macao, that would take a fair chunk of (Allworthy) money, something I am not prepared to do. My existing passport as Kim-Anh might get me there with the right fur dye, but that hardly helps as I would have to drop the disguise to clear my own name. Quite a problem, as the good judge admitted. It was very pleasant to relax with a glass of soda-water apiece, fresh from the venerable gasogene that has provided soda water for Harold for forty years, needing only crushed coral and acid to make the carbonic acid gas. One reads that Sherlock Hound had one in his rooms, but I have never seen another example still in service. Definitely Harold is the last of his kind in so many ways; the Empire is built on selfless service and not on loot and conquest as Brigit Mulvaney keeps harping on about. Well, possibly some loot and conquest on occasion, but most of the Native despots on the receiving end probably deserved it. I managed to repay Harold though not in the way I would have quite liked to – as before, all he most wanted was to have his tummy rubbed. Evidently a canine interest. Rather disappointing for me, having come prepared with specific Precautions for other canine interests. It was quite decorous as he waved me out at tea-time, leaving me to return alone to Songmark. I had an hour to spare, as I always allow that should I ever manage to repay Harold more thoroughly, and knowing various things from the encounters that made me Lady Allworthy in the first place. It is rather a pity that Harold never married, or (by repute) took an adaptable Native “housekeeper” as many colonial officer gentlemen do, or “chauffeur” if female. Poi again for evening meal! I had to set the junior years an example, and indeed only Madeleine X and Susan de Ruiz were in to dine from my year. Everyone else was dining elsewhere and presumably rather better. Still, I had enjoyed an excellent luncheon at Mrs. Hoele’toemi’s longhouse and can hardly complain. (Later) Molly, Maria and Helen arrived after a pleasantly full day on South Island, and I had to report the lack of real progress on losing the Allworthy burden. I am just going to have to get to England somehow. Maria is always intrigued by my “case” and indeed it almost reads like a Bill Sandmoon romantic drama plot. A far pleasanter plot to read about than to be trapped in. Just ten minutes before our lights-out, there was a quiet knock on the door and to our amazement Florence Farmington appeared. This is decidedly against the rules; junior years are not allowed in here even with permission let alone without it. Plus it is after second-year lights-out, and by rights we should have turned her in for points. Helen was all for throwing her out on her ear, but Florence having risked much to get here I thought it best to at least find out what she wanted so urgently that she is prepared to risk getting caught and lose serious points. If Madeleine X or Missy K spotted her they would have raised the alarm immediately and there would be nothing we could do about it, Florence being technically in the wrong. One would think that Florence is out to cause me the maximum possible embarrassment – that or she has somehow decided I qualify as a newspaper Agony Aunt, to sort out her emotional turmoil free of charge. When she mentioned a “hunting licence” my ears went down as I assumed she wanted one – but stranger still she wanted to meet a girl who has one! What our Tutors will think about this I can imagine all too clearly. Of the various occasions I have stood a whisker away from being thrown out of Songmark the time Miss Devinski waved my spurious application at me might have been the closest, and that was before the Ave Argentum arrived putting us doubly on watch for bad press. I promised to write her a letter of introduction to Nuala Rachorska, who will be able to tell her anything she needs to know, then shooed her out before Miss Devinski arrived to check we are all fast asleep. Hopefully nobody spotted Florence coming in here; the other dorms seem to have had full days and from next door I could already hear Irma Bundt snoring away at full throttle. It must be a bovine thing. next |