Chapter 5
It only took her first class, with a group of second-years, to convince her that she was not cut out for teaching—just in case she’d wondered or even fantasized that she would discover her calling in this odd, surprising situation.
She didn’t.
In fact, she was terrible at it. The kids (she supposed she should call them students but, en masse, they seemed more like a herd of young mischievous goats) clearly didn’t care what she had to say.
None of them even acknowledged her authority as their teacher, and the two who seemed at all inclined to listen to her were the sort of students who were always inclined to listen to adults in positions of authority—not to learn anything from them, but only to intuit what they wanted, how to deliver it, and how to succeed in that system.
Which, granted, she hadn’t noticed with the first one, who’d raised a hand to ask a far too specific question about lunar spell timing (not universally applicable, but still an important factor in certain types of spells).
Only after Bryn had explained, at length, the factors involved in such decisions did she notice the poisonous looks that other students were shooting at the original questioner, whose head was bent to take copious notes.
She’d felt slightly suckered, and a bit frustrated that her desire for engagement had briefly seduced her into seeing it where it likely didn’t exist.
Bryn wondered if that’s how she had looked at that age.
Had she seemed like a goody-two-shoes, a teacher’s pet?
She hadn’t intended to, but, well, things had been so hard, and her mother was always so detached and cold.
Icy, even, no matter what Bryn tried to do to earn her affection.
After arriving in a place where there were rules and grades, and she understood how to succeed, she could probably be forgiven for taking it all so seriously, for working so hard at her studies that she tended to eclipse other students by accident.
It wasn’t that she’d wanted so much to be good at school.
She just wanted people to approve of her.
She wanted the adults to think she made sense, now that she’d finally landed somewhere her talents were taken seriously.
She wondered if Piper had done the same thing in search of understanding, but with some sort of posh sport at their fancy witchy prep school.
And then she scolded herself for being unkind, to Piper, to herself, and to everyone else.
Still, by the end of her first day, after teaching students for six separate periods, she wanted to quit.
She wouldn’t, if only because her pride wouldn’t allow it, but it had become unavoidably clear that she was going to make a mess of everything.
She couldn’t decide if she should speak to Amelia about it.
After all, Amelia should have the opportunity to unhire her and find someone better as quickly as possible.
But when she knocked lightly on the headmistress’s door, there was no answer, which made sense.
Headmistresses were very busy; Amelia wouldn’t have a lot of time to sit around and hold Bryn’s hand through her first terrifying, frustrating day of teaching.
She briefly became lost in the notion of holding hands with Amelia, as she remembered those moments when their bodies had been pressed together that first night, and the delicious spark that had thrummed through her blood when Amelia looked up at her, within kissing distance.
But it was all nonsense. She was making it up.
This was the woman who years ago had stood by while all her friends laughed at Bryn’s pathetic crush; the girl who’d seemed just as humiliated, despite the fact that no one had been trying to hurt her.
There was no sexual tension there; Amelia needed a teacher.
Bryn just needed a break. Maybe her creativity was stifled by having too much free time, too much time to think about the next book, which didn’t exist, or other books in the series, or other publishers she should approach.
Maybe she should go to university. There were some excellent choices, some of which had specialties she found intriguing.
She could get a degree in magical healing or advanced spell craft, or she could pursue her studies in magical physics, which had always fascinated her.
Grimoire Academy had only the most basic of science classes, with a mere glancing across magical sciences in the final year of study. It hadn’t been nearly enough for Bryn.
When she’d once asked Professor Herringbone why that was, the professor had only said, “Well, you see, it’s not that witches don’t believe in science.
It’s that they can’t see it. And what you can’t see, you do not necessarily value.
” Bryn had been shocked and pointed out that science was literally everywhere, that nothing happened without physics, and the professor had only smiled, patted her shoulder, and said kindly, “That’s why I like you, Bryn. You see beneath the surface of things.”
At the time, the compliment had made her feel warm. Now, sitting in the professor’s chair, in her study, contemplating the coming months of daily lessons for which she felt completely unprepared, she wasn’t so sure she saw much at all.
Amelia stopped in for a moment at the end of the next day, literally poking her head in and remaining in the doorway as Bryn informed her traitorous heart that it had no business racing, because there was nothing there.
She got through the next two days—how, she didn’t really know.
By the time she went to bed each night, she was exhausted.
She had prepped to the best of her abilities, which didn’t seem very good, considering that each lesson she tried to plan for had to be abandoned within ninety seconds of the students arriving in her classroom.
When Piper stopped by in the early evening on Wednesday to ask her how she was doing, she accidentally spilled all of her worries and fears right into their ear.
Which she shouldn’t have done for any number of reasons, not least because she hardly knew Piper.
She couldn’t even really call them a friend yet.
And there she was, practically crying on their shoulder.
Instead of the sympathy she expected, or the pity she feared, they only gazed at her with something more like curiosity.
“What?” she finally snapped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Umm. Have you—” They hesitated. “I really don’t mean to offend you, but have you never done something that started out feeling impossible?”
“What? Why would I do something that felt impossible?”
They blinked. “Many of us don’t have a choice? I mean, are you really just naturally that good at everything you do?”
This seemed like a foolish question. “I don’t know what you’re saying. Why would I pursue things I wasn’t good at? How do you get successful doing that?”
“Interesting,” Piper said. “It’s just, well, none of us would be walking right now if we didn’t, as small children, keep trying things we weren’t good at. Or talking. Or writing. I hated learning to write. Didn’t you?”
“No.” Her turn to blink. “I loved it. I wanted to be able to write books.”
“What about learning to read? That wasn’t difficult for you?”
“I loved it,” she said again.
“Huh. Interesting.”
Growing ever more frustrated, Bryn said, “What point are you trying to make, Piper?”
They raised both hands in a defensive gesture that made her feel like a bully.
She softened her voice. “Sorry. Long week and we’re only halfway through. I just feel like I’m missing something in what you’re saying.”
“I apologize. I’m not really trying to make any big point.
It’s just … It sounds like you expected to be good at something in which you have no training, that you didn’t even get time to prepare for, and that you’re only doing because Amelia asked you to.
And it sort of seems unrealistic to think you would immediately be good at it. It’s only been three days.”
Confronted with this unassailable, if rather annoying, logic, Bryn sat back.
Her hands clenched and then released, and then curled around the wooden arms of the chair where she had seen Professor Herringbone rest her hands many, many times.
“Okay, maybe it’s possible that doing difficult things is not exactly—” Piper’s word from their first meeting came back to her. “Maybe it’s not my forte.”
They smiled in acknowledgement. “I think very few teachers are naturally gifted at all aspects of teaching. Most of us are lucky if we’re gifted at any of them.”
“So it gets easier?” she asked hopefully.
They didn’t answer right away. “Let’s just say that finding any aspect of it that you’re at all good at makes it easier to do the things you’re not as good at.”
“Okay,” Bryn said with a sigh. “Right, so I just have to figure out what that is.”
They shrugged. “I mean, it’s theoretically possible you’re not good at any of it.”
She groaned. “That’s not helping.”
Piper stood, smiling. “I think my work here is done. But when are you going to start eating with the rest of us? It is a little weird you keep taking all your meals in your cottage or—” they glanced around “—in here.”
“It’s just I feel like an interloper. I’m not meant to be here. I’m just sort of Amelia’s whim, not hired because I deserve this job.”
“Well, yes. But it seems like everyone new feels like an interloper here, if I’m being honest. That’s not about the teaching credentials.”
“Fair enough.” She suspected it had not been easy for Piper either, and it had only been six months or so for them.
“So. Dinner.” And then they held out their arm, gallantly, like a gentleperson to a lady.
Bryn, wishing the one holding out an arm gallantly was Amelia, nonetheless acknowledged that this was far less nerve-wracking. “I don’t mind if I do,” she said, and allowed Piper to guide her to the refectory for dinner.