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Frau Lotte reaches for a cane, the same cane Jane had in hand when she came out to lecture Storm for going missing earlier in the evening. It is starting to feel as though Storm and this cane have an unavoidable date with destiny.
Storm gets up immediately, of course. That is a mistake.
Frau Lotte wields the implement with determination and a complete lack of concern for the tenderness of her charge.
The cane cracks across Storm’s upper thighs hard, making her shriek with shock and pain. There is no padding where that stroke landed, and the sensation is beyond intense.
“The fuck was that!?”
“Stay still, or the cane will land wherever the cane happens to land.”
Storm cannot believe this is happening. The only person to ever discipline her has been Jane, and Jane is a much more restrained, careful, and deliberate disciplinarian. She has no idea what the hell is this.
“Get back down and take your punishment, girl.” Frau Lotte’s tone is mercilessly unyielding and stern.
Storm doesn’t move fast enough and catches another one of those harsh strokes of the cane to the back of her legs. The pain is intense, more than allows for any kind of obedience. Still she does not bend, for now she would rather die than capitulate.
A third time the cane comes down across the back of her legs. Frau Lotte will not be disobeyed. She will also not allow any time to process anything or provide any space in which to choose obedience. She expects Storm to surrender, and when that does not happen, she has nowhere else to go.
Storm is done with this woman, with this punishment, with this school, with the world itself. Though she talks a big game, her primary strategy is and has always been to run. That is what she does. She pushes away from the desk and darts toward the office door. Adrenaline stops her from feeling the ache of her thighs as every step causes punished muscles to contract and extend alternately. It will hurt like hell once she is far enough away to register pain, but for now she is numb to anything but the need to escape.
* * *
Zermatt sparkles in the evening air, fresh motes of frosty mist swirling around Jane and Laura as they stroll together through the streets, wrapped up in jackets and gloves and hats that keep the worst of the cold at bay. Dinner was very nice, and the company was very pleasant. Jane has discovered that Laura is a much better conversationalist than she lets on. She does not speak much, but what she does say reveals her to be a keen intellect and astute observer.
Around them many warm lights of the mountain village beautifully illuminate snow and wood and stone. It is like walking about inside a snow globe, so picturesque it barely seems real but for the cold that reminds one that one is alive.
“I can’t believe I haven’t come down to the village before at night,” Jane muses.
“I can. You work too much,” Laura says.
“I don’t work that much,” Jane denies reflexively. “This is my first week. I am trying to make a good impression.”
“You have made a good impression on me,” Laura says smoothly, her tone holding just the slightest, lightest, invitational bit of intimacy.
Jane smiles, already well aware that few things impress Laura.
They walk back to Jane’s chateau, chatting about matters of very little importance objectively speaking, but finding themselves entirely engrossed in the conversation anyway. When with a charming companion, all the world suddenly becomes a place of fascination. The most mundane of topics seem to brim with fresh life.
Upon arriving at Jane’s front door, Laura turns to her with a smile. “I hope you had a nice evening.”
“I did, thank you. Did you?”
Laura does not answer verbally. Instead there is an electric moment of possibility, a glance, an invitation…suddenly Laura stiffens and looks over Jane.
“What is that…”
There is something in the garden. Something small and snuffly, hidden by the shadows of the little fence. Jane and Laura approach it to discover a student sniffling in the corner of the garden, a far too thin cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, legs bare to the night cold.
“Storm! What are you doing!?” Jane gasps. “You should be at the chateau. You should be in bed. You should…”
Storm stands up and turns around wordlessly, lifting the hem of her skirt. The light at the front door of the chateau that cast a warm glow over Laura and Jane moments earlier sends out rays to illuminate multiple deep bruise lines criss-crossing across the backs of her legs in marks of blue and black. Jane’s impression is that someone has taken a cane to this girl in the most inexpert and shoddy of manners.
“What happened?”
“The headmistress happened,” Storm says in a half-sob. “I didn’t want to run away. I didn’t want to worry you. But I’m not going back there. She’s psychotic. So I didn’t know what to do. So I came here.”
“Come inside,” Jane says, opening her door. It wasn’t locked, but Storm stayed outside in the garden anyway, choosing to freeze. The only small, faint bit of good in this mess is that at least she sought Jane out instead of simply running away.
