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That statement only makes matters worse. Kiera is suddenly animated by outrage, simultaneously furious that Jane has stolen her boyfriend, and that she doesn’t even want him.
“Oh, so he’s not good enough for you!?”
“That’s not what I said, Kiera. Take a deep breath.”
“I won’t be told how to breathe by the likes of you!” Kiera declares, scandalized. “I am going to call my father, and he is going to remove you from this school. He funds pretty much all of it, did you know that? Of course you don’t. You’re just a boyfriend-stealing hussy!”
Kiera storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
It would be quite a dramatic exit, but for the fact that as she leaves, her blanky cape flows out behind her and as the door closes, it traps a corner of it. Jane hears Kiera huff for a moment, try to pull it out, then continue storming off, too proud to come back and open the door again.
Jane does not pay the fit too much mind, though it will be dealt with later on. Kiera may be less high than she was yesterday, but she is certainly not in a sober frame of mind, and punishing her now would be a pointless cruelty.
The threat she made does not concern Jane overly either. Spoiled little rich girls like Kiera like to throw around the idea of money and power, but if her father was overly concerned about such matters, she would not be running around Europe the way she has been.
* * *
Outside Jane’s office, the school is starting a new day. Well dressed, well spoken, and well-bred young ladies are filtering from breakfast back through their bedrooms and off to various classes. The school is filled with light and feminine chatter as it serves as a rare place of respite from the modern age.
At Birchbane, no element of education is overlooked, and while many traditional subjects are covered for the benefit of younger students planning on attending universities, other classes are dedicated to the finer things in life. Things Storm has absolutely no interest in, like dinner settings, and today: Deportment.
The young ladies in this class are all dressed in black skirts that fall below the knee and pristine white blouses with black lavallières tied neatly at their necks. Well, most of them are. Storm’s pussycat bow will not stay tied up no matter what she does. It just keeps unwinding, and even when it is done up, one side is always bigger than the other. She has tried to tie it properly at least a dozen times now, maybe two dozen, and it never stays in place.
Deportment classes are taken by Madame Pritchard, an older woman who used to be a ballerina. It shows in every graceful movement she makes, from the way she walks to the way she moves her fingertips when illustrating a point.
“Welcome, ladies,” Madame Pritchard says, gliding to the front of the class.
She has blonde hair tinged with gray swept up into one of those fancy elegant updos that befuddle Storm thoroughly because she can barely use a hair tie. She is very beautiful, of course, and quite intimidating to many.
“Today, you will begin to learn the art of moving gracefully, of being an enchanting figure in the world…”
Storm hates the sound of this already. She does not identify as enchanting.
She raises her hand. “Er, ma’am,” she says, trying to be respectful. “Could I please be excused from this class?”
Madame Pritchard swings toward her. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of I don’t really care about any of this.”
It’s as diplomatic an answer as she is capable of, though it causes a scandalized gasp to ripple through the room.
“You will, my dear,” Madame Pritchard says with remarkable patience. “You see, the skills of deportment translate throughout the world. No matter where you are, good posture will see you treated as a creature of quality. And, one day, when you have a family…”
“I’m not going to have a family.”
“One day, when you are married…” Madame Pritchard tries again.
“Not getting married.”
“Well, perhaps when you need to entertain business…”
“Not going to have a job.”
Madame Pritchard’s brows move steadily toward her hairline. “What do you intend on doing?”
“Whatever I want.”
There are snide glances and open guffaws around the room. The young ladies here, rebellious as some of them may be, are largely of the opinion that there is no greater honor than to be a wife to someone suitably rich and well-bred, and a mother to their legacy. The purpose of this school is in large part to develop the skills necessary to secure a suitable match.
