wolflord_andain | (no subject)

(no subject)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every group of teachers needs a refuge from the students. An inviolable sanctum full of tea, slightly uncomfortable chairs, a cinder-choked fireplace, and a slight stale smell of cabbage and chalk dust.

For Galadan, the andain otherwise known as Professor Gideon Wolfe--even this sanctum is not enough.

Some may, in fact, justly name it another avenue of persecution. Fortunately Galadan has learned to cope.

And subtle power plays have always been his forte.

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Aside from the tea, the chairs, the smell of cabbage, and Master Wolfe, the teacher's lounge also currently contains:

1. Miss Spenlow - bright-eyed and idealistic young teacher of history. She is whispered to have leanings towards the Women's Lib movement.
2. Miss Twaite - elderly, sharp-eyed mathematics teacher. She has been at the school forever and a day. There are the usual rumors circulating about Tragic Lost Love Affairs In Her Past and so on, but she seems far too sensible for anyone to give them much credence.
3. Mr. Fortinbraise - ambitious and Artistic music teacher. No one needs to spread rumors that he is pursuing Miss Spenlow; it is far too obvious already. Currently he is leaning over her chair while she spoons sugar into her tea.
4. Monsieur Prosper - French dancing master. As far as everyone else is concerned this about sums it up. Currently he is sleeping in one of the uncomfortable armchairs.

"My dear Miss Spenlow," says Mr. Fortinbras, as the drama opens, "will you take more milk in your tea?"

Galadan very calmly turns a page in the book he is currently perusing.

Doubtless it is something very old, and in Latin.

It will also, no doubt, keep him from committing cold blooded murder. No matter how satisfying such an act might be.

It is a true exercise in forbearance.

Miss Spenlow, it seems, will not take more milk in her tea.

(Miss Spenlow's manner, on the whole, is not overwhelmingly warm towards Mr. Fortinbras.)

"Oh, but Miss Twaite," she cries, turning her head quickly, "whatever happened to your petticoat?" For indeed Miss Twaite is mending a petticoat, which has clearly been savaged in several places.

(Also, apparently, trailed through quartz dust of some sort, from the way it glints oddly in the light.)

"Miss Twaite!" cries Mr. Fortinbras at the same time, in tones of strong disapproval. "Do you really think you ought to be mending a - an undergarment - in a room which all of us frequent? Don't you agree, Wolfe?" he appeals to his fellow in masculinity, Prosper obviously being French and of no use even if he were awake.

Galadan does not look up from his book, apparently occupied in turning another page.

"As it appears to need mending, I'm sure I have no objection. And, of course, as I have little interest in said garment, I find it simple enough to keep myself otherwise occupied."

He does look up for a moment, winter-grey eyes fixing on Mr. Fortinbras.

"Have you nothing with which to occupy yourself, sir?"

Galadan's tone suggests that he is very much surprised.

Edited 2008-07-19 04:28 (UTC)

Miss Spenlow shoots Mr. Wolfe a look of undying gratitude.

Miss Twaite placidly continues to stitch her petticoat together.

Mr. Fortinbras bristles. "I simply meant - this is hardly the place! I should prefer to be able to enjoy a cup of tea without being subjected to petticoats!"

"Oh, but Mr. Fortinbras," says Miss Twaite mildly, looking up, "don't we all spend our time in here airing each other's dirty laundry anyways?"

"There are, of course, other places to take tea."

Galadan's smile is cool and polite.

"I have certainly availed myself of them, on occasion."

Edited 2008-07-19 04:37 (UTC)

"Yes, you would, Wolfe," says Mr. Fortinbras, growing red. "We all know of your fondness for skulking about the place."

Miss Spenlow sets down her tea on the table, with a loud clink that happens to coincide exactly with one of Monsieur Prosper's snores. "Mr. Fortinbras! That was terribly rude!"

"If you consider occasional forays into the gardens to be 'skulking about', sir, you are a very strange fellow, indeed."

Galadan appears entirely unperturbed by whatever accusasions Fortinbras is making.

That would be because he is.

Mr. Fortinbras glares, but says nothing.

He knows - because he has been, let us call it 'paying attention to' (to be polite) rather than anything so sordid as 'following' - Mr. Wolfe, that Mr. Wolfe has been going out. Clearly for the purposes of meeting with someone. He rather suspects it is Miss Spenlow.

Which is why, of course, he can say nothing.

"To answer your question, Miss Spenlow," says Miss Twaite, in the clear silence, "it was the dog. He appears to have taken some dislike to me - or possibly he was showing affection; it is always difficult to tell."

"I do hope it wasn't the result of a prank by one of the students."

Galadan casts a wary glance at the sparkly part of the torn petticoat.

"They do seem a rather fractious lot, of late."

"Oh, I don't think any of our girls would torment a helpless creature like that," says Miss Spenlow earnestly.

"It's always been a nervous little thing - but I must admit it has been acting most peculiar of late. The other day it almost sounded like it was singing."

In spite of his fit of the sulks, Mr. Fortinbras smiles at this. "How fanciful you are, Miss Spenlow!"

"No," Galadan says, smiling.

He has rather a lot of teeth.

"I daresay none of our students are that inclined toward cruelty. Save, perhaps, against each other."

Edited 2008-07-19 05:08 (UTC)

Miss Spenlow frowns, twisting her hands together in her lap. She has moderated, of course, her share of classroom quarrels. "Well - none of them ever truly mean to cause pain, I'm sure. High spirits, perhaps -"

"I can't imagine what action they might take, in any case," Miss Twaite says, mildly, "that would spur a dog to start singing."

"Ah, yes."

Galadan's voice is dry as dust.

"Youthful high spirits explain so much, do they not?"

One corner of his mouth quirks.

"Save, of course, how one might cause a dog to sing. Instead of howling, as is the more usual course of things."

As if on cue, Monsieur Prosper lets out his grandest snore yet, chokes, sputters, and wakes up, thankfully saving the flustered Miss Spenlow from having to respond.

"And always, of course, it is tea," he proclaims into the air, apparently continuing a rant that had been interrupted by his doze. "Always. Is it any wonder the girls they are incapable of poise, when it is always the stimulants we are pouring into them?"

"There's your answer, Miss Spenlow," murmurs Mr. Fortinbras. "Someone's been pouring strong tea into the brute's feeding dish."

Galadan's eyebrows lift, just a fraction.

"I would hardly classify the creature as a brute. Even if it were prone to bursting into song."

He appears very slightly amused.

"Less so, perhaps, if it were inclined to sing in tune. Though I'm certain we need have little fear of that."

Edited 2008-07-19 05:35 (UTC)

"It savaged Miss Twaite -" began Mr. Fortinbras indignantly, when Miss Spenlow says, in some alarm, "Well, don't let the headmistress hear you talking about the dog that way, for goodness' sake!"

"Nothing in this school sings in tune," mutters Monsieur Prosper.

"One might almost suspect she viewed that dog as a substitute for a child."

Galadan is not impressed.

He is also in the enviable position of always knowing precisely when the headmistress is approaching.

It saves on time and trouble, certainly.

"But whyever should she need one when she has forty utterly charming ones here in the school?" Miss Twaite remarks, blandly, and ties off the last stitch in her mending.

She folds it up carefully and puts it on the table. "Speaking of which, might someone be so kind as to check the time for me?"

"Unfortunately I seem to have misplaced my pocket watch."

Galadan makes a careful show of patting himself down.

Miss Twaite does not appear fooled.

However, after a moment, Monsieur Prosper comes to the rescue with the news that it is twenty-seven past three and the next set of classes will be starting in three minutes.

"That's me, anyways," says Mr. Fortinbras, and stalks out, not without one last sullen look in the direction of Mr. Wolfe.

Galadan merely smiles, marking his place before setting his book down on the side table.

Then he stands, offering a slight bow to both Miss Twaite and Miss Spenlow--with slightly less irony directed at Miss Twaite--and leaves.

He has his own class to bring to order.

It takes less time than it used to.

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