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Yes, she had made a compelling case, and that light in those wide-open eyes made Magdalene’s heart stutter. Seeing Sam smile was worth all the insanity that had surely possessed her when she’d offered Orla the contract. She could see the wild hammering of the pulse in Sam’s neck, and had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from reaching out. She knew how that spot smelled, how the pulse fluttered there, that sensation of that heartbeat against her fingertips, against her mouth.
And so on the heels of desire, came the predictable fear. She couldn’t be thinking this. She couldnotbe doing this. The danger, brightened red and made hot by sharp desire, was too monumental to even consider.
Clearing her throat, she waved her hand and effectively ended the moment that had stretched long enough. “Of course, I also spoke to the trustees and some of the current and former students, but overall, your staunch defense of the esteemed—or, depending on your point-of-view, less esteemed—Professor Fenway got the ball rolling. So if she has one individual to thank for still being at Dragons, it would be you, Professor Threadneedle.”
Sam’s shoulders seemed to sag, and Magdalene thought she had seen the light dim in her eyes just a touch. Well, it was only for the best. Neither of them could risk anything at this point.
“Except gratitude isn’t why I provided the defense I did.”
No, no, she wouldn’t even consider going anywhere near that. Instead, she made a point of being deliberately obtuse.
“Ah, yes, she is essential to the school.”
Sam averted her gaze for a moment, then narrowed her eyes and stood up straight in a gesture Magdalene recognized as the harbinger of a new battle.
“Headmistress, the Houses are essential for the school, too.”
Magdalene took a deep breath when she really wanted to raise a fist and shake it at the sky.
This woman…
“Of course. You are like a dog with a bone. A new bone, I should say, since we have settled one of your charity cases.” At Sam’s look of outrage and deep offense, Magdalene simply waved a dismissive hand again. “Fine, fine, I apologize. Orla Fenway is no one’s charity case, obviously. Next thing, you will challenge me to a duel over Joanne Dorsea.”
The transformation on Sam’s features from belligerent to outright mourning was so stark, Magdalene swallowed a laugh as her heart simultaneously clenched in pity for Sam, while she really wanted to groan.
“No, stop.” She pressed her lips together, flicked an annoyed gaze skyward, and walked away from the desk. In the distance, surrounded by the cold, coarse stone of the windowsill and the fraying paint on the wooden frame, she could see the ocean, and for once she wished it would not mellow her out so much. She was clearly at a disadvantage here, even if Sam had no idea about the effect she had on her.
“Do not give me the kicked-puppy look. Before you actually mount another campaign, let me reassure you that Professor Dorsea is safe and sound and will continue at Dragons. She will not remain in the Art Chair position. Her health condition prevents her from doing so. But she agreed to stay on as a member of the Residential Faculty. The students love her, and having her closer to the dormitories will be a boon for everyone. And she’ll still teach photography. So—”
“So she keeps the job she likes, adds another that she will excel at, and gives up the bureaucracy and paperwork she hates as the Art Chair. Thank you.” There were actual tears in Sam’s eyes when Magdalene finally turned back around, and to say she wasn’t prepared to face that, to deal with that—to begin to consider that she had caused that, even in good conscience—was an understatement.
Magdalene played with the collar of her blouse, tugging gently on the expensive silk. She was going soft. She must be. There was no other explanation for why she’d invited Joanne Dorsea for an interview. Her health was such, Magdalene could have easily refused her the opportunity to even try to apply for her old job.
Her own memories of the woman and the role she’d played in Magdalene’s humiliation thirty years ago surely would have been enough to support that decision.
Except there was that aforementioned softness…
Magdalene had interviewed Professor Dorsea alone, since she was certain the woman wouldn’t hold up to the sadistic questioning Joel tended to subject his victims to.
She did, however, not deign to do it in the designated conference room, instead asking the older women to join her for a walk. For someone with bad knees, Joanne kept up admirably. Granted, Magdalene had chosen the easiest path, and they found themselves on Amber Cliff in no time. As she turned to face Joanne, the resignation on those long-familiar features told her enough.
“I guess I deserve to be dismissed here, in the very place where you learned of your punishment, Magdalene.” Joanne’s voice was permeated with sadness, but there was a note to it that sounded acutely like guilt.
Magdalene walked closer to the edge, turning her head into the wind, drawing out the moment. But about fifteen seconds in, the weight settled on her shoulders, and she rubbed her chest, hand over beating heart. She didn’t want to be here with Joanne. She only wanted to be here with Sam, and if she wanted her peace, Sam would have to have hers as well.
And Joanne was important to Sam. Above anyone else on this speck of dirt in the Atlantic, Magdalene had come to learn that Joanne was the mother Sam had never had. And as Magdalene looked into the tired eyes of her former teacher, she knew—in spite of everything—there would be no other decision for her.
She turned back to her companion and opened her mouth, but Joanne beat her to the punch, her words like olive branches weaving themselves around Magdalene, soothing yet unnecessary.
Standing there, arms slack, the Vacheron heavy on her wrist, the jasmine now stronger on her pulse points than in the air, Magdalene realized they were not at war.
“I was a coward back then, Headmistress.” Joanne hung her head. “And despite doing everything I could to remedy things when the next child came along, the fact remains, I didn’t do anything to save you.”
Magdalene’s smile tasted bitter on her lips. They had come full circle. Joanne had given up on her, rescued Sam in no small part as penance for her own lack of courage, and was now reverently calling Magdalene “Headmistress"...
“Fancied yourself a savior, Professor Dorsea?” Her sarcasm didn’t reach its target, as Joanne simply nodded and averted her gaze. Magdalene sighed. Now that her own disinterest in any kind of revenge against this woman had become abundantly clear to her—the word itself sounding and feeling foolish altogether—she wanted to be alone. “I don’t have any resentment towards you.”
It felt rather freeing to say it, even if Magdalene did not want to acknowledge it. She thought she had so much hatred in her, for anyone and everyone linked to Dragons. But looking at Joanne in this moment, she knew nothing remained except the tiredness of carrying around the heavy burden of being wronged. Yes, she had been wronged, but from where she stood now, it seemed moot to keep holding on to these emotions regarding this woman. After all, even if she could have done more, there’d been no way to save Magdalene back then.
