in that horrible battle and never found again.”
“She’s always seemed so powerful,” Grace said. “How did she die?”
“She was murdered by a criminal and witch named Isabelle LeFort, who unfortunately has never been apprehended. It was suspected that Miss LeFort was also in league with the Dread Ones. All right, Oliver, you can turn the carousel down.” Renard faced the classroom.
“How come they never caught her?” Grace Johnson asked.
“Difficult to say. As rumor has it, she may have been a changeling…an actual one, too, not just a pretender.”
True changelings were quite rare in Ghoulsville these days, and even over the last century. Their ability to transform themselves at will into another form often made them valuable assets to local law enforcement—and for more nefarious individuals.
“Now I must tell you children something in all seriousness,” Renard went on, “not meant to scare you but to ready you. As you all obviously can surmise, based on our conversation, there are those factions of individuals who think that the Dread Ones were indeed valiant and true to Ghoul Kingdom; that in the end, they were misjudged. There are rumors that they have taken up their cause, albeit in secret, and hope to one day restore Ghoulsville to what it once was under Dread rule. No matter on which side you fall, you need to examine just exactly what is unfolding in front of you. Challenge the beliefs that you may have been raised with and decide for yourself what is true and just. If, for example, Jack Spratt’s Wick—possibly the most powerful artifact outside of Caster’s wand—was indeed to fall into the hands of the current Dread-inspired organizations that are believed by many to have cropped up here in Ghoulsville, you need to decide if this is a good thing, or if it is perhaps something more dire.”
The banshee finally screeched that the end of class was near. Lunch was next. The children, a bit drained by today’s offering from Professor Renard, eagerly made their way to the dining pavilions.
Oliver came over to Gabbie. “No hard feelings there, Gabbie,” he offered. “I sometimes like to stir things up a bit—just to see where people’s mettle truly lies. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You had me worried there for a moment, Oliver,” Gabbie said.
“Well, you’re a good debater. I’d hate to come up on your wrong side.”
“Let’s go, Gabbie,” Neville said, pulling her away.
“Neville, that was rude. What’s the rush?”
“No rush,” he said, “just wanted to get away from him.”
“Oliver?”
“I don’t trust him, I guess. Nigel never liked him; he thought he was a bigot.”
“Neville, that’s a hard word.”
“Maybe, but didn’t you notice? He had no problem clearing the air with you but didn’t say a word to Grawl, whom he probably offended more with all that talk about the Troll Nation massacre essentially not happening.”
“That was a good class, Professor,” Oliver said to Renard as the last of the children filed out.
“Thank you, Mister McTavish,” Renard replied, “though it’d be advisable that you modulate your passion a bit from here on out.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“No, boy, don’t be sorry; be careful.” Renard pulled his robe from the small closet in the back of the room. “Now, if you don’t mind, apparently I have an inspection to attend.”
In the Dining Pavilion
“So, Beast, tell me: How does it feel to know that your father and his cronies will be the ones to let the Dread Ones back among us all?” Florinda asked Gabbie as they were in line for lunch. Cauldrons simmered in the background.
“That’s not true, Florinda! My father is innocent. Now you take that back.”
“Or what, stripeless wonder?”
“Better a stripeless wonder than a flatulent, frizzy topped boor!”
“Flatulent! That's a good one, Gabbie,” Grawl said at her side.
“I know you’re not talking about anyone’s body odors, troll,” Florinda rounded on Grawl, “though you’ve definitely smelled no worse this year than your normal putrid self. And as for what happened earlier, Beast, that was a spell, and don’t think I didn’t know it was Neville and you who probably cast it,” Florinda barked."It's not surprising that the two of you stick together. Why, with your hoodlum, troll-loving father and Neville's absentee father and crazy dead mother, it's no wonder you live to make life miserable for the rest of us more normal witches and warlocks!"
“Oh, whatever!” Gabbie turned her back on Florinda, who responded by raising her hand to levitate a large jug of Baby’s Ale over Gabbie’s head.
“Gabbie, look out!” Grawl pulled Gabbie out of the way, ready to take the dousing, as Florinda jerked her hand backwards and the liquid began to pour out—but was stopped midair by Grace Johnson, who had been watching the exchange.
“Back off, Florinda.” Grace stepped between them. She waved her hand and righted the canister and the frozen-in-space liquid. “No one here has time for your special brand of foolishness.”
Florinda knew better than to challenge Grace, who was older and probably could give her what-for if it came down to it. “Another time, then.”
“Or not,” Grace retorted.
Florinda marched away with her tray of food following behind.
“Thanks, Grace, but you didn’t have to do that,” Gabbie said.
“Just doing a favor for a friend, Del Toro. Nothing more.”
“But you’ve taken from your cache.”
“No worries, I can make it up.” Grace smiled and added, “Stay out of trouble!”
“That was strange,” Gabbie remarked. "When did I get in her good graces, excuse the pun?”
“It’s not a big deal,” Grawl said. “You know Florinda’s a bully. As for Grace, she’s probably after brownie points.”
“Brownie points? With who?”
“Neville, of course. She’s nuts about him.”
“Neville, really? Since when?”
“Since for a long time now.”
“That’s ridiculous! What on earth do she and Neville have in common?”
“Never can tell. Opposites attract, after all.”
“Whatever,” Gabbie snorted. She was still dealing with the fact that Neville had been less than forthcoming
