Maybe when she was a kid she had assumed happiness had been possible for the likes of her. But that was before her mother had died of cancer when she was little and her father of a heart attack when Gwen had been a freshman in college. She’d found stability if not grand passion with Cary. But then she’d lost him, too, when he’d gone to follow his dreams. Safety and stability was her definition of happy.
But…
What if she was a teacher here? What if she did stroll those paths, sit under that tree, teach a student like Laird and take orders from someone like Headmaster Yorke? Then…maybe…just maybe…she could have safety and stability and happiness.
Or maybe that was just another dream?
Gwen left the headmaster’s quarters and found the steps that led downstairs. She wanted to see her car and assess the damage. But once she reached the second-floor landing she heard the sound of voices in a faraway room. Talking and laughter. She followed it to the source.
She walked past closed doors that led to empty classrooms. It was evening. Of course no one was in class. But something was happening, something behind the door at the end of the hall.
Gwen opened the door and stepped into a magic forest.
The magic forest was made of paper and Christmas lights. Once she stepped through the door, she felt a hand on her elbow. Headmaster Yorke pulled her by his side and raised a finger to his lips to silence her. He nodded, and she looked ahead at the play in progress.
A boy with dark hair and a slight stammer stood in the center of the paper forest and looked around as if lost.
“Do I entice you?” the boy asked. “Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth, tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?”
“Christopher Hayes.” Headmaster Yorke whispered the name into her ear, and Gwen shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck. “He could barely get a full sentence out when he started here at Marshal.”
“Born with a stammer?” she asked.
The headmaster nodded.
“And now he’s acting in plays?” Gwen was incredulous. Not only because Christopher acted in a school play with a stammer, but also because none of the students teased him when his voice stalled.
Again the headmaster nodded, but this time she could see the gleam of pride in his eyes and the smile that threatened to take over the severe lines of his face.
Laird she recognized at once with his red hair. He wore a tablecloth like a skirt over his school uniform. The boys in the audience whistled and he rolled his eyes.
“Shut it,” he yelled at the crowd. “I’m trying to Shakespeare over here.”
That only incited more whistling and laughter.
“I forgot my lines. Line?” Laird called out.
“And even for that do I love you the more,” Gwen called out the next line. “I am your spaniel. And, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.”
The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes had turned to study her.
“Use me but as your spaniel,” Laird continued the scene. He looked into Christopher’s eyes and spoke again. “Spurn me. Strike me. Neglect me. Lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”
Gwen stepped back into the shadows and the play continued. Side-by-side with the headmaster she watched until the intermission at the end of the second act. As the boys in their costumes and uniforms rearranged scenery, Headmaster Yorke lead her out into the hallway.
“You have A Midsummer Night’s Dream memorized?” he asked her.
“Yes, and Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, and most of the comedies—the good ones.”
“You’re not an actress, are you?”
She laughed at the disdain in his voice. Why were the English so good at disdain?
“Merely a teacher,” she said. “I always have my students act Shakespeare out. You can’t really understand a play until you see it performed. Shakespeare especially. I had no idea he was funny until my junior year of high school when they took us to see A Comedy of Errors.”
“Tell me—” he began, but a familiar redhead opened the door and stuck his head into the hall and interrupted.
“Did you hire her yet?” Laird asked. “We need a new English teacher.”
Headmaster Yorke turned and glared at Laird. Laird winced and made a hasty retreat.
“As I was saying,” the headmaster continued. “What are your qualifications as—”
Now Christopher’s dark head appeared in the doorway.
“Are you the new English teacher?” Christopher asked, without stammering once.
“She is,” Laird said, standing next to him in the doorway. “Her name is Gwen Ashby.”
“Hello, Miss Ashby,” Christopher said. “You’re not married, are you?”
Headmaster Yorke answered the question for her by putting his hand on Christopher’s head and pushing him back through the doorway. Laird’s head popped through the door.
“Have you ever read Ivanhoe?” Laird asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, thank God,” Laird sighed with obvious profound relief. He pointed his thumb at the headmaster. “He’s made us read it six times.”
The headmaster glared at Laird so hard that Laird seemed to shrink back into himself.
“No more Ivanhoe please,” he mouthed as he disappeared back through the door.
“You have very interesting students,” Gwen said. “I like them.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar,” came Laird’s voice from behind the door.
Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke looked up at the ceiling.
“Is it still illegal to kill students in America?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“I’ll simply have to risk it. Come with me to my office, Miss Ashby.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks for asking.”
He arched his eyebrow at her.
“I was pretending you asked me, instead of ordering me.”
“But you
