Something clicked in Emily’s mind. “For the quarrel to flourish.”
Jacqui didn’t seem surprised that Emily knew the term. But then, it probably wasn’t a surprise. She knew Emily had been to Mountaintop, where the quarrels were far more prominent. Someone might even have told her that Emily had been offered membership in several different quarrels. She’d declined, at the time.
“Quite,” Jacqui said. “You’ll be leaving Whitehall at the end of the year, if Frieda doesn’t get you kicked out first. What then? You will need help and support as you enter the community and it’s pretty clear that your father isn’t going to provide it. Even if he did, how could he understand your needs? It’s been decades since he was your age. You need people who are loyal to you.”
“And how loyal were you to Melissa?” Emily asked. “You didn’t stick with her when she was disowned.”
“That was necessary,” Jacqui said, stiffly. “Her family had already disowned her. We were pressured into abandoning her.”
“How ... loyal,” Emily said.
Jacqui eyed her for a long moment. “And you expect Frieda to remain loyal to you?”
Emily hesitated. A year ago, she would have said yes. Now ... Frieda had changed. Emily didn’t understand why her friend was changing, but she couldn’t deny it. Frieda was growing dangerously unpredictable. It was hard to escape the feeling that Frieda was careening towards disaster.
“I choose to remain loyal to her,” she said, finally. “Does that answer your question?”
Jacqui shook her head, disdainfully. “You are willing to throw away your own future for her?”
“There’s no guarantee I will lose my future,” Emily said. “And I can’t just abandon someone because they’re going through a bad patch.”
“That’s a foolish attitude,” Jacqui said. “You could lose everything.”
“But at least it’s mine to lose,” Emily said. She met Jacqui’s eyes, silently challenging her. “What do you want?”
“A more ... even ... relationship,” Jacqui said. “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
“Really,” Emily said. She forced herself to think. Jacqui had stayed at Whitehall over the half-term, hadn’t she? She could have carried the pamphlets into school, if she wished ... hell, she could have spread the rumors too. But she had no proof, nothing she could take to the Grandmaster. “I think I prefer Frieda to you.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Jacqui said.
“Maybe I am,” Emily said.
Emily shrugged. “Seeing you have nothing to do tonight, you can supervise detentions in Room 101,” she ordered. It was petty, but she wanted to shut Jacqui up. “I’m sure the younger students will be grateful.”
Jacqui curtseyed. “Enjoy that badge while you have it,” she said. “I’m sure Frieda will ensure you lose it soon.”
She turned and walked down the corridor. Emily stared after her, gloomily sure she’d missed something important. But what? If Jacqui was spreading the rumors, what did she have to gain? Or was she jumping to the wrong conclusion, again? She’d have to be careful if she wanted proof. Making the accusation—even a correct accusation—without any real proof would be disastrous.
Something will turn up, she told herself firmly. And when it does, I’ll be ready.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“TAKE A SEAT AND WAIT,” Madame Griselda ordered, when Emily stepped into the antechamber. “The Grandmaster is currently busy.”
Probably telling Frieda off, Emily thought, as she sat on the hard bench. There’s no point in playing power games now.
She tried to force herself to relax, despite the disturbing conversation with Jacqui, but it wasn’t easy. The bench seemed designed to make her uncomfortable. Gordian could have easily put a more comfortable sofa—or a set of armchairs—into the antechamber, if he’d wished. She couldn’t help wondering if he subjected outside visitors to the bench or if he had a second office for non-students. Perhaps the latter. She’d met people who would take mortal offense if a single one of their titles was left out when they were announced. The ugly bench made it clear that anyone who visited wasn’t welcome.
It’s probably grounds to start a feud, she reflected. The thought wasn’t really funny, but she was desperate for relief. A death-match fought over a particularly uncomfortable piece of wood.
Madame Griselda sniffed loudly, then returned to her work. Emily kept a wary eye on her—she’d often wondered if Gordian’s aide was more than she seemed—but the secretary just kept working her way through the files. Someone had to keep the bureaucracy moving, even in Whitehall. Secretary or not, Madame Griselda was in a position of considerable influence and power. Stalin had been a secretary too, if Emily recalled correctly. Being able to alter the minutes and set the agenda had probably made his takeover considerably easier.
The inner door opened. Frieda emerged, looking weepy. She glanced at Emily, then hurried through the outer door before Emily could say a word. Emily stared after her, wondering just what Gordian had said. Had he expelled her? Or beaten her himself? It was within his authority, just unusual. Emily rose, unsure if she should go after Frieda or not. If nothing else, Frieda needed to know that Alana would recover ...
“Emily.” Gordian stood in the inner door, arms crossed over his chest. “Come.”
Emily sighed and followed him into his office. It looked as cold and unwelcoming as ever, she noted as the door closed behind her. A dozen wards hung in the air, pressing against her magic. Half of them seemed designed to monitor flares of power within the room; the other half had no purpose at all, as far as she could tell. But that might just mean they weren’t active, yet. She resisted the urge to poke and prod at them as Gordian took his seat behind the desk. That would have been very rude.
So what? her thoughts asked. Not bothering to give you a chair, let alone a chance to sit down, is rude too.
She pushed the thought aside as she clasped her hands behind her back. Sergeant Miles would have been proud of her, the irreverent part of her mind noted. Standing at parade rest, ready to accept praise or blame or whatever she was offered without complaint ... it was something she thought he would have understood. She wondered, absently, where Sergeant Miles actually was. There had been no sign of him on the way to the office ...
“Emily,” Gordian said. “I trust Adana will recover?”
“She’s out of danger, sir,” Emily said. “I was told she’ll be back to classes in two weeks.”
“Good,” Gordian said. For an instant, she saw naked relief on his face. She didn’t really blame him. Frieda wouldn’t have made a suitable scapegoat if Alana had died and her family had demanded vengeance. Gordian’s own head would be on the chopping block, perhaps literally. “Being in Second Year, losing so much time will not make that much of a difference.”