Chapter 14 – Artistically Bankrupt
Wherein Rose struggles at Bardic College.
Meanwhile, Rose was struggling to get through six days of lessons each week, at least four hours a day. Thaumdays were completely booked from early morn to night, leaving no chance to visit her new friends.
On her one day a week off from college she rested, staying home and catching up on household tasks. Valentina joined her and they would joke and laugh, or have deep philosophical discussions.
Most days she took up her now-customary post outside Paragon's Cup; there was always a good crowd there, plenty of traffic. Usually she went home with a decent weight of coins in her pocket, especially now that people knew to expect her.
Sunsouldays before school, she liked to go to a residential square and play devotions around dawn. Moving into winter, dawn was coming later and later, the weather was turning colder and wetter, and the winds were picking up. The residents of Ansovald Square valued her presence. Most mornings she gratefully enjoyed a warm breakfast and hot tea, brought to her by a housekeeper or local child. Once she had been gifted a slim volume of sheet music and invited to play at a soiree.
She accepted that invitation. The pay had been spectacular, the food even better, and the compliments heartfelt. She had played what she knew: easy country tunes, some devotions, some of the classical pieces from the gifted booklet. It had been wonderful to see people enjoying themselves while she provided the acoustic backdrop. She loved that she could inspire joy in people. It made her struggles at Bardic almost worth it.
Almost, because the college library that she had hoped would be a font of wisdom, was yet another disappointment. As a first-year student, her access was limited to a specific section of the ground-floor aisles. Only second-years and higher had access to the whole collection. First-years could gain the privilege, if they completed an extra course on social science. She wasn’t going to bother for a course that would just make her more miserable for having to jump through hoops.
More than once, Rose marvelled over the bureaucracy and rules that made life difficult for everyone. She discovered there was an entire wing filled with administrative staff, doing Sunfather knew what with their hours. Most menial tasks had long since been replaced by thaumic instruments and memory-crystals.
But Rose had no time to figure out what the administration staff was or wasn’t doing. Brittany kept taking centre stage. The diva had a clique of simpering hangers-on following her every move, serving her like sycophants. It would probably have been funny if Rose hadn’t been a victim of their pranks. Her bookbag – and those of a few other students – had been emptied throughout the cafeteria. Papers waiting for grading had been strewn in the fountain. Little personal items – like pens, pins, pictures – had suspiciously gone missing.
There hadn't been any more physical altercations like the pulling of her hair, though. For now, at least.
Brittany had been getting nastier. The other Fairfields kids had been targeted to some extent, but Rose seemed to be a favourite for some reason.
As proven by the song they had made up about her.
It was a Paladay. Rose hurried unsuspectingly into the practicum room. She had skipped a tube because the first one was too full to hop into. The second one had been late because of an accident earlier on the track; a thaumatic engine had run over a handcart full of apples and crushed two kids, who had had to be revived on the spot.
"Sorry I’m late," she apologised, forced to take a front-row spot.
"You’re in luck, Miss Cerdos, we hadn’t started yet." The teacher scratched out something on his clipboard – her name, probably. "Today’s assignment was to write a satirical song about a modern-day political issue."
The teacher, a human man in his thirties with a smile so slick he could grease an axle, called one of them to the podium.
Rose slouched in her seat. The teacher didn’t want them to take notes, feeling that commentary should come from the heart, not the head. She crossed her arms to keep herself from picking up a pen anyway.
In his untrained alto, the hapless student on stage started jabbering away about the war and women soldiers using men to their benefit.
The next girl up wasn’t much better, but at least her skill on the harp was above entry-level. The subject of the song was unclear to everyone, but the teacher seemed to like it. He applauded with vigour.
It was the third performer that made Rose want to disappear. Brittany made her way down to the little stage with calculated flair befitting a theatre star. Her venomous smile found Rose and grew wider. She wiggled her fingers in a gesture that was anything but friendly.
"Is it okay if I ask my friend to help me out?" Brittany asked the teacher with a darling smile and a tone sweet as honey.
"Of course. Working together is one of the key pillars of education at Bardic," the teacher lied. Or perhaps he actually believed the brochure’s promises? Rose certainly hadn’t noticed any community spirit so far. It seemed to be every student for themselves in here.
Brittany called down one of her ever-present sycophants, a young man with a shaggy beard who was obviously smitten with her. He played his lute well, Rose recalled. "Like we practised," Brittany whispered loudly to the long-haired youth.
The first few bars sounded alright to Rose’s ears. It didn’t have depth, but it was catchy. It was familiar, somehow. When Brittany started singing in her most peachy tone, warbling about life on the farm and all the little animals in their pens, Rose wanted to die.
It was a child’s nursery rhyme. It was hell.
But in the eyes of the teacher, Brittany could do no wrong. She was praised. She was revered. He clapped along to the rhythm, beaming a proud smile.
She had no talent whatsoever. Her musical skills were about as appealing as air freshener in public toilets. Although her magical musical device could fake a lot, it couldn't fix what wasn’t there. Which was why she had needed lute-boy with his wasted talents, Rose knew.
Other voices joined in on the chorus the second time around, loudly belting out the familiar lyrics. She couldn’t see them. Didn’t want to turn around to try and see them. She recognised enough voices – even one from someone she had thought she was on friendly terms with.
This proved one thing to Rose, in any case: talent might not buy good grades in this institution, but money surely made the princess. Brittany’s papa had paid for a new teacher’s wing, with all the latest thaumaturgic gadgets integrated into the building.
How she made it to the end of the lesson, let alone the end of the day, Rose didn’t know. Animal sounds and unsubtle snickers had followed her through the halls wherever she went. If she ever wondered what she was missing out on, not living on campus, she was cured of that musing now.
Standing in the tube, being tossed about in the nigh-empty carriage, she unleashed the feelings of shame and unworthiness that had been heaped onto her.
On the trek from the tube to Stygian Way, she paused mid-stride and screamed into her elbow, garnering a few surprised looks from passers-by.
Feeling calmer, like there was solid ground under her feet again, she walked the rest of the way home.
Later that night, after dinner with the girls and tea in the salon, as Rose was getting ready for bed, she thought back to the day’s events. The truth of it was, Rose had noticed that all the people getting bullied by the queen bee and her sinister swarm were the students who teachers had referred to as skilled. They were the ones Rose thought could actually make it as classical bards, if they were only taught decently.
Getting lessons that were actually useful was a hope Rose was slowly letting go of.
Slowly, because she wasn’t ready to let go of her dream.
~
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