Chapter Text
Looking back, Mildred doesn’t remember many of the events from that night. She does remember feeling jittery when the time had come and gone for Mum to be due home, and then a little perturbed when it was half past and their dinner had gone cold. She feels sickly ashamed of that now.
And she remembers mirroring Maud to pass the time - doesn’t know what they talked about, only that she’d eventually managed to lose track of the clock and been startled when there was still no Mum but a knock at the door instead.
“Hang on,” she’d said to the mirror. “I bet she’s just carrying groceries. Be right back.”
Her clearest memory by far is how it had felt to get halfway to the door and suddenly remember Mum had grocery shopped the day before.
It’s all vague after that. She does remember someone screaming. She remembers the policeman who filled the doorway and how he’d seemed too large and too male and too wrong . And Mum - Mum -
Something about a car crash, then words like hospital and and didn’t make it and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. It’s a word she really hates. Hates it with the passion, with a rage the bubbles up inside her like a shout, like a cry for Mum. Mum. Mum.
And then more words, words like can’t stay here. And social worker . And no other relations.
But her world is closing in on her and she just wants Mum - but Mum isn’t coming for her - isn’t ever coming for her. And she’s down on the floor of the apartment, and she knows she making a scene, but terror is eating her alive. And she’s clinging to the leg of the kitchen table screaming over and over I need to say here and wait for Mum as a lady in a stiff cheap suit arrives and enters uninvited to pack a few overnight things for her.
It’s black after that, she doesn’t remember, refuses to remember any of it. Not until she feels a pair of soft hands on her back, brushing hair out of her eyes, gathering her close. And for a moment she thinks it’s Mum, rolls over to bury her face in her sweater, but it’s not a sweater, it’s a cardigan. And it’s not Mum’s smell but one sweeter, more floral. She pushes back and looks up into the eyes of Miss Pentangle.
“You’re not my Mum.” She remembers that, remembers the way it felt to think it was Mum and have it be a near stranger. Still, it’s someone at least slightly familiar, someone who has shown her kindness before and who is looking at her with kindness now, and she clings despite her rage at it not being Mum.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not.” Miss Pentangle says softly. She lets Mildred clutch at her and brushes the stray hairs that cling to her sweaty, tear streaked forehead behind her ears. “You just hang on to me though, sweetheart, you hear that? You’re not going anywhere, darling, you’ll stay right here.”
And Mildred remembers, will always remember, the way Miss Pentangle sat on the floor beneath the kitchen table with her, holding her fast, stroking her hair, answering the questions that the lady in the cheap gray suit and terribly practical tan shoes fires at her from above, starting with, “Lady, I don’t know who you think you are -”
And she will always remember how Miss Pentangle had narrowed her eyes, her fingers twitching slightly in Mildred’s hair and how suddenly, the ugly, sensible shoes were retreating with a mutter of, “Paperwork says she has one aunt, dunno what you called me out for -” and the too large policeman is shuffling through papers in confusion and arranging for custody to be transferred to a Pippa Pentzel, maiden name Hubble - and - and -
She doesn’t think she can remember anything after that.
Because after that it’s just all one long waking nightmare that seemingly lasts for hours, perhaps even days. Until one morning she wakes up in Mum’s bed, with a numb detachment from reality, to find Miss Pentangle sitting on the edge holding her hand and looking serious.
She wants to cry but nothing comes. She wants to run, but she lays leaden.
She is thirsty though, dried up and wrung out. When Miss Pentangle helps her sit and guides a glass of water into her hand she knows she should feel gratitude, but instead she just feels nothing.
She drinks a little and then, before she can cultivate it into anything other than a blunt question that teeters on the brink of being an accusation, demands, “Why are you here.”
Pippa looks at her steadily and moves to place the glass on the table by the bed. Her mother’s bed. Her mother’s table. Her mother’s glass.
“Maud was still in the mirror when they came with the news about your mother,” she says gently. “She alerted her parents, who alerted Miss Cackle, and word was sent to me - you see I have rather more experience navigating the non-Magical world having worked with the parents of some of my pupils.”
She hesitates but then continues, “And I had been to see your mother on occasion - after you and I had met at the Spelling Bee. I’d figured that with your unique situation she might need a resource to talk to. We met up every so often to have a chat about you, about the magical world -”
Mildred feels the tears come then, so hot and sharp that the salt burns the already raw track marks on her cheeks.
“Oh, Mildred.” She feels Miss Pentangle move beside her and reaches out blindly to pull her close, sobbing into the cardigan that still does not smell like Mum.
“I want her back - I want her back,” she cries over the deep choking sounds that bust out from deep within her.
“I know, I know you do, sweet girl.”
She collapses into Miss Pentangle and cries herself out, eventually lulled by the feeling of gentle hands on her hair and the softness a murmured voice in her ear.
______
She can’t keep track of time that awful, awful summer vacation. It seems all her days blur and run together like muddied watercolors. Somedays she’s screaming, somedays she’s numb. She eats little and either sleeps too much or not at all, and takes to pacing the small apartment like a caged animal, confronting the void left by her mother at every turn.
She hears voices sometimes from the living room and knows Miss Pentangle must be making arrangements via phone and mirror, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t want to know what comes next. Doesn’t want there to be a next.
It’s on a day where she’s slightly more lucid that Miss Pentangle helps her settle in a chair in the sun and coaxes her to eat a few bites of soup that the topic of what “next” might look like is finally broached.
She hears words like, Cackle’s and somewhere familiar and apartment and funeral -
And she stops listening. Leans back into the chair and tries to block out the sun and the sound of Miss Pentangle’s voice and the whole colorless vacum of a Julie Hubble free world.
There is a funeral, she thinks. Must have been because afterwards they return to the apartment and some of her items have been packed. Miss Pentangle’s assures her that all of the apartment, all of her things - all of her Mum’s things - will be packed up as well and transferred to Cackle’s where Miss Cackle has promised to store them until you come of age and can decide what you want to do.
She thinks she remembers standing in the apartment one last time. Looking out at Cackle’s in the distance on the hill, looking for her mother in the small rooms behind her. But maybe it’s a dream. More likely it is. The constant, constant return to stand in the living room and look for her Mum night after night in her sleep. Dream or memory, it hardly matters.
So she goes to live at Cackle’s, for the summer at least. Everything about her future is unclear and unknown, but at least she would have ended up back here eventually, she supposes.
There’s a brief, shining moment of happiness when Maud and Enid appear on the grounds the day after arrives back and she runs to throw her arms around them, the tears she wants to shed refusing to fall.
They offer their condolences. But they can’t possibly understand, she thinks, pushing them away, suddenly wishing she were all alone again. She wants them to leave, wants to be free to aimlessly wander the grounds, to think, or not think, to exist in a numb, spinning void of summer sunlight that she doesn’t seem to ever feel.
They stay for the week, trying to pep her up with unflaggaring positivity and affection, cajoling her along. She’s so relieved when they leave that then she does cry then, ugly, gaping sobs until Miss Cackle finds her and brings her to her office for a nice cup of tea.
It becomes a routine of sorts, she wanders the grounds in the morning, takes tea with Miss Cackle, subconsciously avoids Miss Hardbroom in the hallways, and spends the evenings trying and failing to coerce her mind to read through her spell assignments for the next term. Another thing that hardly seems to matter.
She grows so tired of the suffocation of the empty castle walls, and she finds herself climbing up to sit atop one of the turrets one clear evening towards the end of her second week back.
There’s no curfew. No one is checking to make sure she’s brushed her teeth, or has her light out, or is not roaming the halls at odd hours.
She sits beneath the stars and feels how very small she is.
______
One evening, not long after, she sneaking around the castle halls in search of Tabby. He’s seen a mouse and bolted again, and she really wishes he wouldn’t leave her like that. She’s so tired of people leaving her. And Tabby has been her only real comfort over the past few weeks.
Passing Miss Hardbroom’s room, she takes particular care to tiptoe around the light that seeps out from beneath the door, and she’s almost made it safely past when she hears her name. She pauses, one foot still in the air.
When she hears it a second time a deep uneasiness creeps up inside her. Moving silently, she stands before the door and listens hard, frowning when she can’t make out anything further.
She knows she shouldn’t. Knows how bad the consequences could be for her brazenness. But if people are talking about her, she wants to know . And Miss Hardbroom talking about her is never a good thing. Heart beating, she eases the heavy door open and peers through the crack, brow furrowed, trying to place a voice that is as familiar as it is unfamiliar.
“- her powers are so unstable, I fear this loss will only increase their unpredictability.”
“I’m just asking you to be more patient with her this year, is all, Hecate.”
That’s Miss Pentangle to be sure. And Hecate? Mildred frowns even more deeply. Isn’t that Miss Hardbroom? She leans closer.
The criticism of her skills is exactly the type of condemnation she’d expect from her teacher, but gone is the drawl and curt tone. In fact, Miss Hardbroom speaks quickly, her voice softer, as if her mask as Deputy Head has been drawn away to reveal something rather more - well - human.
“It’s not just the other students I’m worried about, Pippa, you have to know that.”
“And I do - you know I do, Hiccup.”
Hiccup? Mildred’s eyes widen and she nudges the door open a bit further so she can peek around the edge. She can just manage to see them if she leans forwards a bit. Cups of tea lay out before them, and what looks like an abandoned chess game. But the opponents chair is empty and instead the two of them are sitting together on the stiff gray couch. Miss Hardbroom is speaking again and Miss Pentangle leans closer, listening intently.
“It’s just that -” Miss Hardbroom pauses, seems to struggle with her words, “she’s out there on the roof night after night. She’s not eating - though she will take tea with Ada, and I am relieved about that - but some days she hardly leaves her room, I doubt she gets out of bed. Others, she just wanders the grounds listlessly.”
“Can’t you help her, Hecate? Comfort her?”
“She hardly wants a teacher she hates prying, I should think.”
Miss Pentangle reaches out and takes Miss Hardbroom’s hand and Miss Hardbroom flushes, a look of shame on her face that Mildred feels certain she’d been vanished to oblivion for witnessing if Miss Hardbroom catches her out.
“Hiccup, oh, Hiccup, don’t say that. You have been quite hard on her, I’m afraid, but now - now you’re in the unique position - more so than any of us - to understand her. ” Miss Pentangle moves closer until their knees just touch.
“In fact, even before now, you’re more similar to each other than you care to admit.”
Miss Hardbroom hangs her head and her fingers twitch beneath Miss Pentangle’s.
“I’ll only make things worse.”
“Oh, Hiccup, you won’t. Not if you permit yourself to open up a little.” Miss Pentangle reaches up and gently brushes her fingers under Miss Hardbroom’s chin until they’re looking at each other and Mildred bites down a gasp at how shiny Miss Hardbroom’s eyes look. But Miss Pentangle’s fingers are steady and she doesn’t let Miss Hardbroom look away.
“You know what I’m asking you.”
Miss Hardbroom ducks her head in a nod so that Miss Pentangle’s fingers brush against her cheek and Miss Pentangle drops her hand, both of them inexplicably blushing. Mildred has no idea what Miss Pentangle is asking, and shuffles forward a bit so she can hear Miss Hardbroom say in a low voice -
“And you? I - I - know we have spoken about it a great deal, and I know you have been speaking with Ada and - I -” Mildred watches her swallow, her fingers twisting together nervously in her lap, “I think you should go through with it.”
Miss Hardbroom’s face twists for a moment before she mumbles, “Not that I think you need my permission or - or -” but Miss Pentangle cuts her off and takes her hands again.
“Hiccup, your opinion means everything to me. It always has. It always will. I value it a great deal.” They look at each other for a moment, and then Mildred is sure she hears Miss Pentangle whisper, “I value you a great deal.”
They’re close together now, something in the air between them, and Mildred inadvertently leans in, trying to see from a better angle. Her hand slips and she nudges the door a bit causing it to squeak in protest. Two pairs of adult eyes snap to focus on her and she gasps.
Miss Pentangles eyebrows jump up, but it’s Miss Hardbroom who truly jumps; she’s up on her feet in a flash staring at her, and it’s enough to make Mildred turn tail and bolt.
She knows she’s in for it now, knows how Miss Hardbroom cannot abide eavesdroppers, knows that the personal nature of the conversation is embarrassing enough for both of them that it can only mean the most dire of consequences.
Half expecting Miss Hardbroom to materialize before her at every turn, she dashes from hallway to hallway, heart in her mouth, until she reaches her room and pulls up the window sash, clambering out to seek refuge on the roof.
She collapses on the turret panting, mind whirling.
She’d only started to get over her shock at a gentle Miss Hardbroom and now she’s going to be hated more than ever. Drawing her knees up, she tugs at her hair in frustration and disappointment, sniffing back hot, angry tears.
It’s not fair she thinks . But she doesn’t know if she’s angry at herself for getting caught or at Miss Hardbroom for being - well - Miss Hardbroom.
It takes a few minutes to register the creeping sensation on the back of her neck, and when she whirls around, the woman in question is standing directly behind her.
Mildred screeches and nearly loses her balance, but Miss Hardbroom’s hand shoots out and steadys her, her grip vice like.
“Careful,” she snaps, face unreadable.
Mildred ducks her head but her shoulders stiffen in resentment.
“I don’t want to talk to you.” She says dully, turning back to let her legs dangle down the side of the castle wall. She doesn’t care if she’s being rude. This isn’t term, Miss Hardbroom isn’t her teacher right now. She shouldn’t even be here. She should be at home. With her mother. With her mother.
Mildred hunches further, focusing out at the stars and trying to keep the grief at bay. She will not cry in front of Miss Hardbroom, she just won’t.
She fully expects Miss Hardbroom to belittle her, or worse, transfer her back to her room and bar her windows and doors. Instead she is surprised when she settles next to her, her back to the skyline so that they’re more or less face to face.
They sit in silence for a long time and, and despite her words, curiosity - a rare enough thing for her these days - finally wins out.
“What did Miss Pentangle mean when she said we were similar? We are nothing alike. I’m the worst witch in school, I’m clumsy, and untalented, and you’re - you’re -”
“Overly critical and grouchy?”
Mildred nearly falls off the parapet in surprise and angles her head to stare at Miss Hardbroom.
She must be dreaming because there’s almost a smile on Miss Hardbrooms face, albeit fleeting, before it drops and becomes inscrutable once more. She tilts her head back to examine the stars before speaking again.
“I do suppose I owe you an apology, Mildred. I have been hard on you, harder than perhaps I should have been.” The words come as if they’re pulled from Miss Hardbroom one by one and Mildred feels a flame of anger lick up inside her.
“You don’t have to nice to me now just because my mum’s dead.” It’s comes out harshly, and Mildred feels ashamed the moment it leaps from her mouth.
Miss Hardbroom freezes and is quiet for a long time.
“My mother died shortly before I left for school,” she eventually says, in the same soft voice Mildred heard her use with Miss Pentangle.
She glances over at Mildred and hesitates, and Mildred stares at her, startled, suddenly attentive.
“I can understand feeling angry at an adult who should have supported you before, suddenly only making an effort after the fact. I remember what that feels like.” Her voice is very quiet and she looks down at Mildred, meeting her gaze steadily.
Mildred feels her eyes well up, and she blinks at the tears. “I’m sorry about your mum,” she whispers, her heart quivering. No one, not even Miss Hardbroom, should lose a mum, she thinks brokenly.
“No, Mildred. I’m sorry. I’ve been harsh with you, often unfairly. I think - I think because, to answer your question, I remember what it’s like to have such power at such a young age, to struggle to control it, to -” Miss Hardbroom clenches her hands into fists in her lap, “to harness it.”
She pauses and resumes her study of the sky. “I felt that if I could just control it, I could control the way I felt. I craved it - structure, control, rules - they all were tools I used to contain not just my magic but my emotions. I think I believed that if I only had more control, I could prevent anything bad happening in the future. And if I’d been a better witch I could have saved her. ”
A tear streaks down Mildred’s cheek and she nods.
Miss Hardbroom’s eyes shift over to her briefly, and she gives Mildred a nearly-there smile. “And then you show up at Cackle’s, with an enormous capacity for magic, that same uncontained power - but newborn into the world of magic. You existed outside rules and structure and had absolutely no control. And instead of following any magical precedence, you reacted quite instinctually - often getting into minor scrapes, it’s true, but when it came down to it, getting all of us, myself included, out of major ones.”
Miss Hardbroom bows her head and twists her fingers together in her lap.
“I do suppose I’ve tried to make you more like me and was increasingly frustrated when you continued to be Mildred Hubble.” Miss Hardbroom looks over at her now, and there’s something behind her eyes Mildred’s never seen before and can’t read. “But I don’t want you to be like me - not now.
Miss Hardbrooms voice returns to its usual brusqueness, “I do want you to have more control, more awareness of rules and consequences, but that’s for your own safely, as well as your fellow students.” She studies Mildred and softens ever so slightly again before saying slowly, “I’ve begun to learn that there are also consequences for hiding behind a magical rulebook.”
She casts Mildred a significant look and says tightly, “When your friends return, try not to push them away. They can help you more than you’ll know you need.”
They sit in silence for a long while and Mildred tries to adjust to Miss Hardbroom’s admissions, turning them over and over again in her mind as the stars grow brighter above them.
“Miss Hardbroom,” she ventures finally and is met with a lifted brow which she takes an an invitation to continue.
“I haven’t finished my potions summer project,” she whispers, shamefaced. “I’d done all my other assignments, but then -”
“Come see me in the morning, ten o’clock.” Mildred sags but Miss Hardbroom continues in slightly less staccato tones. “Bring your project, we’ll look at it together.”
It’s strange, the lack of criticism that usually accompany any exposure of her inadequacies in front of Miss Hardbroom. But Miss Hardbroom also doesn’t say if you’re up to it. Or when you think you’re ready. It’s as though she knows Mildred needs to dive into something to divert herself, to fill the endless hours of time that creep by, hours that separate her further and further from the last time she heard her mother’s voice. But then, she considers, she probably does know.
She trips over a bashful, “Thank you,” and Miss Hardbroom gives a short nod, making to rise before hesitating.
“Don’t stay out here too long, though Mildred. Please, try to get some sleep.”
Mildred shrugs and looks back up at the sky. “It’s just - “
“I know.”
Their eyes meet and Miss Hardbroom lifts her eyebrows again slightly. “Tomorrow - ten o’clock, potions lab.”
She transfers away and Mildred’s left in the quiet of the night, a slight breeze ruffling the tails of her braids. She shifts to settle more fully back against the casement of the parapet and her knee nudges against something on the ledge - Miss Hardbroom must have dropped something.
Waving her hand before her, it takes a few tries before she’s able to magic a small ball of flame to hover by her side and coax it bright enough that she’s finally able to see that it’s a book. The cover is a deep cobalt, with a dozen of golden constellations embossed into the leather, and very worn pages though the book itself doesn’t look all that old.
Tracing a finger across the gold of the title - “Celestial Bodies: A Guide to Constellations and Other Stellar Phenomenon” - she cracks it open to reveal gorgeous illustrations of the night sky. She squints and the diagrams and then back up at where the stars glimmer above her, trying to piece it together, but it remains a mystery.
Still, the beauty of the book is enough for her to slip from her seat and clamber back through her window. She settles down in her bed with a proper light to thumb through images that seem nearly alive under the fingertips. Tabby reappears - as if by magic she thinks vaguely - and she strokes his warm fur and peruses pages until sleep overtakes her. And for the first time since her mother’s death she does not dream.
______
So her days go. She works on her potions project every morning at ten o’clock sharp with Miss Hardbroom, takes tea with Miss Cackle, and then has the afternoons to herself to wander the hallways and the grounds, making endless loops past the pond and through the eerily silent witch ball courts.
Sometime Miss Hardbroom will mention she’s low on an ingredient and send Mildred out into the gardens with precise instructions. She doesn’t ever say more than “thank you” when Mildred comes back with what she strongly suspects must be the wrong plant. Instead, Miss Hardbroom sends her out the next day, with more detailed instructions, and sometimes and clipping from a botany book to guide her.
Still, her nights are her own. Miss Hardbroom hasn’t mentioned the constellation book, and Mildred finds she prefers that. It’s something that has become special, like a secret. She doesn’t feel so alone now, so small under the stars, as bit by bit she begins to make sense of the diagrams and their accompanying notations written in a spidery hand.
She’s out there one night after a particularly rough day, dangling her feet over the edge of a parapet and watching what she thinks is Capella with vague detachment when she’s startled by Miss Pentangle crawling out the window of the nearest tourret to join her.
“I heard you like to come up here,” she says, settling in beside Mildred.
“We can go in - if you like -” Mildred says quickly, unsure that she wants to share this private grasp at freedom from there world with anyone.
“That’s alright,” Miss Pentangle says slowly, “I grew quite used to being out on the roof with -” She pauses and shrugs, looking out across the night sky.
They sit in silence for a while and Mildred finds she doesn’t mind it. Miss Pentangle never has pushed her to talk, or asked how she is, has never said the words “I’m sorry for your loss” or “She’s in a better place .” In fact, Mildred realises, Miss Pentangle has always seemed to know just the right things to say, and not to say.
Slowly, she feels herself relax.
“Mildred, I’m sorry I’ve been rather absent. There’s been a bit of business that needed attending too. I wanted to wait until I had all the proper information, but now that I do, I’d like to ask your opinion on somethings.”
When Mildred blinks at her in response, she continues, gently.
“Non-magical authorities have on record, if a slightly, erm, doctored record, that a fictional person, Pippa Pentzel, is your legal guardian. It’s good enough to keep them from looking around for you but, in the Magical world, you do need to have someone stand as your guardian until you come of age.”
Mildred picks at a pill of lint on her sweater and only looks up as Miss Pentangle shifts to turn towards her more fully.
“There are options - people from the magical world, much like social workers, who can place you with a family.” Mildred flinches and Miss Pentangle lays a hand softly over her own.
“Or,” she says, and Mildred looks over, almost managing to be curious, “We could strike an arrangement. If you would like, I’ve procured paperwork to legally become your guardian. You’re in good, capable hands for most of the year at school, but on holidays, you’d have a place to come stay, if you wanted. Or if you’d rather stay with friends, their parents permitting. Or take a summer course or attend a sleepaway camp and need a guardian to sign your forms.”
Pippa takes a deep breath and continues, “What I’m trying to say is, I want you always to have an adult you can turn to when you feel the need. When you need to mirror someone, or ask for advice, or simply hear a hello. No one could ever replace your Mother, Mildred. But I want you to feel, if at all possible, less adrift. To know that there’s someone out there, someone looking after you.”
Mildred feels her eyes widen and for a moment she thinks Miss Pentangle must be joking.
“What, come live with you on breaks?”
“Only if you’d like to, Mildred. I want you to know that you have choices. That you’re not in this alone, and that Miss Cackle and Miss Har- well. That there are many people in your life who wish to support you in whatever you need most right now. I’ve discussed it over with Miss Cackle and she agrees - if you want to stay at the school on holiday’s you are most welcome. If you’d rather come with me, I’d feel lucky to have you. But, you do need a legal guardian.”
“And that would be you?”
“Well, if you think you would be okay -”
“I would,” say Mildred quickly. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
Miss Pentangle smiles and nudges her shoulder lightly.
“Good. Then we should talk about school in the fall. You’ve had an awful shock. You needn’t go back immediately - you could stay with me at Pentangles until you wish to resume your studies. Or come and study at Pentangle’s, or return to Cackle’s where I’m sure your friends and teachers would be very glad to have you.”
Mildred twists her fingers together in her lap and considers it. “I think I want to go back to school - here - I mean. I need the distraction. Otherwise I’m just -” She gestures vaguely, grief surging up in her once more.
Pippa covers her fingers with her own again and looks at her with such compassion that Mildred feels she can whisper, “I think that it’s my fault.”
“Mildred, no . No, it wasn’t your fault, it was a terrible accident.”
“But I - but I - I left her.” Mildred is crying now, and Miss Pentangle turns and pulls her down over the back of the parapet so they’re leaning up against it, rather than perched precariously. “I was all she had, it was just the two of us and then I l-left her to c-come here, and it must have hurt her so m-much. What if she never knew I loved her? What if she thought I loved her less because I w-went away?”
Miss Pentangle kneels in front of her and cups her face, raising her chin so that Mildred is looking up into her steady brown eyes.
“Your mother loved you so much, Mildred. She was so proud of you. She’d often speak of how brave she thought you were for coming to Cackle’s - entering a world you knew nothing about - where you were different from everyone around you. She was endless proud of how you succeeded here. How you saved the school time and time again when witches who felt they were better than you could not.”
Soft fingers brush tears from her cheeks and Mildred quakes. “But I miss her so much.”
“Yes, yes of course you do. But she was happy for you Mildred, bursting with pride. Tried to learn everything she could about your world so she could support you best. Had me drilling her on sections of The Code, if you must know.”
Mildred draws back, gulping in breathes, “Really?”
“Really, really.”
“I never knew -” and she’s crying again, pushing her forehead against Miss Pentangle’s shoulder as she kneels in front of her, gripping her sweater tight. “There’s so much I’ll never know about her,” she sobs.
She feels gentle hands in her hair and calms slightly at the touch.
“I know, I know, darling. But in time, you might learn more about her than you think. After all, the Julie Hubble I came to know was good, and fierce, and loyal, and very smart - all things that are within you as well. She gave you an impeccable moral compass, and I think when you stumble - in the times you wish for her the most and wonder what advice she’d give you - you will look inside yourself and know, deep down, what she would have done. Though I know that’s a poor substitute for having her back.”
Mildred sniffles and leans back against the parapet exhausted.
“Miss Pentangle?” She takes a deep breath once her tears have slowed and lets it out in a woosh. “Would you mind awfully if I stayed at Cackle’s for the rest of the summer? There’s only a few weeks left and it’s just, I want - I want -”
“Want to be somewhere familiar?” Mildred nods and Miss Pentangle smiles warmly at her. “Of course, my dear. I think that makes perfect sense.” She settles across from Mildred on the flagstone.
“Miss Cackle and I had a feeling that’s what you might want,” Miss Pentangle looks at her intently. “She’s offered to let me come stay here at the castle with you for the time being - I would have to back to Pentangle’s a week before the start of term, but if you’d like -”
“You’d do that?” Mildred gasps. Miss Pentangle nods, studying her. “But only if you want me too.”
“I do, I do .” And Mildred doesn’t know until that moment how much she actually does want someone checking to make sure she’s brushed her teeth, or has her light out, or is not roaming the halls at odd hours.
“It’s settled then.” She claps her hands on Mildred’s knees, rubbing gently, and moves to stand. “I’ll leave you to your stargazing. But Mildred, please don’t stay out much longer. Do try to get a bit of sleep.”
Mildred promises and returns to Capella, the feeling of Miss Pentangle’s hands still warm on her knees.
______
It’s easier, somehow, with Miss Pentangle around. She often pops by the potions lab in the mornings where she’s working with Miss Hardbroom, bringing them jammy crumpets which makes Miss Hardbroom roll her eyes but actually entices Mildred into eating. She still joins Miss Cackle for tea, the older woman never asks her anything too difficult, and they take to exploring all the wonderful skulls and crystals that line her office walls together.
Miss Hardbroom is sending her more and more frequently to the garden for supplies but now Miss Pentangle comes with her, pointing out the differences between rare species of lilies, and seedlings, and roots, and they both flush with pleasure under Miss Hardbroom’s nod of approval when they return.
Sometimes Mildred sees them from the roof in the evenings - walking together. One afternoon she even catches Miss Hardbroom laughing in the cloisters over something Miss Pentangle - no Pippa, she’s asked her to call her Pippa - has said. It’s a strange sight, Miss Hardbroom with rosy cheeks and a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She has a nice laugh, Mildred thinks absently, as she quickly ducks behind a column and resumes her search for wayward Tabby.
And now Miss Pentangle always calls her to dinner when the sun is low in the sky. They sit together by the wide open windows in the rooms she’s been given, feeling the late summer breeze meander through. Mildred tries not to think of her mum. Of how her favorite of time of day had always been dinner - even if it meant she had to stay up late. Mum always came home. And Mum always hugged her. And Mum always listened to her and asked her questions about her day and shared bits and pieces of her own. Until Mum didn’t come home. Until everything had changed.
But unlike Miss Cackle, or the newly arrived back Miss Drill who had gone flying with her yesterday, or Maud and Enid who she mirrors regularly now, Miss Pentangle isn’t afraid to ask her questions about Mum. Or bring her up in conversation. Or remark how Mum had loved how Mildred had started to wear her hair in two plaits once starting at Cackle’s - how sweet she thought she looked. In fact, Miss Pentangle sometimes knows things about Mum, or things from Mum’s perspective, that Mildred had never really thought about.
Like that, yes, Mum had felt a bit lonely with Mildred away at school and how she’d joined a bowling league down the street to keep busy. And that Miss Pentangle, even as wells versed as she is in the non-Magical world, had simply not believed that there was such a thing as bowling.
So Mum had taken her.
And I just couldn't believe it. The balls, the pins, the machine that brings the ball back to you. That machine - Mildred! I’d never seen anything so funny in all my life .
And Mildred finds she’s actually giggling as Miss Pentangle - no - Pippa now - recalls how sore her ribs had been from Mum elbowing her to quit laughing all night.
Though perhaps it had been the pints they’d had, admits Pippa, eyes sparkling.
Until finally - we were losing so badly, Mildred - your Mum tells me do go ahead, do it - and she had me magic the balls to throw us the game. Horrid misuse of magic, I know. Puh-lease, do not tell Miss Hardbroom. But it was worth it to see the look on all the lads faces.
It doesn’t make her miss Mum less. In fact, it often makes her miss Mum more. But she feels a huge relief being able to talk about Mum. And with someone who actually knew her. It makes her feel more like Mum existed. Might still exists, somehow, somewhere, to a degree.
When the sun dips below the horizon, she clambers back onto the roof and waits for the first stars, flipping through her book to try to find their names. That’s Venus, she thinks, the evening star.
Only now, once the night draws in tightly around her, there’s a knock on her door and Miss Pentangle calls her down. Sometimes Mildred asks her to stay and say goodnight, but mostly she prefers to fall asleep reading with Tabby by her side. She is relieved that Miss Pentangle seems to understand that.
One night she awakens to hear the murmur of voices and tiptoes to the window. Peeking out across the expanse of castle walls, she sees Pippa and Miss Hardbroom sitting on the peak of the east wing roof. They’re talking quietly and from time to time Pippa will tilt back her head and points up at a star. Even from a distance Mildred can see light catching on Miss Hardbroom’s face as she alternates between watching the stars and watching Pippa, moonlight softening all her features.
And it’s funny, Mildred thinks drowsily, crawling back into bed and pulling the covers up around her chin, she’s never thought of Miss Hardbroom as pretty before. But something about scene sticks in her mind. When she awakens the next morning, she thinks maybe it’s was just all a hazy dream.
______
The term starts and Maud and Enid move into the tower room with her. It helps not to be alone - it helps when she awakens in the night with tears on her face and they all sit together on her bed, passing cookies from Maud’s mum or treats from one of Enid’s extravagant care packages.
Sometimes they’re able to dry her tears and giggle into the wee hours. Other times they crowd together as Mildred cries herself out and wake the next morning like a pile of sleepy kittens.
There’s often a creak outside the door, if they’re being particularly giddy, and Mildred knows it’s Miss Hardbroom - also knows that Miss Hardbroom won’t disturb her.
She’s pieced enough together to know by now that there’ve been many nights Miss Hardbroom has spent just like this during her own school days. With Pippa, rather than a Maud and Enid. It’s strange to picture - Mildred can hardly imagine Miss Hardbroom young at all - but it somehow brings her a calming sense of reassurance to know she’s not the only one. To know she’s not alone.
The dining hall is a different story. It’s crowded and noisy and it seems like everyone is whispering about her and staring and she just wants to disappears. Often she skips meals and Maud sneaks her food to eat later in the quiet of their room while Enid brushes her hair out and braids it in a single plait down her back for sleep.
It’s exceptionally dreadful one evening as Ethel, who had confused turnip seeds with parsnip seeds during lessons that afternoon - resulting in a foul smelling firework display above her cauldron - is particularly full of vitrol at Mildred over her own perfect potion.
Mildred doesn’t tell her that she’d already made that error and over the summer. Had already stood abashed before Miss Hardbroom who had sent her back outside after explaining that the difference could be noted by the flat tan of the parsnip seed, while a turnip was round and dark, though sometimes cherry, in complexion.
It doesn’t seem to matter to Ethel though, who first accuses her of cheating, and then whispers loudly, “It’s not fair that just because her Mum’s dead the teachers have gone soft on her.”
Everyone at their table freezes and stares, and Felicity whispers a horrified, “Ethel.”
Mildred hears a buzzing in her ears and studies her stew, ironically heaped with turnips, which surely isn’t helping Ethel’s foul mood. She stomach contracts and she feels Maud’s hand on her arm but she struggs it off.
“You better watch yourself, Ethel -” Enid starts, but the buzzing in her ears is louder as she feels the weight of all eyes upon her as students start to turn and watch the row.
She doesn’t know why, but she snaps her head up and looks up at the high table, her eyes connecting with Miss Hardbroom’s, who holds her gaze evenly.
Something weighty materializes in her pocket just then and she reaches in with tentatively fingers to feel the mirror token that’s appeared there. Looking back up, Miss Hardbroom, face betraying nothing, gives a slight nod of her head towards the exit. Mildred is up and out of her seat like a shot, leaving the concerned voices of Enid and Maud behind her as she goes.
The halls are quiet due to the hour and she slips into the mirror chamber without incident, flashes her token and settles down to wait. She’s mirrored often with Pippa over the course of the first weeks of term, but never without a time set in advanced. She half expects Pippa not to show - to be busy with her own life, her own school - when Pippa suddenly appears in the mirror looking concerned.
“Mildred, are you doing alright?”
Mildred ducks her head and fights back tears. “I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure you were at dinner.”
“Yes, I was, but I told you to mirror me at anytime, anytime, Mildred.”
“But what if you’re in lessons or -”
“Mildred.” Pippa stops her gently. “Anytime. Besides, look what I cooked up,” she raises her wrist and a pink bracelet winks and sparkles. “It alerts me anytime you request a mirror call.”
“Like a pager?”
“Pager?” Pippa frowns for a moment, trying to place the word, but then her face clears and she smiles brightly. “Yes! Exactly like that. Like a pager.”
There’s a bit of an awkward pause and then Pippa prompts, “Does this have anything to do with what happened in potions today?”
“How did you know about that?” Mildred gasps and Pippa laughs, pink appearing on her cheeks. “Oh, you know, I like to stay informed.”
“Miss Hardbroom?”
“She was very pleased with your performance, Mildred.”
“Ethel wasn’t.” And she recounts the whole scene at dinner.
Through the mirror Pippa bites her lip looking concerned. “You know that isn’t true, my dear. From what I know all your teachers adore you for your enthusiasm and your willingness to work hard and improve in your studies.”
“But Miss Hardbroom - “
“I’ve said before Miss Hardbroom is set in her ways, but she can change, Mildred. Especially when she realizes her ways have done more harm than good.” Pippa pauses, as if she’s just realized something. But she shakes her head and continues, “I know the two of you got off to a rocky beginning, but I believe that Ethel is missing the key information that you’ve both come to a new understanding of one another and are working to start again.”
Mildred nods, chewing on her thumbnail anxiously.
“As for Ethel Hallow, I suppose it’s difficult for her to see you get attention over your mother - and I say this confidentially to you Mildred no in any capacity as a Headmistress or teacher - that while Ethel’s mother is living, she isn’t particularly interested in parenting her two youngest daughters.”
Pippa’s lips crease into a thin tight line that Mildred recalls only seeing once before when she was interrogated by the social worker in the horrible tan shoes. “But you’re not to repeat that, Mildred, not to anyone. Not to Enid or even Maud. It’s only my opinion, and perhaps I shouldn’t even say it, only, I want you to see that in Ethel’s mind, you’re getting all of the attention that she so desperately craves.”
Pippa leans in so that she and Mildred are looking eye to eye through the glass. “And that doesn’t make it fair to you, and that doesn’t make it right, but it does mean that nasty as her words may be, she is probably hurting. In a different way than you to be sure, but she is missing her mother, much the same.”
Mildred let out a breath and says without thinking, “I wish you were still here.” She flushes at her selfishness. “Sorry - sorry - I - I know you have - “
“Things that can wait if you need me, Mildred. That’s a promise.”
And Mildred looks up at her hopefully.
“Would you like me to come to Cackle’s this evening? If I leave now I can make it before your bedtime. Miss Cackle has granted you special visitation permissions”
But Mildred shakes her head vigorously. “I think if people knew I was getting special visitation it would only make things worse right now.”
Pippa looks at her with concern.
“Oh, Mil.”
It’s the first time Pippa’s called her that and she flushes, looking shyly through the glass.
Pippa hesitates and then says, “I was planning on coming up to school this Friday, if you think you could get away for a few hours? I was hoping to see you but - well - there are some who agree that it could make things worse for you.”
“By some you mean Miss Hardbroom.”
Pippa winks at her. “You don’t miss much, clever girl.” But she sighs and looks consideringly at Mildred. “You have enough on your plate worrying about school work and missing your Mum. The last thing I want is to make anything harder for you.”
She looks sheepish for a moment and then seems to come to a decision. “I usually fly right to Miss Hardbroom’s window to - erm - avoid the fanfare of a larger arrival. Would you like to stop by? Maybe around six? No one need know.”
Mildred nods, finding herself surprisingly eagar for the visit.
“Excellent. Why don’t you just show up, dear, no need to inform Hecate - Miss Hardbroom - or she’ll put out a red herring that you’re attending a remedial potions lesson.”
“At least that would be believable.” Mildred sags in her chair.
“On the contrary. In fact, I’ve heard today wasn’t your only big stride forward in your studies this year. Miss Hardbroom informs me you’ve massively improved your rank in potions and I hear you’re near top of class in chanting. You should be very proud, Mildred. Very proud. I know I am of you. I know your mother would be.”
Mildred looks up, eyes smarting.
“Thanks, Miss Pentangle.”
“Pippa.”
“Pippa.”
______
And so Mildred carries the promise of Friday in her like a boone until six o’clock finally comes around and she nervously taps on Miss Hardbroom’s door. It opens of its own accord and she steps in, Miss Hardbroom and Pippa coming into view where they’re both huddled over the chessboard Mildred had seen on her last visit.
“Mildred!” Pipps says brightly, rising and embracing her. Mildred tries not to cling. Tries not to compare how much shorter she is than Mum, with curves in different places. She sniffles a little and hears the door click shut, turning to find an empty room.
“Gone to pick night blooming jasmine, I think,” Pippa explains, shepherding Mildred over the couch. “Best harvested in the evening before moonrise.”
They sit and discuss Mildred’s day. Pippa shares antics of some of her students and Mildred feels the weight of the week lifting slightly.
When Pippa catches her examining the chess board she nudges her, “Know how to play?”
Mildred shakes her head. “Mum didn’t know either. Is that real chess, as in, non-Magical?”
Pippa smiles, her eyes pleased. “Yes. I had a non-Magical uncle when I was young, I adored him. He taught me to play and when he passed away he gifted me this set. I missed him so much that I brought it to school with me, but no one would play - it being a non-Magical game and all.”
She picks up one of the chess pieces and fingers it fondly. “I must admit, I had a bit of a hot head in those days. I believe I told everyone that they probably couldn’t win if they played against me anyway - that the logic was much too complex for them. But if they did dare, I’d go easy on them.”
“And what happened,” Mildred rests an elbow on the table and leans closer, intrigued.
“Well, this girl I hardly knew, who never spoke except for in class, but who always got top marks, sat down across the table and informed me that so long as I explained the rules to her, there was no need to go easy.”
“Miss Hardbroom?!”
“That’s the one,” says Pippa grinning at the memory.
“And?”
“And she very nearly beat me too. First time.”
“And that’s how you became friends?”
“Well, that’s when I knew I wanted to be friends with her.” Pippa taps the piece against her chin thinking. “I think for her she don’t consider anything other than the game and playing to win at first. As I recall, she didn’t give me the time of day until she’d solidly trounced me on three separate occasions.”
Mildred laughs but then flushes at her bold familiarity when she says, “Sounds like her.”
“Yes,” Pippa agrees, “Very singularly minded, that one.” She sets the piece back on the board and seems lost in thought for a moment, which gives Mildred the opportunity to voice something that has rattled around in the back of her mind throughout the conversation.
“But you said this set. You’re uncle gifted you this set. But - I thought - I thought this was Miss Hardbroom’s.”
Pippa seems startled for a moment and then a little sad. “I gifted it to Miss Hardbroom. Many, many years ago.”
“It must have been hard to part with something your uncle gave you, especially when you’d lost him,” Mildred says, thinking of Mum’s possessions sitting dusty and cold in the storage rooms below.
“Yes,” say Pippa slowly, slipping back into a hazy thoughtfulness for a moment before smiling warmly at Mildred and squeezing her knee. “We both had suffered a loss, we both found chess was a great comfort. Here, sit there,” she gestures at the vacant chair across and Mildred moves around and sits with a distinct feeling that Pippa’s purposefully diverting the conversation away from the topic.
Soon, however, she’s lost in the world of knights and rooks and queens and she hardly gives the matter another thought. She’s so absorbed that she doesn’t look up again until there’s a slight cough and she sees Miss Hardbroom watching them from the doorway, a glint in her eye. Pippa looks up and smiles, and some sort of silent conversation passes between them before Miss Hardbroom ducks her head ever so slightly and squares her shoulders, addressing Mildred.
“Ten minutes to lights out, Mildred, best head back now.”
Mildred studies her and wonders how three hours have passed so quickly, feeling dismay rise up with her as she stands.
“I’m really sorry if I’ve spoiled your plans.”
But Pippa’s hands are on her chin and there’s unmistakable sincerity in her eyes as she says, “Mildred, you’ve done no such thing. It was lovely to see you. It always is.”
Pippa hugs her and Mildred breaths in that smell, floral, so different from her mother, but now comforting in it’s own way. She pulls back and looks up. “May I tell Maud and Enid where I’ve been? They won’t tell, I promise. Only I don’t want them to worry.”
Pippa pulls her back in and squeezes her one last time. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
Miss Hardbroom nods at her and escorts her to the door.
“Goodnight, Miss Hardbroom.”
“Goodnight, Mildred.”
The door shuts softly behind her and she hurries off to find her friends before the loneliness that swells up within her can overflow into something more.