Page 18 of Magdalene Nox

And the mouth, the once swollen crimson of those lips, now bitten and folded into an anxious line. The dimpled chin, the line she’d traced with her finger, again and again, unable to help herself. Magdalene shook her head to dislodge the image, except it only burrowed deeper into her mind.

Oh, no… Oh, no…

The long, lanky arms, now folded over the small breasts, all pale skin and marks Magdalene herself had once left to be remembered by. Three months had passed, and she could still see those purple petals blooming under the silk and satin.

Please don’t be… Sam.

Her pleas obviously fell on the deaf ears of whomever it was in charge of answering them. She had thought about Sam for months, and now of all the places, fate chose to thrust her back into Magdalene’s orbit… It felt like a cruel joke.

Did she remember her at all? Why did Magdalene so desperately want her to?Why?A man’s voice enunciating her name finally snapped her from her reverie.

“Any relation to Magdalene Nox?”

From the meager personnel files she’d been provided—most of them sans pictures—Magdalene did know this one. David Uttley. The History Chair. Some awards. Outstanding pedigree. She remembered thinking she understood why Orla Fenway, current—or now former—headmistress of Dragons, had pursued him as much as she did and lured him away from California to the East Coast. He was good at his job.

And as his voice rang clear among the cacophony of others, Magdalene could see why. He commanded attention. Tall, blond, broad shouldered. The All-American, California surfer boy. Perfect in every way. Magdalene disliked him on the spot.

Regardless, his words, delivered in that clear pronunciation, had the effect following the detonation of a bomb. Silence. A terrible, terrifying silence.

Magdalene wanted to laugh. And she knew it wouldn’t be in a benevolent way. Rather, it would be bitter, vicious. Her name. Magdalene Nox. All of them had heard of Magdalene Nox. Most people in their line of work knew her by name. Others knew her by reputation. Precious few were blessed with having never heard of her at all.

She didn’t blame them for being horrified. Absolutely everyone in their position would be. And how fucking fantastic it was that she was walking in on a staff meeting whilst they were breaking the ‘awful’ news. Her disgust with the alcohol consumption and unprofessional dishevelment aside, this was perfectly timed.

Standing stock-still in the open doorway, she waited for them to see her. She wasn’t opposed to eavesdropping, though surely it would be short-lived.One of them would turn around any moment now. She chose to ignore any thought as to what would happen to her if it were Sam who’d notice her first. Immolation?

Please… Please… Please…

Hadn’t she said plenty of that in Manhattan?

But then something in Sam’s face changed. She’d been so focused on Fenway, but now those wondrous eyes, the same ones Magdalene had seen close in ecstasy, suddenly widened with fear. Sam’s reaction to hearing her name was to be afraid. Magdalene tasted bile.

Well,Magdalene Fucking Nox. You got what you wanted.Fear, horror. Sam knew exactly who she was, knew her reputation. Her lips stretched defiantly. She couldn’t show how much Sam’s fear affected her, how much it hurt her. The smirk, like the bile, tasted bitter on Magdalene’s tongue.

This damned place. These fucking walls. She could never have what she wanted here, anyway. Did she really think she'd be welcomed with wide-open arms? Magdalene didn’t know the answer to that question, but she hadn’t expected this level of terror from Sam, of all people, and the shock of it hurt.

The dichotomy of their reactions sliced deep. Her heart rolled in her chest, stuttered, and sped up again at the sight of a woman who, in one night, had changed her life. And Sam? Sam, it turned out, was afraid of Magdalene Nox. Well, by the time she was done, Sam would undoubtedly hate her. Just like the rest of these people.

After all, everyone in private education hated Magdalene Nox. It didn’t matter that she saved their goddamn schools. It didn’t matter that none of them actually closed down, despite having been on the brink.

No,Magdalene Fucking Noxsalvaged them, and yet she remained the villain. Trimming the budget, firing teachers, consolidating classes, condemning buildings. What did it matter that she was preserving the beating hearts of the cursed places, when people like these despised her for her methods?

She bit the inside of her cheek, copper and honest rage coating her mouth, as the conversation continued to roil around her.

“Wait, didn’t she work for Trinity in Connecticut like five years ago? I know she fired half the staff, cut the number of Chairs in half, and…” Magdalene knew this person, too. The picture on file was particularly grandiose. PE teacher. In an outfit thoroughly inappropriate for a school document—just like she was now. Leather pants. And no, it mattered not whether Jen Rovington was or wasn’t doing them any kind of justice. Thus, Magdalene felt a thrill that the voice of the woman had broken with something akin to fear.

“She started at Rodante Academy, it’s where she made a name for herself. Then went to Trinity before St. Mary’s in Boston. Decimated that school. Just tore it to shreds.”

Ah, and there she was. To Magdalene’s pleasure, Joanne Dorsea had changed very little. She had seen the file and silently rejoiced that the one teacher whose betrayal had truly hurt her years ago, was still at Dragons. The quietly whispered words, Joanne’s apprehension palpable, did something thrilling to Magdalene’s ego.

Yes, be afraid. I’m back.

“I’m getting confused. Can we all go back to David’s question? What’s the relationship between this fancy-pants Lord Timothy something-or-other and Magdalene Nox?” Rovington wiped her suddenly pale face and once again reached for the bottle Fenway handed her after she’d poured a generous drop of whiskey into her own coffee.

“He’s her husband, he is.” Magdalene couldn’t quite believe her eyes, but the years had not been kind to Ruth Truffault. Why wasn’t she retired? Surely she must be in her 80s? Her squeak had drawn all the attention towards the hearth, where she peeped at them from her cozy recliner and pulled a comforter tighter around herself.

“Magdalene wasn’t a Nox when she started,” Joanne’s voice was quiet, her tone steady, belying the concerned expression on her face. “She married into that family when she was Deputy Headmistress at Rodante Academy. Then she took over that school and, through years of reforming the old institution, came up with her infamous approach. I think she wrote her doctorate thesis about it.”

So you kept up with me, didn’t you, Ms. Dorsea?A triumphant smile twitched at the corners of Magdalene’s lips, but she didn’t allow it to spread, desperately trying to not look to Dorsea’s right. She couldn’t turn her head, she couldn’t. She would be swept up by the memories of her body being taken apart…

---