Two hours had slipped by, each minute dragging like a reluctant prisoner. The grand dining room, once a place of elegance and polished silver, had become my battleground.
Professor Mr. Beaumont's relentless scrutiny had left me battered—both physically and emotionally. The stick had struck my knuckles repeatedly, a painful reminder of my inadequacy. I had tried to hold the fork just so, to sip the soup without a sound, but it was like dancing on a tightrope with leaden shoes.
And now, as the clock ticked toward nine o'clock, Professor Beaumont took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat. The gold gleamed in the morning light, and I wondered if time had ever been so unyielding. His voice cut through the air, sharp and final.
"It's nine o'clock, Miss Aurelia," he said, his tone devoid of sympathy. "My lesson is over, and now it's time for you to go to the library. Mrs. Hawthorne will be your teacher. She will teach you to read and write."
I rose from the table, my legs trembling. I had barely made any progress, and the weight of my failures clung to me like a heavy cloak. I managed a curt nod, my eyes downcast.
"Thank you, Professor," I mumbled, my voice barely audible. Then, with a final glance at the crystal chandelier, I turned and walked toward the library.
The hallway stretched before me, its walls lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors. Their eyes followed me, judging my every step. I hadn't even reached the library door when doubt crept in. "It's only the morning ," I whispered to myself, "and I'm already tired."
The library door loomed ahead, its polished wood inviting and intimidating. I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob. What awaited me inside? Madame Hawthorne, the woman who would unravel the mysteries of letters and words.
I didn't know that lady but I hoped that she won't be like the other teacher who were very strict and didn't even care if I got injured during their class. " PLease be someone nice." I wished silently.
I pushed the door open, and there she was—Madame Hawthorne, sitting behind a desk piled high with books. Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. But it was her smile that caught me off guard—a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes.
"Hello, Aurelia," she said, her voice soft. "We're about to start the lesson, so come and sit down." She gestured to a chair, and I obeyed, my heart fluttering. Next to her was a bowl filled with cookies—simple, sweet, and utterly tempting.
"So tell me," Madame Hawthorne said, leaning forward, "what's your level?" Her eyes held no judgment, only curiosity.
I felt a flush creep up my neck. "I can't read or write," I admitted, my voice barely audible. Shame washed over me, but to my surprise, the woman didn't scold or berate. Instead, she leaned back, her smile unwavering.
"Then I'll teach you everything," she said, her tone gentle. "We'll start with the alphabet, the building blocks of words. And soon, you'll be reading stories, writing letters—unlocking a world beyond these walls."
As she opened a worn book, I glanced at the cookies. Perhaps learning wouldn't be so bad if there were cookies involved. And so, with Madame Hawthorne's patient guidance, I began my journey—one letter at a time, one word, one story. For in this quiet library, amidst the scent of old paper and ink, I vowed to conquer the shadows that had held me captive.
And as I traced the curves of the letter 'A,' I wondered if perhaps this was my chance—to rise above my bruises, to find solace in the written word, and to discover a strength that no stick could break.
The library was a sanctuary of hushed whispers and the scent of old parchment. Madame Hawthorne sat across from me, her spectacles perched on her nose, ready to unravel the mysteries of letters and words. The cookies in the bowl beckoned, their sugary promise a beacon of hope.
"Let's go again," Madame Hawthorne said, her voice gentle. "You start again with the alphabet." She opened a well-worn book, its pages yellowed with age. "Repeat after me: A, B, C."
I echoed the letters, my voice shaky. Each one felt like a fragile bird taking flight. But Madame Hawthorne's smile never wavered. "Good," she said, reaching for a cookie. "Here's your reward."
I accepted the cookie, its warmth seeping into my fingers. Encouraged, I continued. "D, E, F."
Madame Hawthorne nodded, her eyes kind. "Very good, Aurelia. And remember, each letter has a sound. 'A' as in apple, 'B' as in book."
I nodded, committing the sounds to memory. The cookies became my lifeline—a sweet incentive to get it right. "G, H, I."
Madame Hawthorne leaned back, her gaze assessing. "You're doing splendidly. Now, let's move on to the vowels. 'A,' 'E,' 'I,' 'O,' 'U.'"
I repeated them, savoring the taste of success. The cookies dwindled, but my determination grew. "V, W, X."
Madame Hawthorne's smile widened. "Excellent. And don't forget 'Y'—sometimes a consonant, sometimes a vowel."
I nodded, my mind spinning with letters and their dual identities. "Y," I said, my voice stronger. "And Z."
Madame Hawthorne clapped her hands softly. "Bravo, Aurelia! You've learned the alphabet by heart." She reached for the last cookie, breaking it in half. "Now, writing will come with practice. But knowing the letters is the first step."
I accepted the cookie, my heart swelling. "Thank you," I whispered. "For believing in me."
The bell chimed, noon arriving like a gentle breeze. Madame Hawthorne closed the book, her eyes kind. "Class is over for today, Aurelia. You can go and have your lunch." She leaned closer, her voice conspiratorial. "And Miss Louise told me to tell you that she would wait for you after lunch in the magic training room."
Magic. The word sent a thrill through me. I stood, my legs steadier than they had been all morning. "Thank you," I said, my gratitude overflowing. The remaining cookies were pressed into my hands, their crumbs a testament to my progress.
Downstairs, the dining room awaited. The noon meal was a feast—roasted chicken, buttered vegetables, and warm bread. I ate with newfound energy, my mind already racing ahead to the magic room.
Once I had finished, I stroked my cat, Cookies, who had appeared as if sensing my anticipation. Her purring soothed my nerves. "I hope everything goes well," I murmured, my fingers brushing his sleek fur.
And with that hope nestled in my heart, I headed for the magic training room. The door loomed ahead, and I took a deep breath. Magic was my next challenge—a world beyond letters, beyond cookies.
But I was ready. Louise had always been kind with me I don't know what could go wrong.