“What’s going on?” I said, confused-but with a definite sinking feeling that things were about to get worse. Lee started walking, holding out his hand to indicate the hall, and I quickly followed, Helen falling in on my right. “Why the cloak and dagger-”
“Miss Frost,” Lee said, glancing at me hurriedly, “we’ve got to hurry before news gets out. Barker’s pulling up in a black limo. When we go out those doors, we’ll run straight down to it. Don’t stop for anything.”
And then we reached the outer doors, Lee and Yao opened them for me, and I stepped outside… into a sea of flashbulbs and microphones.
The media had their new story, and I was it.
An Unusual Stratagem
I admit it: I’m an exhibitionist. I love attention. I walk around with a deathhawk every day and with my long, tattooed arms bare nine months out of the year. And it’s for a purpose. No, really! Just a month or two ago, I would have relished the chance to stand before a crowd of reporters: think of the business it would bring into the shop.
But now all I could think of was Cinnamon, and how hard it would make our case.
The questions of the reporters were a dull roar, the flashbulbs scattered shots of lightning. Did you kill Christopher Valentine? FOOM. Did you use magic? FOOM. Did you use your tattoos? FOOM. Is tattoo magic dangerous? FOOM. FOOM. FOOM.
In a daze, I followed my lawyers, who fended off reporters with practiced ease. They’d clearly put thought into it. Lee took the left with his arms spread wide, soaking up questions like a sponge, dodging, deflecting, denying. Yao took the right, nonchalantly swinging her briefcase wide, between them clearing a path for me to walk unimpeded.
But they hadn’t counted on my height, and even with me scrunched down, Lee wasn’t a tall enough man. When he stepped down the next set of risers, one of the reporters shoved her microphone straight into my face and shouted, “Is it true that you’ve confessed to the murder?”
“Miss Frost,” Lee said, trying to interpose himself between me and the mike, “has always fully cooperated with the police, but has not confessed to anything, much less murder.”
“But in November you claimed to have killed him,” the reporter pressed, still talking directly to me as we tried to press past her. “In your testimony-”
“Miss Frost’s testimony has been misrepresented-” Lee said, trying to come between us.
“So she was lying?” the reporter said, talking over him. “Were you lying, Miss Frost?”
I stopped on the steps, glaring into space. Lee looked back in alarm and reached to grab my arm, but it was too late. The reporter shoved her mike in my face again and asked, “Don’t you feel any remorse for killing a man who saved your life?”
My nostrils flared. Valentine had staged that shooting.
“No, I don’t,” I snapped, and the reporter’s eyes gleamed.
Lee twitched violently. “Miss Frost,” he said loudly, “doesn’t mean to imply-”
“That she killed him?” the reporter asked. “You are saying that you killed him?”
Lee raised his arms, shouting something, but was drowned out as the reporters surged in. Flashbulbs flashed. Cameras pressed inwards. As Lee and Yao tried to fend them off, I got angrier and angrier. I wanted to belt out that yes, I had killed him, and no, I wasn’t sorry. And it was true. But saying it would torpedo any chance I had of getting Cinnamon back.
Finally I could stand it no more. I straightened up, looked out over Lee and Yao, and picked out a reporter standing on the steps just beyond them. I made direct eye contact, and he shoved his microphone over Lee’s head and into my face. I leaned in and spoke clearly.
“Everyone, please, step back, you’re obstructing the stair.”
Then I walked straight forward between Lee and Yao, gently moving the reporter aside with my hand as I passed. I heard scrambling and splutters behind me, but I just kept moving and hopped right into the open door of the limo. Moments later, Lee and Yao followed.
“Drive,” Lee said, slamming the door. He settled into the backwards-facing seat opposite me. “Damn. That was a hell of a trick.”
“I used to date a musician,” I said. “She taught me a few tricks about working crowds.”
Helen covered her face as Lee choked a little. “She… ah… well,” he said. Then he recovered. “Still, let me do the talking from now on. You can’t go around torpedoing yourself-”
“Have you been briefed?” I said. “Was I not completely honest with the police?”
“We had been hoping to quash that testimony,” Lee said, now openly glaring. “We can’t claim that your confession was coerced if you’re going around corroborating-”
“My confession wasn’t coerced,” I said. “So your argument was going to be that the jury should trust me now because I was lying before?”
“Trust won’t have anything to do with it-we’re going get as much evidence thrown out as we can and argue self-defense, but without you testifying,” Lee said. “Innocent people look terrible on the stand, but the unrepentant look worse-”
“I-didn’t-do-anything-wrong,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“So you think,” Lee said. “But you don’t seem to have realized that your own approval of your actions is meaningless if a prosecutor disagrees-and she can convince a jury.”
“But Valentine was a serial killer.”
“He was never arrested and prosecuted,” Lee said. “He just died, by your hands, via magic-and Paulina Ross just loves making examples of people who kill with magic.”
I leaned back in the limo as Lee went on. I wondered how much this was going to cost me. Surely they weren’t going to take a criminal defense on spec the way they had done with the lawsuit by the Valentine Foundation. Then the bigger problem came back to me.
“What is this going to do to my custody case?” I said. “It can’t look good.”
“Oh, hell, Miss Frost,” Lee said, frowning, “you’re right, it certainly can’t help.”
“That’s not our most immediate problem with Cinnamon,” Helen said. “Earlier tonight I contacted the foster parent, Jack Palmotti, and it turns out he was frantic. Apparently Cinnamon brought something home that was meant for you, and he didn’t know what to do with it.”
“What’s happened?” I asked, mouth dry.
“Cinnamon’s getting kicked out of the Clairmont Academy.”
A Problem Student
I bore down on the glass doors of the Clairmont Academy, watching my reflection loom large in the glass, Doug at my heels. I was not in the mood. But I couldn’t leave Cinnamon’s fate in the hands of a foster parent I’d never met and school administrators who didn’t care. Then the doors slid aside, once again revealing Catherine Fremont, looking-relieved?
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, glaring down at her. “After all the effort we spent to get her into this school, I’ll be damned if I see you just boot her out-”
“That’s so refreshing,” said a male voice, and I looked over to see a shag-haired man in a red-checked shirt limp towards us from the waiting area. “I didn’t think you were going to show, but I’m so pleased you actually came here to fulfill your parental duties.”
“Jack!” Doug said sharply. He wasn’t just my ride; he’d been Cinnamon’s tutor since… heck, even when she was in the hospital. But I’d not expected him to know more about what was going on than I did. “That was completely uncalled for. Dakota’s a devoted parent.”
“Doug, please,” Jack said, “you haven’t dealt with these parents like… I… ”
He trailed off as I glared at him. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said coldly.
“Jack Palmotti,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Cinnamon’s foster father.”
Fremont shrank back from the two of us. After a moment, I extended my hand to him.
“Dakota Frost, Cinnamon’s adoptive mother,” I said. “Please
d to meet you.”
Palmotti glanced between us. “So, Miss Frost… what is your relationship to Doug?” he asked. “It’s low to circumvent a court order by sending a friend in the guise of a tutor.”
“Doug is the fiance of my best friend,” I snapped, “and I resent the insinuation-”
“Please, please, everyone,” Vladimir said, appearing from nowhere, stepping up between us, touching both me and Palmotti on the arm. “We’re all here for one reason: Cinnamon.”
I sighed. He was right. “Mister Palmotti, where are my manners?” I said. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to Doctor Yonas Vladimir, Cinnamon’s math instructor. Yonas, please meet Mister Jack Palmotti. He’s taking care of Cinnamon while the court case is resolved.”
Vladimir and Palmotti froze for a moment. Apparently I’d broken their ‘let’s get everyone angrier’ script by apologizing and introducing them politely. That was nice. Perhaps I should try it more often. Finally it was Palmotti that spoke, directly to me.
“So you know her math teacher,” he said, with a half smile. “That’s encouraging.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry I was snappish. I… just lost a close friend.”
And then I choked off, staring into the distance. Doug put his hand on my shoulder. And then Palmotti put his hand on my arm tenderly. I glared, through the edge of tears, but instantly I could see that he’d lost someone-I guessed, from the pain and the sympathy, his wife.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “Please forgive me my suspicions. I wasn’t trying to make it harder on you right now. And I know it’s hard on you-believe me, I understand.”
Our little group was admitted to Dean Belloson’s office, a double-sized version of Fremont’s office at the end of the row, containing a youngish, pudgy man with thick glasses who I first took to be Belloson’s secretary before I realized there was no office beyond the one in which we now stood. There, the five of us sat in a semicircle of chairs opposite the Dean.
“I understand this may seem precipitous,” the Dean said, “but young Miss Frost has skipped nearly a dozen classes this week, totaling almost three full days of class time.”
“I’m sorry,” Palmotti said, “I just can’t make her do anything, much less go to school.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, it took me a while,” I said. “And precipitous is precisely the word I’d use for kicking a new student out after only a few days of absences.”
“Did you not read the Guide for Students and Parents?” the Dean said. “Didn’t my staff explain it to you at the entrance interview? This is not a public school, open to all comers. We have very high standards. Three consecutive days of unexplained absences-”
“ Unexplained? ” I said. “What do you call that business with Burnham? You can’t expect perfection when she’s just been taken from her mother-wait, scratch that. Why is this even an issue with all that I’m paying you? This is a disciplinary issue between me and Cinnamon.”
“Miss Frost,” Dean Belloson said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead, “it isn’t that simple. This isn’t a warehouse, and we’re not storing Cinnamon for a monthly fee. She’s a person, and a student, but not your typical student. Handling her takes extra effort.”
“You knew when you took her she was an extraordinary needs student,” I said. “Are you or are you not equipped to deal with werekin?”
“That’s not it,” Vladimir said. “Dakota, Cinnamon needs a lot of special tutoring,”
“You also knew she had little prior education, which you personally said was OK,” I said. “And I thought I explained to you we only just discovered she might have Tourette’s.”
“Oh, she’s almost certainly got it,” Vladimir said quietly. “I’ve suspected since she called me a clown in the entrance interview. She was immediately mortified and tried to distract us-”
“Or,” the Dean said, “she could be an uncouth, but clever little-”
“She was mortified,” Vladimir repeated. “Corprolalia-dirty speech, the symptom most famously and a bit exaggeratedly associated with Tourette’s-is not just cussing. It can be inappropriate comments which are hard to bottle in, but don’t reflect how she feels.”
“I’ve seen that,” Palmotti said suddenly. “I’ve almost certainly seen that.”
“I have too,” I said. Damnit. “At least twice earlier that day, in fact.”
“Taken from her home? School shopping? A death of a friend? The more stressful it is, the harder it will be for her to keep a lid on it,” Vladimir said. “But corprolalia often fades past the teens. Tourette’s is more than that-facial tics, for example. On that note, that steel collar of hers-can we lose it? Tight collars can worsen the tics, but I understand it’s locked on.”
“I’ll ask, but I suspect the answer is no,” I said. “It’s sort of her vampire visa.”
“ Vampire visa?” Fremont and Palmotti said in surprised, worried unison.
“Aha!” the Dean said, putting his hand to his head with an expression of disgust. “I knew I recognized that ‘S’ seal from somewhere. That’s a vampire passage token, isn’t it? House of Saffron, correct? The Vampire Queen of Little Five Points?”
“Why… yes,” I said. “How did you-”
“My apologies, Miss Frost,” he said. “If you’ll pardon the pun, young Cinnamon’s been bitten by vampire politics. One thing in her file that forced me to escalate this was a complaint from a parent-but that parent is in the Gentry, vampires in dispute with the House of Saffron. Lord Iadimus’s wife may have seen Cinnamon’s collar and decided to make trouble for her.”
“Charming,” I said. The last thing I’d expected was that the Dean was up on vampire politics-and if Cinnamon simply attending the same school as a child of the Gentry was causing problems, I couldn’t imagine what Saffron was having to deal with working with the Gentry face to face. “And the collar only protects from physical, not political assault.”
“Let’s not lose perspective,” Vladimir said gently. “The parental complaint was not the only thing in her already large file. And it isn’t just tics or cussing, it’s willful behavior. Her corprolalia, and I do agree she probably has it, only explains part of her smart mouth.”
“How can you tell?” I asked sharply.
“Cussing out of the blue might be a verbal tic,” Vladimir said, “but if it sounds like she meant it, she probably said it on purpose. But, honestly, our teachers are professionals. We can handle a few f-bombs. It’s the acting out. It isn’t fair to all the other students in her classes.”
“Well, we’re here,” I said. “What do you want of us?”
“You have to convince her to attend and to behave herself,” he said. “The Dean’s right. I’ve seen this a lot with special needs students-it isn’t that they’re not capable, it’s that they don’t see how school is relevant to them. Cinnamon can be… particularly colorful.”
I sighed. “All right,” I said. “I am more than willing to talk to her, but as I understand the court order, it will have to be here at school, supervised. After school she has to stay in the custody of the Palmottis, and I can’t imagine how hard this is on them.”
“Thank you,” Palmotti said, very quietly.
“I’ll go further,” the Dean said. “You have to convince her to take class seriously. We care about Cinnamon, we really do, but we have many hardworking students here-”
“All right, all right,” I said. “I’ll get her to show up, and at least be quiet in class. And I’ll lean on her-but in the end, I can’t force her to learn.”
“That’s not good enough,” the Dean said. “Our one-on-one and small group resources are limited. It isn’t fair to our special topics teachers if she’s blowing them off.”
“She’s that far behind?” Something was tickling my brain, something Vladimir said that I had missed. “But surely there’s time to catch up. She’s only been here a little over a week.”
“Yes, but that’s not the problem,” Vladi
mir said. “She’s got special educational needs above and beyond being a werekin.”
“Special needs?” I pressed. “Is she dyslexic, on top of the Tourette’s?”
“Maybe a little,” Vladimir admitted. “We’re doing more tests. But the real problem, if you can call it that, is her brain. Maybe it’s the werekin influence, maybe it’s just natural, whatever that means. Regardless, she learns differently than the rest of us.”
“Oh, God,” I said. She’d shown such promise, in so many ways, but I’d feared exactly something like this. With increasing horror, I realized what I’d missed was that, just minutes ago, Vladimir had called her a special needs student. “You’re saying she’s… mentally disabled? ”
“Quite the opposite,” Vladimir said. “Cinnamon’s a genius, on the level of Gauss. ”
Remedial Class
When Carl Frederich Gauss was ten, his teacher punished his class by making them add the numbers from one to a hundred. Before most of the other students had started, Gauss handed in his slate with the right answer. Mathematicians now think he started picking off pairs of numbers from each end of the sequence: one plus a hundred, two plus ninety nine, and so on-fifty pairs of numbers, each adding to a hundred and one: five thousand and fifty, bam!
Cinnamon was that fast.
After our meeting with the Dean, Vladimir had let Doug, Jack and I sit in on the math club. Six sets of problems were written on the whiteboards. I took a lot of math in college before I dropped out, but I recognized none of it other than the occasional sigma-for-sum or geometric symbol. Vladimir was before the board, lecturing to five of his star students sitting around him in a circle, all trying to pay attention to him… and to ignore Cinnamon.
And Cinnamon? My precious baby girl-who I’d missed so much, who I hadn’t seen in so long-barely reacted when she saw me, and focused instead entirely on the class, if focus you could call it. Cinnamon orbited the other students, bouncing around the room, sometimes leaning on the wall, sometimes squatting on chairs, watching like a cat-but most often standing by the window, staring outside, tail twitching, face spasming, occasionally cussing… all the time with one cat ear visibly cocked to Vladimir’s every word.
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