SYNTHESIS
follows "Bookmarks"

Interlude - "Journal"
a companion piece to Chapter 5

The pen which had so briskly written previous entries in the Hannah Page journal now shook upon the page that represented the current day. The date was written, "10"; then the month, "April"; and finally the year, "2023," the usual neat handwriting askew.

Then a trembling hand wrote "Papa Marcel..."

. . . . .

Three Hours Earlier

Renata Sandoval was puzzled.

She'd been seated in the dispensary having a plaster applied to a cut on her hand—only she, the art master had teased, could pick up a sheet of cardstock and get a paper cut which bled so fiercely!—when angular Miss Kronhauer bustled in, face pale, beckoning to Nurse Keating. The two whispered while standing inside the solid old-fashioned oak doorway with its intricately carved framing. Finally Nurse Keating had turned back to Renata, ashen-faced, saying, "Run along now—that bandage should hold."

Then Nurse Keating and Miss Kronhauer had hurried away in the direction of the Headmistress ' office.

Renata dearly loved mysteries. She watched all the proper ones on TV from Father Brown to the American imports like Blue Bloods, and always spent a portion of her pocket money on mystery books. Her Spanish father, who successfully dabbled in stocks and bonds, and her British mother, who had inherited property, were divorced and solicited her affection with pounds and pence, so she had plenty of lolly for mysteries, also new tack and treats for her show jumper Catalpa and even an electric bicycle.

She was a big girl, tall for her age and sturdy, with black hair, dark brown eyes, and a warm complexion, older by a year than the other girls of First Form, except for the smallest, who was nine. If anyone thought it funny that little Min helped a 12-year-old with her homework, no one said. Renata was normally inoffensive, but she could be wasp-tongued when it suited.

Her return route to class took her past the Headmistress' office; as she approached, she heard Miss Kronhauer say in a shocked voice, "But that cannot be!" and Miss Bradford-Smith reply, "I'm afraid so, Inga, and I shall have to be the one to tell her."

Mrs. Dalhousie, the motherly, mousy secretary who affected Liberty print dresses, saw Renata passing the door, and beckoned her in. Renata did so warily, because Bradford-Smith was one of the few people who intimidated her.

"Miss Bradford-Smith, here's Renata Sandoval. Shall we have her fetch Mignon?"

"A good idea, since they are friends," and the Headmistress' eyes were grave. "Renata, will you tell Mr. Clancy to excuse Mignon Pepin from the rest of art instruction and bring her here? Tell Mr. Clancy that you will stay with Mignon."

Renata was thunderstruck. Min? Summoned to Miss Bradford-Smith's presence? Of course Min wasn't perfect—once she'd talked back to the Maths instructor, and another time she'd been punished for a week—but those were both when she first arrived at Creatwood the previous year, and had slapped another girl who'd called Min's mother an awful name, but since then she'd never done anything so bad as to have to report to the Headmistress' office!

Still, she curtseyed and said, "Yes, ma'am," then raced upstairs so quickly that Mr. Galecki called from the Second Form maths class, "Please do not run, Miss Sandoval!"

Min still sat where she'd been before Renata cut herself, near the open door of the art room, working with a soft pencil on a still life of a quill pen, a mug, and an orange, while Mr. Clancy was at the opposite end of the room bending over Lucille Fortune's desk.

"Min!" she whispered.

. . . . .

Mignon Pepin looked up from her drawing, and, conscious of the instructor nearby, mouthed, "What?"

The dark-haired girl hissed softly, "What did you do?" to which Mignon raised twin eyebrows in alarm.

Just then Mr. Clancy turned and said crisply, "Renata, welcome back. Please take your seat."

Mignon saw her friend do something so rare that she was amazed. "Please, sir," Renata said obsequiously, "the Headmistress wishes to see Mignon in her office. I'm to stay with her once she is there."

Mignon swallowed. Now every eye in the classroom was upon her and she was uneasy. But she hadn't done anything. Creatwood still gave deportment marks, and she only had one tick against her, talking before being allowed in the dining hall day before yesterday.

"Go along then, Mignon," Mr. Clancy said kindly. "I'll put your drawing away for you until Wednesday."

"Thank you, Mr. Clancy," and Mignon, her blond curls bouncing on her shoulders, dashed into the hallway. Renata took her hand and whispered, as they walked, "What do you suppose it is?"

"I don't know," Mignon said in an awed, slightly frightened voice. "What happened?"

Renata recounted the occurrence in the infirmary and in the Headmistress' office as they continued down the hall and descended the stairs. In the doorway a shiver came upon her. Miss Bradford-Smith and tiny, olive-skinned Miss Kronhauer stood in front of the former's desk, and seated in the leather chairs to the left were Nurse Keating, who reminded Mignon of a partridge with owl-like glasses, and Mr. Desrosiers, the school counselor.

Miss Bradford-Smith, tall with silver hair over a narrow face with a prominent Roman nose, stepped forward. Just the expression on her face and the distressed look in her eyes made Mignon recoil inwardly. The Headmistress looked to each of her colleagues, then took Mignon's hand. "Perhaps you best sit down, dear."

Mignon permitted herself be led to an empty leather armchair with Renata scooting behind her quietly, her usually animated face frozen in a blank expression. Once Mignon was seated, Renata rested a hand comfortingly on her shoulder, and Miss Bradford-Smith took her hands. "There's no easy way for me to tell you this, Mignon. We received a call from Miss Carvallo, your nanny. Your mother and father were driving to Chaminox this morning–"

"Y-Yes," Mignon stammered in her haste to correct whatever was wrong. "Maman texted me—Miss Treadwell said that was permitted. They were going on holiday. Papa Marcel has a new car and wanted to take Maman to try it out."

The Headmistress continued steadily, "They were driving on a narrow two-lane road, dear, and there was a motor accident–"

"But Papa Marcel is a very good driver, Miss Bradford-Smith! He used to race cars when he was young!"

"The accident wasn't your papa's fault. Another driver struck your parents' car and it went off the road." The Headmistress squatted down, and the child saw her swallow. "Mignon, it was a very bad accident. They...they died."

Mignon froze as Renata gave a little gasp. "No...Miss..." and the Headmistress tightened her grip. "I'm sorry, Mignon. We are all so sorry."

The little girl began to tremble visibly. "It can't...be," but Miss Bradford-Smith only held her hands more tightly.

"I wish...I wish I could tell you differently, Mignon. But I can't."

Mignon said faintly, "What are those big black spots–" then collapsed sideways in the chair. The last thing she heard was Renata's shriek.

. . . . .

She awakened on a bed in the infirmary. A screen had been put around her, the lights dimmed. Mr. Desrosiers was sitting at her right, Nurse Keating at her left placing a fresh, cool cloth on her head.

"Did...I faint?" she whispered.

"Yes, dear," Nurse Keating said. "You had sad news. Even adults can faint when they have bad news."

"I thought...it was just in books."

After a minute she turned her head toward the right. "Did you want to talk to me, Mr. Desrosiers?"

"I thought you might want to talk to me," he said in his gravelly voice.

"No," she said after a minute. "I don't think so."

"I'm willing to listen if you need to talk," he responded.

Normally Mignon liked Mr. Desrosiers; he was a kindly man in his sixties, tall and thin like Puddleglum in The Silver Chair, balding and avuncular. But now she just wished he'd go away, that Nurse Keating would go away, so she could be alone. "My maman is dead and my papa is dead, and there's not much more to say."

Mr. Desrosiers sighed. "I'm also here to tell you that your nanny Luisa is en route to fetch you."

"To take me home?" she asked hopefully.

"You will be taken to Duplantier House," he said, "where you will stay for the funeral. Your stepmother has not said when or if you'll be returning."

Mignon pushed herself straight up, eyes blazing. "She isn't my stepmother. She hates me and I hate her!"

"Mignon," Nurse Keating said reprovingly, but only half so because she knew the child's situation and felt sorry for her, "it isn't nice to say that you hate people."

"Even if they hate you? And will probably send you to an orphanage?"

"I've spoken to your brother Laurent before, Mignon. He's very fond of you and I doubt anyone in your father's family will have you sent to an orphanage, pet," Nurse Keating soothed.

"Madame runs the house," said Mignon resentfully.

"I also know your Papa," Mr. Desrosiers said quietly. "I know he would have made arrangements to care for you."

"Yes, sir," Mignon sighed. No one ever understood.

"In the meantime," Nurse Keating told her, "if you are feeling up to it, Mr. Desrosiers will escort you back to your room. Miss Treadwell will help you pack your things and stay with you, then you'll be ready when your nanny arrives. I know you'll be happier when Luisa is here."

"Thank you, ma'am," and this time Mignon was sincere.

Nurse Keating took her left hand. "I don't know what else to say to you, pet. 'I'm sorry' seems so inadequate for what's happened. I wish you hope, Mignon."

Suddenly Mignon hugged her and the nurse whispered, "Some day it will be better."

Mr. Desrosiers offered her his hand, and, even at nine Mignon realized it would be impolite to refuse, so she accepted the gesture and was escorted to her dormitory. They passed Miss Treadwell, the pretty Jamaican science teacher and upper school dormitory monitor, in the hall, who said kindly, "I'm having your suitcases brought up from storage, Mignon, and will have them to you in five minutes."

Mr. Desrosiers wasn't permitted in the girls' dormitory, so he stopped at the door. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mignon?"

She looked up at him steadily. "No, Mr. Desrosiers. Not now."

"I know. You're still processing it." He gave a small smile. "I can't express how sorry I am."

"Thank you."

"Safe travels," he bade, squeezing her hand in farewell, and she watched him walk down the hall, shoulders slumped.

Her bed was the last in the dormitory on the back wall, by the window. On the night table next to her bed, there was a photo of her parents. Maman was smiling, her head tilted against Papa Marcel's, and he had the indulgent look on his face that he wore when Mignon asked for little treats, like ice cream or a weekend in Nice.

She lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The windows were open and chaffinches and blue tits chirped outside. Faintly she could hear a motor, probably the farmer over the way working his fields. It felt like a dream. Maybe it was. She closed her eyes, tried to stop the hammering of her heart. She would wake up soon. It would be morning again. A bad dream. It had to be.

A cool hand brushed her forehead, Miss Treadwell's voice said gently, "I have your suitcases, Mignon. Do lie there a bit longer and I will start packing for you."

There are never easy answers, love, Mignon could hear her mother say. She opened her eyes and smiled wanly at her teacher. "No, Miss Treadwell. I'll help. It will give me something to do until Luisa arrives, and I want to make sure my special things all go together in one suitcase. You are very kind to offer."

In an hour she was dressed in street clothes, school uniform packed, and was sitting at the edge of her bed reading one of her favorite books, The Secret Garden, thinking that, like its heroine, Mary Lennox, she was now all alone. She glanced at her desk and only then realized two things had not been packed: the journal her mother had given her as a Bonne Année gift just before she returned to Creatwood after the Christmas hols, and the fountain pen she used with it. Mignon had seen its charming watercolor decorations of animals and birds on each page, and fallen in love with it.

She tucked the book in her carry-on bag, then crossed to the desk, sat down, uncapped the fountain pen. She wrote the date, "10"; then the month, "April"; and finally the year, "2023," in a shaking hand in the portion reserved for that information, then on the next line "Papa Marcel and Maman are dead." Two tears dripped upon the page, but she finished dutifully, "Miss Bradford-Smith says they were killed on their way to Chaminox by another driver."

Written words made it real. She began to weep just as Miss Treadwell hurried back into the room with a glass of milk and some chicken salad on squares of bread for her, and until Luisa Carvallo arrived, the woman held her and rocked her back and forth, crooning, letting her cry.

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