1 Terry's Surprise Visitor

The last words Terry di Jantsa's editor spoke to her still rang in her ears—Remember, keep your eyes open; funny things go on in that place.

But what funny things could go in a place like this—in a place so beautiful—in an iridescent palace rising from the clouds? You'd think its sheer beauty would shame the brats who attend the school here into submission.

An absurd thought. Obviously. Yet Terry couldn't help it.

I might be getting ahead of myself. Let's rewind a bit.

~

The whole affair started on the island of Santa Gianna—in the tiny capitol of Debens. To be even more precise, it started in a slightly run-down building off the Vasilian Plaza: the second floor of No. 42, V. Plaza, Jebel District, Debens. All the windows were thrown open in No. 42, thanks to the sweltering heat, and the entire building was empty. Empty, that is, except for one girl on the second floor.

Terry had her work cut out for her; enclosed in her wooden cubicle, her fan almost out of fairy-dust, she struggled on through an extremely boring governmental financial report. She couldn't focus—how could she, when the whole city was gathered only a few blocks away, where the air would be whizzing with fireworks and kiosks would be overflowing with magical kitsch and that splendid parade would move slowly, slowly, down the street, sparkling and drumming to the crowd's delight? In fact, she could almost hear the drums, the cheers, the buzz of excitement.

It was no use—Terry gave up. There was no way she could read the Minister for Finance's commentary on the increase in corporate tax returns in this heat.

She got up, stretched, stared around the office. It was separated into little wooden cubicles just like hers, apart from some offices down at the far end. Mosquitoes and flies swarmed around, flying in and out of the open windows. Apart from those few visitors, she was alone.

In one way, her position was cosmically unfair—all her colleagues were down at the parade: Giuseppe would be doing even worse there than she was here—he had probably already snuck off into the kiosks already; Gabriela would be stalking around, hoping some minor noble would collapse in the heat—as long as she was there to get the first scoop. When she was about to leave, Gabriela had come over to Terry with a big smirk on her face.

'The mayor's done a lot of work improving it for this year,' she reminded Terry. 'A lot of investment. I've heard some pretty big names are coming. You know Indira—Indira what's-her-name? Yeah, you know her: Princess Arbor's friend. She's coming in from Lyasée. I've heard she has a big weakness for ice-cream; I'm going to try and corner her by one of the stands.'

It had taken a lot of effort on Terry's part not to roll her eyes. Then, just to rub her nose in it a little more, Gabriela had given her a shiny pamphlet advertising all the attractions at the parade—as if there weren't a gazillion of them lying around the office already, as if Gabriela didn't know that Terry was under orders to stay behind—to 'man the fort'.

Who else came to Terry's mind? Well, Clara: knowing Clara, she would have gotten lost, dropped her notepad and splattered candy-floss all over her clothes by now. The only reason Clara was at the parade and Terry was here was that Terry had slipped in a wet cow-pat and knocked over the deputy-governor a month ago, at the national fair.

Apart from that, Terry thought Clara was a few steps below her on the corporate ladder. Not that that was saying much—they were both pretty near the ground.

Returning to her cubicle, Terry knew she would have to have another stab at this financial report. She had to try to get it done—she wouldn't like to see the look on Carlo's face when he heard she spent the whole afternoon just lolling around...

She had just settled down into her seat when she heard something from the corridor outside. Footsteps. Who on earth would be coming here now? Maybe Carlo had come to check on her—that would spell trouble for her.

A knock on the door—Terry yelled for her to come in--a tall, dark-haired lady entered. At the mere sight of her, Terry fell silent, cowed. This woman glanced back-and-forth, noticing the room's emptiness. Finally, her gaze landed on Terry.

'These are the offices of the Debens Falcon?'

'Y-Yes.'

'I've been looking everywhere for somewhere to publish this,' the lady seethed, gesturing towards the satchel hanging from her arm. 'No-one would publish it in Felhalame, no-one would publish it in Corpone—no-one would publish it here, even, in my own home town—bloody Honeyfoor has them all in her pocket. Well, her family does, at any rate.'

'Sorry,' said Terry. 'But—what—who are you?'

'Oh—of course. Lady Maria Foltsini. From Coelis—I teach there.'

From Coelis? There was no way--! Terry didn't know what to do—should she kiss the lady's ring, should she bow? She did neither. Instead, she just stood there with her mouth hanging open.

'Anyway,' Lady Foltsini continued, 'This is a piece I wrote about���about my experience teaching at Coelis, particularly about teaching the present class. Now, before you go on about privacy or any of that, I've checked with my lawyers—it's perfectly legal, no-one can sue over it. It's not like I'm publishing any of their report cards or anything like that—however much I'd like to. Don't worry about paying me for the piece; in fact, I'll pay the newspaper—I just want to see this thing published.'

What could Terry say? It was like all the wind had been knocked out of her. Why would a great lady, a teacher at Coelis, show up at the offices of a third-rate newspaper, begging to have a piece published? Surely, she could have it published anywhere.

'Just... please, sit down, sit down. I'm not quite sure I understand—I'm Teresa di Jantsa, by the way. Please... take a seat.'

Lady Foltsini didn't. She just stared at Terry, unimpressed.

'It's about time someone burst these kids' bubble,' she snapped. 'Don't you see—people idolise them. They're getting too big��it's dangerous. Believe me, I've taught them for two years. If people saw Brooke Honeyfoor's test-scores, they'd think twice about calling her a business genius. Then there's all that Curaé rubbish—give that Dove nitwit something shiny in her favourite colours, she'll take it no matter what. God—just say yes or no, are you going to publish this or not?'

She threw the satchel down on the table. Terry peeped in gingerly: there was a stack of pages, bound together—the article.

She knew in that moment there was nothing else she could say. There could be consequences. Oh, yes. There probably would be. But it was too good an opportunity to miss.

'Absolutely,' said Terry. 'We'll get it done.'