Too bad his theory was
wrong. Sylvia came strolling in among the last of the first group for question-and-answer.
She didn't look happy about being there. Maybe because she strolled in entirely
alone. No followers, no admirers, no co-conspirators.
I paid attention to the
Q&A because these select academy girls asked smart questions. Maybe because
the students who came to the first session wanted to be there. They were
interested in writing and doing research and what else they could do with their
study focus on language and writing skills when they got out of school. I listened
instead of turning down my mental volume control. There were no multiple repetitions
of the same inane questions, proving nobody was listening to anyone. I liked listening
to my folks talk about writing, about research, about fun and freaky things that
happened to them or that they discovered. Mum made them laugh when she admitted
how she tried her hand at writing paranormal romances, and while doing research
on druids she learned about the Roman occupation of Britannia.
She then related how researching
the Roman occupation led to learning about Boudica, the tribal queen who united
the tribes in revolt against the Roman overlords and destroyed ancient Londinium.
Yeah, nothing like infuriating a warrior queen by declaring that since her husband
was dead and there was no male heir, the Romans were going to disband the tribe.
Excuse me? Her husband was king because he married her. That was how some Celtic
tribes handed down the leadership: the man who married the previous king's daughter
became king. When you think about it, a very sensible way of handling things.
Mum never did write her
story set in ancient Britain, but she got the girls interested in doing research
and just having fun learning bits and pieces. From some of the comments I heard
as they passed under the balcony on their way out, she got them interested in Boudica
and their own history, too. That was Mum.
Harry escaped while the
girls were still filing out. I waited until everyone was gone before I came downstairs.
Pop went back to the archives with Dr. Butterfield, and Mum walked off with a knot
of girls with specific questions about resources and searching.
There was nothing to pick
up and move after the Q&A, not like other talks where Mum and Pop had books
or visual aids. I wandered around the room, looking at the stained glass, the chimneys
on the lanterns with all the fancy brasswork and colored glass, the inlay on the
ends of the benches. There was a lot of history in this little room of ten rows
with two five-seater benches in each row.
"Thought so," a familiar, whiny voice said, punctuated with a snort.
I looked at the door. There was Sylvia Grandstone, arms crossed, head tilted to display her golden curls. I wondered who she was trying to impress. Ninety-five percent of the staff were women, and this was a girls-only school. That was followed by a sense of "whew!" Her entrance stopped me just in time, before I acted on an idea of floating up to look at some writing in the stained glass panel at the front of the chapel. While I didn't really care what Sylvia Grandstone thought of me, I wasn't stupid enough to risk her making a fuss that the wrong people might listen to.
