“Someone was hurt.”

  “Oh, no. Who? It wasn’t a student was it?”

  “You were hurt.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her panic immediately subsiding. “Is there much damage?”

  “Only to you and your car. I don’t think you’ll be driving it for a while.”

  “I should call a tow truck, I guess.” She didn’t have much money and a tow truck would take half of her gas budget for her trip to Chicago. And God knows how much repairs would cost.

  “We’ll worry about all that later,” he said as if her problems were his problems. “You should eat and rest. I’ll have the boys bring your things up.”

  “The boys? You have children?”

  “I have sixty children.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “Students,” he said with a tight smile. “Here at the Marshal Academy.”

  “Small school. All boys?”

  “All boys. You are, in fact, the only female on campus right now.”

  “And here I am in your bathrobe. I mean, dressing gown.”

  “Stay.” He raised his hand. She stayed.

  He left her alone in his bedroom again, and she sat on the bed. Looking down she saw the robe had opened enough that the headmaster of Marshal had gotten more than a glimpse of her cleavage. Only woman on campus? That could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing. The headmaster—Edwin Yorke—had been nothing but a gentleman to the near-naked girl who’d stolen his bathrobe. And he was handsome. And English. And tall. And did she mention handsome? Maybe she should stop focusing on how handsome he was and get back to focusing on how screwed she was.

  She ran her fingers through her wet hair to tame it. In the other room she heard voices, whispers and laughter. The laughter sounded young, much younger than the headmaster. Then the door reverberated with the sounds of seemingly a dozen hands knocking all at once.

  “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Laird,” a teenage boy’s voice answered. “I’m a very nice person. I promise.”

  “If you weren’t, would you admit it?” she asked.

  “No, I’d probably lie and tell you I was nice,” he admitted.

  “Are you lying?” she asked. “Or are you actually nice?”

  “Headmaster Yorke is standing right here. He’ll make sure I’m nice. Or he’ll kill me.”

  “Then you should probably come in before he kills you,” Gwen called out. “I can’t have your life on my conscience.”

  He opened the door with one hand and with the other hand he covered his eyes.

  “I have your things from your car,” Laird said, his hand still shielding his eyes.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “You have nothing with you.”

  “I couldn’t carry the bags, open the door and cover my eyes all at the same time.”

  Gwen smiled. Not that Laird could see that smile what with his eyes covered. He looked about seventeen or eighteen with dark red hair and a sweet face—what she could see of it.

  “If you can handle seeing a woman in a bathrobe, you can uncover your eyes,” she said. “If you can’t, just back away slowly and I’ll get my own things.”

  “I can handle it,” he said and lowered his hand. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you married?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not asking for me,” he said.

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Good. You’re hired,” Laird said. At that an arm reached into the room, clapped down on Laird’s shoulder and dragged him bodily back out the door.

  In his place her suitcase appeared.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Laird called out from behind the door. “Please stay forever.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Laird.” She walked over to her suitcase and bent over to pick it up. It was then she realized Headmaster Yorke was still standing outside the bedroom door and had likely seen straight down the bathrobe. She flushed crimson and he merely looked past her.

  “Dinner is in half an hour,” he said, his voice cold and strained. “You’ll dine here in my quarters. I won’t subject you to any further scrutiny by students. Yet.”

  “I’ll get dressed,” she said.

  “That would be an excellent idea.” He placed meaningful emphasis on the world excellent.

  She dressed in the best clothes she owned—a pencil skirt and white blouse—and in half an hour she went looking for the headmaster. What she found was an elegant mahogany dining table laden with food (whitefish in sauce, celery hearts, chilled honeydew melon) and wine (red and blush). It was a feast for a king, but the king never showed. When the headmaster said she’d be dining in his quarters, she’d assumed it would be with him. She didn’t want to think about why his absence disappointed her. She wanted to talk about a job—that was why. Of course.

  Disappointed or not, she still ate every bite on her plate and then some. When was the last time she’d eaten so well? Living on a TA’s income had meant living on student rations. Now sated, Gwen left the table and wandered the headmaster’s quarters.

  From the window by the dining room she saw she was on a high floor of a building. She must have been five stories up. How had she gotten here? Someone must have carried her up the stairs to this place. Had it been a student? Had it been the headmaster himself?

  Gwen walked from window to window as she tried to get her bearings. From her high vantage point, she could see a square stone wall outlined the perimeter of the grounds. Outside the wall the forest loomed dark and wild. Inside the wall she saw nothing but manicured lawns, walking paths and several other buildings. Gwen was clearly in the tallest of the buildings. To the left and right of her, she saw two smaller buildings of wood and stone. Another building peeked out from the back. Cobblestone walkways connected all the buildings to each other. A turret of sorts rose up from each corner of the wall. Turrets? Stone walls? Ivy? The school was far more evocative of a medieval French fortress or an old Ivy League college than a Southern high school.

  What it was, if she had to pick only word, was beautiful. Breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly, daydream-inducingly beautiful. Already she sensed herself falling under the spell of the school. She could hear the heels of her shoes clicking on the cobblestones, books under her arms. She could see herself sitting on the stone bench under the overhanging oak tree grading papers. She could imagine herself here, teaching, happy.

  She’d never let herself hope or dream that she’d be happy—really happy, not just not miserable—someday. Maybe when she was a kid she had assumed happiness had been possible for the likes of her. But that was before her mother had died of cancer when she was little and her father of a heart attack when Gwen had been a freshman in college. She’d found stability if not grand passion with Cary. But then she’d lost him, too, when he’d gone to follow his dreams. Safety and stability was her definition of happy.

  But…

  What if she was a teacher here? What if she did stroll those paths, sit under that tree, teach a student like Laird and take orders from someone like Headmaster Yorke? Then…maybe…just maybe…she could have safety and stability and happiness.

  Or maybe that was just another dream?

  Gwen left the headmaster’s quarters and found the steps that led downstairs. She wanted to see her car and assess the damage. But once she reached the second-floor landing she heard the sound of voices in a faraway room. Talking and laughter. She followed it to the source.

  She walked past closed doors that led to empty classrooms. It was evening. Of course no one was in class. But something was happening, something behind the door at the end of the hall.

  Gwen opened the door and stepped into a magic forest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The magic forest was made of paper and Christmas lights. Once she stepped through the door, she felt a hand on her elbow. Headmaster Yorke pulled her by his side and raised a finger to his lips to silence her. He nodded, and she looked ahead at the play in progress.

  A boy with dark hair and a slight stammer stood in the center of the paper forest and looked around as if lost.

  “Do I entice you?” the boy asked. “Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth, tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?”

  “Christopher Hayes.” Headmaster Yorke whispered the name into her ear, and Gwen shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck. “He could barely get a full sentence out when he started here at Marshal.”

  “Born with a stammer?” she asked.

  The headmaster nodded.

  “And now he’s acting in plays?” Gwen was incredulous. Not only because Christopher acted in a school play with a stammer, but also because none of the students teased him when his voice stalled.

  Again the headmaster nodded, but this time she could see the gleam of pride in his eyes and the smile that threatened to take over the severe lines of his face.

  Laird she recognized at once with his red hair. He wore a tablecloth like a skirt over his school uniform. The boys in the audience whistled and he rolled his eyes.

  “Shut it,” he yelled at the crowd. “I’m trying to Shakespeare over here.”

  That only incited more whistling and laughter.

  “I forgot my lines. Line?” Laird called out.

  “And even for that do I love you the more,” Gwen called out the next line. “I am your spaniel. And, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.”

  The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes had turned to study her.

  “Use me but as your spaniel,” Laird continued the scene. He looked into Christopher’s eyes and spoke again. “Spurn me. Strike me. Neglect me. Lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”

  Gwen stepped back into the shadows and the play continued. Side-by-side with the headmaster she watched until the intermission at the end of the second act. As the boys in their costumes and uniforms rearranged scenery, Headmaster Yorke lead her out into the hallway.

  “You have A Midsummer Night’s Dream memorized?” he asked her.

  “Yes, and Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, and most of the comedies—the good ones.”

  “You’re not an actress, are you?”

  She laughed at the disdain in his voice. Why were the English so good at disdain?

  “Merely a teacher,” she said. “I always have my students act Shakespeare out. You can’t really understand a play until you see it performed. Shakespeare especially. I had no idea he was funny until my junior year of high school when they took us to see A Comedy of Errors.”

  “Tell me—” he began, but a familiar redhead opened the door and stuck his head into the hall and interrupted.

  “Did you hire her yet?” Laird asked. “We need a new English teacher.”

  Headmaster Yorke turned and glared at Laird. Laird winced and made a hasty retreat.

  “As I was saying,” the headmaster continued. “What are your qualifications as—”

  Now Christopher’s dark head appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you the new English teacher?” Christopher asked, without stammering once.

  “She is,” Laird said, standing next to him in the doorway. “Her name is Gwen Ashby.”

  “Hello, Miss Ashby,” Christopher said. “You’re not married, are you?”

  Headmaster Yorke answered the question for her by putting his hand on Christopher’s head and pushing him back through the doorway. Laird’s head popped through the door.

  “Have you ever read Ivanhoe?” Laird asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Laird sighed with obvious profound relief. He pointed his thumb at the headmaster. “He’s made us read it six times.”

  The headmaster glared at Laird so hard that Laird seemed to shrink back into himself.

  “No more Ivanhoe please,” he mouthed as he disappeared back through the door.

  “You have very interesting students,” Gwen said. “I like them.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Liar,” came Laird’s voice from behind the door.

  Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke looked up at the ceiling.

  “Is it still illegal to kill students in America?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  “I’ll simply have to risk it. Come with me to my office, Miss Ashby.”

  “Yes, I will. Thanks for asking.”

  He arched his eyebrow at her.

  “I was pretending you asked me, instead of ordering me.”

  “But you are coming to my office.”

  “Yes, since you asked so nicely.”

  He looked at her, turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

  She knew he expected her to follow him so she paused, counted to three and then followed him. The sun was sinking but hadn’t set quite yet, and long slants of golden light poured in through the windows in the school building and set everything alight. The floors, walls and windows looked like they were on fire with so much sunlight, and ahead of her the headmaster cast a long shadow that she stepped into as he led her up the winding stairs.

  They came to a room that was likely Headmaster Yorke’s office. He had a grand desk and large leather chair and windows behind him that would allow him to look down onto his school. And books, so many books in his office. Shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes. No paperbacks. Not a one. This man took his library seriously.

  He gestured to a chair in front of his desk and she sat down. He took his seat in his high-back leather chair, steepled his hands in front of his chest and stared at her.

  “You won’t like it here,” he said. “I strongly encourage you to leave.”

  “Is this how you start all job interviews?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this like that scene in Fight Club where you tell me to leave and I get the job only if I stay?”

  “The scene in what?”

  “Fight Club? The movie? Ever seen it?”

  “I’m a busy man, Miss Ashby. I don’t waste time on popular entertainment.”

  “I’ll adjust my references accordingly then. Look, Mr. Yorke, I—”

  He raised his hand to silence here.

  “I realize you’re seeking employment, and I respect that,” he said. “But it would require an enormous sacrifice from you to become a teacher at this school. I left my home country years ago and have never returned. The students are here year-round. We work year-round. We teach year-round. We have everything we need here at the school, and we rarely leave the grounds. You would be required to commit yourself to this school as we have. Whatever life you have outside the walls of the school, you would have to give it up to remain here.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but it’s safe to say I have no life outside the walls of this school. Having a life inside the walls of this school would be one more life than I have right now.”

  “I find it hard to believe that a lovely young woman such as yourself has no life.”

  “I don’t have any family anymore except for grandparents I don’t see very often. I had to switch colleges my freshman year after my dad died, and I lost all my friends in the process. I had a boyfriend. He moved to Africa to teach in a village there. When I tell you my entire life is in that car I wrecked trying to not kill a deer? I mean it.” She paused a moment. “Also, you think I’m lovely?”

  He ignored the question.

  “My condolences on the loss of your parents.”

  “Thank you.” She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

  “You look very young, Miss Ashby.”

  “I’m about to turn twenty-six. Definitely old enough to teach high school students.”

  “Even students such as mine? The boys here are precocious, highly intelligent. They require constant intellectual stimulation to keep their minds occupied. One student, bored by his classes, turned the courtyard statue of our founder, Sir William Marshal, into a jet-propulsion experiment.”

  “I didn’t see any statues in the courtyard.”

  “That’s because the experiment succeeded.”

  “Oh, my.” She almost said something about the movie Real Genius and how it could have been worse—the headmaster could have ended up with a building full of popcorn or an indoor ice rink. But she kept that reference to herself.

  “Indeed. It would be unfair of me to ask such a young and lovely woman to give up her life to teach here. I must insist you return to where you came from.”

  Gwen might have agreed with him. She might have left. She might have packed things up and packed it in and packed off to Chicago like she’d originally planned.

  But he’d called her lovely now. Twice.

  She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I think I’d like to stay if you’ll have me.”

  The headmaster raised his eyebrow and Gwen blushed.

  “Have me as a teacher here,” she continued. “I’ve never met students who were that excited about Shakespeare. Please let me teach them.”

  The headmaster stared at her. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Her merits? Her virtues? The pros and cons? Maybe he was just imagining throwing her down on his massive desk and having his way with her? Probably the former.

  “You may stay,” he said, and Gwen opened her mouth to thank him. He raised his hand to silence her again. “For a one-week trial period. It will take a few days for you to get things sorted out, and I wouldn’t want you to leave until we were sure you’re completely healed anyway.”

  “One week. I can handle that.”

  “There’s something you must understand about this school before stepping into a classroom. The William Marshal Academy is not a normal school. It’s not an average school. It’s not a typical school by any means. Other schools say they want to train students and make them leaders. A leader is nothing. A leader is simply one who leads, and a bad leader can lead an army into Hell. I want these boys to be heroic, brave and wise. Like our namesake Sir William Marshal, the greatest knight in history.”

  “I think that’s a very noble purpose,” she said, admiring Headmaster Yorke’s vision for the school and his passion for improving not only the minds but also the characters of his students. “And I promise I’ll do what I can to help.”