Section 4 Thicket

Mrs. Thicket lifted the tiny pocket watch that dangled on a ribbon, bound to her enormous but tightly contained bosom. She clicked the watch open, peered at it, peered at Kestrel, and then snapped the watch shut and dropped it where it bounced twice before settling. Kestrel tried to look somewhere else, even though she was thinking, "six, no probably eight yards of cloth." She took a glance at the smocking on the front of the dress, the puffed sleeves, the gathered skirt. Definitely eight. Kestrel shuddered--but only a small shudder that Mrs. Thicket wouldn't notice. Eight yards of yellow calico-covered propriety. It didn't matter that this wasn't school, there was no way that she could escape this room without at least five demerits. She'd probably even have to stay after the interview to write lines on a blackboard. This did not bode well for her future.

"Your future," Mrs. Thicket was saying in a pinched voice, "is important to me, even if you choose to toy with your opportunities. Tardiness is not the handmaiden of efficiency."

Kestrel nodded. At times like this, it was better to just nod.

"I regret to inform you that efficiency was not one of your highest marks on the Exam," Mrs. Thicket continued. "You look like a reasonably bright young woman, which leads me to wonder if you couldn't be bothered to make the effort."

A tiny trickle of icy fire zapped through Kestrel's soul. Suddenly she was paying very close attention every word that Mrs. Thicket said.

"I did try to do my best, Mrs. Thicket," Kestrel assured her. "My score," she shook her head. "I didn't do very well?"

"My Dear," Mrs. Thicket said. "I'm sure that we can find something for you. I have never yet failed to place a young person once she or he has come of age." She studied Kestrel through her brass-rimmed spectacles.  "However, I will say that usually I have a bit more to work with."

She lifted a set of papers from her desk, pointed one thick finger at it. "History, deportment, magical abilities, spelling--I must say, your spelling." Really, there is often an area where a young person shines. We can then find a focus area for specialized training or appropriate placement. Other times, scores are more uniform, and we rely on the candidate's interests and preferences to guide his or her passage into adulthood." She lowered the paper and peered again,"Are you interested in anything? I do have a few entry-level apprenticeships that might suit you if you showed some kind of--" she waved her hand vaguely in the air.

Kestrel was busy melting into her seat--or rather wishing that she could. This was like one of the nightmares she heard people had before the Exam. People joked about what they would do if you turned out not to be fit for anything. It hadn't occurred to her that it would actually happen. She couldn't say anything. What she wanted, what she had told herself to come here for, to insist on--she wasn't used to talking about it aloud. If she said things aloud, then they became flat and ugly. And now to have this fat woman wave her hand and demand--it was all wrong. Maybe she should turn and run. But she'd have to come back. There would be nothing to do except come back. Kestrel cleared her throat and tried not to look like a wet kitten. "I was hoping that something magical," she began.

"Oh you did, did you?" Mrs. Thicket interrupted. "Magic is one career where people think that life will all be sparkling lights and glamor. They don't realize how much work, study, and talent goes into it. No, I think not magic. Not with your scores. Your baking and general homemaking scores aren't quite abysmal. Maybe I'll transfer you to the matchmaker..." she drifted off as she turned to her desk for the telephone. She lifted the earpiece from the tall, black stand and slapped down the handle several times in quick succession.  "Hello, hello? Marigold? Can you switch me over to Mrs. Quartz? Thank you. Hello, Rosie? Yes, Dear. Fine. Thank you. But I wonder if you might be able to stop by for a moment? Yes, a candidate. Yes, difficult case. I would appreciate it, Rosie. Thank you, Dear. Yes, see you in a moment."

Mrs. Thicket clinked the earpiece back onto the stand, turned, and folded her hands. "Mrs. Quarts will be joining us momentarily. Let me see, there is a form for that." She pulled open a desk drawer, selected a sheet from a folder, and fed it into a typewriter.

Thwack! Thwack! the keys pounded against the paper like hailstones. Kestrel opened her mouth, but she couldn't imagine her voice breaking through the downpour. The matchmaker? Not that Kestrel was opposed to being married, but she had hoped that she could make her own arrangements about that. This was going the wrong direction. It would still be two more days until Boron got home. Even if he didn't send her a note, she would have to go see him.

"Knock, knock." A fiercely cheerful, round wrinkled face poked around the partition wall. It was surrounded by a nimbus of short, tight curls. "I heard that you had a candidate for me?"

"Ah, Mrs. Quartz, so good of you to come," Mrs. Thicket said. "Got a tough job for you, I'm afraid." She held up the sheet with Kestrel's scores. "See here, and here," she continued, pointing her finger at the paper.

Mrs. Quartz tut tutted and then shared a knowing look with Mrs. Thicket. Together they turned to look at Kestrel.

"How much time do you spend on your hair?" Mrs. Quartz began.

Kestrel reached back to touch her hair, and then told herself to stop. Her hand dropped. "My hair? I don't know. A little while, I suppose."

"Hmmm...how long is it when you don't have it all tied up and half strangled?" Mrs. Quartz demanded.

Annoyance was seeping through the thick layer of confusion and embarrassment. Mrs. Quartz didn't even know her name, and she was already criticizing her hair? "About to my waist," she said curtly.

Mrs. Quartz pulled out a tape measure. "You don't paint your face yet, but we can give you the seminar on that. Stand up, let me see what size your waist is."

"She's not overweight, thank goodness," added Mrs. Thicket. "But she's the wrong shape. More like a rectangle or even a bag than an hourglass. If only she were taller. The best suitors want candidates who will keep their figure after having children. What do you think?"

Mrs. Quartz was nodding. "Dowdy, but not hopeless. Oh, after she's had a child or two, she'll be a mess. But if we send her to seminars 1A 1C and I think 4M, then there's a chance that we can bring out a piquancy in her looks that will be attractive enough to do the job if we don't expect too much. No one above the Yellow tier, say, but she probably could consider a Yellow, and of course with a miracle or two could dream of Orange. But still, the most likely option is a nice young farmer with a good start." She looked at Kestrel and tipped her head, "unless you'd prefer someone wealthier? A widower perhaps with one or two children who need a mother with lots of energy?"

Kestrel took a step back as Mrs. Quarts reached with the tape measure to circle the girl's middle. "Now wait?" Kestrel asked. "A farmer?"

Mrs. Thicket tipped her head and let impatience slip into her voice, "Well yes, Dear. What else would we be talking about? You're from a farming family, aren't you? So staying at your level should be no problem."

"My father is a farmer, yes, but my mother is from a Yellow House."

Mrs. Thicket raised an eyebrow.

"Was she an illegitimate child?" Mrs. Quartz asked. "Or possibly damaged goods that needed to be disposed of? There are ways that these things happen."

Kestrel had had enough, "My mother was NOT illegitimate! And she certainly wasn't a...a..."
She couldn't bring herself to say it.

The two ladies exchanged glances.

"Look, I appreciate your help, but I didn't really want to take Route A. Couldn't you find an apprenticeship for me?"

"You know, Dear, just because it's the A route, doesn't mean that it is in any way inferior. We all have our places in the world, and it would be much kinder to you to put you somewhere that you fit rather than trying to force you into a mold where you don't really belong."

"We just want to find the best life possible for you," added Mrs. Quartz. "If we found a place for you as a musician or a gardener, you would be miserable. You would be expected to begin with some kind of ability and training that you...just don't have."

"Yes, it's all about qualifications." Mrs. Thicket nodded. "You may have fanciful dreams of being a greenwoman or even a philosopher, but really, when you're raising children on a nice farm somewhere, you'll thank us."

"Now I think it will calm you to fill out some nice paperwork for a little while," Mrs. Thicket said, handing Kestrel a thick stack. "I'll show you to a desk where you can work on it. The secretary will help you if you have questions, and take your work when you are finished. Rest assured that Mrs. Quartz and I will do our utmost to find an apprenticeship or a nice introduction if at all possible.

Mrs. Quartz waved as Mrs. Thicket shooed Kestrel down the hall. "Your future is in good hands!" she called.

Kestrel found herself seated at a small, worn desk with a fountain pen and a stack of papers. She blinked at them and told herself not to do anything stupid like cry. If only her grana were alive, then Kestrel could run away. She'd have somewhere to run to. Her fingers strayed to the inside of her coat pocket. She had slipped two buttons in there for just in case. She shouldn't, she really shouldn't, but she turned a page or two of the forms and groaned. Even if she got caught, how much worse could it be? Besides, no one would think to look for magic in a button.

Kestrel took the wooden circle out of her pocket and looked at it. This one was a song. She looked around again. While she listened, she wouldn't be able to pay attention, but no one would come looking for her any time soon. She held the button between her palms and blew into her hands. "Effro," she said softly. Warmth spread from the center of her hands. It felt like she was holding a warm mug on a cold morning. She could hear notes, a few notes on a violin. She could almost see them, traveling along her arms, working their way inward. The music should have been a happy song, but there was a tiny thread of something sad underneath it. She let herself close her eyes, and the music grew louder as she focused on it. If she didn't know, she would have believed that there was someone right in front of her playing. Her Dad had played this just a few days ago. She had been pretending to take a nap on the couch, but really, she was making a button, so she captured the song along with it. She felt the tension in her head and shoulders ease a little. And then the song ended, and she opened her eyes. The stack of papers was still there, but at least she had the equivalent of having been upset off by herself somewhere, followed by a nap. It was still bad, but she could face it now. She lifted her pen and stared with question #1. This paperwork was her last chance to convince them that she should get Route B instead of Route A.

Continue on to Chapter 3