A God Should Not Have A Sense of Humor

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, except Imogen and the plot, such as it is. I don't even own Saint Margaret's. Everything else belongs to Tamora Pierce.

"Life is insane," Imogen Darcy announced to thin air. "Absolutely insane." Groaning, she swung her heavy bookbag over her shoulder, wondering for the thousandth time why her teachers insisted in the students carrying around so many textbooks. Wouldn't it be easier just to make photocopies? However, in Saint Margaret's Boarding School for Girls, photocopies were unacceptable, which is why Imogen was at the current moment lugging about fifty pounds of books around in an old nylon bag that looked as though it would burst at the seams at any second.

Looking at her watch, Imogen groaned again. She had three minutes to get to her music class. "Miss Chisholm will have my hide this time," she muttered as she began to run down the suddenly deserted hallway. She skidded to a stop just outside the classroom door and tried desperately to tame the tendrils of damp hair that had escaped her tight bun. Giving up, she pulled open the door to face the music mistress and the hostile stares of the other twelve girls sharing her class.

If Imogen had any choice, she would have been miles away from Saint Margaret's and all the girls attending it. Unfortunately, she had no choice. Her parents had died in a freak car accident the year before, leaving a girl without relative or home. The state authorities had sent her to boarding school until such time as they could arrange a proper foster home for her, and Imogen hated it. The girls at Saint Margaret's were all from the most privileged families, and a more snobbish bunch she couldn't imagine. Imogen had come to the school still mourning the deaths of her parents and the loss of all familiar to her. The state officials had said that Saint Margaret's would teach Imogen many important life lessons, and it had. It taught Imogen never, ever to let emotion show.

Imogen was now seventeen and in her graduating year. She wasn't exactly pretty, but she wasn't ugly either. She stood five feet seven inches in her sock feet and, as her housemistress said scornfully, was thin as an iron railing, with about as much figure. Her eyes were pale green with swirls of gold, hidden under long, fawn-colored lashes. Imogen's hair was of that peculiar fair coloring that became lighter and lighter as time wore on, until now it was so pale as to be almost white. Of the girls in the Grade 12, while certainly not the prettiest, she was certainly the most distinctive.

Now, as she gazed at the music mistress, her eyes were as blank as mirrors. After being teased unmercifully by her fellows after they learned she cried herself to sleep each night, Imogen had learned never to smile, never to cry, never to let anyone know what she felt. Needless to say, this prejudiced the other girls even more against her.

"Miss Darcy, if you cannot come to class on time, maybe you had better consider not coming at all?" Miss Chisholm said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Imogen didn't even flinch. Miss Chisholm did not like Imogen, and the whole school knew it.

"I am sorry, Miss Chisholm. I was distracted and did not notice the time," Imogen said calmly, inwardly seething. "It will not happen again."

"Very well, Miss Darcy," the music mistress said irately. "But be aware I will be speaking with the headmistress about your conduct."

As she walked to her seat, Imogen's face didn't betray a flicker of the panic that seized her. Mistress Longbottom, the headmistress, was very strict about punctuality, and Imogen already had many black marks against her. Only last week the headmistress had warned her that any more infractions would result in Imogen being expelled from Saint Margaret's, and then where would she go?

Five minutes later Imogen was, as usual, bored almost to tears. She loved music, but Miss Chisholm went heavy on the theory and not on the actual playing. Imogen sang mezzo-soprano in the school choir, one of the few areas where she could truly relax and let her emotions out. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the board where Miss Chisel (Imogen's private name for her) was explaining how to write out chromatic scales.

Suddenly the room began to pitch violently. Imogen shot up in her seat, instinctively realizing that this was an earthquake even before the other girls' panicked shouts.

"Everybody out!" Miss Chisholm bellowed.

*Well, you have to give the woman credit for a good pair of lungs, * Imogen thought detachedly as she fought to get out through the entrance. A girl elbowed her sharply in the ribs, knocking her wind out, just as another crushed her against the doorframe. Looking up, she saw a pair of mocking brown eyes belonging to Belinda, the leader of a clique of Grade 12 girls. With another "unintentional" shove, Imogen's head made violent contact with the hard teakwood doorframe.

Her last thought before the world went blank was *Oh gods, get me out of here! *

A god was listening.

Unfortunately, he had a sense of humor.

Imogen regained consciousness slowly. She was lying in some kind of moss-covered dell, surrounded by woods on every side. She sat up carefully and winced as a sharp pain shot through her head. *Gods-cursed Belinda*, she mentally swore. Gingerly she touched the back of her skull. Under her fingers Imogen felt a lump as large as a goose egg. Blood caked her hair, and she panicked for a moment before remembering that scalp wounds, even shallow ones, bled profusely. If it had been a serious injury she would have been dead by now.

Glancing around, Imogen saw her bookbag lying beside her, papers strewn all around. Her dark green woolen cardigan was snagged on a tree branch a short distance away. All in all, the appearance of Imogen and her belongings was that she had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of a deserted wood.

Moaning, Imogen scrambled to her feet, her sore head screaming in protest. Stiffly she began to gather up the loose papers, all the while her brain working furiously. Straightening up, she addressed the silent trees. "Well, it's obvious that the earthquake is over. It seems that I fainted and was deposited in the woods until I recuperated. But then where are the others? Surely the teachers would make sure somebody waited for me." Imogen frowned slightly. "Well, I had better stay put until they come back to get me. The woods on these grounds are huge."

Imogen deposited the pile of papers she had gathered under the tree where her sweater was hung. Squinting at the sun through a gap in the trees, she estimated the time to be about five in the evening, roughly an hour and a half before it became dark. A feeling of dread began to grow in Imogen's stomach. It was only March and nights still got very cold. She glanced at her school uniform and smiled wryly. All she was wearing was a knee-length dark green plaid skirt, knee socks, flat brown shoes, and a thin cotton blouse. Even with her sweater there was not much to keep out the chill.

Imogen mentally shook herself. *They'll find me by then*, she thought, trying to convince herself. *Surely they'll find me by then.*

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An hour later, Imogen had finally accepted the fact that she wasn't going to be found before dark. She had shouted, sung, and generally made any type of noise she thought would lead searchers to her, with no apparent result. Now, huddled down in her cardigan, she was facing the fact that she would be spending a cold night alone in the woods.

"How could this have happened?" she wondered aloud. "Even if the girls didn't say anything, surely the teachers would have noticed I'm missing. They're quick enough to jump on me when I'm late for class or have my light on past curfew."

Imogen shivered, drawing her sweater more tightly around her shoulders. The cold night air chilled her to the bone. Already her toes were getting numb. She curled her fingers in against her palms, hoping to stave off the chill slowly creeping up from her feet. She was so tired! Maybe just a little sleep…no! She had to keep awake, had to keep warm. Desperate, she turned her attention to counting the leaves in the tree above her.

Despite her best intentions, Imogen was asleep before she reached fifty.

If Imogen had been able to fight the divine sleep pressing against her eyelids, she would have seen a most bizarre man walk into the clearing. His hair and eyes were orange and his robes green. The god (for he was a god) smiled slightly. His task was complete. One mortal every three centuries was exchanged between the worlds, and this girl fit the bill perfectly. Young, strong, an outcast in her own universe, and with no unfortunate ties to make her unhappy in her new home. The god smiled again. Yes, he had done well…

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It was the voices that awoke Imogen. Awful, piercing, arguing, shouting voices surrounded her.

"I don't care what you say, Evin," a woman's voice screeched. "Spy or not, she's only a child, and likely frozen to the bone."

"But, Bella," protested a softer, man's voice (likely Evin, Imogen thought drowsily) "Think what our punishment will be if we bring a spy to Pirate's Swoop. You know Lady Alanna's a prime target."

There was a sharp intake of breath and the shrill woman likely would have resumed screaming if Imogen had not chosen that moment to groan and roll over, levering herself off the ground. She had a truly splitting headache.

Opening her eyes, she sat up and glanced curiously at the owners of the voices. The man was tall and tanned with blond hair and blue eyes. The woman was slightly shorter, but her hair was black and her eyes brown. Both were staring at Imogen in astonishment.

Imogen's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Who are you?" she asked abruptly. "What on earth are you doing here?" How dare these people barge into the school grounds without permission? *And,* Imogen thought, craning her neck around them, *bringing ponies too.*

The man let out an exasperated sigh. "My dear girl, it would be more appropriate for us to ask you that. I'm Evin Larse and this is my companion, Isabella Montrose, both of the Queen's Riders. We patrol Lady Alanna and Baron George's estate while the lady is busy. Now, who are you and what are you doing here?"

Imogen was staring at Evin Larse as though he had grown an extra head. "I'm Imogen Darcy, and this is not Lady anybody's private estate. This is the grounds of Saint Margaret's School for Girls."

Now it was Evin's turn to stare. "No," he said slowly. "This is the lands surrounding Pirate's Swoop, the estate of Lady Alanna the Lioness, the King's Champion, in the realm of Tortall. You, my girl, are a suspected spy."

Imogen's eyes went as hard as two green sea pebbles. "I am no spy," she ground out. "You're insane. There is no such place as Tortall. This is Canada."

"Aha!" Evin exclaimed. "Not only a spy, but one set on destroying Tortall and setting up a monarchy of Canada! Men, bind her!"

"Evin, you idiot!" Isabella shrieked. "You have no proof! Innocent until proven guilty, remember?" but it was too late. Before Imogen could so much as blink she was bound fast and gagged with an old rag. Two sturdy men carried her, squirming, spluttering, and glaring, to a spare pony.

"Come on!" said Evin, ignoring Isabella and looking positively gleeful. "We'll take her to Pirate's Swoop! The Lioness can deal with her!"

As the cavalcade swung into action (Isabella was still shrieking), Imogen directed a black look at their leader. *When I get free, he is a dead steak,* she thought darkly.

Constructive criticism is welcome, insults are not. I'm going to continue this whether I get reviews or not, since Imogen is hammering away in my head and insists on coming out, but feedback would be appreciated. Evin is being a little overenthusiastic, but he gets better.