Cameila Author's Note: Cameila's boarding school has changed a bit since Ella's days in it. Ella's Madam Edith was a different person than Madam Edna. *g* Also, this is later, there will be no mention of Ella, and somewhere along the way they developed mirrors and a more advanced form of sink & chamber pot. ^_^ So, just a warning so I don't get attacked for taking out the Lime Room or something. I knew it was there, I read the finishing school section of Ella Enchanted three times over and took notes. I just gave myself the liberty of making changes. ^_^ Now, read on ..

The girl's eyes turned dark. Cerulean bursts of flame receded into the black of her pupils, leaving only the soft lavender color her eyes were when she was alarmed or disappointed.
Or both. "Finishing school?" she asked with distaste.
"Yes," her mother ordered firmly. "You must learn to live the life of a proper lady, my dear, and stop dissolving yourself into all this work."
Cameila snorted. "What's wrong with work?"
"And you simply must learn Kyrrian," her mother continued loudly, ignoring her challenge. Cameila sensed that the battle was over, and fell silent. There was a reason her mother was the manager of an Ayorthaian singing troupe, and not merely an underling. "So, my darling," the small-nosed, black-haired woman continued sweetly, sensing her victory, "toddle down to your room and pack. Rupert will ride with you in the carriage tomorrow -- I must go with my troupe to sing at an inn."
There it is, Cameila thought. Once she gets her way she's all sugar-sweet. I detest it.
The girl with angry purple eyes said nothing, but curtsied stiffly and left with the least genuine smile she could muster.

By the next day, Cameila had calmed down enough so that her eyes had turned back to the pretty bluish-turquoise they usually were. She still hated the idea of finishing school, where she would be away from all the action -- and yes, work! -- of the respectable farm she and her cousins managed with the help of their fairy godfather, Rupert. Rupert was one of the last fairies left in Ayortha, but that didn't make his rules about magic any less strict. He barely ever used it, and Cameila and her cousins were often exasperated by his miserly attitude towards using it.
"It's as if you're not even a fairy!" Cousin Kayara had exclaimed when Rupert had refused to milk the cows by magic a few mornings ago. Cameila privately was of the opinion that fairies probably had their reasons; she didn't bother Rupert about it much. He was a good godfather to her.
You would think, she thought sullenly to herself, as the carriage jarred across the dirt roads through Ayortha's countryside, that Mother would want me at the farm with Cousin Kayara and Cousin Jerahnu and all the others, since Mother's always away with her troupe. But that isn't so with Mother, is it? She doesn't think logically, Mother. She doesn't worry that I won't be there when Saladei has her babies -- and the poor rabbit's even named after her!
Cameila let out a deep sigh and brought her knees up so that her feet rested on the cushion of the carriage, curling her arms around her legs comfortably. Rupert, next to her, was asleep, so nobody would rat at her about being a proper lady of breeding. I am a lady of breeding, she always wanted to yell back, I breed all the rabbits on our farm -- but she never did. She'd bite her lip and lower her head and say yes, yes, I'm a lady, you're right, ladies don't manage things, ladies marry. Husbands do the managing ..
Cameila only screamed in indignation and kicked her bed in disgust when nobody was within earshot.
"Lady Cameila?" she heard Rupert's voice ask. "Do proper ladies of breeding place their muddy shoes on carriage cushions?"
She rolled her eyes and grudgingly took her shoes off. "When did I become a lady, anyway?" she asked stubbornly. "If I'm a lady, why do we live on a farm?"
"Haven't I told you this already?" he asked wearily. "You must tire of the story at some point."
"No," she replied, jutting her chin out. "Tell me again."
Rupert sighed. "Your mother's house was an influential title without money to back it. Your father's house was rich, but without a significant standing in court. A marriage between the two was simply a strategic move by their parents, and the instant they were dead your father left without a trace. So you are still a lady because of your mother's title, but your father has her money."
Cameila shuddered. "Awful."
"Yes."
"Rupert, why do I have to go to finishing school?"
"Because --" here her godfather sighed and adjusted his position on the seat -- "your mother wants you to remember that you are a lady, and that your house is still an important one to the royal family."
"Disgraced though we are?"
Rupert wasn't going to give her that one, Cameila realized. He settled back into the cushions, leaning his head against the poorly crafted glass window, and closed his eyes. She stretched; it had been a long ride. Her words echoed back and rattled her brain, haunting her: "Disgraced though we are .." For in fact they were disgraced. Shuddering again, Cameila looked at her hands and told herself that she was a product of a forced marriage. Her creation was not an act of love -- it was something that had to be done to continue the reign of the Bileu line. She sighed deeply and pressed her nose to the window until she fell asleep.

Finishing school was a tiny little cottage at the edge of Jenn. Cozy, was Cameila's first thought -- a prison, was her second. It was a gigantic wooden house with extensive gardens and shady, calming trees, but for all Cameila knew there were bars on the windows and guards patrolling the grounds. Her face twitched in disgust as her eyes alighted on a pair of decorative bushes by the front doors; they were sheared to the shape of hoop-skirted ladies with très petite figures.
Rupert stepped out of the carriage and looked around, hiding feelings that were quite similar to Cameila's. As the two of them stood, absorbing the scene, a slouching man with ponytailed brown hair opened the front door of the school, peering out with sleep-deprived eyes. Recognizing them, he slid over lazily and grabbed Cameila's suitcases out of the carriage.
"Yer t'see Ma'am Eddie," he mumbled as he pulled Cameila's small pack from her seat. It held Cousin Kayara's ring, Cousin Jerahnu's prized ebony pen, and Rupert's fairy book, all parting gifts. It also held her journal.
"Wait, I can take that!" she nearly shouted. Hastily, she added, "It's no trouble, really." Shrugging, the man handed her the bag, and she hugged it briefly before looking up at Rupert, red-cheeked.
He pretended not to notice her affectionate embrace with a pack. "This Madam Edna is inside?"
"Yeh," the unfamiliar man told them, head hanging as if he lacked the strength to hold it up. Cameila thought he was trying to look at Rupert through his eyelids. "She dere."
"My thanks," Rupert told him, with a small bow. As they followed, the man trudged up to the school, luggage in hand, and disappeared up a dark oak stairwell at the end of the hall.
"Where are we supposed to go?" Cameila asked Rupert, looking up expectantly.
Rupert glanced at the bronze plaques on the doors. "Find one of these that says 'Madam Edna' on it." The two headed up the hallway, Rupert searching for Madam Edna, Cameila curiously exploring the place where she would be spending at least the next year. The door to Madam Edna's office was at the far end of the hall on the left, past the oak staircase and coat racks. Opposite the headmistress's door was a uniform line of five doors with 'Manners Mistress,' 'Music Mistress,' 'Sewing Mistress,' 'Writing Mistress,' and 'Dancing Mistress' engraved in bronze. Cameila raised her eyebrows -- these names were what the teachers liked to be called? -- and the door to Madam Edna's office opened.
"Come in," said a stern voice; Cameila couldn't see its owner past Rupert, an odd thing since her godfather was so short. Once they walked in, however, Cameila saw that Madam Edna clearly fit her imaginings: she was a slightly stocky elderly lady in a very fancy black dress with a tight knot at the top of her head. Her lips were thin and strict, her eyes had the cold look of someone who always told the harsh truth, and her long hands were perfect for piano-playing -- and strangling disobedient students, Cameila thought morosely.
There was a locked cabinet just to the right of the door with no sign or glass window to give the viewer a clue about what lay inside. Cameila wondered if she was safeguarding something, or if that was just where she kept her personal belongings. Thinking of belongings made her clutch her little bag tighter, and she wondered if she would have a place to keep things from the other girls at the school.
"Cameila Bileu?" Madam Edna asked at once, and Rupert nodded calmly. The apathetic, cool-headed man didn't seem intimidated at all by this businesslike woman. "I thought as much. You sent a letter ahead." She scrutinized the girl from her cerulean eyes to the booted feet, uncovered by her too-small farm dress, and back up to her practical, shoulder-length locks of black hair. "Do not think we will pamper you here because of your family line," the headmistress told her sternly. Cameila forced herself to match that stern brown gaze. She thought, but did not say, How could you not? I am alive because of the Bileu line.
Rupert cleared his throat loudly, making her eyes jump to him, and he glared at her, obviously knowing what she was thinking. Cameila scowled at him as Madam Edna continued her lecture.
"You are not to cause trouble among the other girls," she proclaimed. "You are not to disobey your teachers. You are not to be rude to the servants. You are not to be a discredit to this school. You are not to commit unladylike actions. Consequences are severe." Cameila believed her, the mental picture of strangling fresh in her mind. "On weekdays you are to rise at seven o'clock, and not a moment after." No problem. I'm used to waking with the sun. Next requirement? "You are not to primp for more than half an hour. Looking good is a delicate art, and one that must be quickly managed." It took a lot of effort for Cameila's eyes to keep from rolling at the "delicate art" comment. As it was, her treacherous eyes were hastily turning her fiery purple color to display her dissatisfaction. "You will have classes, grouped with the girls in your room and the girls in one other room, until 3:30 in the afternoon. You will have free time and activity time until teatime and then until supper. Lights out is at 9 pm. Girls are not permitted in other rooms until weekends, and then only by specific invitation.
"On the weekends you will be permitted to go into town, and you must eat all meals in town except for tea. Servants are off-duty on weekends, so do not ask them to perform chores for you. Teatime on weekends will be prepared by a different girl every week and served by a different girl. All the girls will sit together in the dining room and talk without the supervision of any teachers." Cameila was puzzled. No supervision! What must happen at that time! What awful things would be done to the new students? She felt fear rise in her throat, and -- not for the first time -- she was glad of her strength as a farm girl.
"Do you have any questions, Miss Cameila?" Madam Edna inquired, snapping her back to attention. Cameila looked up and shook her head, and then realized that the headmistress wanted to hear her voice.
"No, mum," she answered softly.
"Good," Madam Edna said with finality, and led them out of her office and back down the hall to the room closest to the front door. The room was on their right this time. Before the short, strict headmistress pushed open the door, Cameila peered up at it and read the bronze plaque -- 'SEWING ROOM,' it read. Inside, she counted nine girls sitting in armchairs, working diligently at embroidery.
"Margaret," Madam Edna called, nodding to the frail, petite figure of the sewing teacher. A rosy-cheeked, well-dressed, slightly overweight student who looked to be about fifteen -- my age, thought Cameila -- looked up, hastily dropped her sewing, and went to Madam Edna. Out of the corner of her eye, Cameila spotted another richly clothed girl, this time perfectly thin, give her headmistress a glowing smile. Madam Edna either pretended not to notice or truly did not see the girl, and closed the door.
Margaret waited prettily, hands folded at her waist, for Madam Edna's instructions. She was ordered to show Cameila to the Cerulean Room, and with that Madam Edna walked purposefully back to her office. Rupert cleared his throat pointedly, and Cameila knew it was time for him to go. He wouldn't appreciate a hug, she had learned from experience, so she simply forced a smile and turned away, following Margaret up the elegant oak staircase. Her insides were in consternation.
"We're both in the Cerulean Room, that's why Eddie picked me to show you around," Margaret informed her, as if she had much practice leading new students to their deaths. By strangling. Cameila gulped as she continued. "What's your name? Cameila Bileu, she said?"
"Yes." Cameila nodded. "Call me Cam, though. Only Rupert -- my godfather -- and my mother call me Cameila." She wrinkled her nose, and Margaret laughed.
"I'm Meg, to normal people," she said. "You're funny."
"Who's Eddie?" Cam wondered, feeling rather better now that this other girl had laughed.
"That's our little name for Madam Edna. Don't ever call her that to her face, though, she'll have you skinned," Meg warned with a knowing air. "She can be worse than an ogre sometimes. Last week Delinda got caught snooping in Music Mistress's letters and got a letter sent home and detention in the school for a week. She's not even allowed to go into town this weekend, and that means no meals." Cameila shuddered. "Not that it matters," Meg added as they finished climbing the second set of stairs and walked onto the third floor. "Delinda's an awful snot. She's in the Ruby Room, which means we have to have classes with her." Both girls scowled, and Meg turned down a hallway to the right and opened the farthest door down. Its plaque read 'CERULEAN ROOM,' and the name certainly fit the decor.
Cam roved her eyes around the room curiously, taking in the comfy armchairs and gauzy curtains and fancy beds, all in the same bluish-turquoise. There were different tints of the color, but the overall effect was overwhelming rather than beautiful in Cam's opinion. Meg pointed to a bed at the far corner of the room, under a window that overlooked a gigantic flower garden. It had Cam's luggage piled at the bottom.
"Hey, is that your stuff?" she asked. Cam nodded. "Your bed's next to mine," she remarked, smiling slowly. Cam grinned at her and plopped down on her bed.
"This is comfy!" she exclaimed.
"Yeah, but don't let Eddie see you doing that. Or any of the teachers, for that matter." Meg mimicked Madam Edna's stern voice. "Ladies, I do not want to see you clamber onto your sleeping places with the dignity of a hunting dog!"
Cam giggled. "Is she that bad?" Meg nodded emphatically, eyes wide.
"You'd better make your bed every morning, too," she told Cam. "When I first got here last year I almost got killed for not making my bed." As an afterthought, she added, "Are you Ayorthaian?"
Closing her eyes briefly, Cam nodded. "I always thought I could beat that stupid accent out of me .." she muttered. "Are there any other Ayorthaians here?"
Meg bit her lip in thought. "Umm .. Reena from the Emerald Room. She's a commoner. Are you?"
"No," Cam answered. And I'll never forget it. "I'm the Bileu line, where all the dukes and duchesses and everybody used to be." When they had money, she added silently. Meg noticed the bitter 'used to be' and decided not to question her further.
"So, I guess you should unpack," Meg suggested.
"I guess so," Cam replied, sighing, and pushed off the bed. "What do we do after that?" She opened the first of her two small bags and began to pile a few clothes in the cerulean dresser by her bed. There was a mirror on top of it, and Cam noticed that she looked tired and mussed. Not surprising, she told herself with a shrug, and returned to her luggage.
Meg told Cam to wait a moment and ran out to check the grandfather clock in the hall. As she re-entered the room, she announced, "It's one-thirty, so we have a half hour left of sewing and then we go to writing. After that it's free time, teatime, more free time, and supper."
"Oh," Cam answered, bewildered. She moved on to her second bag. The unpacking wouldn't take long -- she hadn't had much to bring. Remembering the pack slung around her shoulder, she looked over at Meg and asked, "Is there -- somewhere I can keep this where nobody will find it?" She felt stupid translating her wishes to words, and hoped Meg wouldn't be offended -- or worse, amused -- by her request.
"Under your pillow?" Meg returned, shrugging. "I have no idea. Good ladies have no privacy." She grinned, inviting Cam to share her joke, and Cam smiled ruefully back, relieved. The angry lavender had again disappeared, and the haze of cerulean was back in her eyes now. She wasn't so unsettled anymore, now that she knew the name and description of her fate.
Once Cam had finished with her bags, the two girls clattered back downstairs to the Sewing Room. Meg and Cam settled down very elegantly on two armchairs in one corner, and Cam managed to stitch a rough flower in the thirty minutes of class she had to endure. At least another year of this, Cam reminded herself. And it will be a long one ..