...and our conclusion. I like this scene. ;) I actually wrote an epilogue at the school, but ditched it and rearranged -- somehow, there's just no way to end it besides that final line.

These past couple stories have been an interesting exercise in free-writing, actually. I have no beta readers and I'm not doing that much, the preceding paragraph notwithstanding, to edit this before posting. Since my modus operandi tends to default to "edit everything to death", cranking this out in a few hours and throwing it directly out for public consumption feels oddly liberating. There's nothing like flying by the seat of your pants to get the creative energy going....

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. :)


Several nights later, back at the Gaiter's, Susan began to turn down the beds in Gawain and Twyla's room for the last time. No one had said much that evening as she'd helped them get into their nightclothes (Gawain snatched the shirt and drawers away and did it himself; Twyla mutely let Susan pull the slip over her head). It was, in fact, quite oddly silent until the children crawled into bed, and Twyla suddenly asked again, "Are you really leaving?"

Susan plumped the pillows behind Twyla and answered, for the fourth time that day, "Yes. Tomorrow morning."

"Is that 'morning' as in 'really early', or 'after going out for a walk' kind of early, or...."

"Gawain," she said, a little sternly. He made a face and slouched down under the blankets, muttering to himself.

"What was that?" she said calmly.

"Nothing."

"If it were nothing, I wouldn't have heard the words 'stupid', 'running off' and 'petunia'. Although I'm mystfied how 'petunia' fits in."

He shoved the blankets back under his chin and said, "Our last governess liked petunias. She wore them in her hat. We'll probably get someone else dumb who likes petunias and knitting and wants to tell us Mr. Bunnsy stories."

"You'll just have to show her to the library instead," Susan said, meaning the real one, the bookcase she'd stocked with historical volumes, surprisingly bloodthirsty fairy tales *, and an antique collection called Stories for Small Children, meant to teach its audience all sorts of Sensible Morals. Susan had inscribed in its margins a number of pithy and far-more-sensible commentaries, which had quickly taught the children more about critical reading than most people ever learned.

[ * Surprisingly, anyway, if you hadn't met the fairies in question.]

She didn't bother to tell Gawain not to call their governess "dumb." It may very well have been true, after all. She'd knew she'd taught them enough tact not to say such things to the wrong audience, and if she hadn't taught them how to detect unintelligent people and handle them accordingly, she hadn't been doing her job.

"Will you be back to visit uth?" Twyla said. Before Susan even had a chance to shoot her a glare, she piped up again with, "Us."

Susan looked aside a little. "Perhaps."

She was tempted to add, "And if you start lisping at your new governess, I will come back and make you speak around marbles until you learn to enunciate," but she feared that would encourage Twyla to heretofore-unreached levels of unintelligibility.

Gawain sat up in bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. "Maybe you can come back and take us to the park on Sundays?"

"I imagine your new governess will be doing that."

"Yes, but she won't know how to scare off the bears."

Susan sighed, picturing the mischevious grin Gawain got every time he stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. "You'll just have to stop making them follow you. They get just as irritated at it as I do."

"But what about the real monsters?" Twyla said, her lower lip trembling a little.

Susan sat down on the edge of the little girl's bed. "Remember what I told you?"

Twyla sucked in her lips as she thought, then puffed out a breath and recited, "Bogeymen hate blankets, vampires are scared of fire--"

"And garlic--" Gawain added.

"The monsters in the closet won't bother us if we pick up everything so they can't follow the trail back to the bed--"

"And stakes," Gawain said, still thinking about vampires. "Wooden stakes. Can I break one off the back of Father's chair? The rungs are just the right size."

"No," Susan said. "A candle is all you need."

"That's no fun."

"-- and monsters under the bed can be whacked on the head with a slipper," Twyla said. She looked up at Susan. "But sometimes they're mean, and I can't do the Voice on them."

"You don't need the Voice." Susan helped Twyla settle back down into bed, and tucked the corners of the blanket firmly around her. "A good, strong tone of authority will do the trick with any monster."

And most people, she thought privately. You'll learn.

Twyla thought that one over. "You mean I can really just yell at them and they'll go away?" she asked.

"Not yell," Susan said. "Be firm. You're the one in charge."

"This is my room," Gawain declared to the ceiling, practicing. "And if you don't get out of here, I'll -- I'll --"

"Get you with the poker!" Twyla shouted, and dissolved into giggles.

Gawain, suddenly serious, sat straight up again. "Wait. Where's the poker? You're not taking it with you, are you?"

Susan raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "What? No, that belongs to --"

She glanced at the fireplace. Beside the cozy hearth, on a wrought-iron stand, was a soot-brush, dustpan, and, standing tall, the legendary poker. It wasn't anything that remarkable; it was just a pointed length of metal, with a well-worn handle and a significant dent in the middle. The Gaiters had tried to buy a new one after The Incident with the monster in the cellar, but Susan just bent it back as straight as she could, and said, "It'll be fine" -- which it was. Better than fine, as a matter of fact. The monsters recognized the dent as a particularly graphic symbol of what she could do with that poker, and now gave it an even wider berth.

The poker itself was a symbol. She knew that as well as the monsters did. And she knew Gawain and Twyla did, too.

Sometimes, she thought, symbols could be very empowering... as long as you understood what they represented, and why they worked, and if you could make them your own.

Susan got up. Feeling a certain sense of ceremony, she slowly lifted the poker from its resting place. Gawain, whose wide eyes shone in the flickering firelight, watched her in amazement as she strode back to his bed and held out the poker, handle-first.

"That belongs to you," Susan said.

Gawain gaped at it for a good long moment, then slowly, almost solemnly, curled his fingers around the handle. Susan let go and watched him heft it. The metal didn't glint in the light; it looked sooty and battered and wholly ordinary... and solid, and real, and very, very useful.

She could feel a shadow behind her think again, and scurry out of the room.

"Wow," Twyla said to her brother, awed. "You're like a knight."

Gawain grinned, but, quite sensibly, didn't start flailing the poker about in midair like a play sword. Susan approved. She smiled a little, and for the first time she could remember, kissed him gently on the top of the head. "Goodnight, then, Sir Gawain."

He smiled and scooted back under the blankets, murmuring "goodnight" back to her, as Twyla behind her suddenly said, "Miss Susan?"

She turned. "Yes?"

The girl held out her arms. Susan blinked, somehow startled, then bent down and gave her a good, long hug. Twyla sniffled once, quietly, but it was Susan who had to swipe at her cheek after she'd said "goodnight" into the girl's hair and stood back up.

Behind her, Gawain was already asleep. It only took a few moments for Twyla to drop off as well. Susan watched them there for a minute before beginning to put out the fire.

As she worked, there came a little clicking noise, which she pointedly ignored until it had made its way up beside her. Susan, poker-less, jabbed at the logs with the handle of the dustpan and sighed a little, speaking quietly. "What is it?"

SQUEAK?

"Yes, I've got the letter from Madam Frout. I'm delivering it to Miss Cooper in the morning."

SQUEAK....

"She was a little cross, yes." Susan scratched under her other eye, which, she thought firmly, was not wet. "It was rather a lot for me to ask as a new employee, but I insisted...."

SNH, SNH.

"Well, I may have told them that a simple authoritative voice would do just as well, but--"

But -- I made a promise, she thought. And I didn't want anything to fall through. Sometimes, the Voice did come in handy.

She thought fleetingly of the look on Madam Frout's face when she'd used it. Her headmistress had indeed been startled by Susan's request for a meeting, and her subsequent declaration that Katherine and Sarah Chandler of 120 Wixon Alley were to be given full scholarships -- tuition and board both -- from now until their graduation from the Academy, and that they would both be, when the time arose, in Miss Susan's class. Startled, yes, but accommodating. Susan had made it a request she couldn't refuse.

The scholarship would help, Susan thought. It would have to help. Of course, it still wouldn't be easy. She'd been right when she told Thom they'd need to learn to stand on their own -- they didn't have any choice. But she could at least give them somewhere to stand.

The glowing embers had begun to die away. Susan backed up, closed the screen, and rose, ignoring for the moment the faint blue glow outlining the Death of Rats. The only other illumination was the oil lamp on the opposite wall, which she went to and dimmed, just to the point where it would still spook off the more jittery ghouls. Besides, it gave her enough light to look into the room one more time.

Some children, she thought absently as she watched Gawain turn over, sleep with teddy bears. Others -- well...

The blankets had moved aside as he did, uncovering the weapon he still had clenched in one hand.

Others, she thought, sleep with pokers.

She was sure the next governess would be horrified, but would never be able to break him of the habit. He and his sister had both, in fact, picked up a number of unnerving tendencies, which she knew would stick -- the urge to question everything, interest in all sorts of things supposedly too "grown up" for them, stubbornness, independent thinking....

She smiled a little. If she had half as much luck with Kate and Sarah, things would turn out all right.

"Yes," she murmured aloud, half to the Death of Rats and half to herself. "They'll be fine."

SQUEAK.

Susan blinked. She had eventually learned to understand what the rat meant by his squeaks and sniggers, but rarely if ever had she heard him pay her a genuine compliment.

She looked down at the little figure, and after a moment, said, "Thank you. Honestly. " She paused. "But don't let that go to your head."

SQUEAK!

"No, I won't either."

And with that, she left the room, quietly closed the door behind her, and went to finish packing her bags. She planned to be gone by dawn, before Gawain and Twyla awoke.

CONCLUSIONS AND DEPARTURES, said Death in memory, ARE ENTIRELY OUR BUSINESS --

And so, Susan thought, are graceful exits.