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Teresa
Chapter Three: "Calling in
Sick"
Current Location: Greenhill
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1:10 am. Coffee.
1:30 am. Standard security protocol done.
1:36 am. Student application files.
1:41 am. Coffee.
2:17 am. Eyes-and-Ears file transfers.
2:33 am. Coffee.
2:58 am. Letters of overtures.
3:06 am. Coffee.
3:08 am. Coffee again. What the hell, I'll need
it anyway.
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The candles were burning down
low, dripping white into its small holders. Shadows were quickly filling
the room as slowly, the sky outside began to brighten. With the
exceptions of a few early birds chirping in song from somewhere among
the trees being overlooked by the large airy window beside her desk,
little noise was heard, at least from within Teresa's makeshift office.
So it was with a start as Teresa, looking up from her work and out the
window, realized that it was now close to morning. She had been working
the whole night again, just as she had done several nights before. And
just as before, there was still so much left undone, too much to stop
and take a break.
Her head hurt. Her right hand
hurt. Her back hurt. If she goes at this for too long, her teeth might
probably start hurting as well. With an effort, Teresa blew back the
strand of hair that had somehow fallen onto her face as she had worked.
She might be overdoing it a
bit. Teresa thrived on work; to sit around and do nothing at all was for
her, the worst punishment imaginable. She had been chided several times
on taking on too much workload than she can possibly carry, by former
teachers, colleagues, and even a few of the students. She'd always
shrugged off their protests, complain cheerfully of boredom and happily
immerse herself between sheafs and piles of papers and work.
Work. Work. Work. That was her
mantra.
But then again, she'd never
worked so hard several nights in a row, either. Mistress Caitlin, the
head cook of the Academy and notorious for her constant mothering of
almost everyone else (even Teresa wasn't exempted from calling her
"mistress"), be they students or officials, would probably be
after her again this very morning, large bowl of chicken soup on one
hand and a vile concoction of medicine --forkroot, chrysanthemum,
evergreen shoots, and who knew what else-- in the other.
Grimacing a bit at the memory
of the last time she had an incident with Mistress Caitlin, she pushed
aside --thankfully-- another large pile of paperwork that she had just
recently finished, cast a look about at the remaining sheafs that still
needed to be done, and breathed a small sigh of relief. They had
actually dwindled down onto a dozen or so more papers, simple reports
that can be easily finished within the next hour or two. It was hard to
keep the smile of her face at the thought of a chance to relax. She
was so happy, her eyes were actually blurring with tears.
Wait. Her eyes weren't blurring
from tears. She blinked, then blinked some more. Her eyes were blurring,
because they were strangely hot.
In fact, her whole face felt
strangely hot. So did the rest of her.
What an amazing thing.
The concept of being sick had
never occurred to Teresa before; she, like her father before her and his
father before him, had always thought herself to be invulnerable when it
came to such things. There was absolutely no way she could even be sick,
not now.
No possible way.
She just needed a little sleep
is all.
Abandoning the piles at her
desk, Teresa slowly inched her way towards the large mahogany bed, head
now beginning to throb with every step. Her last conscious memory was
that of tumbling headfirst onto the bed, blacking out into sweet
oblivion even before her head had reached the pillow.
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Needless to say, Mistress
Caitlin was on the verge of a convulsion when a young maid came to
inform her that "Miz Teresa can't get out of bed t'day, t'ink
she's a'burnin' up." Not only did she pounce on Teresa with the
chicken soup and the disgusting potion, she followed it up with a
prescription of several glasses of water a day --it still surprised
her how she could take them all in-- and the insistence that she
change into more softer and more loose fitting garments for her
duration in bed. Teresa had scant few fitting such a description
in her closet, most being business suits and formal wear --some
unspoken law among dressmakers and fabric designers seemed to imply
that the professional appearance of clothing is in direct proportion
to its uncomfortability -- she was forced into wearing her dressing
gowns. It was either those or an extremely ugly pair of Do-re-mi
elves-printed pajamas that someone with an strange sense of humor had
designed - Teresa didn't want to know where Mistress Caitlin had gotten
them from. Fortunately, she wasn't always conscious when the head
cook's exotic tortures were inflicted upon her, sparing her from
further pain and embarrassment.
Orders had already been given
out to take care of some of Teresa's work for the day. Emilia or
Mistress Caitlin herself may have given the orders; Teresa was too
sick to know what went on, drifting in and out of sleep for the most
part. She did recall at some parts of the day, stumbling out of bed in
an unsuccessful attempt to head back over to her desk; never before
did those unfinished pile of papers taunt her like a siren does a
sailor as it did now. Three times she had tried, and three times she
had been carried back off to the bed that was slowly becoming her
prison; by servants devoutly faithful to the impregnable Mistress. In
the end, she reluctantly accepted her fate; she wasn't going to
have anything done today no matter how hard she'd plead, not until she
showed them a marked improvement in her health.
With a rueful sigh, Teresa
snuggled under the covers and, with a little prayer that she'd feel
better the next day, closed her eyes. In a short while, she was
already dreaming, of loose snatches of paper she can never seemed to
catch, disappearing and reappearing in another spot far away from
her; and of Mistress Caitlin hot at her heels, a bucket of salt under
one arm and waving several pieces of mandrake root at her with the
other.
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