The Power of Four fanfic

*dashes in, lugging suitcase and out of breath* Well, that was EXHAUSTING. But fun. Falcon shuttle mission: Hubble capture, successfully complete! (Darn this joystick...) And I officially passed level two of the Future Astronaut Training Program, or FATP. Wut naow.

Anyway, I finished this AGATB fanfic this morning. Sorry to say, it has nothing to do with Kartik. Unfortunately. But that actually wasn't the point of my writing it. Read it first and then I'll explain.

The Power of Four
A Great and Terrible Beauty fanfic
Disclaimer: I'm not Libba Bray and therefore don't own any of this stuff.


“Girls,” begins Mrs. Nightwing, “the classroom on the second floor is being cleaned today, so any classes you have there are relocated to the fifth room on the third floor. Upper class girls shall proceed to that room directly after luncheon for a free study period. Any questions?”

“No, Mrs. Nightwing,” we chorus at our headmistress. It’s a rhetorical question, really; we’re not expected to have questions. We hear and obey in all things. That is our wont.

I shall have none of it. I have a secret, a powerful secret that sets me apart from the tittering girls around me. I can control my own fate.

In the seat beside me, Felicity Worthington gazes imperiously at nothing in particular. I know she is not paying attention in the slightest, but were Mrs. Nightwing to call on her, she would have an intelligent answer cooked up in a second. I find myself wishing I had even a fraction of her wit.

On my other side, Ann Bradshaw is still chewing a mouthful of biscuit. Her lank brown hair hangs, sadly unattractive, in her eyes. Her plate is empty, unlike my own, which is still graced with a portion of biscuit and a smattering of gravy.

Beautiful Pippa Cross stifles a ladylike yawn across the table from us. She is feigning disinterest, or more accurately, she is portraying her disinterest politely and flawlessly. None of us are engaged in the headmistress’s speech. The severe woman continues to prattle on at the head of the dining table as we, the students, sit quietly and pretend to listen to her.

After an eternity of blather, Mrs. Nightwing finally says, “Now, ladies, kindly run along to your classes. Good afternoon.”

We rise from the table and parrot back, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Nightwing!”

Felicity, Pippa, Ann and I converge in the hall. “Well, that was exceedingly dull,” Felicity says, tossing her blonde hair. “If we had assembly every morning, I know I should die.”

“And I should die with you,” Pippa moans, sidestepping a gaggle of skinny young girls. “I was honestly afraid I was going to fall asleep in my plate.”

I take Pippa’s arm as we make our way down the hallway to our classroom. “Oh, Pip, you are incapable of such rudeness. Now, I, on the other hand…”

Ann smiles tentatively at the joke.

Pippa pretends not to be amused. “Gemma Doyle, you are such a hideous girl.” She’s frowning, but her violet eyes sparkle with mischief. “You shall do no such thing, or risk bringing shame and dishonor upon the spotless reputation of Spence!” As she speaks, the frown is slowly replaced by a wicked smile.

We burst into delighted laughter. Pippa has just very cleverly insulted our school, and we enjoy the feeling of being naughty. I think briefly of the burned-out East Wing, and the horrors that occurred there, but only briefly. The dangers of the realms seem far away and insignificant at the moment.


The fifth classroom on the third floor of the academy is in a state of neglect. The desks are old and scarred. There is a fine coat of dust over everything. A neat row of windows, placed too high on the wall for us to see out, let in adequate sunlight. In one corner is a dusty pianoforte, its keys yellow with age.

We file into the room, carrying books and papers to study. Pippa makes straight for the pianoforte, depositing her books on a nearby desk. We follow her and cluster around the instrument as she perches on the ornate bench.

Felicity is smiling like a conspirator. “Give us a song, Pip. A nice, cheery Irish tune.”

Pippa removes her gloves and places them on the bench beside her. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Not in a school, Fee! I shall be expelled!”

“Come on, then,” we prod. “Please, Pippa, give us a jig!”

“If you play, we will dance,” Felicity says with an enticing lilt in her voice. Ann throws a terrified glance at me and whispers, “We will?”

“Felicity will,” I whisper back, “And I will. Won’t you?”

Behind us, the other girls file into the room and sit demurely at their desks to study their sums and French. Pippa deliberates. “Oh, I really shouldn’t. It isn’t ladylike, and we shall be found out by Mrs. Nightwing for sure!”

Felicity leans close to Pippa and murmurs in her ear. Pippa shakes her head at first, then relents. “Oh, all right, but if we all get turned out of Spence, I don’t want to hear a word about it.”

She places her dainty fingers on the keys and begins playing a lively jig. True to her word, Felicity picks up her skirts higher than is necessary and makes complicated movements with her feet. Ann and I join in a moment later, ignoring the dirty glances we’re getting from the other girls.

The hideous Cecily Temple bustles up to us, nose wrinkled in distaste and outrage. “Stop that racket this instant!” she shrills, her voice shooting up a few octaves higher than normal. “Pippa Cross, get away from that horrid instrument! Miss Worthington, drop your skirts at once, I can see your ankles!” I fear she might have a heart attack and faint at the very thought.

Felicity stops twirling as Pippa’s hands falter to a stop. Ann and I back away from Felicity. It is wise to give her a bit of space when that particular gleam is in her eyes. She’s about to do something extremely cruel, rude or scandalous, by the look of it.

“And who, may I ask,” she says to Cecily, venom dripping from every word, “made the grave mistake of putting you in charge? Whoever it was deserves to be flogged soundly and made to eat cold liver at every meal for a year and a half.”

Cecily’s face twists into a smile that is more of a sneer. Elizabeth and Martha, her minions, step up to flank her, one on either side. “Why, my dear Miss Worthington, Mrs. Nightwing did. At luncheon this afternoon, do you not remember? She put me in charge of presiding over the free study period and asked that Elizabeth and Martha assist me. Surely you were paying attention? I am in charge here, and you all must do exactly as I say.”

Ann is wearing her favorite emotionless mask. Pippa twists her gloves in worried hands, her violet gaze fixed on Felicity, who is practically growling at Cecily like a dog. “I shall never answer to the likes of you,” she spits, her fists balled up at her sides.

“There now, no call for that,” Elizabeth says nervously, trying to prevent the inevitable brawl. “We are ladies, after all.”

Martha agrees with her, of course. “Really, I can’t imagine where Miss Cross learned that vulgar tune. It’s Irish, isn’t it?” Crinkling up her nose prissily, she continues, “And besides, the other girls are trying to study. You ought to think of them instead of yourselves. No one appreciates the noise.”

Ha. Noise. She thinks we are making ‘noise’. I nearly feel sorry for her. “That was not noise,” I say, stepping forward to address the three pit bulls. “That was music. What you three are making is ‘noise’. And no, I’m afraid no one appreciates it at all. So sorry to inform you that your voices are beautiful to your own ears only.”

Cecily bristles as the other two wilt. “Gemma Doyle!” she screeches, her face going scarlet. “I shall report you to Mrs. Nightwing! Such hideous behavior from all of you!”

“Do your worst,” Felicity retorts, and spins away from the furious Cecily. “You shan’t ruin our fun. Come, Gemma, Ann.” She motions to Pip. “Play on, darling! We’ll have our jig if we get beheaded for it!”

Slowly at first, Pippa starts again. The notes leap merrily from the pianoforte as Felicity bounds up on a desk and begins to dance. Cecily shrills for her to get down, shaking with rage. Felicity ignores her and spins gracefully in a circle, her skirts swirling around her. I clamber onto an unoccupied desk and dance, laughing and enjoying the spectacle we are making out of ourselves. With a moment of hesitation, Ann moves closer to the pianoforte and sings the words to the jig. Her voice and Pippa’s music drown out the shrill squawking of Cecily and her friends.

I notice that every girl in the room is staring at us. Then, suddenly, one student pushes her French book off her desk, picks up her skirts, and dances, her heels thumping the wooden desktop in rhythm. Felicity grins at me, her pale hair streaming out around her. Another girl joins the dance, then another and another. The room is a happy confusion of whirling bodies and clacking shoes. The jig changes key and Ann goes with it, singing out the chorus with cheerful gusto. Cecily’s face contorts, and she flees the room with her followers, sobbing loudly and thoroughly humiliated.

Let her leave. I care not. I am happy to dance an Irish jig on an old scarred desk in a dusty schoolroom. It is another brand of magic. Perhaps the wood is scarred from the boots of another generation of schoolgirls. Girls who broke away from what was normal and acceptable and danced. Danced for their freedom. Danced for their own enjoyment. Danced for the sheer pleasure of dancing.

The magic of the realms is a beautiful thing. But there is another kind of magic, one that anyone can have. It is called life. There is magic in everything, if only we take the time to find it.


There. Sorry about the length. *cringe* It's long, I know, and seemingly pointless. Well. The point is, something like this happened at to my school friends and I at lunch one day. There was a function going on in the gym where we usually eat, so we were relocated to this other room that happened to have an old piano in it. Hannaliese was playing us her gorgeous arrangement of the Carol of the Bells and we got in trouble with the lunch monitors, who called her pretty music, 'noise'. That made me mad. But we didn't actually argue with them or start dancing jigs on the lunch tables. I just thought that was what those four girls would have done. So there, lunch ladies!

Now I gotta go re-pack... *dashes away*
Commander Kip the exhausted... *pant pant*
I am a high-entropy individual. BEWARE.
Normal is overrated!