My career as a schoolmistress lasted exactly three days.

In my defense, I tried.

I even came up with detailed lesson plans, cobbled together from what I remembered of the princes’ and princesses’ education and my own long-ago school days. (And by “long ago,” I mean a couple millennia ago. You can’t blame me if my memory was a little fuzzy.)

Anyway, every morning, while I recovered from a night of re-energizing partying followed by the Dawn and Chicken Dances, I’d test the Jeks on material I’d taught the previous day. I’d rattle off vocab and basic sentences for them to scrawl in the dirt, and call out simple arithmetic problems. They were supposed to write down the answers so they could also practice their numbers. After the test, I’d give a lecture on etiquette and deportment, which was also something I could do with a muzzy brain.

At midday, Mistress Jek always insisted on a recess so they could eat lunch and clean up. I’d use that break to soak in Caltrop Pond. No more accidental dehydration deaths for me!

After we reconvened in the early afternoon, I’d teach the three R’s all the way until sundown, when I’d release them to go cook supper and feed the farm animals or whatever. Since it was winter, it wasn’t nearly as long of a class as it could have been.

In short, I was running a cram school, like the ones that the Imperial Mages reminisced over with such a mixture of nostalgia and loathing. And it was working too. After three days, I noticed substantial improvement in the manners of Master and Mistress Jek, who were determined to do everything they could to please Heaven and protect their daughter; the youngest boy, Nailus, who found aping the mannerisms of his betters hilarious; and Taila, who was young enough to be malleable.

And by “substantial improvement,” I meant that their behavior hurt my eyes and ears less. Master Jek and Nailus no longer ate standing up with one mud-encrusted boot propped on the bench. Taila knelt on the ground instead of squatting with her thighs and all her undergarments showing. And Mistress Jek now bellowed AT THIS VOLUME instead of AT THIS ONE.

However, the oldest boy, Ailus, was a simpleton who only cared about farming. No matter how many times I corrected his stride, he showed no motivation to learn how to walk right. And the middle boy, Cailus – well, it wasn’t so much that he wasn’t interested in any of the subjects as that he couldn’t sit still long enough to listen to the whole lecture. It was aggravating! He had the mental capacity to learn. I could tell he did. He just refused to exploit it!

I was starting to understand why the Imperial tutors got so crotchety when I pulled Cassia Quarta out of class. Because it’s impossible to teach someone the passive periphrastic when he keeps running off to chase sparrows. (Apparently, the Jeks supplemented their mostly vegetarian diet with small birds.)

But while Etiquette and Deportment 101 were heading in the right direction, or at least weaving drunkenly that way, the three R’s were not. The Jeks learned so slowly! It took them hours to memorize how to write a character – and by test time the next morning, they’d have forgotten it again.

No, no, no! I’d exclaim, exasperated, for the thousandth time. You can’t let this line cross that one! If you do, it turns into a totally different character! It doesn’t say “up” anymore. It says “earth” or “soil”!

At which Ailus would mutter, “But saying ‘soil’ is a lot more important than saying ‘up’.”

At which I’d have to summon Bobo from doing Mistress Jek’s chores to hit his hand with a stick.

Math wasn’t going well either. For the life of me, I could not understand what was so hard about remembering to carry the one. And the times tables! What, pray tell me, is so hard about memorizing the times tables?!

I started wondering if I should just let myself die so I could go back to Aurelia and collect on my oath.

By the third day, the Jeks’ attention spans had dropped off a cliff. When they were supposed to be watching me demonstrate long division (I’d taught addition and subtraction together on Day 1 because they’re so basic, and multiplication on Day 2), Master and Mistress Jek kept peering up at the sky and checking the clouds. When they were supposed to be copying characters over and over until they became muscle memory, they were darting glances in the direction of their fields or staring blankly at the ground. The three boys complained incessantly about how their backs hurt, or their necks hurt, or their hands cramped up from all the stick-holding.

You’re never going to learn if you don’t focus! I berated them. Do you want to stay a rude, illiterate savage your whole life?

“Yeah!” Cailus finally yelled back on the fourth morning. Springing to his feet, he threw down his stick. It rolled across his misshapen handwriting. “Everything – ev’rythin’ – was so much better before YOU came along! I don’t see why I have to learn this! I’m never gonna use it! It’s useless! I don’t care!”

“Cailus!” hissed Mistress Jek. She tried to grab the back of his shirt, but she was too stiff from sitting. “Cailus! You sit back down right this minute and – ”

“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No! I won’t! You can’t make me! I don’t care if Heaven or the gods or this TURTLE say I have to do it. I won’t!”

By this point, I was fed up too. FINE! I yelled. Fine! Wallow in your ignorance! See if I care!

Fuming, I stomped over to Taila, who was squatting (ugh! Again!) with her writing stick in one fist, gaping at her brother’s rebellion.

Taila! Keep writing! Just because your brother has decided to consign himself to a lifetime of uncouth cloddishness doesn’t mean you have to!

I turned my tail towards Cailus and ignored him while I praised her handwriting. It was better than his.

Behind me, the boy bounced on the balls of his feet, uncertain whether I had genuinely released him.

I didn’t let him wonder for long. Go on! Get out of my class! Don’t come back! That’s what you wanted, right?

“Uhhhhh….” He blinked at his parents. “Uh, I’m gonna try ridgin’ the soil?”

Heaving himself to his dirty work boots, Master Jek looked down at me. “Emis’ry, I…thank you for what yer – you’re trying to do for my girl, but I don’t have time. I have to get back to plowin’.”

Mistress Jek softened his declaration by explaining, “Great One, maybe the fields in Heaven are better, but here on Earth, if we don’t ridge the soil in the winter, it gets too wet and the roots will rot.”

Rot? That sounded bad. Really bad. As in, their-crop-might-fail-and-Taila-might-starve-to-death-level bad.

What? That’s why you’re so obsessed over plowing? Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? Go! Hurry!

“Uh….” They gawked at me, not quite believing that all they’d had to do three days ago was explain the purpose of plowing.

Go! Now!

Calling orders to his sons, Master Jek ran off, still with that heavy-footed gait of which I couldn’t cure him. Even though I hadn’t dismissed her, Mistress Jek disappeared to check on Bobo. For the past three days, the bamboo viper had been taking care of all the chores around the place, including cooking. I hadn’t tried any of her porridges, but apparently they tended to be burnt. I don’t know how you burn a food that’s mostly water.

Not you, I told Taila when she started to rise too. You’re going to stay right here and learn to be a civilized human being.

“Awwww, Miiiiiister Tuuuuuuurtle,” she whined, but she plopped back down. “I don’t wanna sit anymore. I wanna go plaaaaaay. Play with me, Mr. Turtle!”

No. This is more important. Do you want to live in these conditions your whole life? Don’t you want a brighter future?

I certainly wanted one for her. If I could find her a good apprenticeship that took her away from Black Sand Creek, such as a performer in the Green Frog’s traveling troupe, then I could jump into Mistress Jek’s stewpot and wrap up this life.

Softening my voice, I coaxed, If you want a brighter future, Taila, you need to be able to read and write. That character looks good. Write it just like that five more times.

She got halfway through the second time before she started whining again. “Yer no fuuuun, Mr. Turtle –

“You’re,” I corrected her. Not “yer.”

“You’re no fun, Mr. Turtle. I wanna – ”

“Want to.” Not “wanna.”

“I want to go plaaaaaay! This is boooooring! Why do I have to do it? My brothers don’t have to do it. It’s not faaaaaaair!”

I sighed and rubbed my head with a forefoot. When in doubt, try bribery. It had always worked on Cassia Quarta. The problem was that here, I didn’t have much to bribe her with. Okay. How about this? Finish writing your characters, and you can have the rest of the day off.

Through her pout, she brightened a little, although she didn’t pick her stick back up. I wracked my brains for what else could pass for a treat.

In fact, why don’t we go on a little adventure?

“Really? Really really really?! Where? Where, Mr. Turtle!”

Where indeed? My first instinct was Caltrop Pond, where she could hold a tea party for the pond turtles. However, if she didn’t know the pond existed, I didn’t want her finding out about it, falling in love with it, and sneaking off on her own to drown herself in it.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t want her getting anywhere near Black Sand Creek either.

So, what else was there to do in this godsforsaken corner of Serica?

It wasn’t like the Claymouth Barony had any fancy shopping districts or even craftsmen you could summon to your home to commission luxury goods. From what the elder Jeks had said, the closest you got to a luxury good here was a well-woven basket with a pattern on it. And you could try to summon Master Gian to your place to take your order, but he didn’t make house calls. People went to him, not vice versa. I rolled my eyes at the idea of a basket maker commanding such respect.

“Where, Mr. Turtle? Where where where!” With each “where,” Taila pounded my shell, nearly flattening me before I stuck out my neck and snapped at her fingers.

Finish writing and I’ll tell you.

“O-kaaaaay….”

As she dragged her stick through the dirt, I tried to remember what I’d seen of the Claymouth Barony that time Yulus cast a vision for the traveling mage Floridiana. Lots of parched, brown fields, full of artists painting images of the dragon to symbolically roast him; Floridiana parading down the main street like a jester…. Oh right! There was a little cluster of shops and stalls just outside the castle!

We’ll go shopping, get some sweets or something. Maybe a red bean bun?

The outing could even double as a lesson in deportment and diction.

Taila cheered up at once. “Yeah!”

She finished off the fourth and fifth characters in no time. They didn’t even look half bad. If she could write this well when she wanted to, why didn’t she just do it?!

As soon as she finished the last stroke, she dropped the stick and popped up. “Okay! I’m done, Mr. Turtle!”

Not bad, I praised. All right, pick me up and let’s go.

Jouncing along in Taila’s pocket, I surveyed the Claymouth Barony’s main street. It was named, predictably, Main Street. Peasants in coarse tunics and muddy shoes were clomping around with baskets over their arms, gossiping as they shopped. We passed the local smithy, where a sweaty human man banged away on a piece of red-hot iron. (Blacksmithing looked dangerous. I definitely was not apprenticing Taila to him.) We also saw the carpenter’s workshop, where a brawny cat spirit was carving wooden bowls and spoons. Despite his human form, he couldn’t hide his dark grey ears and striped tail, so he had to be on the younger side for a spirit. Taila lingered in front of the pub, out of which greasy smells were drifting, but I chivvied her on. In the end, we found all sorts of street food stalls and vendors who carried their wares on shoulder poles – but no pastry shop, and not even a bakery.

Where do people buy desserts around here? I asked.

“Desserts?” asked Taila blankly.

Sweet foods, I translated, such as mooncakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival. Or mochi cakes for the New Year. Or those red-bean-paste sticky rice dumplings that you – I mean, your family – ate at the Dragon Boat Festival.

“Oooh! I know! Let’s ask Auntie Jo!”

Taila pattered towards a rickety stall just outside the carpentry workshop, where a human woman was pulling a string of sweet potatoes out of a waist-height, cylindrical clay oven. Burn marks crisscrossed her thick forearms, and as I watched, she hissed and recoiled. Dropping the sweet potatoes on her rickety table, she scowled at the side of her hand.

“Auntie Jo! Auntie Jo! Are you okay?”

But Taila’s well intentions came to naught as a clatter from the carpentry workshop distracted her. Abandoning the sweet potato vendor, she ran to the cat spirit instead.

“Uncle Tasy! Hi Uncle Tasy! Where’s Pepper?”

The cat spirit didn’t stop carving a spatula as he answered, “Hulloooo, little Taila! What’re you doin’ here on your lonesome? D’yer ma and pa know?”

“I’m not here on my lonesome, Uncle Tasy,” she announced, puffing out her chest and putting one hand into her pocket. “Mr. Turtle’s here!”

Oh, great. I should have remembered that small children can’t keep secrets, shouldn’t I?