Walter Ray rubbed his temple. A pulsing ache was flowering in his brain. He screwed his eyes shut. He was sitting stiffly in his chair, a novel in hand, having just returned to his quarters after lunch. He’d allowed Miss Emily a few moments of free time after taking their midday meal. If he was being honest with himself, he simply longed for a quick retreat before resuming instruction. Today had, all around, been a somewhat taxing day. His head wasn’t quite focused on the three Rs today, and his student wasn’t either. She’d been testy, speaking out of turn, which he had lightly corrected, but tolerated. But finally, at the lunch table, he found himself with no alternative to using the cane on young Emily. Above all, he had to do what Lord McMillan directed, and that included punishing unsavory behaviors before they could take permanent root in the child. It had somewhat worked for him when he was a child, and though he rarely caned his pupils, he was not entirely against it.<br/><br/>He closed the book and released a weary sigh. It was just an off day. He stood from his seat, replaced the book in its proper place, and resolutely decided that it would only go downhill further if he didn’t have an optimistic attitude. If he wanted to have a good rest of the day, he would have to do the work for it. So he straightened his tie, pulled on his cuffs and pulled a pesky string from his prim collar, and started rummaging through his materials for the next lesson. Then a familiar voice, mildly accusing, rang out.<br/><br/>”Mister Ray? May I know<span style="font-style: italic">why on Earth</span>does my sister have her hands red as thought they have been hit with a wooden ruler, sir?”<br/><br/>The pang in his head reared up again. Ray stifled the annoyance (and perhaps very slight amusement) that this question (demand) drew from him. He almost felt as if his mother was reprimanding him. But, being the patient (and lower-classed) man that he was, Ray strode out of the room and towards the voice of Miss McMillan. His gait was clipped, and when he reached the source of the voice, he halted sharply.<br/><br/>“Miss McMillan,” he acknowledged, dipping his head and clasping his hands in front of himself. “How may I assist you?” He knew what she was asking, of course. His eyebrows tilted up, and there was a tired friendliness in his eyes that concealed a slight exasperation over the young woman commenting on how he went about teaching. He had been here for a short month, and he had rapidly become aware of how protective the elder sister was over the younger. In some far recess of his mind, it reminded him of his protectiveness over his own late sister. He was not accustomed to this setting or these people, but he couldn’t deny that he had a faint curiosity and fondness for the children.