Episode 2: The Teacher Who Cultivates Minds (and Prunes the Rest)

There are three constants in my professional life:

Mediocrity is loud.

Incompetence is curious.

Both are irresistibly drawn to me.

I arrive at school precisely on time, as always.

Black blazer—unbuttoned.
Black dress shirt—immaculate.
Leather skirt—sharp enough to cut egos.
High-heeled boots—audible authority.
Spider earrings—non-negotiable.
Dark red lipstick—intentional.
Black eyeshadow, eyeliner, thick mascara—weaponized.

By the time I step into the building, the whispers have already begun.

“Is she—”
“She hasn’t aged—”
“Does she even sleep—”

I walk past them.

They quiet.

They always do.

The staff room is already polluted.

Not physically. Unfortunately, that would be easier to clean.

“Diana,” one of them starts—the type who smiles too much and thinks it substitutes for substance. “You have children, right? Twins?”

I set my bag down. Slowly.

“Yes.”

“Oh! I just—well, I saw the drawings on your desk corner and—”

Ah.

The drawings.

Crimson skies. Faceless figures. A sun being politely but firmly devoured.

Adorable.

“You thought you’d inquire,” I finish for them.

“Well, it’s just that they’re a bit… dark?”

I meet their eyes.

“I teach literature.”

They blink.

“I fail to see the discrepancy.”

A pause.

They laugh.

Nervously.

Wrong choice.

“And your husband,” they try again, because of course they do. “We’ve heard he’s… younger?”

There it is.

Human curiosity, dressed as casual conversation, rotting at the core.

I tilt my head slightly.

“We’ve heard,” I repeat. “From whom?”

They hesitate.

I smile.

It is not kind.

“Fascinating,” I continue. “A rumor without a source. A conclusion without evidence. You must find grading essays quite challenging.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” I say smoothly. “You didn’t think.”

Silence.

I pick up my tea.

“Let me assist you,” I add. “My private life is not on the curriculum. You are not equipped to evaluate it. And I do not recall assigning you the task.”

They nod.

Quickly.

Conversation over.

My classroom, at least, has structure.

“Group presentations today,” I announce.

A collective groan.

Predictable.

One student raises their hand—the confident type. Loud. Certain. Incorrect.

“Miss Bloodbriar, we decided to, like, modernize the themes and make it more relatable?”

“Did you,” I reply.

They beam.

“Yes! So we didn’t really follow the original text exactly, but we captured the vibe—”

“The vibe,” I repeat.

“Yes!”

I fold my hands.

“Tell me,” I say, voice calm, “what is the central thesis of the original work?”

They hesitate.

“Well—it’s kind of, like—society?”

“Ah. Society. How comprehensive.”

A few students snicker.

I continue, gently:

“And the author’s intent?”

Silence.

“And the historical context?”

More silence.

“And the textual evidence supporting your… ‘vibe’?”

The presentation collapses in real time.

It’s almost art.

“I see,” I say. “You have not modernized the work. You have removed its spine and expected it to stand.”

A pause.

“Sit down.”

They do.

The class is quieter now.

Better.

“I do not raise children,” I say, addressing the room. “I cultivate minds. If yours refuse to grow, they will be… pruned.”

No one speaks after that.

Efficient.

Parent-teacher interviews are worse.

Not because of the students.

Because of the parents who believe proximity to a child grants them authority over education.

It does not.

“I just think,” one parent begins, “that you’re being a bit harsh. My son is very creative.”

I glance at the paper in front of me.

“He submitted three sentences,” I say.

“Yes, but—”

“They were not connected.”

“He’s expressive!”

“He is incoherent.”

The parent stiffens.

I continue, unbothered:

“Creativity without discipline is noise. I teach language. Not excuses.”

Another silence.

Another defeat.

They leave with tight smiles and looser arguments.

By the end of the day, I am surrounded by the remains of other people’s poor decisions.

I gather my things.

One of the braver students lingers.

“Miss… how do you not care what people think?”

I look at them.

For a moment—not as a teacher.

As myself.

“I do,” I say.

They seem surprised.

“I simply have standards for whose thoughts are worth considering.”

I walk past them.

Lesson concluded.

The manor greets me properly.

Quiet. Dim. Correct.

The moment I step inside, I exhale.

“The teacher is off the clock,” I announce.

A beat.

Then—

“Welcome home,” Beckett says softly.

He’s in his usual—mask, gloves, shadows, gentleness.

Perfect.

I step closer and tap his mask.

“I trust the world disappointed you adequately today?”

“Consistently,” he replies.

“Good.”

I kiss his mask.

He freezes.

Still adorable.

The twins are in the living room.

Persephone is drawing something that would concern lesser households.

Hades is reading.

I walk over and, without warning—

twack

Persephone blinks up at me.

“…Was that necessary?”

“Immensely.”

I tap Hades lightly with my pen.

“Posture.”

He straightens.

“Better.”

They both roll their eyes.

I lean down, kissing each of their foreheads.

“My terrifying little prodigies,” I murmur.

Persephone smirks faintly. Hades pretends not to smile.

Later, I settle beside Beckett.

No tension. No edge.

Just… us.

I rest against him, softer now.

“Any catastrophes?” I ask.

“A client attempted to define ‘minimalist complexity,’” he says.

I close my eyes.

“Tragic.”

“They failed.”

“Of course they did.”

A comfortable silence settles.

Then, quietly—

“You were harsh today,” he says.

I glance at him.

“And?”

He hesitates.

“…You were right.”

I smile.

Softer than anyone at school will ever see.

“Come here,” I murmur.

He leans in slightly.

I nudge his mask.

“I can see you,” I whisper. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

He exhales.

And stays.

Outside, somewhere far beyond the gates—

voices rise, tempers flare, mistakes compound.

Inside—

nothing changes.

Nothing needs to.

And tomorrow?

They will all make the same errors again.

And I will be there.

Patient.

Precise.

Cultivating.

Pruning.