“The Curriculum Does Not Cover Foolishness”

Morning is the only tolerable illusion.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the world pretends to be orderly—before students arrive, before staff begin their passive-aggressive rituals, before language itself is mutilated beyond recognition.

I take my tea black. No sugar. No distractions.

The manor is quiet. Blissfully so.

My children are already awake, of course.

They do not cry. They do not babble. They sit—still, composed, faintly disapproving of the sun leaking through the curtains like an uninvited guest.

Persephone is sketching.

Hades is correcting her spelling.

They are three.

I consider this a success.

“Mother,” Persephone says without looking up, “the sun is offensive today.”

“I agree,” I reply, adjusting my gloves. “We shall endure it regardless.”

Hades glances at me. “Will you be humiliating people again today?”

“Only those who insist upon it.”

A pause.

“Good,” he says.

From behind me, I feel it before I hear it—the subtle shift of fabric, the careful distance maintained, the quiet presence that never intrudes yet is always there.

My husband.

Beckett Bloodbriar does not speak immediately. He rarely does in the mornings.

Instead, he gently sets down my bag, already prepared, already organized. Sanitized. Of course.

He always notices things before I ask.

I turn slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of my eye.

Mask. Gloves. Dark layers. Impeccable, as always.

He looks like a man the world would misunderstand.

Which is precisely why the world does not deserve him.

“You forgot your fountain pen yesterday,” he says quietly.

“I was testing them.”

“And?”

“They failed.”

He nods, as if this confirms a long-standing hypothesis.

I step closer.

He stiffens—just slightly.

I tilt his chin up, nudging the edge of his mask with my finger.

“I will be back before evening, my prince.”

A faint pause.

“…Yes, Mistress.”

There it is.

Soft. Obedient. Entirely his.

I kiss the mask anyway.

He freezes.

The children do not react.

They are used to this.

The School

The building itself is uninspired.

Modern. Sterile. Optimistically soulless.

It attempts structure. It fails.

By the time I enter the staff room, the noise has already begun—thinly veiled complaints, poorly disguised envy, conversations that circle themselves like trapped insects.

I do not participate.

I sit.

My corner remains untouched. As it should.

My laptop opens. Password entered.

Becky.

Petty? Perhaps.

Amusing? Always.

A voice interrupts.

“Diana, did you hear about—”

“No.”

They blink.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“And yet I remain uninterested.”

Silence.

They retreat.

Efficient.

First Period

Adolescence is a fascinating disease.

It presents itself through overconfidence, emotional instability, and an unwavering belief that one is the exception to every rule.

I stand at the front of the classroom.

They quiet down quickly.

Not out of respect.

Out of survival instinct.

“Today,” I begin, “we will be discussing the misuse of language.”

A student in the back mutters something.

I do not raise my voice.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

He smirks. “I just think language evolves, you know? Like, it doesn’t matter if it’s ‘wrong.’”

Ah.

One of those.

I smile.

Softly.

“Fascinating. Then by all means, continue using it incorrectly. I find that individuals who disregard precision often achieve… memorable outcomes.”

A few students snicker.

He frowns.

“I’m just saying it’s not a big deal.”

“On the contrary,” I reply, stepping closer, “it is rarely the large mistakes that undo a person. It is the small ones. Repeated. Defended. Insisted upon.”

Silence settles.

I tilt my head.

“Much like now.”

The class laughs.

He does not.

Lesson learned.

I did nothing.

He unraveled himself.

Lunch

I do not eat in the cafeteria.

I do not exist in the cafeteria.

Instead, I sit beneath the staircase near the east wing—a quiet architectural oversight that I have claimed as my own.

A message lights up my phone.

Beckett.

Did you eat?

Predictable.

Endearing.

I am about to.

A pause.

Then:

I made something simple. It’s sealed.

Of course it is.

I open the container.

Perfectly arranged. Minimal contact. Thoughtful to a fault.

I take a bite.

Lavender tea. Still warm.

He plans ahead.

Always.

Thank you, my prince.

The reply is immediate.

You’re welcome… Mistress.

I allow myself a small smile.

Afternoon Incident

It happens, as it always does.

A teacher—loud, self-assured, deeply convinced of their own competence—decides to intervene in something that does not concern them.

“They’re just kids, Diana. You’re too harsh.”

Ah.

There it is.

I look at her.

Really look.

Disorganized. Reactive. Defensive.

Predictable.

“I see,” I say calmly. “And your results?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your students. Their performance. Their discipline. Their comprehension.”

“Well, that’s not—”

“Relevant?”

I smile.

“I assure you, it is.”

She straightens. “At least they’re not afraid to speak in my class.”

“Confidence without substance is merely noise.”

A pause.

Students nearby are listening now.

She hesitates.

And then—

“Well, at least I don’t treat them like they’re stupid.”

I nod slowly.

“And yet,” I say, “you’ve mistaken correction for cruelty.”

Silence.

I lean in slightly.

“If you prefer, you may continue enabling them. I find reality tends to be less forgiving.”

I step back.

Conversation over.

She says nothing further.

They rarely do.

Evening

By the time I return home, the sun is setting—mercifully retreating.

The manor welcomes me back into something resembling sanity.

The children are exactly where I expect them to be.

Still. Quiet. Observing.

And Beckett—

He’s in the living room, tablet in hand, stylus moving with quiet precision.

He looks up the moment I enter.

Always.

I set my bag down.

Remove my blazer.

Step toward him.

He doesn’t move.

He never does.

I take his scarf gently.

Pull him closer.

His breath catches.

“Did the world behave?” he asks softly.

I tilt my head.

“It rarely does.”

I nudge his mask aside just enough.

“Fortunately,” I murmur, “it continues to destroy itself without our assistance.”

And then I kiss him properly once i nudge his mask off.

He melts.

As expected.

Behind us—

“Disgusting,” Hades mutters.

“Routine,” Persephone adds.

I don’t turn.

“Detention.”

They both pause.

“…Worth it,” they say in unison.

I almost laugh.