"This would take us through the rear of the building," Ice remarked.
"I guess Ms. Fairchild wasn't exaggerating when she emphasized how we should keep from entering this portion of the mansion," Rose said.
"What did she think we would do, take a saw to these iron bars?" Cinnamon asked.
"Can I help you?" we heard, and turned to see a short, stout groundsman with heavily curled dark brown hair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up over his bulging forearms and he held a pair of clipping shears pointed at us. His face was dark, and made darker by his unshaven cheeks and chin. Instinctively. I crossed my arms over my chest and stepped back. Ice and Rose did the same. but Cinnamon held her ground, even taking a step toward him.
"We were just admiring the beautiful bars on this door," Cinnamon replied. "We're students here.'
"You can't go in that way,' he said.
"We know." Rose said. "We weren't going to do that."
"You couldn't if you wanted," he continued, coming closer. "Those bars aren't the only thing. That there door is welded shut."
"Why would anyone do that?" Rose asked him. "Isn't that against some fire code or something?"
He shook his head.
"I don't ask questions. I do what I'm asked to do."
"How long has it been this way?" Cinnamon asked him in the tone of a detective.
"A little more than two years, I think," he replied. He looked like he didn't enjoy being crossexamined, but Cinnamon had a firm, demanding way about her.
"It was done to keep anyone from going into the private residence." I said, stating what I thought was the obvious and hoping to end this.
"Hey!" we heard, and saw Steven walking across the lawn. "Ms. Fairchild is looking for you all. She has information about this weekend's events. She sent me out to find you."
"Be careful." Cinnamon said, turning from the door to me. "She's liable to want to put a chastity belt on you. From the looks of this," she added, nodding at the barred door, "it seems like something she might do."
The groundsman squinted with confusion and then shook his head and walked off.
Rose and Ice gazed at me, and then we all went to join Steven.
Only I looked back at the door, wondering what it was that made this part of the house so inviolate.
Our lesson with Mr. Masters wasn't as unpleasant as I had anticipated. He was a very jailman, actually, and had fun pointing out our little speech idiosyncrasies. He did it in a friendly, light manner so that no one felt singled out or mocked.
What he emphasized, more than anything, was how much more effective we all could be if we spoke more slowly and didn't slur our words. There were plans to record each of us individually and work with each of us on a one-to-one basis by next week.
Our vocal lesson followed a similar procedure. Mr. Littleton's main objective was to get us to understand how the voice was an instrument in and of itself. Projection, breathing combined with
enunciation, and some dramatic awareness would all blend together and make us more effective in so many ways. It made sense and was truly an effort to give us a well-rounded artistic education.
Dance class served as our physical exercise class as well as an effort to help each of us develop poise, grace, and coordination. Since this first class was simply an orientation, we didn't do very much, but for the next class, we were to all dress in appropriate clothing. It was Ms. Fairchild's job to provide us with it. including dance shots. All of us. including Steven, laughed at the image of him in a pair of tights, especially with his toothpick legs.
We all thought we would have some time to ourselves after our dance class, but Ms. Fairchild informed us that our culinary education would begin with the evening's meal. Accordingly, she wanted us to dinner a half hour earlier. It seemed Madame Senetsky, from time to time, brought in a culinary critic or a well-known New York City chef to lecture to us about different cuisines, from Cordon Bleu to Szechuan to Greek. It was here that I would taste entrees like chicken Kiev, paella. beef Wellington, and so many other things that I had only read about, and many more I had never even heard of.
This first evening we were treated to a lecture on Spanish food. Madame Senetsky began by explaining that our food lectures would be like travel guides. The speakers wouldn't just talk about food, but the cultures as well.
She introduced Senor de Marco, a teacher from a New York City culinary institute. We sat with glasses of sangria and listened to him describe how the Spanish people gathered in bars, which he described as being closer to meeting halls than a gin mill.
"In small towns in Spain, the only place to have coffee is at a bar. In others, the only place that sells ice cream cones is the bar in the central square.'
He then went on to describe tapas and the variety of dishes we were about to enjoy, including paella with fish. Russian salad, chicken wings, gizzards, or hearts in sauce, and tortilla Espanola, all with sangria.
The more Steven drank, the funnier he became.