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Yes, even if I fell into a pile of dung in front of the dragon today, I would disappoint him: I have no pride after that trimester, so I would dust myself off and go. Delov something!

– Good, Master! Take away the punishment form from Madame Jabot?

The rector was not ready for my calmness, and therefore he was confused. But Master Ingvar would not have been himself if he had not quickly pulled himself together and added even more vindictively:

– You won’t go to the Autumn Ball either – you’ll clean the pens.

Autumn ball is sacred!

For what?!

Imagination quickly drew a picture: I, with a pitchfork in my hands, in glass shoes and in a white shiny dress, stand in the middle of the paddock and shift manure from one pile to another…

Brr. This is overkill!

– Not fair!

– Talk to me here! Then you will spend the Winter Ball in the corrals.

I was blown away by the wind. More precisely, I was actually blown away by the wind. The rector waved his hand, the door swung open, the chair soared, and a few seconds later I was already in the rector’s waiting room. Gritting my teeth, I rose to my feet and smiled at Madame Jabot. Or rather, grinned. The rector’s secretary, an advanced lady with flowing wavy gray hair and scarlet lips, was unimpressed. She quickly wrote out a form of punishment for me and looked frowningly, shifting her glasses to her nose.