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Work in Progress. If you like this story, check out my other stories on the Fanfiction Net, Twisting the Hellmouth, and Fonts of Wisdom websites.

I'm British, so's my spelling. Live with it.

Flash Harry sidled through the back gate and sneaked through the shrubbery towards the kitchen door, holding his nose as he passed the dustbins. Miss Millicent Fritton B.A., D.Phil, O.B.E., headmistress of St. Trinians, a delicate-looking spinster in her sixties and former ladies welterweight boxing champion, looked down at him fondly from her study window and vaguely wondered why he was bothering to sneak, since he was there to see her.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door; she cautiously looked through a wide-angle viewer before letting Harry in. Even in the holidays there were still a few children staying at St. Trinian's, and they tended to be bored and unusually inventive when there were no lessons. Often they used their time devising traps for their teachers and classmates, and Miss Fritton valued her health too highly to risk it taking foolish chances.

Harry, in his late thirties, was one of the traditions of St. Trinian's, the fourth consecutive member of his extensive family to serve as the school's unofficial bookie, fixer, bootlegger and black marketeer. Miss Fritton had often considered describing their role in the school prospectus, but didn't think the Ministry of Education, or whatever dreadful acronym the government was calling it these days, would quite appreciate their useful talents. Like all of his predecessors he had a curious rolling walk, she imagined it was some genetic abnormality or a family fondness for over-tight shoes, wore his dark hair heavily Brylcreamed, and favoured over-tight suits with padded shoulders.

"Good morning, Harry. Anything good today?"

"Sexy Billy in the three-thirty at Newmarket, a friend of a friend tells me the fix is in."

"Old news. I don't much like the odds on him, and a little bird tells me they'll be running drug tests if he wins. Anything else?"

"Freudian Slip in the two o'clock at Kempton. They've been weighting her too heavily the last three times she ran, this time they'll handicap her honest-like and she'll romp home at fifty to one."

"Hmm..." She picked up the racing page and studied it for a few seconds, then said "All right, I'll go for a pony on her."

"Twenty-five quid? You sure about that?"

"Maybe you're right. Let's make it a century, if it pays off it'll cover the down-payment on the repairs to the science wing. Poor Miss Perkins, she would insist on teaching the children about nitroglycerin..."

"Well, that and she was selling the stuff to Fingers O'Rourke for his.. ahem.. locksmith business. Okay, a hundred quid to win, Freudian Slip, two o'clock, Kempton."

"Good lad, put it on my slate. Now then, to business. Gin?"

"Don't mind if I do." She poured him a generous glass.

"Bottoms up. Any news of our recruits?"

"Ought to be coming in at Gatwick Airport tomorrow. They're going to visit friends in London for a few days then get here for the seventh of April."

"And there won't be any, ah, trouble with the tickets?"

"No chance. Paid for them on the Searle Agency Mastercard account, that gets paid by The Little Sisters of Poverty account at the Banque de Suisse in Basle, Basle gets paid from the Daughters of the Suffragette Movement pension fund in the Cayman Islands, they get paid from the Widows and Orphans of the Tectonic Plate Movement fund in Miami, and Miami won't know that we've cleared out the account until the end of the month. It'll be well into May before that gets back to the airline, and even then Honest George ought to be able to stall them for another few weeks before they call the fraud squad in. And there won't be anything left at the agency to link it back to us after George has his little accident with the blowtorch and the can of paint thinner."

"And the same with the salaries?"

"That's a bit more complicated because the birds'll be here, but basically similar. They don't get paid for the first two weeks, then they'll get three or four weeks wages before the cheques start to bounce, maybe seven or eight weeks into the term, but that's the agency's fault, not yours. After that you ought to be able to stall them until the end of term, it's only another five or six weeks. After all, you'll be paying for their food and accommodation, where else are they going to go?"

"What about their flights home? I really don't want them stranded in Britain, they might ask too many embarrassing questions."

"Not a problem, I've got someone owes me a few favours, works for a company that flies horses between Britain and the USA. We'll get them aboard as stable girls, fly them back to Boston."

"I thought you said they came from Cleveland."

"Same country, won't be too hard for them to get home."

"That sounds excellent, Harry. And you're quite sure they're qualified?"

"You saw the marks they got at college. They're not actually qualified teachers, not as such, but they're as close to it as you're going to get without paying real money. Always assuming you could find someone in Britain that was daft enough to go for the jobs."

"Excellent. I think that we can safely say that we will have a full complement of staff this term."

"If nobody official notices that they're unqualified unsupervised foreign teachers."

"Harry, be charitable. Nobody's perfect."

"Are you sure this is it?" asked Kennedy, stopping her rented BMW saloon on the far side of the road from a grotesque Victorian building that stood in extensive grounds behind a tall brick wall topped with rotating spikes.

"The sign says St. Trinian's School," Willow pointed out. "Admittedly it looks like a cross between the Addams Family mansion and something Escher might have drawn, and half of the roof of one wing seems to be missing, but it's definitely the right place."

"This is gonna be great," said Buffy. "Like 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie' or 'Goodbye Mister Chips', except we're younger and prettier and female. A prestige British boarding school, it'll be so cool."

"So long as Giles was exaggerating," said Kennedy.

"Sure, like they'd really lynch three teachers and set the building on fire."

"Buffy..." Willow said nervously, "that building has been set on fire. At least three or four times, if you look at the different colours of the brickwork."

"Okay then... anyone getting any Hellmouthy vibes?"

Willow closed her eyes and extended her magical senses for a moment. "Not as such. Let's see... rage, frustrated sexual tensions, pain, fear, and several violent deaths, but not a Hellmouth as such."

"Any old building's bound to have some sort of history."

"This is all comparatively recent."

"Oh."

"What do you want to do?" asked Kennedy.

"We've signed contracts and we need the experience," said Buffy. "We go in and we do the job we're being paid to do. But we stay alert and keep our guards up. Willow, are you okay with that?"

"Sure," said Willow, "so long as you don't mind me taking a few precautions."

"So long as your hair stays red you can do what you like."

"I'll do my best. Kennedy, we'll stay in contact by phone and e-mail and stick to our plan to meet up in London in two weeks. If we don't show come looking for us, and bring the heavy weapons."

"Troll hammer?" asked Kennedy.

"Troll hammer," confirmed Buffy. "Rocket launcher if you think you need it."

"Cool."

"Kennedy, there are times when you remind me of me. You want to watch that."

"I'll start worrying about it the day I boink my first vampire."

"Har de har. Okay, let's get this show on the road."

Kennedy put the car into gear and turned into the long gravel drive that led up to the front entrance of St. Trinian's. Two heavily acned girls aged thirteen or fourteen, both wearing black school uniforms with white blouses and striped ties, were sitting near the door, watching them with a mixture of mild interest and mild loathing. They unloaded the car, and Kennedy kissed Willow (to the girls' undisguised interest and cheers from another couple of girls lurking in the shrubbery) then drove off. A polite voice said "Ahem", and they looked up to see a frail-looking old lady, wearing a floral chiffon dress and gold pince-nez glasses, standing in the entrance.

"Miss Summers, Miss Rosenberg? So pleased to meet you." They shook hands. "I'm Millicent Fritton, the headmistress. Welcome to St. Trinian's. Doreen, Matilda, please help your new teachers with their luggage. Once we've shown you your rooms perhaps you'll join me in my study, then meet some of the other staff."

One of the girls reached for Buffy's weapons bag, and she quickly said "I'll take that one, it's kinda heavy." Willow unobtrusively made sure that she kept hold of the bag containing her laptop and magical supplies.

"Sports equipment?" asked Miss Fritton.

"That's right. Fencing, archery, martial arts supplies, that sort of thing."

"Oh good, I'm so glad to see you're taking your responsibilities seriously, so many teachers expect that the school will supply their every need." She led the way up wide stairs, at the first landing pointing out her study, then up three progressively narrower flights to a dimly-lit corridor with peeling brown wallpaper. "These are the junior staff bedrooms. They are perhaps a little Spartan, but I think you'll find that they have all the essential amenities. Bed, electric light, wash basin and so forth. Miss Summers, you shall have room 12, Miss Rosenberg 12A. I hope they will be satisfactory."

Buffy gloomily looked at a dingy room that was lit by a bare 40-watt lamp and a small dirty window. There was an ancient electric iron plugged into the light fitting by a long frayed cable. The bed looked lumpy and uncomfortable, and seemed to sag slightly at one corner. Willow's room was a little better, but had an odd pattern of dark stains on one wall.

"What happened there?" asked Willow.

"Oh, that was poor Miss Jones," Miss Fritton said briskly, "she had an unfortunate accident with her shotgun. Most unwise to bring it to school, I fear, that sort of thing is just asking for trouble. Here are the keys to your rooms, I'd advise keeping them locked at all times, we encourage the children to be honest but there are occasional unfortunate exceptions. I'll just show you the bathroom," she opened a door to reveal a cold-looking tiled shrine to Victorian plumbing, both Americans guessed accurately that the hot water wouldn't work very well, "you'll be sharing it with the other teachers along this corridor, and next to it is an additional WC. Now, if you'd like to join me downstairs in ten or fifteen minutes I'll explain your duties, then I'll prevail upon some of our young ladies to show you around the school."

"Okay," said Buffy, "see you downstairs."

Willow asked "What do you make of this?" after Miss Fritton and the girls had gone.

"It's kinda primitive, but it's only for three months. We might be able to fix things up a little."

"Nearer four months. I'll work some mojo later, deal with the worst of it. I meant the whole setup here, don't you think it's kinda sinister? I'm beginning to think that Giles was right."

"Maybe, but they might just be short of money. Miss Fritton seemed like a nice old lady."

"So did the demon that tried to eat us when you worked at Doublemeat Palace."

"Think positive, Willow."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"...so you see," Miss Fritton said twenty minutes later, "while other schools prefer to deal with the cream of the social crop, we are less exclusive. We will take anyone, regardless of race, creed, social standing or criminal record, provided that our fees are paid, and pride ourselves on turning out accomplished young ladies eminently fitted to take their rightful place in society."

"When you say criminal record," said Buffy, "is that common amongst the students?"

"More so their parents, alas. At various times we have had members of every eminent criminal family in the land amongst our pupils; Parents Day is sometimes a little traumatic if a gang war is in progress. As a result our students may not always be model citizens, although I'm pleased to say that there has only been one minor stabbing and two arson attempts this year. Apart from the explosion, of course."

"Stabbing?" squeaked Willow. "Arson attempts? Explosion?"

"I'm sure that you've seen worse, it's my understanding that the American educational system sees its fair share of violence. Which brings me to an important matter. Since you are Americans, I'm obliged to ask you if you've bought any firearms onto the premises."

"No guns," said Buffy, "just some archery supplies." Buffy's conscience twinged a little, but she guessed that three heavy crossbows with armour-piercing bolts could loosely be described that way.

"You're quite sure?"

"Positive."

"Damn. I could have got you a good price for them if you had, one of our parents is an.. ahem.. collector. Of course I would have wanted a modest percentage for school funds."

"Would that be legal?" asked Willow.

"Do you know, my dear, I've never asked."

"You mentioned funds," said Buffy, "is there a problem there?"

"Unfortunately yes. As a private school we receive no funding from the state, and since many of our parents are members of the criminal classes their school fees tend to be paid late or prove to be counterfeit. We've also had a little bad luck with our investments, which began when one of my predecessors traded our entire portfolio for stock in the White Star Line and Lloyds less than a week before the Titanic sank. To be honest, we are holding on by the skin of our teeth, and must look at all possible sources of revenue. Any suggestions would be gratefully received. Now, I think I've covered everything, if you'd like to come along to the staff room I'll introduce you to everyone who's here. Most of the staff are on holiday, but some of us just can't seem to tear ourselves away."

"What about our department heads?" asked Willow, "Will they be back before the beginning of term?"

"Department heads? Ah... There may be a small problem there, Miss Perkins isn't expected to make a full recovery for several months, and Miss Ballard seems to have.. ah.. done a runner with most of our sports trophies."

"Miss Perkins being..?"

"Head of science and information technology."

"And Miss Ballard?" asked Buffy, guessing the answer.

"The sports mistress."

"So in other words," said Willow, "we're doing this by ourselves."

"I suppose you are, really," said Miss Fritton, "but imagine the references I'll be able to give you if you do a good job. Now, can I persuade you to change your minds and have a little gin?"

TBC