The candles were burning down low, dripping white into its small holders. Shadows were quickly filling the room as slowly, the sky outside began to brighten. With the exceptions of a few early birds chirping in song from somewhere among the trees being overlooked by the large airy window beside her desk, little noise was heard, at least from within Teresa's makeshift office. So it was with a start as Teresa, looking up from her work and out the window, realized that it was now close to morning. She had been working the whole night again, just as she had done several nights before. And just as before, there was still so much left undone, too much to stop and take a break.

Her head hurt. Her right hand hurt. Her back hurt. If she goes at this for too long, her teeth might probably start hurting as well. With an effort, Teresa blew back the strand of hair that had somehow fallen onto her face as she had worked.

She might be overdoing it a bit. Teresa thrived on work; to sit around and do nothing at all was for her, the worst punishment imaginable. She had been chided several times on taking on too much workload than she can possibly carry, by former teachers, colleagues, and even a few of the students. She'd always shrugged off their protests, complain cheerfully of boredom and happily immerse herself between sheafs and piles of papers and work.

Work. Work. Work. That was her mantra.

But then again, she'd never worked so hard several nights in a row, either. Mistress Caitlin, the head cook of the Academy and notorious for her constant mothering of almost everyone else (even Teresa wasn't exempted from calling her "mistress"), be they students or officials, would probably be after her again this very morning, large bowl of chicken soup on one hand and a vile concoction of medicine --forkroot, chrysanthemum, evergreen shoots, and who knew what else-- in the other.

Grimacing a bit at the memory of the last time she had an incident with Mistress Caitlin, she pushed aside --thankfully-- another large pile of paperwork that she had just recently finished, cast a look about at the remaining sheafs that still needed to be done, and breathed a small sigh of relief. They had actually dwindled down onto a dozen or so more papers, simple reports that can be easily finished within the next hour os two. It was hard to keep the smile of her face at the thought of chance to relax. She was so happy, her eyes were actually blurring with tears.

Wait. Her eyes weren't blurring from tears. She blinked, then blinked some more. Her eyes were blurring, because they were strangely hot.

In fact, her whole face felt strangely hot. So did the rest of her.

What an amazing thing.

The concept of being sick had never occurred to Teresa before; she, like her father before her and his father before him, had always thought herself to be invulnerable when it came to such things. There was absolutely no way she could even be sick, not now.

No possible way.

She just needed a little sleep is all.

Abandoning the piles at her desk, Teresa slowly inched her way towards the large mahogany bed, head now beginning to throb with every step. Her last conscious memory was that of tumbling headfirst onto the bed, blacking out into sweet oblivion even before her head had reached the pillow.

Needless to say, Mistress Caitlin was on the verge of a convulsion when a young maid came to inform her that "Miz Teresa can't get out of bed t'day, t'ink she's a'burnin' up." Not only did she pounce on Teresa with the chicken soup and the disgusting potion, she followed it up with a prescription of several glasses of water a day --it still surprised her how she could take them all in-- and the insistence that she change into more softer and more loose fitting garments for her duration in bed. Teresa had scant few fitting such a description in her closet, most being business suits and formal wear --some unspoken law among dressmakers and fabric designers seemed to imply that the professional appearance of clothing is in direct proportion to its uncomfortability -- she was forced into wearing her dressing gowns. It was either those or an extremely ugly pair of Do-re-mi elves-printed pajamas that someone with an strange sense of humor had designed - Teresa didn't want to know where Mistress Caitlin had gotten them from. Fortunately, she wasn't always conscious when the head cook's exotic tortures were inflicted upon her, sparing her from further pain and embarrassment.

Orders had already been given out to take care of some of Teresa's work for the day. Emilia or Mistress Caitlin herself may have given the orders; Teresa was too sick to know what went on, drifting in and out of sleep for the most part. She did recall at some parts of the day, stumbling out of bed in an unsuccessful attempt to head back over to her desk; never before did those unfinished pile of papers taunt her like a siren does a sailor as it did now. Three times she had tried, and three times she had been carried back off to the bed that was slowly becoming her prison; by servants devoutly faithful to the impregnable Mistress. In the end, she reluctantly accepted her fate; she wasn't going to have anything done today no matter how hard she'd plead, not until she showed them a marked improvement in her health.

With a rueful sigh, Teresa snuggled under the covers and, with a little prayer that she'd feel better the next day, closed her eyes. In a short while, she was already dreaming, of loose snatches of paper she can never seemed to catch, disappearing and reappearing in another spot far away from her; and of Mistress Caitlin hot at her heels, a bucket of salt under one arm and waving several pieces of mandrake root at her with the other.

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"Teresa" is (C) Konami This chapter was posted on February, 2000