Monica

 Monica Bakke from Norway

A disclaimer is in place. I mis-use the poor Bishop of Oslo, John Willem Gran. While it is perfectly true that he was an actor in his youth, and looked the part, I have no idea if he ever celebrated private masses or would ever have behaved as I have him do - this is in short pure fiction!

Monica Bakke is 13-and-a-half when she arrives at Unicorn Farm. She lives in the fancy part of Oslo, her father is a financial magnate working in the stock exchange in Oslo  and her mother is a known lady in the higher social circles in town.
Little Monica is never left alone, every morning Nanny Jane wakes her up, oversees her eating her breakfast and dressing. Then her mother comes in and greets her. With Monica listening to learn she discusses today's shopping and menu with the cook. Then the teachers arrive. Monica is taught Norwegian, maths, geography, music, drawing, sewing and cooking. Also foreign languages like French and German are on the curriculum.

 - - - - -

The school days were broken in two by a trip to the Frogner park. In Summer she played tennis with Nanny Jane. In the winter they went skiing, or sledding or skating. Always accompanied by Nanny Jane. After school she had tea, and was sometimes called in to greet mother's guests and play the piano for them. For the rest of the afternoon Monica made her homework, read, drew and did her piano lessons. Sometimes she played small pieces of music she made up herself, but when she did, Nanny came over and told her that she played out of key, and would she please stop. She did not stop, but only played her own music when Nanny dozed off or was on a trip to the bathroom. Those were good times. After an early dinner, she went for a walk in the big garden, croquet on the lawns in summer and a quick trek in winter. If her mother did not entertain, she would recap the day with her, making plans for the next day, discussing further household matters, and even ask for her views on curtains, menus and tableware.
Then the night nanny, Nanny Vinter, took over, guiding her through evening devotions, a bath, and then off to bed.

Her parents seemed perfectly satisfied with their lives, but Monica felt out of place, that she was missing out on something important, something she could not truly define. She felt a longing, a yearning inside, that exquisite meals, grand parties and even the wonderful world of music could not satisfy.

Monica often lay awake in bed in the evenings, looking at the starry skies and listening to the winds in the evergreens outside the big house. She wondered if there was no more to life than being smartly dressed, presentable and polite to a never ending stream of likewise immaculate men and women. And making money of course. She had read books from her parents' library describing children playing with other children, going to school in flocks, having adventures on their way home, having mums and dads working at manual labours, going to scout camps and school outings ... and having siblings! Monica often dreamt of having a brother or a sister, or even both. She had once asked her mother if she could please have a baby sister, but her mother had been so very sad that Monica had never brought this subject up again. She would also very much like to frequent an ordinary school instead of being the only pupil under the stern eye of varying teachers - at least she imagined she would like it.

Every Sunday a priest came to the manor, celebrating mass for the family and all of the servants wanting to join. Sometimes even the Bishop read that mass. Monica liked him very much. He was a strong, lean man, looking for all the world just like one of the movie stars, the Cook dreamt of and told Monica of on the rare occasions she managed to stay in the kitchen after mother was dome planning the daily meals. The Cook even told Monica that the bishop, once, long ago, had been an actor. Monica did not quite believe it.
  Mass was the best part of the week for Monica, especially on the rare occasion the bishop came over. He spoke so well, and he always treated everybody just the same. Like he was not afraid of anybody. After his short sermon, when they all knelt together they were all the same, all children of one Father, and Monica felt content.

One Sunday evening in early June, still not sleeping, she heard mother speak to the bishop in the gardens below. She sneaked to the balcony, where the French doors were ajar, leaned her head against the cool, stony balusters and listened.
"When are you going to send her off to either a normal school or a boarding school?" she heard the bishop ask and continue: "She is much too wise and serious for her years, she needs to play, to be allowed to be a child, before she grows up."
"I don't know, Father," her mother answered, "Maybe next school-year. You may be right. But she's still young. And she's my only child."
"Well," the Bishop said, his voice growing a bit stronger and sterner, "are you considering to get her a sister or a brother?"
"We have tried, but there were no more children to be had for us, and now we're too old to be considered as adoptive parents."
"Concerning this, are you ever going to tell her that she is adopted?"
"No," Monica heard her mother's voice as if from far off. "I won't ever tell her. She shall not know from which common stock ..."

Monica felt weak, only the cold stone of the balusters kept her from fainting. Monica silently stepped back from the balcony and crept back under her covers, shaking. She lay just staring out into the velvet night for a long time. Then she started thinking. 'An adopted child, but he is on my side', was her first coherent thoughts. Then: 'Mother and father are not my real parents. That might be why I feel so out of place. Maybe I should ask to become a nun. That's what nurse Vinter would like, a least. But no. why should I do what she wants? What do I want?'
Monica lay still. She felt warm inside, and smiled. 'I'm my own, she thought, not my parents'. Not Nanny Vinter's either even though she's terribly nice. Not even the Bishop's. I can do what I want. But what do I want?'
Mulling over the different possibilities, a nun, a rich person like her mother, a nanny, or a cook, or a musician maybe? She did not know. Most of all she wanted to belong, a sense of doing something great, like when she was playing her own small pieces of music. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would nudge Nanny to help her go to a normal school - that was what she wanted most of all. She felt, deep inside, that the Bishop was right. She needed to play, to fool around, to be with other children, not only for short periods in the Frogner park watched by Nanny's sharp eyes. And nudging, she could do. Planting a thought in Nanny's head with a few well chosen words. She seldom did this, for fear of being told off for abusing the servants, or indecent behaviour, or whatever crime it would be categorised as. And mostly she did so only with small things, like making Nanny drowsy, or thirsty, or wanting to use the bathroom when she felt like playing her own music, or getting her to buy them a cake, but now was the time to use this ability for something big.

But next day, before Monica had pulled up courage to do anything the new garden help came over during a short recess in the garden. The new garden help was a woman, and Monica had been at the interviews with the possible candidates for the post when the old gardener became too old to manage alone. She had taken an immediate liking to this woman, and had even tried nudging her mother into employing her. To Monica's amazement it had worked. Now the garden help asked Monica to please come and help her with some plants needing more than her own two hands. Monica politely asked leave of Nanny, and followed the woman to the newly turned beds in the far corner of the garden.
"You can call me Martine, the woman said. Here, don these gloves and this apron. No need to get dirty."
"Dirty can be fun!" Monica said.
"I bet you mother does not agree, and neither does Nanny."
"Too right," Monica said, donning the proffered items.
They worked together, Martine gently pulling the long, fragile plants from the pots, while Monica kept them from overturning.
Shortly Martine asked Monica how she would like to join a course in gardening and the care of animals.
"Together with other children?" Monica asked, disbelief colouring her voice.
"Yes, together with other children, and you might get wet, dirty, and even get to fly a broomstick," Martine answered.
"Fly a broomstick? But ... that's not a normal thing to learn in school, or is it?"
Sit down, Martine said, and sat herself on a crate. Monica followed suit and looked at Martine.
"Monica, when I applied for this job, you tried to convince your mother to make me get the job. It would not have worked, had I not reinforced your thoughts. Monica, you are a witch, same as me!" Martine said. As Monica just stared at her with wide eyes, she continued: "None of your parents are.  But you are. and we want to teach you."
"I am a witch ... Like in the books? That's what the nudging is, Magic?" Monica slowly asked, and Martine nodded. Monica continued, calmly, but in a jumble: "My parents are not my real parents. I'm adopted. I just found out yesterday. But what am I to do. My parents won't even let me go to a normal school, why should they let me go to your school?  How can I believe you? Show me!" and she nudged Martine.
Martine laughed: "That does not work with me, little lady. But I will show you anyway. Look." Martine pulled her wand from a pocket in her overalls. "What is this?"
"A stick?" Monica said.
"A magic wand," Martine retorted, and swished the wand in an intricate pattern while saying some words in a language, Monica recognized as Icelandic, but could not understand. Monica looked and saw the old garden fork twisting and turning into a wonderful miniature May pole, decked in flowers.
"Pick one of the flowers," Martine encouraged Monica. She hesitatingly stretched out her hand and plucked a bright blue cornflower from the pole. The flower in Monica's hand staid a cornflower only for a short while. Then it turned back into a piece of straw, at the same time the May pole turned back into the old garden fork.
"Can you teach me this?" Monica asked, awe and longing tingeing her voice.
"I can and I will. If you hand this flyer to your mother and father they will think it high time for you to get acquainted with other children, and they will see this 4H summer course in "Nature for Bookworms and Shy Children" as the perfect opportunity."
"More magic?" Monica asked.
"Yes. like what you call nudging, only a little better, and on paper."

We first meet Monica at the exams during the autumn holidays, where she does fine. Monica is an outstanding brewer of potions of all kinds, only Helge and later on My being a real match. 
Her wand is made from Norwegian spruce and her sparks are a deep silvery-blue.