I’ve admitted everyone in the class? Is this because of Northcliff? And what does he mean by ‘in recorded history’? Do they no longer remember history before I became Librarian?
The Arcanaeum nudges me, a drawer popping out from beneath my desk. Inside is a single piece of paper printed with large letters.
YES
It wants the Ackland boy here, regularly, and it wants his ancestor’s grimoire. Why?
My gut wants to refuse outright, but the paper gives me pause.
The Arcanaeum has never been so forthright with its demands as it’s being now. I have to trust that’s for a reason. My mind flits to my cracked hand, hidden carefully from onlookers behind my stack of books.
After all these years, I cannot believe the library would want me harmed. Yet it seems insistent on bringing those with the ability to do so inside my sanctuary.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Magister Hopkinson says, brushing aside his robes in disappointment as my silence becomes awkward. “I understand. A group of students in the Arcanaeum would likely result in several broken rules and?—”
“I’ll permit it on a trial basis,” I cut in. “I will clear the study area in Conjurer’s Hall for your use. How often is your class?”
Surprise blooms over his face, stretching those laugh lines into a well-used, jolly smile. “Three times a week. Oh, this is wonderful news. Thank you, Librarian. Thank you!”
“There will be rules,” I hasten to add. “I cannot just have a group of students running amok…”
“Of course.”
I doubt any rule I can come up with will dampen the old magister’s spirits at this point.
“I shall personally ensure every young arcanist is on their best behaviour. Shall we start tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”
“Yes.” He turns on his heel, but I frown, and add, “Magister, which class is it?”
“First years,” he answers, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “For all my sins, I’m responsible for Arcanist Studies this year. It does get terribly dull, repeating the same history year after year, but perhaps you’ll be able to add your own insights. You’ve lived it, after all! And you’re more than welcome to join us, of course.”
No, I think to myself.I haven’t lived it at all. I’ve been dead and confined for most of it.
Rather than ruin his excitement with that uncharacteristically self-pitying thought, I smile and nod. “It could be interesting to sit in on one or two classes.”
The rest of the arcanists in the Rotunda, who were not-so-subtly eavesdropping on our conversation, break out in whispered murmurs as he leaves, and I sigh, popping away from my desk before someone else can approach me about hosting parties or something equally ludicrous.
I have no idea why the building is suddenly feeling the urge to be social, but aside from the dread that comes at the thought of seeing North again, I’m almost…excited.
All those years ago, I was looking forward to my classes. After my resurrection, I lamented the loss of what might’ve been had I gone to lectures with my cohort. Would I have enjoyed it? Would I have made friends? I would’ve been a good student, eager as I was.
I suppose everything that Hopkinson will be teaching is something I’ve read already.
Still, perhaps there might be something to be gleaned from listening in. I have always liked the magister, after all. Something about the loners always calls to me. It’s why I enjoy—enjoyed—Galileo’s unwitting company.
I spend the evening turning the small study area in Conjuration Hall into something more resembling a classroom, or at least, how I hope a classroom looks. I checked several textbooks on the education of young arcanists, and they all disagreed, so I settled for desks facing the front, and a chalkboard at one end.
Then I went away, returned, and decided it was too severe. So I did away with desks, replacing them with bright mandala pouffes instead.
By the time Magister Hopkinson steps into the room the following morning, I’ve rearranged it a half-dozen times. Finally, I settle for a space where small tables and colourful cushions dominate, with armchairs around the edges of the room for those who prefer them. I’ve layered the floor with comfortable rugs and added thick tapestries to the walls to warm the place up a bit and dampen any noise the students might make.
“Amazing!” the magister comments as he steps inside, and I relax a little.
I’ve chosen an armchair for myself against the back wall, where I can hide my left arm in the shadows, though I can’t really sit in it. It felt less awkward than just hovering in a corner like the spook I am.
“Is there anything else you need?” I check. “I’ve not been in a classroom in several centuries, so I wasn’t sure what was required.”
Magister Hopkinson shrugs. “They haven’t changed that much, surely? I mean, there are no electronics, but I suspected as much, so I brought the old-school equipment with me.”
