Dear magic, she thinksthat’sassault? Has she never been switched? Mistress White—the inept who ran the orphanage where I was raised—would’ve taken the cane to the soles of my feet until they bled if I’d ever dared show my elders this level of disrespect.
A dozen more books fly into the air, poised and ready in silent threat. Then they retreat just as swiftly when a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers that I spent my younger years swearing I would never be anything like Mistress White.
My sigh echoes around the shelves, making the pages flutter.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Hopkinson recovers quickly, brushing over the incident. “None of the five fundamental schools are without value.”
“Yeah, but weak liminal bastards are,” one of the boys at the back grumbles.
For a second, I debate smacking him over the head with a book, but ultimately decide against it. If hitting every adept who believed such nonsense with a book worked, I’d have cured society of prejudice by now. Besides, I’m too impatient for Hopkinson to move on to the other schools. A grim part of me wants to know if he’ll mention the dark inked vortex at the bottom of the tree.
“And surrounding the foundation schools”—Magister Hopkinson extends his telescopic metal pointer and traces the four diagonal lines above and below the four classical elements—“are the advanced schools: divination, manipulation—also known as the higher schools—and transmutation and destruction, the lower schools. Who can tell me why they’re advanced, and why they’re referred to as higher and lower? Yes, Anabella.”
The fuzzy-haired girl straightens her glasses and replies in a peppy voice. “They’re advanced because only powerful alchemists have enough magic to use them. And they’re called higher and lower because divination and manipulation are associated with the element of aether and closest to restoration, which is master-level magic. But transmutation and destruction are physical and closest to the element of decay.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And the forbidden school.”
She can’t even say the name. For magic’s sake. What is this world coming to?
“Necromancy,” Hopkinson agrees without missing a beat. “Which isalsoa master-level school, for all its abhorrence. That is why necromancers are so dangerous. Not only are they practising forbidden magic; they are among the most powerful arcanists in the world. But we won’t dwell on that until next term. This week we’re studying the foundation schools. I simply wanted you all to appreciate how all of them”—he traces the lines connecting the schools and the elements—“link together.Elements of illusion can be useful in manipulation. Alchemical potions can aid or hinder a divinator’s ability to read auras and the unseen. I’ve also yet to meet a master of restoration who didn’t have an excellent grasp of the foundation schools. The tree of life connects all magic.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath before turning back to his desk and holding up a new book.
“Today, however, we will be focusing primarily on conjuration, the nexus of all eleven schools. So please find your textbooks, turn to page six, and read quietly while I mark your papers from our last lesson.”
“Hey, Kyrith?” Lambert whispers under his breath, drawing my attention to the table I’ve been studiously ignoring. “Is this a punishment for looming yesterday?” He waves at his new required reading. “I thought that rule only applied to North.”
They’ve taken a position in the back corner of the room, and I note with grim curiosity that it’s the same one I was sitting in during the last lesson. The girl on Lambert’s lap—Larissa—shifts as she realises she hasn’t got his attention, then smiles to herself as his large hand comes to rest on her butt.
I don’t blame her. Lambert’s lap looks warm and comfortable and?—
Wait. No. I didnotjust think that. Shaking away the absolutely ridiculous thought, I scowl at them both as his hand moves back and forth while he waits for my reply. Did I not make a rule about no fornicating in the library? I thoughtthatwas a given.
Galileo scoffs, looking up from my chair, which he seems to have claimed for his own. “Only you would see reading as punishment.”
He’s wrong, though. Much of the class is looking at their books with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty. Northpokes at his like it might bite him, then flips through the thick tome with a kind of frustrated despair in his cold gold eyes.
My fingers twitch as I debate giving him a strike for disrespecting the books.
“Wait. You figured out her name?” Galileo hisses, looking up sharply to pin Lambert to the spot as he belatedly realises he failed to use my proper address. “When did you—?” He cuts off as North’s jaw clenches.
“What does it matter? No one cares about the name of a dead girl.”
I flinch, and the books on the shelves visibly shudder as the Arcanaeum reacts angrily. I don’t get a chance to see what it plans to do because Lambert abandons Larissa’s ass to cuff his friend upside the head, and Galileo fixes him with a glare.
“Page. Six,” the quiet, studious Ó Rinn scolds. “Until you know more about magic than the ‘dead girl,’ you don’t have the right to criticise.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Lambert agrees.
He doesn’t have to defend me—I’m well aware of how few people care about me—but Galileo is being hypocritical. He may appear to be reading the textbook, but I’m not fooled. There’s an illusion over the cover, and the Arcanaeum recognises the real book as one from the Divination tower.
Has he already read the chapter on conjuration, or does he simply not care about the lesson? Indignation flares as I realise he’s disregarding the education I would’ve done anything to receive. With a flick of my hand, I switch his book for the correct one, ignoring his tiny, hitched breath of surprise.
“Page six.” I lean down to whisper in his ear, flicking to the conjuration chapter for him.
Then I settle in to read over his shoulder, remaining invisible even though I know that he can likely feel the chill of my presence. Yes, I’ve probably got the book memorised by now, butthat’s not the point. I’ve never once had the contents taught to me.
Galileo’s head turns minutely, almost like he can see me—but that’s not possible—before turning his attention to the chapter without complaint.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve done this, reading beside him just for his company. It’s not quite as relaxing here as it is in the Astrology Room, but it still makes the shelves around us ease a little, just the same.
