Paranoia? What paranoia? His smile and the eager way he hands me the publication disarms me all over again.
Frowning, I take it and flip it until I can read the cover. It’s a thin book, with one of those matte covers that are so prone to peeling. The lettering on the spine is misaligned in a way that’s making my eye twitchy.
Modern printing, I shudder.
“A History of Magiball in a Hundred Great Players?” My eyebrows inch higher as I read the title aloud.
The Arcanaeum has no standards and gleefully ruffles through the glossy pages, accepting it into the collection despite my protests. Looking at the shirtless player on the front wearing only white shorts emblazoned with his surname along the side seams, I realise yet again how much the world has changed. The floating metal balls buzzing around him are the same, butdifferent. Alongside him are other pictures, clearly taken across the years as they progress backwards to black and white and then to sketches.
In my day, they wore loose undershirts covering them from wrist to neck. Grimacing, I catch sight of a small photograph of an oil painting in the corner… I think that might be from my era. Magic, why does everything about them make me feel soold?
“Risturi,” I mumble, letting the Arcanaeum’s magic repair the cracks in the spine.
Lambert has probably learnt more about history from this well-read magazine than he has from Hopkinson’s class.
And that’s when it hits me.
The reason I can’t teach Lambert about alchemy is because he has no interest. The only reason he cares at all is because he needs to pass this year. Magiball is clearly what motivates him. So, to make alchemy interesting, I need to somehow relate it to that damned suicidal sport.
My jaw drops.
“Most people say thank you.” Lambert smirks, reaching forward as if to shut my mouth.
I dodge. Barely.
“No touching!” My voice is snappy, and if it wasn’t already silent, my heart would’ve stopped.
“You float through patrons all the time.” Damn Galileo for noticing.
I ignore him and turn. Even without my predicament, Lambert could do with learning a few things about boundaries. “Come. I’ve had an idea.”
Holding my hand—the uncracked one—out, I summon a new book from the depths of the biography section, then another before floating them across the space between Lambert and me.
“Anna Carlton and the Birth of Alchemy-centric Magiball Strategy?” Lambert’s tone turns awed towards the end of thetitle. “Alchemical Bombs and Their Role in Magiball Sabotage Plays.”
“You don’t want to be a magister,” I mutter under my breath. “You just want your name on that stupid cup. So why should I bother trying to teach you academically? Come.”
“What Lambert wants is immaterial.” Galileo lengthens his stride to catch up with me. “He’s the strongest Winthrop alive today. Hewillbecome a parriarch. Therefore, hemustbecome a magister.”
And to do that, he needs to master an advanced school, on top of the foundation schools. It’s a difficult path, full of the rigorous tests that academia so delights in. I can’t see it, and when I glance at the blond, bouncing nightmare, there’s a hint of tension at the corners of his eyes.
“There are many paths to enlightenment.” I sweep over the edge of the gallery, floating down to the ground floor of Botanical Hall. I expected them to take the stairs, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts, but Lambert doesn’t. He leaps the distance with a flip, landing solidly on the parquet flooring.
Only it’s not as solid as it was a second ago. Somewhere in the nanosecond between him hopping the banister and tumbling to break his fool neck, the Arcanaeum transforms solid wood into something spongy.
Lambert bounces, soaring back into the air with a joyous shout. Magic, if he goes any higher, he’ll knock himself out on the hammer beams.
“Fuck yes!” he crows, the sound echoing loudly until my fingers twitch with the urge to banish him for causing a ruckus.
The shelves rattle and creak with laughter, but I tug at them in reprimand. Biting my lip, I suppress a wince as the idiot narrowly misses tangling himself in the befuddling ferns hanging over the edge of a pot suspended from the ceiling.
Okay, that settles it. The last thing I need is him wandering aimlessly around the shelves in a state of confusion for the next several hours.
Drifting to a corner, I yank hard on the fabric of the building. The floor absorbs him on his next landing, swallowing him up entirely before it springs back, solid, with a grinning, messy-haired arcanist splayed out in the middle. Then, as an afterthought, the banister above peels away, forming a set of improvised steps for Galileo to descend and join us.
“That was epic.” Lambert rolls his weight onto his shoulders, then springs back to his feet in a practised motion. “Can you do that all the time? Imagine how much better the place would be as a trampoline hall?—”
I summon his card into my hand, and his mouth snaps shut.
