“I mean, it’s kind of obvious. What? You’re really expecting T.M. Rawlins to let a bunch of eighteen-year-olds start doing bone-bindings?”
“Okayyyyy,” the girl’s friend said. “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.” The two of them, muttering and shooting further dark glances back at Ellsbeth, found seats near the front of the room.
The lecture hall echoed with chatter and the shuffling of books and feet as Ellsbeth slipped into an open seat on the right side of the room, six rows back. It was an older classroom, with its front wall lined with green chalkboards from the floor to the ceiling (and another layer of chalkboards hidden behind the first, accessible via a system of ropes and pulleys). The students sat in ascending rows, forced to squeeze into uncomfortably small wooden chairs with attached desks.
Ellsbeth absently wished she had worn a less conspicuous sweater. Surely Rawlins wouldn’t be able to count visually and see that there was an additional student in the lecture hall, but it seemed unwise to have chosen a red wool jumper. There was no need to draw any additional attention to herself; she was already irrationally certain that there was something indelible about her that made it obvious she didn’t belong here. Her age, yes, but also her sadness. She had livedwhat felt like a thousand lives in the months since Bertie died. The students around her felt like children.
And then, as if cued by a conductor, the chatter in the hall stopped in an instant. From a small door behind the podium, Rawlins had appeared, and the room was silent.
The handsome boy from the photo in his book was still visible, but he was graying at the temples of his hairline, which was receding into a deep widow’s peak that suited him perfectly. Fine lines spiderwebbed from the corners of his eyes, which were bleary from too much caffeine or too little sleep or both.
“Welcome,” Rawlins said. His voice was lower than Ellsbeth had expected. “This is Introduction to the Principles of Arcane Mechanicals. If you’re looking for British Literature 101, that’s on the North Quad.” There were a few polite chuckles. Rawlins had delivered his half joke flatly, unsmiling; Ellsbeth was certain he opened the lecture the same way every single year.
Before he said another word, he pulled an iron ingot from his pocket, snapped it in two, and let the dust settle on his desk. Using his finger, he traced a circle in the iron filaments. The lecture hall gasped and then burst into applause. Rawlins allowed himself a small smile without looking up. The chalkboard behind him had instantly become covered with messy scrawling handwriting—important dates in the history of the arcane arts, along with basic equations. “Have to do something to impress you all on our first day,” he said. “After all, I know how competitive registration can be. Those of you who managed to enroll in this class are part of a lucky group.”
And at that moment, he looked up, directly at Ellsbeth.
She felt her underarms prickle with sweat and her heart tighten in her chest. He was holding her gaze, his eyes locked on hers. They flicked down to her sweater, and then away, toward the papers he was keeping in a stack on the lectern.
Ellsbeth held her breath, exhaling only once he began talking about Norman contributions to thaumaturgy and she was fairly confident he wouldn’t interrupt the lecture to publicly shame her as an interloper.
The content of the introductory class was basic, information that Ellsbeth had studied back when she was in high school, reading books that made the librarians at the local branch raise their eyebrows. Butfrom the way Rawlins spoke, she understood immediately why his class always had a waiting list. He was clear without being dull, reverential without veering into the poetic. He talked about the science of augury like he was telling a story.
He was brilliant. But more important, Ellsbeth realized, he wasbored.He was reciting the same lecture he had been giving on the first day of class for years, probably verbatim.
When Rawlins glanced back in her direction toward the end of the lecture, she was smiling at him. The truth was, Ellsbeth hadn’t snuck onto campus simply to attend a single undergraduate lecture. She had come to Newlyn for her sister, and she had come here for Professor Rawlins.
From:Storer.Ellsbeth
To:Rawlins DAA
Subject:Your Arcane Mechanicals course
Hi Professor,
First, let me apologize for writing an email to you at all given that I’m sure with classes just starting, you’re incredibly busy. And I’m also sorry for beginning said email with “Hi” when you might find that incredibly overly familiar and unprofessional. Please be assured that I went through several drafts of initial salutations. (Dearfelt informal and strained;To,robotic to the point of rudeness. And so I’m left withhi.)Hi.
A bit about me: I graduated from St. Andrews, First Class Honors, with an independent study in augury under Professor Arthur Binder that received the Flint-Marxcy Prize for undergraduate achievement. I spent the fall of last year living in London while studying for the Arcanus, planning on applying to graduate programs in the spring. Unfortunately, my plans were derailed by life circumstances that I would be happy to discuss more in person, but suffice it to say, with an incomplete Arcanus score, I was well aware that I would not have merited any significant consideration had I sent in a formal application to the graduate program for admission this term. Which is why I am writing to you now—in the hope that a personal appeal might be the best way forward.
Please be sure, I am well aware of how competitive the DAA program at Newlyn is, with only a small group of hand-selected students each year. But I know I would be an asset to the department and, as I said, I would be happy to offer an explanation of the extenuating circumstances around my Arcanus and convince you why that result is not at all reflective of my passion or my natural predisposition for mechanicals.
Here is where I should offer another apology: I snuck into your introductory lecture yesterday morning (and borrowed your email address off the syllabus). If you happened to notice atwenty-something girl in a red sweater a few sizes too big looking like a child on Christmas morning, that wasme.
I’ve never seen anyone talk about arcane mechanicals the way you did—in the past when I heard teachers discuss conservation of matter and the rudimentary mechanicals, they made it sound so sterile. You made it sound like we were conductors in a symphony, like the strings of reality are ours to be teased out at will and played in harmony. (That is not to say I don’t appreciate the incredibly rigorous mathematics required to study arcane mechanicals, because I do (I’m attaching my transcript below, in case you’re curious, and in case this email hasn’t already wasted enough of your time, and if you find yourself curious, please be sure to check my undergraduate coursework in Differential Equations and Multivariables. Top of the class in both)).
I know traditionally you wouldn’t accept students into your program once the semester has already begun, and I realize this is an incredibly unorthodox request, but seeing as I don’t have access to a genie, time travel, or aFortunatis Favoriritual, there’s only one course of action left to me: you.
If there were ever a chance you could make an exception, I can promise you will never teach a student more willing to work hard thanme.
I’ve already taken up too much of your time, and so, I’m sorry (again).
Best (how is that?),
Ellsbeth Storer
P.S. When I was sixteen, my parents gave me a copy ofThe Arcane and the Ordinaryand I practically memorized it. I think I slept with it under my pillow for a few months. Seeing you in person in the lecture yesterday was surreal after only seeing the photo of you from the back cover.
From:Rawlins DAA
