From:Storer.Ellsbeth
To:Rawlins.T.M.
Subject: Re: Re:(no subject)
Thank you for that. I’m sure I just got in my head a little bit.
Unrelated, one of the benefits of being awake for several hours in the middle of the night is that it offers one plenty of undistracted time to work. I put together a new ritual (single-column formatting, like you prefer, sigh) that will bind the hands and ankles for seven minutes. Even if the…specific applications of the ritual might not be fit for my thesis, I figure if it’s successful (which I think it will be), the fact that one is able to apply writ magic to two distinct and isolated parts of the body at once will completely disprove A. R. Milton’s theory of writ magic as a “solid orb of power.”
That in and of itself seems worthy of publication eventually, don’t you think? I can’t believe Milton’s articleshaven’tbeen disproven yet in the academic world (if you’re ever bored, look up his 1952 article on whether women are able to cast while they’re menstruating). It’s astonishing, really, how little some men know about the human body and its potential.
Are you up for another ritual? I’m free Friday evening if you are.
x
Ellsbeth
P.S. Unfortunately the stigma against writ magic means that so many works aren’t publicly available. Though the Hays Library has a copy of the Mandressi Compendium, students aren’t allowed to check it out without faculty approval. Do you think you might be able to get the book for me? If you do, I won’t even mind if you try to distract me while I’m readingit.
Rawlins
Rawlins pulled his coat tight against the wind as he walked across campus after the last of the week’s classes. He had no memory of the lecture he had just given, the way someone might arrive in their garage after a familiar commute having completely forgotten the drive to get there. While his mouth dutifully recited the same bullet points on Fritz theory and magnetism, his mind was entirely focused on Ellsbeth. On obscuration. On the rush, almost like drunkenness, that swept his body when he was near her.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, but it was only a text from Lennox, a polite but terse update that Max was being transferred out of the hospital and back to prison. Apparently the doctors had determined that he was no longer a suicide risk, which Rawlins found difficult to believe, but he knew that as soon as Max grew tired of being strapped to a bed, he would know what to tell them to get himself out of the hospital.
Of course, getting out of prison was another matter entirely, and no amount of knowing what to tell people would improve the boy’s prospects for release.
Rawlins was determined to help in any way he could, so he had reached out to Max’s lawyer, who was audibly annoyed to be receiving his call. Since she was paid by Lennox and her client was Max, she was clearly baffled by Rawlins’s interest in the case, and actively discouraged his efforts to help. “You can write a letter on his behalf, but it’s awaste of time.” Rawlins had pressed her for strategies that might make an impact, but she had sighed heavily, eager to get off the phone. “From the state’s perspective, paroling Max is a huge risk with no upside. Greywall was appointed to chair the parole board precisely because he’s seen as tough, and his record on arcane mechanical offenses is consistent. You could have the most compelling argument in the world, but you’re never going to change his mind.”
The problem lingered in the back of Rawlins’s thoughts all week as he pondered other ways that he might help—strings he could pull, favors he could call in. But the scope of his influence was limited to the academic world. So the days until Max’s parole hearing ticked on, with Rawlins feeling increasingly hopeless.
Rawlins reached Trousdale’s, a neighborhood market in the shopping plaza at the bottom of Beacon Hill, charming for its quasi-European decor, though he could not understand how it stayed open with so little business. He picked up groceries for dinner and a bottle of wine, and found himself in line behind a pair of undergrads, huddled close and trading smiles, apparently heading out on a date as the clerk rang up their wine and cheese. He looked at the girl—younger than Ellsbeth, but barely. And the boy, who was beautiful in a Byronic way, struck Rawlins as achild.They were sweet. Cute, even. But he couldn’t help thinking that Ellsbeth ought to be pining for a boy likethat.
For twenty years, Rawlins had maintained his resolution not to sleep with a student. There had been opportunities, certainly, but he had avoided them with relative ease. Young scholars eager for his attention were usually so transparent; they held no appeal.
But Ellsbeth was agraduatestudent. An adult, more than capable of making her own decisions. To his surprise, he had not been stricken with guilt after they slept together in his office. Perhaps it was because he regarded Ellsbeth as a colleague, despite the power imbalance inherent to their roles. She was an intellectual force to be reckoned with;he was impressed, even intimidated, by her talent.
Of course, being an intellectual prodigy did not mean that she was emotionally mature. She had never had her heart broken the way Rawlins had by her age. But shehadexperienced real loss. Ellsbeth did not often talk about the death of her sister, but Rawlins could see the wayit colored her. The distance she maintained between herself and her peers. The way it somehow made her both emotionally guarded and a raw bundle of nerves. He felt some relief knowing that the heartbreak that would come, whenever this thing came to an end—and it had to end, eventually—would not be the worst thing that had happened to Ellsbeth. Not by a wide margin.
In that sense, she was actually more prepared for what was inevitably coming than Rawlins had been, when his own first great love affair had ended so disastrously.
At least, that’s what he told himself, in an effort to make it all feel okay. And ithad tofeel okay. Because the way he wanted her, he could not possibly stop.
Her fantasies of submission struck a chord deep inside him, touching something he had been embarrassed and even frightened by. He had certainly never participated in any fetish subculture, and cringed at the thought of leather outfits and seedy sex dungeons. But he had occasionally, in past relationships, had experiences that revealed his own proclivities. An impulsive smack on the ass, a command obeyed that brought a rush of pleasure. But he had always been frightened by himself in those moments, fearful they would unleash some darkness that he could not contain.
With Ellsbeth, however, the desire for domination was more than an idle impulse. It was becoming an obsession. It had crept in gradually, starting as irritation with her claim on his thoughts; then admiration, respect, and affection all slowly took root, and colored his want, so his desire for her was strangely sharp and soft at the same time. He wanted to both punish and pleasure her, to hold her close and pin her down; the contradictions swirled in his mind and left him dizzy. At times it was almostamusing,to want with such intensity at his age, and pine for her like he was a lovesick adolescent.
But other times, he was more frightened than amused. His impulses felt wild and dangerously out of control, and he was not sure where they came from. He would replay the whole course of events in his mind—the headstrong girl marching into his life, conquering more and more of his mind every day—and sometimes it felt like a tale of kismet for two well-matched lovers. But other times, it played as the story of a girl who knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And shewas getting it. Whether “it” was him, or his indulgence in her illicit project, or both.
That interpretation of events was ungenerous, to say the least. What wascertainwas that she had more and more power over him every day. It made him wonder if he should call the whole thing off…but even as he wondered, he knew with certainty that he wouldn’t. Not with the twin pulls of curiosity and desire dragging him forward with more force than he could possibly resist.
Maybe another writ magic ritual was exactly what he needed. A remedy for his own sense of powerlessness. A way to indulge the passion he felt while clawing back the control he needed. If he could just get it out of his system, then he could take a step back and view the entire situation rationally once again, viewing himself and Ellsbeth with the logic and clarity he had once prided himselfon.
Ellsbeth arrived at his houseat six o’clock, punctual as ever, carrying a bottle of wine and, as always, a backpack slung over one shoulder, heavy with books. She wore, to his surprise, a cottony dress, loose and flowy but complementary to her figure, with three buttons at the top and a hem that brushed her knees. He understood the intention of her fashion choice, which was less uptight and professional than she tended to favor, leaning into the growing familiarity of their relationship. The dress promised a more fun, carefree Ellsbeth; seeing him appraise her outfit, she swished the bottom of it at him. “You like it?”
“It’s cute,” he said, stepping back to let her inside. The dress flattered her, but it also accentuated her youth in a way that stirred at his guilt.
He took her bag and hung it on the coatrack, beckoning her back to the kitchen. “I was thinking, since we’re able to start earlier this time, we could get right to work and wait until later to make dinner.”
