Quinn blinked, confused. “Missed my calling?”
“I saidnext, young man,” an irritated voice called out. “Or you will lose your place.”
Overcoming his bewilderment, Quinn turned and stepped obligingly up to the long table, where three administrators sat hunched over their paperwork, grouchy as toads. The weary enrollment officer scanned Quinn’s form quickly. “Fundamentals of the Spirit Realm is full,” he said, striking it from the list with a merciless stroke of his pen. “The rest are still open. Which one are you dropping? Four is a full course load.”
Quinn looked disappointed. “Only four?”
“Most students consider four quite sufficient,” the toad said drily.
“I see. I’ll drop the philosophy class.”
The enrollment officer abruptly crossed out “Philosophy of Deathways,” scrawled a signature at the bottom of the form, and stamped it with the green seal of the university. Then he looked up and regarded Quinn dispassionately. “You’re now enrolled. Have a good semester.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He turned, and instead of avoiding Simeon’s pack as he should have, he made a point of walking back toward them. “Very nice to have spoken with you,” he said cordially, giving a little bow. “I hope to see you in some future class.” They looked at him, amused. Quinn didn’t even flinch at the laughter that erupted as soon as he’d turned away. He skirted the crowd and made his way out of the hall. I followed as he wandered down the granite steps, ignoring the pathways, ducking under the low branches of a copper beech. Here, between Pebbles and the black iron fencing that circled the green, we had come to a patch of silence. Quinn rested his back against the bulky stones of Pebbles and took a deep breath. He took the pen out of his pocket and stared at it. I watched, bemused. For a full minute, he did nothing but stare at his relic.
How I wished, then, that the dead could read thoughts. But I could only watch—watch and wonder as he considered this item that had once belonged to the dead and that was now his source of power for enchantment. Was he wondering how he had so miscalculated the dead worth required to enchant Simeon’s shoes? Was he considering replacing this relic that had caused such a grave error?
Neither of these, it seemed. For with a tenderness that vergedon sorrow, Quinn kissed the pen. Then he tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He pulled on his gloves. Quinn strode briskly back out onto the green, joining the throngs of young men in their ceaseless comings and goings.
Who was he, this poor fool? It was like watching a small child wander off into a dark forest, unaware of the gathering dusk, the deepening cold, the distant howls of wolves. He had, without even knowing it, poked the beast. I was quite worried about Clem Quinn.
But my concerns were misplaced. Clem was already in far greater danger than I realized.
Clem: November 21, 1887
Dearest Mother,
I know that you can’t come to us, but I hope that you might find a way, just once. Perhaps in the middle of the night, when the enchanter is sleeping? Can you get away then? Even if only briefly, to say good-bye, for I don’t think Father will be with us much longer. He spends every ounce of energy he has making arrangements for me and Rosetta. He is consumed with a past he has lost and a future he will not live to see.
Sometimes, for brief moments, I don’t dread his death, Mother. Instead, I think that death will be a mercy for him. He is in such agony. He knows he will not be joining you in the spirit realm, and it fills him with despair.
I hadn’t looked at them for more than two years, but today I looked at the letters you wrote me before passing into the realm. You are so good and kind to me in them, so steady in your wisdom, that I hoped I would find something there to cast light on the final days, something that would help Father. I am astonished now at how calm you were. Or how calm you sounded, perhaps for my benefit. I decided to read Father the portion about the handkerchief tree, for it has always made me smile.
“That day, I had decided expressly to visit the handkerchief tree at the public park, and the breezewas perfect, causing the handkerchief blooms to fall, fluttering, to the ground. A young man with a trim beard and a twinkle in his eye walked up to me, picked up one of the blooms, and held it out to me in the palm of his hand: ‘I believe you may have dropped this, miss,’ he said. ‘Oh, it is not mine,’ I said, playing along but not to be taken in so easily. ‘Perhaps it is yours?’ Another man would have been flummoxed, but he looked at the bloom appreciatively and then proceeded to pat his forehead with it, as if wiping away beads of sweat. He was so gently humorous that I liked him at once. That is your father in a nutshell. That is how we met.”
Do you remember writing this for me? Do you remember that gently humorous man?
He did chuckle a little at the story, which he said he had not thought of for a long time. It did not cheer him, exactly, but his agony was replaced with something more like melancholy—for a little while, at least.
If he could only see you before he goes. Please find a way to come to us, just once, so he might be able to leave this world in peace.
Your loving,
Clem
Sam: A Fiffle
Appraisal, also known as “dead reckoning,” is the foundation of basic enchantment. Every relic of the dead had value to its dead owner. The greater that value, the more dead worth the relic possesses. Every act of enchantment in turn requires an expenditure of dead worth. The greater the act, the more dead worth required. Precision is paramount. In most situations, an estimate of dead worth that falls within .1 of the correct figure will successfully produce the casting, but to avoid dangerous mishaps it is advisable to calculate to the second or third decimal place.
—Edgar Meers,Introduction to Appraisal
Friday, August 31, 1888
I’ve always been a meddler. Perhaps it’s wise, when witnessing mischief, to turn the other way. I’ve seen others do it often enough. But I cannot; something goads me on, making it impossible to look away. I remember once when I was quite small, perhaps only six or so, and I saw one boy trick another into doing his dirty work. They needed to visit the tanner, whose dog was ferocious. The older boy held up two sticks in his fists and instructed his friend to choose. The boy who chose the shorter stick would brave the tanner and his dog.
I watched the younger boy frowning with concentration. One stick in each fist. One was clearly longer than the other. His hand wavered over the longer stick as he tried to make up his mind.
I couldn’t help myself. “He’s broken the long stick in the middle,” I shouted, from my spot under a nearby tree. They knew that I was there, but they’d ignored me until then.
