Tom's Study, Vauquelin House
Nkemi drank hers; her hands were trembling, and little ripples jumped through the dark liquid. She took a deep breath, and calmed them once more, leaving smudged fingerprints in chalk behind against the delicate surface of Anetol’s cup. Nkemi drank another sip of her kofi; it was hot, and she, too, felt restored by the strong taste of it, even if it had been brewed in the Anaxi-style.
When Anetol sat up again, there was warmth in his voice, as if he could breathe back out the kofi he had drank. He lit a nearby incense burner, and the warm, friendly smell of patchouli filled the air; it reminded Nkemi of holy men, thick white hair or gleaming shaved heads, soft colorful wraps that were unafraid to dangle in the dirt, and the pouring of water by strong hands.
Nkemi watched Anetol as he spoke, settling a little more. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and she smiled at him, although it wasn’t a very cheerful subject. But it was relief, writ large across her face, and she did not try to hide it behind a prefect’s guise. Some of the color had come back to his face; the scarf seemed to warm him, and Nkemi had been pleased that he had tucked it closer around himself, and nestled into the wool.
I was not prepared for what I would see when I looked in the mirror, Anetol had said, one thin red eyebrow quirking up with his words, something like an amused smile on his face. The cool winter light had shone in the window, catching all the lines of him, with steam from their cups of kofi drifting through it, flickered through reddish curls with licks of gray, pooled on swirls of red and purple carpet.
“I don’t know,” Nkemi said, hesitant. She took another sip of her kofi; she settled the cup down. “Perhaps?” Nkemi glanced up at Anetol again. She could not quite imagine the idea of a body which did not feel like home; it seemed terribly lonely.
“There are…” Nkemi was quiet, picking her kofi up once more, thumb sliding slowly back and forth over the delicate etchings on the side of the cups. “They are not quite lessons,” Nkemi said with a little frown, “but stories, myths, almost, of masters in the clairvoyant conversation who would lose their connection with their bodies when they cast; who would drift, away, and struggle to return. It – ”
Nkemi grinned, sheepishly, suddenly. “We discussed them mostly to scare each other,” she told Anetol, almost cheerfully, “as little children studying clairvoyant conversation. Ghost stories, men who… drifted free of their bodies, and walked the earth looking for minds to enter.” She shook her head. “All stories, I think, have a grain of truth in the center from which sprouts the rest, but - this is a lesson I would not have expected to learn.”
“I do not know what to recommend for this,” Nkemi admitted. “If it – is not disagreeable to you, may I write my mentor?” Nkemi smiled at Anetol. “Professor Ruedka pezre Etriket. I am anyway finishing up a letter which I had intended to send, and it would be easy to ask her for recommendations on spell circles to help guide a caster home, or other exercises which may be done to strengthen the bond. If she does not know, I am sure she can ask. I – she has worked with the prefects for many years,” Nkemi said, meeting Anetol’s gaze, “and she knows well the value of silence, when words are not needed.”