Late Morning, Vortas 8, 2709
A Living Conversation Classroom
A Living Conversation Classroom
“Now,” Edevagne said, turning back towards the class, his fingers smeared with chalk, “can anyone tell me why the homing clause Sandringham’s third is considered innovative?”
There was a moment of quiet; Niccolette glanced around, and then, after a moment, raised her hand.
Edevagne’s eyes swept over her; his lips pursed, slightly, and he turned back towards the rest of the room. “Anyone?” He asked.
Niccolette felt a faint wash of heat on her cheeks. She straightened her spine, for all that she had not been slouching before; she sat up with every inch she had in herself, coolly aware of herself from the locks of her hair down to the toes in her neat, polished uniform boots. She kept her hand up, and breathed until the blush had gone.
“Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne said, after a moment.
Niccolette lowered her hand. “Sandringham uses subject-reversal homing,” she said, hands folding together in her lap. “He writes his third with a generic opener, so that the caster does not have to finalize their homing until the end of the spell.”
There was a moment of silence between them; someone cleared their throat, across the room.
“Fine,” Edevagne began.
Niccolette leaned forward, ever so slightly, and kept on. “Of course,” she said, coolly, “this trick first appears by Je’ele, roughly two centuries before Sandringham, yet she is not given the credit – ”
“Enough, Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne said, his voice cutting through hers. “Perhaps if you spent more time attending class, you’d have a better sense of how such questions should be answered. Now. I expect you all to have read Sandringham’s third before our next class meeting; we’ll use it as a launching off point for our discussion of homing,” a bell rang from the hallway, and Edevagne raised his voice to carry over it, “which is our last unit for the year.”
Niccolette swept her bag up from the floor, settling it across her shoulder, and made her way from the room without looking back.
Evening, Vortas 8, 2709
Brunnhold Library
Brunnhold Library
Niccolette didn’t open the letter until later; sitting in the library that night, she toyed with the edge of the paper, finger sliding slowly back and forth in the small space where the paper had begun to come loose.
“… engaged!” Francoise’s voice was audible over the quiet din of the table.
Niccolette looked up, swiftly, half pressing the letter into the space beneath the table.
Amaryllis was smiling; her gaze lowered, and then eased away. “It’s very recent,” she said. She glanced down at her hand, and the slender ring on her left, and pulled them both down onto her lap.
Francoise’s eyes were bright. “Oh, how exciting!” She giggled, setting her pen down and closing her notebook over it. “Tell us all about him. How did you meet?”
“He – that is,” Amaryllis smiled, although Niccolette thought there was something strained at the edges of it. “In fact, my father handled the arrangements. He’s a business man, I understand, and has been quite successful of late.”
Francoise’s eyes were wide. “Ohhhh,” she said, nodding, drawing back just a little. “Have you, ah, set a date?”
“After my tenth year, I think,” Amaryllis shifted, very slightly. “It’s still being decided, but I understand that the… that he is…”
“I think you’re terribly lucky,” Odette put in from across the table. She giggled. “I wish my parents would just find me a husband; they’re all modern! They eloped, if you can believe it – as if anyone was doing that back in the twenty sixes! But it’s like, I mean, I’d at least like to have some suggestions! All the boys at Brunnhold are simply awful; I can’t imagine marrying anyone our own age.”
Niccolette looked at Odette a long, silent moment. Amaryllis was smiling, faintly, still, her gaze fixed firmly on the open textbook in front of her.
Francoise glanced around the table. “Well,” she said. “At least you don’t have to deal with a marriage contract!” She giggled, looking at Niccolette. “Nicco, you’ve always said they’re just the worst.”
“Yes,” Niccolette shoved the letter in her bag and flipped her book open, looking intently down at it. There was silence for a moment, and she looked up, face smooth and even, meeting the gazes of Francoise and Odette. Amaryllis had looked away; she glanced back, after a moment, lips twitching at a smile.
Niccolette shrugged, and looked down at her books once more. “I have work for my spellwriting class,” she said, picking up her pen and not looking up again.
She had read, already, Sandringham’s third; she saw no need to read it again. They were approaching rapidly the end of the semester, and what interested Niccolette – what had most interested her for some time – was the assignment to draft their own spell. There was a quiet hush over the table; after a little while, Odette got up and left, murmuring something about seeing some friends across the way.
Amaryllis went, too, a little later.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Francoise asked, in time, into the quiet.
“I do not know what you mean,” Niccolette said, turning the page of her book and not looking up. She was in the midst of a particularly interesting passage about adrenaline, which she thought perhaps she could use to revise her assignment.
There was a long moment of quiet across the table. Then, too, Francoise closed her books, and got up, and went.
Niccolette stayed, sitting, staring down at her book, and blinked, rapidly, until the blurriness went from the edges of her eyes.
“… engaged!” Francoise’s voice was audible over the quiet din of the table.
Niccolette looked up, swiftly, half pressing the letter into the space beneath the table.
Amaryllis was smiling; her gaze lowered, and then eased away. “It’s very recent,” she said. She glanced down at her hand, and the slender ring on her left, and pulled them both down onto her lap.
Francoise’s eyes were bright. “Oh, how exciting!” She giggled, setting her pen down and closing her notebook over it. “Tell us all about him. How did you meet?”
“He – that is,” Amaryllis smiled, although Niccolette thought there was something strained at the edges of it. “In fact, my father handled the arrangements. He’s a business man, I understand, and has been quite successful of late.”
Francoise’s eyes were wide. “Ohhhh,” she said, nodding, drawing back just a little. “Have you, ah, set a date?”
“After my tenth year, I think,” Amaryllis shifted, very slightly. “It’s still being decided, but I understand that the… that he is…”
“I think you’re terribly lucky,” Odette put in from across the table. She giggled. “I wish my parents would just find me a husband; they’re all modern! They eloped, if you can believe it – as if anyone was doing that back in the twenty sixes! But it’s like, I mean, I’d at least like to have some suggestions! All the boys at Brunnhold are simply awful; I can’t imagine marrying anyone our own age.”
Niccolette looked at Odette a long, silent moment. Amaryllis was smiling, faintly, still, her gaze fixed firmly on the open textbook in front of her.
Francoise glanced around the table. “Well,” she said. “At least you don’t have to deal with a marriage contract!” She giggled, looking at Niccolette. “Nicco, you’ve always said they’re just the worst.”
“Yes,” Niccolette shoved the letter in her bag and flipped her book open, looking intently down at it. There was silence for a moment, and she looked up, face smooth and even, meeting the gazes of Francoise and Odette. Amaryllis had looked away; she glanced back, after a moment, lips twitching at a smile.
Niccolette shrugged, and looked down at her books once more. “I have work for my spellwriting class,” she said, picking up her pen and not looking up again.
She had read, already, Sandringham’s third; she saw no need to read it again. They were approaching rapidly the end of the semester, and what interested Niccolette – what had most interested her for some time – was the assignment to draft their own spell. There was a quiet hush over the table; after a little while, Odette got up and left, murmuring something about seeing some friends across the way.
Amaryllis went, too, a little later.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Francoise asked, in time, into the quiet.
“I do not know what you mean,” Niccolette said, turning the page of her book and not looking up. She was in the midst of a particularly interesting passage about adrenaline, which she thought perhaps she could use to revise her assignment.
There was a long moment of quiet across the table. Then, too, Francoise closed her books, and got up, and went.
Niccolette stayed, sitting, staring down at her book, and blinked, rapidly, until the blurriness went from the edges of her eyes.
Afternoon, Vortas 20, 2709
Brunnhold Library
Brunnhold Library
The next letter came in the midst of autumn break. Niccolette, having read the first, in time, consigned it to the fire unopened behind the library’s grate. She watched the flames curl through the wax and break up the letters on the thick exterior, the curling script of her name penned, surely, by one of her father’s secretaries.
“Niccolette, right?”
Niccolette rose from the library’s fire, and glanced back over her shoulder. Percival Featherington-Stonehaugh grinned, the fire flickering over his freckled face. “We have spell writing together?”
I know, Niccolette thought of saying, and you are terribly dull in it. “Of course,” she said, instead, turning away and making her way back across the library.
Percival followed. “How’s your project coming?” He asked.
Niccolette shrugged her shoulders; she sat at her table again, glancing at the notebook with her spell, and then looked back at Percival. “Well enough.”
“What sort of spell are you writing?” Percival shifted, and straddled one of the chairs, sitting backwards; he grinned at her, rolling his sleeves up to reveal freckled forearms. “I’ve been thinking of an enhancement spell,” he wiggled his eyebrows.
Niccolette sighed, and opened up her notebook once more. “Adrenaline,” she said, when he did not leave. The rest of her table was empty; Francoise was passing the break in Vienda, and Niccolette had not wished to sit with Audrey-Marie and the rest; they wished only to talk of dueling, and of late it seemed to grate.
She was not sure how it happened; before long, Percival was sitting across the table, working on some assignment of his own. Niccolette was copying out her own spell once more, adjusting some of the wording; she had found a new invocation she wished to try, which emphasized more balance. She thought it a better spell; she supposed that was what the class was meant to teach her, although Edevagne never seemed to teach them much.
Percival laughed when she said it aloud, and grinned at her.
Niccolette wasn’t sure why she’d looked up, quite; perhaps it was the brush of Amaryllis’s field, static and yet soft against the brightness of hers and Percival’s.
Amaryllis caught her gaze, and seemed as if she meant to smile; tears sparkled in the edges of her eyes, and she turned, hastily, and went.
“Watch my books,” Niccolette said; she rose, and followed after the other woman.
She found Amaryllis standing on one of the porticos outside, arms crossed over her chest, watching the snow drift through hazy blue phosphor lanterns. Niccolette came, and stood beside her, and knew the older student must know her by her caprise.
“I’m really quite all right,” Amaryllis said, smiling; she touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes, and exhaled out, slowly and carefully.
“I hate them,” Niccolette said.
“Hate…?” Amaryllis’s voice trailed off in surprise; she turned to look at Niccolette.
“Arranged marriages,” Niccolette said, her shoulders tight beneath the constraints of the uniform. She looked at Amaryllis, and then back out at the drifting snow. “It is only a matter of time until my father... It is my life! Mine; how can I forfeit such a piece of it to him?”
Amaryllis smiled at her; the older girl reached out, and took Niccolette’s hand with a gentle squeeze. “I’m quite lucky,” she said. “By all accounts he’s a good man.”
Niccolette thought perhaps Amaryllis had meant to say more; she didn’t, in the end. Niccolette glanced at the other girl, and her halo of pale blonde braids, and squeezed her hand, lightly.
In the end, they both went back inside; Percival glanced up from his notes and smiled as they came back. Amaryllis went and got her books, and sat down and joined them, and Niccolette thought not at all about the bits of the letter burnt to ash behind the grate, scattering words like sparks into the air.
“Niccolette, right?”
Niccolette rose from the library’s fire, and glanced back over her shoulder. Percival Featherington-Stonehaugh grinned, the fire flickering over his freckled face. “We have spell writing together?”
I know, Niccolette thought of saying, and you are terribly dull in it. “Of course,” she said, instead, turning away and making her way back across the library.
Percival followed. “How’s your project coming?” He asked.
Niccolette shrugged her shoulders; she sat at her table again, glancing at the notebook with her spell, and then looked back at Percival. “Well enough.”
“What sort of spell are you writing?” Percival shifted, and straddled one of the chairs, sitting backwards; he grinned at her, rolling his sleeves up to reveal freckled forearms. “I’ve been thinking of an enhancement spell,” he wiggled his eyebrows.
Niccolette sighed, and opened up her notebook once more. “Adrenaline,” she said, when he did not leave. The rest of her table was empty; Francoise was passing the break in Vienda, and Niccolette had not wished to sit with Audrey-Marie and the rest; they wished only to talk of dueling, and of late it seemed to grate.
She was not sure how it happened; before long, Percival was sitting across the table, working on some assignment of his own. Niccolette was copying out her own spell once more, adjusting some of the wording; she had found a new invocation she wished to try, which emphasized more balance. She thought it a better spell; she supposed that was what the class was meant to teach her, although Edevagne never seemed to teach them much.
Percival laughed when she said it aloud, and grinned at her.
Niccolette wasn’t sure why she’d looked up, quite; perhaps it was the brush of Amaryllis’s field, static and yet soft against the brightness of hers and Percival’s.
Amaryllis caught her gaze, and seemed as if she meant to smile; tears sparkled in the edges of her eyes, and she turned, hastily, and went.
“Watch my books,” Niccolette said; she rose, and followed after the other woman.
She found Amaryllis standing on one of the porticos outside, arms crossed over her chest, watching the snow drift through hazy blue phosphor lanterns. Niccolette came, and stood beside her, and knew the older student must know her by her caprise.
“I’m really quite all right,” Amaryllis said, smiling; she touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes, and exhaled out, slowly and carefully.
“I hate them,” Niccolette said.
“Hate…?” Amaryllis’s voice trailed off in surprise; she turned to look at Niccolette.
“Arranged marriages,” Niccolette said, her shoulders tight beneath the constraints of the uniform. She looked at Amaryllis, and then back out at the drifting snow. “It is only a matter of time until my father... It is my life! Mine; how can I forfeit such a piece of it to him?”
Amaryllis smiled at her; the older girl reached out, and took Niccolette’s hand with a gentle squeeze. “I’m quite lucky,” she said. “By all accounts he’s a good man.”
Niccolette thought perhaps Amaryllis had meant to say more; she didn’t, in the end. Niccolette glanced at the other girl, and her halo of pale blonde braids, and squeezed her hand, lightly.
In the end, they both went back inside; Percival glanced up from his notes and smiled as they came back. Amaryllis went and got her books, and sat down and joined them, and Niccolette thought not at all about the bits of the letter burnt to ash behind the grate, scattering words like sparks into the air.
Late Morning, Vortas 33, 2709
Professor Edevagne's Office
Professor Edevagne's Office
Niccolette waited in the hallway outside the door, schoolbag hanging at her side, and hands folded in front of herself. She glanced around once more, at the door with Edevagne written across it in curling letters, and then back down the hallway. Two students went up the staircase at the end of it, arm in arm, laughing.
Niccolette turned, and looked back at the door.
It opened; Percival came out. He grinned at her, full bear, and walked off, chest out and chin raised.
Niccolette frowned, watching him; she nudged the door open a little more. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” she asked, coming a step and then another step into the office.
A fire crackled against the wall, throwing out strands of yellow light over full bookshelves and a rich carpet.
“Yes, Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne said, setting his pen down. “Have a seat.”
Niccolette sat down on one of the uncomfortable, stiff-backed chairs before the desk, and folded her hands together in her lap.
Edevagne rose; he came forward, sitting against the front edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at her, frowning. “I’m very disappointed, Miss Villamarzana.”
Niccolette frowned, very slightly; she lifted her chin, looking up at him. The silence stretched on a moment, and then a moment more, and she felt herself yield. “Why, Professor?”
Edevagne clicked his tongue against his teeth, and shook his head. “Is that how you intend to handle this, young lady? Plagiarism is a serious crime; it’s grounds for expulsion from Brunnhold.”
Niccolette inhaled, sharply, looking at him. “Plagiarism?” She heard her voice rise; she felt it all through her. She ground her teeth together. “Of what? I never…” Her voice trailed off; she thought of Percival walking away, smirking; she thought of her notebook, with a sinking in her stomach, left behind at the table with him.
“… expect me to believe,” Edevagne was saying, “that it’s a coincidence you and Mr. Featherington-Stonehaugh turned in nearly identical spells?”
“It is not,” Niccolette said, her voice quivering; she brought it back under control, looking up at him. “I wrote that spell,” she said, very firmly. “I should take any truth spell you wish – I can answer any question about it you wish to ask. It is my spell! He – he must have copied it from my notes.” To her horror, she felt her voice shaking again.
It was in Edevagne’s face; she could see it, with him smirking down at her, that he believed not a word. Or else, Niccolette thought, her stomach churning, did not wish to.
“Featherington-Stonehaugh is an excellent student,” Edevagne said, evenly. “He attends every lecture, does every reading; he’s never missed an assignment or a class. When I look at this spell, I know whose work it must be. No, Miss Villamarzana – I think there’s no need for any of that.”
Niccolette’s hands tightened together in her lap. She wanted to shout, to scream; she wanted to get up, and grab the chair she was sat on, and hurl it across the desk at him. She stifled it; she held it back, keeping the red shift from her field and the tears from her eyes.
“I do understand,” Edevagne said, gently. “Most women simply aren’t cut out for spell-writing. I wish you had come to me earlier – perhaps I could have worked out an easier assignment, for partial credit.”
Niccolette thought she should say something; she found she could think of no words at all.
“Here’s what I’ve decided to do,” Edevagne said, smiling. “I think there’s no need to drag Featheington-Stonehaugh through an investigation; I should hate for him to be punished due to your bad judgment. I’ll let you finish the class, though naturally you’re forbidden from taking anything further in the sequence; I’ve let the registrar know that your permission to attend spellwriting II next year has been revoked.”
Niccolette had thought words would emerge; there was only a choked noise instead, something which was horrifyingly like a whimper. She shut her mouth, tightly; there was a horrid heat behind her eyes, and she refused to yield to it. She would not, she thought, fierce and furious, let him see her cry.
“If you apologize,” Edevagne added, smiling, “I’ll even give you a passing grade.”
“It was my spell!” Niccolette heard the edge in her voice, raised and half-desperate; she swallowed it down, looking away. Her hands tightened over one another in her lap.
Edevagne sighed. “I had hoped you would be more reasonable about this, Miss Villamarzana. There’s simply no point, my dear. You were in over your head; you made a mistake. I shouldn’t like to see you expelled for that.”
Niccolette’s breath caught again. Expelled, she thought, and then – expelled, and back to Florne. She looked away; she closed her eyes and opened them again, as if perhaps that should help with the tears.
“That will be all, Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne eased off the edge of the desk; he went, and sat behind it once more, taking his pen in hand and looking down at his papers.
Niccolette’s breath caught; it shuddered in her throat. Another moment, she thought, and she would cry. She would not – she could not – give him the satisfaction. If she could deny him nothing else, she should deny him that. She rose; she took her bag, and hurried from the office, the sound of his pen scratching over paper chasing behind her.
When she cried, as she surely would, it would be back in her room; when she cried, as she surely did, it was anger and pain as much as anything, and not least because she knew how little else she could do.
Niccolette turned, and looked back at the door.
It opened; Percival came out. He grinned at her, full bear, and walked off, chest out and chin raised.
Niccolette frowned, watching him; she nudged the door open a little more. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” she asked, coming a step and then another step into the office.
A fire crackled against the wall, throwing out strands of yellow light over full bookshelves and a rich carpet.
“Yes, Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne said, setting his pen down. “Have a seat.”
Niccolette sat down on one of the uncomfortable, stiff-backed chairs before the desk, and folded her hands together in her lap.
Edevagne rose; he came forward, sitting against the front edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at her, frowning. “I’m very disappointed, Miss Villamarzana.”
Niccolette frowned, very slightly; she lifted her chin, looking up at him. The silence stretched on a moment, and then a moment more, and she felt herself yield. “Why, Professor?”
Edevagne clicked his tongue against his teeth, and shook his head. “Is that how you intend to handle this, young lady? Plagiarism is a serious crime; it’s grounds for expulsion from Brunnhold.”
Niccolette inhaled, sharply, looking at him. “Plagiarism?” She heard her voice rise; she felt it all through her. She ground her teeth together. “Of what? I never…” Her voice trailed off; she thought of Percival walking away, smirking; she thought of her notebook, with a sinking in her stomach, left behind at the table with him.
“… expect me to believe,” Edevagne was saying, “that it’s a coincidence you and Mr. Featherington-Stonehaugh turned in nearly identical spells?”
“It is not,” Niccolette said, her voice quivering; she brought it back under control, looking up at him. “I wrote that spell,” she said, very firmly. “I should take any truth spell you wish – I can answer any question about it you wish to ask. It is my spell! He – he must have copied it from my notes.” To her horror, she felt her voice shaking again.
It was in Edevagne’s face; she could see it, with him smirking down at her, that he believed not a word. Or else, Niccolette thought, her stomach churning, did not wish to.
“Featherington-Stonehaugh is an excellent student,” Edevagne said, evenly. “He attends every lecture, does every reading; he’s never missed an assignment or a class. When I look at this spell, I know whose work it must be. No, Miss Villamarzana – I think there’s no need for any of that.”
Niccolette’s hands tightened together in her lap. She wanted to shout, to scream; she wanted to get up, and grab the chair she was sat on, and hurl it across the desk at him. She stifled it; she held it back, keeping the red shift from her field and the tears from her eyes.
“I do understand,” Edevagne said, gently. “Most women simply aren’t cut out for spell-writing. I wish you had come to me earlier – perhaps I could have worked out an easier assignment, for partial credit.”
Niccolette thought she should say something; she found she could think of no words at all.
“Here’s what I’ve decided to do,” Edevagne said, smiling. “I think there’s no need to drag Featheington-Stonehaugh through an investigation; I should hate for him to be punished due to your bad judgment. I’ll let you finish the class, though naturally you’re forbidden from taking anything further in the sequence; I’ve let the registrar know that your permission to attend spellwriting II next year has been revoked.”
Niccolette had thought words would emerge; there was only a choked noise instead, something which was horrifyingly like a whimper. She shut her mouth, tightly; there was a horrid heat behind her eyes, and she refused to yield to it. She would not, she thought, fierce and furious, let him see her cry.
“If you apologize,” Edevagne added, smiling, “I’ll even give you a passing grade.”
“It was my spell!” Niccolette heard the edge in her voice, raised and half-desperate; she swallowed it down, looking away. Her hands tightened over one another in her lap.
Edevagne sighed. “I had hoped you would be more reasonable about this, Miss Villamarzana. There’s simply no point, my dear. You were in over your head; you made a mistake. I shouldn’t like to see you expelled for that.”
Niccolette’s breath caught again. Expelled, she thought, and then – expelled, and back to Florne. She looked away; she closed her eyes and opened them again, as if perhaps that should help with the tears.
“That will be all, Miss Villamarzana,” Edevagne eased off the edge of the desk; he went, and sat behind it once more, taking his pen in hand and looking down at his papers.
Niccolette’s breath caught; it shuddered in her throat. Another moment, she thought, and she would cry. She would not – she could not – give him the satisfaction. If she could deny him nothing else, she should deny him that. She rose; she took her bag, and hurried from the office, the sound of his pen scratching over paper chasing behind her.
When she cried, as she surely would, it would be back in her room; when she cried, as she surely did, it was anger and pain as much as anything, and not least because she knew how little else she could do.
