Second Floor, Brunnhold Library
There was a distant echo of childish laughter; she did not need to look up to know it came from the two girls twined together in the plush chairs near the window, gossiping comfortably over half-forgotten homework. Niccolette did not bother to look up, this time.
The book in front of her was old and heavy. Poisons and other medicines, the hand-lettered title page read, ink bled deep into the rough paper by the passage of time. It was bound in plain black, with leather straps that had held it shut; it was the sort of book one needed to go deep into the Brunnhold Library for; it was the sort of book locked behind glass, to be kept out of the hands of bright, curious, young students.
Niccolette turned to the next page, the gold ring on her left hand flashing softly in whatever bright, cloudy light filtered in through the windows. She had been at her reading since mid-morning; the library had ebbed and flowed around her, students trickling in and then back out. Two more books sat beside her, both now closed, turned over so the covers could not be read, with their spines pointed towards the Bastian.
It was not Aveste Esfandier herself who had penned this manuscript, who had drawn the word poison in slanting, curling letters. Whatever she had written herself was gone by now, her notes and journals long-since ravaged by age, despite whatever attempts might have been made to preserve them in Mestigia. A remnant of a less civilized age, Niccolette had read of her, once.
But transcriptions of the Hessean’s notes and lectures remained; thoughts on her thoughts, pale, shadowy imitations of what had been, by all accounts, greatness, and tucked carefully amidst them, some of the language she had used, some hints of the spells the Magister had written – and rather more descriptions of their effects.
Niccolette read, page by page. The words took her full attention, as the earlier books had not; she had lost the passage of time to them.
But know that the cure may be more dangerous than the poison; although in principle any harm that the mona can deliver so too can they remedy, the experienced caster will find that – often – to undo that which has been done carries with it a great deal of risk… only the passage of time will reveal what has been lost.
Niccolette studied the page; she settled her fingertips on the ellipses, red-painted lips pressed together for a long moment. She sighed; she sat back, and ran her fingertips through her hair, glancing up and around. She was abruptly conscious of the needs of her body; of thirst, although not hunger, and a cramping in her legs which had settled in too long. Too many words left out, the Bastian thought, with a flare of irritation that tightened her fingers against the page, but showed not a whit in her sharp, bright ramscott. Too much lost to the passage of time.
Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled. She rose; she went down the stairs to the faucet comfortably ensconced distant from the books and other papers, and drank from a small glass. She set it down, and rose up the stairs back to the table, back to the books; she settled herself against the seat once more, and let herself be buried in the words once more.