“Ew, he’s like a hundred years old,” replies Raven, sounding annoyed. “If we get caught, he’s the one who’ll throw us out. Don’t try to be funny.”
“Shut up, it’s starting,” I say.
Below, Warden Stone continues, “Goetia is an ancient type of witchcraft, the study of spells contained within grimoires, or incommon terms, ‘spell books.’ Unlike other esotericist practices taught by our contemporaries, here at Sibylline, we have gone to great lengths to ensure that goetia remains one of the most powerful applied forms of magic in the world. Those in this room will join the ranks of some of the greatest wizards in history. Through rigorous practice and intense study, you will achieve powers known nowhere else in the world. The task is not without its challenges and dangers. Fortunately, you’re in good hands.”
His words elicit polite laughter.
“Let’s begin with a demonstration, shall we?” Warden Stone holds out his empty hands. He stands up straighter and says something in a language I don’t understand.
Raven pulls herself up a little higher to get a better look. The lower half of her face is in shadow.
“He’s speaking Latin,” she whispers. “I understand him.”
“What’s he saying?” Atticus asks.
“It’s an evocation, a summoning spell.”
And before our eyes, there’s a burst of light, and a book falls into Warden Stone’s empty hands. There’s once again polite applause as the onlookers realize he’s just conjured a grimoire from thin air.
Warden Stone holds up the book, an ancient-looking leather-bound text. “All magic stems from the knowledge within these books. Every grimoire is a key to metaphysical understanding, but without training, you’re simply stating the words without invoking the magical components inherent in them. Basic spells don’t require more than one’s will, and I know you’re already thinking it—advanced spells require the right equipment, like wands and sigils. Though let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s practice together a simple incantation. You’ll find under yourseats a single red rose. Your job is to wither it into dust, using these words.”
He begins his lesson, referring to a chalkboard behind him, reciting the words, explaining how they are spoken, describing the ways in which a spell caster can elicit power from the words in a book. He speaks at length, and we listen. The students—with varying success—change the roses, some of them withering into dust. Most just seem to turn gray. There’s lots of hand waving, and stumbling pronunciation, and not much else. The room is full of frustrated murmuring and sighs. I’m almost embarrassed for them.
“This is supposed to be the elite of the elite?” Atticus asks, voicing my own thoughts. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”
“Wish we could get our hands on one of those roses to try it out,” I say.
Raven’s lips are twisted in a pensive frown. “Does that mean our magic is different?” she asks. “Is it really only just words that have power? Or is there something else?”
Atticus waggles his fingers at her. “Abracadabra! Is it working?” He cuts his playful demeanor short as the color drains from his face and he whips around to face the rows behind us.
Someone’s there. It’s almost as if they appeared out of nowhere. They clear their throat, but I can’t tell who it is. The figure is shrouded in darkness. My stomach drops. All three of us are frozen with shock, surprise, and maybe a little fear.
When the figure leans forward, catching the ambient light, Atticus recognizes them. “Professor White!” His boss.
The woman stands with her hands behind her back, her shoulders level, her face slightly upturned. “This recitation is for students only,” she says flatly. “I’ll have to escort you out of the auditorium.”
—
That’s it, then.I’m already mentally packing up my things, ready to move back home, as Professor White leads us out of the hall. We’re all nervous. I keep dragging my hand through my hair, Raven worries her lower lip, Atticus hangs his head in shame. Professor White, however, doesn’t look angry or frustrated. She sighs and adjusts the cuffs of her robe, as if she’s more bothered by its fit than the sight of us.
She stops when we reach the front steps to the building, and Atticus has the bravery to speak up.
“Forgive me, Professor White. It was my idea to come here,” he says, taking the fall for Raven. “I just wanted a peek to see real magic. Please don’t punish my friends for me being stupid.”
Raven stays silent, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. I follow Atticus’s lead, ready to jump in anytime.
But Professor White sighs deeply, still frowning as she looks at all of us. “Understand me clearly, Mr.Garcia. If I catch you or your friends intruding upon a private recitation again, I’ll have to take action.” She straightens her robes and turns to leave. “Now, go enjoy your day off.”
“Wait…” says Atticus. “You’re not firing me?”
“No, Mr.Garcia. I have enough trouble finding competent assistants. I’m not interested in losing you now.”
Atticus lifts his head, shocked that she might have just given him a compliment. I have a hunch that she’s someone who’s hard to impress, like a coach who wants you to run that one millisecond faster.
Professor White almost smiles. “I suggest you find what you’re looking forelsewhere.” She says the word with enough emphasis, I realize she’s giving us a hint. “Might I suggest a library?”
It’s almost a welcome invitation.
