Right. Back to work.
Apparently during the night, more of the scaffolding fell. No one knows how it happened, but Professor White suspects shoddy craftsmanship this time, although she is still looking for the saboteur on her team. Now she shakes her head, as if she’s disappointed in the scaffolding. “I’ll have to complain to Warden Stone about the people he hired. If he’s not taking the restoration seriously, then I’m not sure why I’m here.”
She runs a frustrated hand through her hair and whips the pencil out from it. Over her shoulder is a single-strap musette made of faded brown leather. She opens the flap, retrieving a notepad. I spy a black book in the bag made of darkened leather, with gold foil glinting on the spine.
“What book is that?” I ask.
Professor White is so busy writing in her notebook, she starts as if she’s forgotten I was here. “What? Oh, this? It’s an old reference text. I found it in the archive.” She turns her attention back to her notes, writing and speaking at the same time. “Arches was originally built to house a new department of magic dedicated to the art of creation. But it was never used. It’s been largely empty since. I’m pulling every book I can find on the subject.” She sighs as if burdened by a great weight. “Bindings were once common practice in architecture. They attached certain elemental forces to the structures. Arches contains some unique bindings related to living things, creatures from other planes, demons and such…”
I’d felt those spirits when I first visited the site, but I had noidea how they were used to build Arches. “May I take a look?” I ask, hopeful. “Maybe I can research the subject for you.”
“Of course, I will lend it to you when I am done. Although be careful, the spells contained in this book are quite powerful. Using them without the proper training can be dangerous. Sometimes”—she glances in the direction of the Rosette—“magic is dangerous even in the hands of our staff.”
Raven had told us how the lesson had gone wrong. The professor’s incompetence led to student injuries and the building being damaged, but she didn’t get fired. Average teachers would kill for that kind of job security, I bet.
“Now,” Professor White says, straightening herself. “Shall we inspect the damage?”
She climbs the scaffolding, and I follow, the ramp wavering beneath me. It creaks and groans, and I throw my hands out to steady myself. I’m worried about the soundness of the structure, but Professor White doesn’t seem bothered at all. Five floors of scaffolding have collapsed into a heap of twisted metal and wood, and yet she strides onward confidently.
“We’ll have to rebuild everything,” she says, marching ahead. “Have the workers install the beams into the putlog holesproperlythis time.”
“You think they weren’t installed properly?” I ask. The putlog holes are little slots in the wall where the building supports the scaffold.
“Of course not. I’m under a tight deadline, and I know the assembly crew had only a day to get it done. Warden Stone trimmed the budget, forcing us to accelerate the timetable. If he didn’t have the final say in my tenure, I’d give him a piece of my mind.”
I allow myself to smile, since her back is to me. She’s fighting the bureaucracy, one scaffolding at a time.
“I can oversee the repairs, if you’d like,” I say. “I’ve had experience with these kinds of things.”
Professor White looks me up and down. “Sounds like a plan. Follow along.” At the top of the remaining scaffolding, we survey the work. She’s prattling about how much this will set us back when I notice something peculiar about one of the putlog holes. I kneel close to the hole, letting her ramble while I inspect it. My skin goes cold when I realize what’s wrong.
“Um, Professor White?” I ask.
She spins around, her mouth half-open as if she’s about to make another point, when she sees what I’m looking at. “My goodness!”
The hole where the beam sits is crumbling, the stone turning to sand.
“This wasn’t an issue with the scaffolding,” I say.
“No, it’s the building itself,” she says thoughtfully. “We need to work faster.”
15
Atticus
Our true passions are selfish.
—Stendhal,The Red and the Black
I find Ravenhunched over the writing desk at the apartment. It’s been a week since Professor White discovered that the building was crumbling from the inside. We’ve been working day and night on the problem, and I’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone talk to my friend. Raven has one knee drawn up to her chest, her toes curled over the seat of the chair, the other knee bouncing nervously as she writes. She doesn’t hear me come in. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together in the living room since we messed around. I hesitate, not sure how to start. In the soft lamplight, a small halo frames the top of her head, and when she tips it to the side, her hair shifts to one shoulder. Something about seeing Raven in a natural state, unfiltered, makes my chest hurt. My heart can’t handle everything that’s been thrown its way recently. When I shut the door behind me, she practically jumps.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I wasn’t expecting you.” She takes a breath and settles back into her chair. Her eyes narrow; her shoulders tense.
“You seemed busy. Who are you writing to?” I ask.
“My parents. It’s nothing.” She hastily finishes up her work, folding the letter into thirds and stuffing it into an envelope.
