Shaking her head, she mumbles, “I need to go. I need to change. I need—” She tries to step around him, but he steps back into her path.
She glares up at him. “Move.”
“Not so fast. We cannot simply let in a blood-soaked stranger. Do you even know where you are?”
“Of course I do,” she bites out. “I’m a student here. Now move. You’re in my way and I am in no condition to be polite.” Again, she steps to the side, and he cuts her off.
“What’s your name?”
She shoulders past him, marking his chest with blood. “Claudia.”
Calling after her, he shouts, “Claudia, as in Claudia Jolicoeur?”
Pausing her stride, she turns back slowly on her heels and gives him a wary look. Murmurs rumble on the air until everyone goes perfectly silent, waiting for her to answer.
“Yes?”
He barks out a vicious laugh. “You’re the star girl. The one who applied for Astrologia a century after it was denounced.”
A low hum of students’ laughter fills the room, and Claudia wishes that the floor would open up and swallow her whole just so she could escape the crushing weight of their glares, the hot breeze of their whispered taunts.
The smug scholar steps forward. “Tell me, are you choosing to ignore the countless essays and treatises denouncing the subject? Or were they too advanced for you to grasp? Or perhaps you have not read them at all.” Gesturing to the gathering crowd, he says, “We all have theories. Enlighten us, please.”
She can’t process what he’s saying to her. Her thoughts are screaming at one another: grief, pain, disgust, humiliation. She needs to get out of here. She needs Dorian. She needs to undo all this, snatch back the pieces of her soul she gave away, and go back to her quiet, terrible life. At least she knew what to expect. Never, in her wildest dreams or most vivid nightmares, did she anticipate that her greeting at Cygnus would be like this.
“Cassius MacLeod, stop this at once,” a hollow, harsh voice booms. From around the corner, an old man rushes toward her, his black robes trailing like thick smoke behind him. He’s short and frail with sparse hair that’s lost all color, and smile lines deep enough to be scars. He must be even older than Lord Fournier. Cassius steps out of the way and turns his back to Claudia.
“My dear, are you well? Do you need medical attention?” the older man asks, sincere and concerned.
“What? Oh, no. No, this”—she gestures to herself—“this is not my blood.”
He raises his brow. “Whose blood is it?”
She clears her wet throat. What’s the right thing to say here? “Um… s-someone else tried to enter the Doorway, but they were—”
“Unworthy,” he says knowingly. “I created those protective wards myself. No one can come here without an acceptance. It keeps us all safe.”
She almost laughs.Safe?Is this what safety looks like? “I see,” she says.
“I’m sorry you had to endure that. Was it someone you loved?”
“No,” she bites out. “It wasn’t.”
He nods and gives a soft smile. “Well, well, Miss Jolicoeur, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” He turns to face the crowd of students. “Everyone, please welcome Claudia, our new Rhetoric student. She’s taking the place of Miss Dufort, who tragically passed away before returning for her second term. May her memory be a blessing.” He smiles down at her. “I’m High Sage Triche. Welcome to Cygnus University.”
She swallows hard and tucks her wet hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
He places a strong hand on her shoulder, despite the blood. “Come with me, dear. I’ll show you to your room. And your bathing chamber.”
Feeling everyone’s eyes on her, Claudia tosses a final glare at Cassius and follows the High Sage down the hall.
Claudia keeps her head down through the entire walk to her room, careful not to make eye contact with any passing students. High Sage Triche excitedly explains her schedule—Rhetorical Mastery with Professor Olivier on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, andRhetorical Theory with Professor Lamour on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She’s lucky, he says, for Olivier and Lamour are the best of the best. Olivier in particular is one of the longest-standing instructors here. The other Rhetoric professors are much younger, and while remarkably gifted, they are still sharpening their curriculum.
“When do I study magic?”
He pauses his stride. “Would you like me to explain your schedule again?”
“You only mentioned Rhetorical Mastery and Rhetorical Theory. What about magic?”
