She can feel their gazes like bugs crawling over her skin. It’s like promenading through Kulden all over again. Once they turn the corner to a quiet hall, Claudia breathes a sigh of relief.
Cassius first shows her to Professor Olivier’s empty lecture hall, where they will return for class in the morning. A large black chalkboard stretches across the wall behind the professor’s substantial mahogany desk. The students’ desks, each long enough for two brown leather seats, are set up to face the professor. The room could seat about twenty. With the arched ceilings and stained glass windows depicting a red swan, it looks like a place of worship. Along the left wall is a small but refined debate stage, complete with two podiums and two rows of chairs behind them.
After half an hour of silence, Cassius asks, “What sparked your interest in Rhetoric?”
“I’ve been told I’m mouthy,” she says.
“Mouthy,” he says under his breath, followed by an incredulous laugh. She can tell he hates when he’s not taken seriously. “Do you lean Aristotelian or Platonist?”
“Platonist,” she says, because it’s easier to pronounce and she doesn’t know the difference.
“Hm,” he says, disappointed. “Then am I right to presume you support Plato’s depiction of Socrates in theGorgias? You deem that a responsible and true representation of rhetorical philosophy? He called our discipline flattery; he equated a politician’s use of rhetoric to a doctor baking pastries for the sick instead of giving them medicine. He claimed rhetoric offers temporarypleasure rather than substantial truth. And you agree with that?”
“Um…no, I just… I think… he’s, you know, I mean, satire is… complicated…” Gods, she’s going to keel over and die from embarrassment right now. Cassius pauses, glaring at her in all her stupidity.
Rhetoricians are the worst.
He rolls his eyes and walks out of the room, motioning her to follow. “Come on. Let’s get through this as quickly as possible.”
They then walk into Professor Lamour’s classroom, which is much more drab than Professor Olivier’s. There is only one window with plain, crosshatched glass. Blank walls, absent of art and color, are cut off by the short, flat ceiling. The professor’s desk is small and cluttered. Splattered around the room are individual desks with no clear order or thought to their placement. They don’t linger.
They walk past the grand ballroom, the massive greenhouse for the Scientia students, and several well-decorated corners for lounging, reading, and the like. He shows her the grand and gilded opera house, the stage curtained with purple velvet. Rows of plush seats curve around the orchestra pit. Musices students perform here every weekend and it’s always something new. Even if they’re performing a famous piece, they work closely with Dolericym, God of Song and Sorrow, to color it with magic.
They continue through the Musices practice rooms where a handful of sopranos are scraping the top of their range, and violinists are replacing broken strings. The musicians don’t pause their work while Cassius and Claudia walk through. Claudia wonders if they even notice them at all. But when she catches the eye of a tall black-haired girl with fierce eyes and a small nose that slopes into a sharp point, she’s met with a scowl. She quickens her pace, eager to get out of the room.
Cassius then shows her the Mathematica classrooms with equations and formulas staining the walls; the reading rooms with warm light and giant comfy chairs; the small library called the Caedleian, which is not small at all; and the big library calledthe Lexora, which is large enough to inspire both awe and terror. Then, the dining hall, affectionately called the Treaty for two reasons: Peace is historically negotiated over the course of a good meal, and, of course, they make excellent treats.
With every step, Claudia feels the thrum of magic pulse in the floor. It’s familiar, somehow, like a mother’s heartbeat. She can taste magic in the air—honey and autumn and something deeply nostalgic. It feels like time is moving too fast. She knows already that she could spend an eternity here and still feel unfinished. It’s intimidating but exhilarating. Every part of her is screaming that it’s too good to be true.
At least, it’s too good for her.
But so far, the only parts of Cygnus she truly dislikes are Professor Lamour’s ugly classroom and Cassius MacLeod, who is intentionally walking too fast and speaking too quickly for her to keep up. Claudia is careful to dodge his questions about her blood-soaked arrival and rescinded rejection. A series of misfortunes and misunderstandings, she assures. Still, there’s one point he’s relentlessly curious about.
“Why Astrologia?” he asks when they pause in front of the wrought iron gate that bars entry to the observatory.
Her mother’s death flashes in her mind. Her starry blood. Dorian’s uncannily perfect face. His bite of her soul.
Her father.
The blood.
She shakes her head, clearing her throat. “You know, I would’ve been more inclined to open up to you if you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me.”
“What makes you think I’m disingenuous?”
“Because you’ve used everything you know about me to berate me, so now I know that you’re looking for more ammunition.”
“We’re not at war, Jolicoeur. Your life story isn’t meant to be a weapon against you. Unless, of course, you’ve done something wrong.”
His mouth is even more wicked than hers: The way it curves up in the left corner when he’s challenging someone. The exaggerated pout of his bottom lip that gives him a youthful, innocent disguise. The sharpness of his cupid’s bow poised to fire arrows from the back of his throat.
“You’re hardly someone I would ask for a moral assessment.” She turns her back to him. Looking through the bars of the locked gate, she sees the staircase that spirals up to the observatory. A spill of light drips down the inside of the tower. “How do we get up there?”
“We don’t. It’s off-limits. Everything in the Astrologia wing has been falling apart for the last century.”
“Oh,” she mumbles, still peering inside. The gate clangs when Claudia yanks on the bars to test the strength of the lock. There’s barely any give.
Appalled, Cassius places his hand over Claudia’s and holds her still. “Are you mad? Stop trying to break in.”
