With a sigh, Professor Olivier turns to the tall bookshelves behind her desk and pulls a dozen titles. She thrusts the stack of books into Claudia’s arms. “Then get to reading, Miss Jolicoeur. Read like your magic depends on it. Because it does.”
She was hoping for a faster solution. It’ll take weeks for her to read all these, which means weeks of still being stupid. With a defeated sigh hidden in the back of her throat, Claudia thanks Olivier and turns to leave.
“Wait,” her professor says just before Claudia steps out of the room.
“Yes?”
“I do have some better advice for you, and it’s something that many of your fellow Cygni consistently fail to do.” Olivier gazes around the room, ensuring that no one else is present before she says, “If you’re not keen on working with others in this class, I implore you to befriend those outside your major. Learn from them. Let the wider world shape your perspective.”
That may prove to be harder, given her bloody reputational damage. But she can try. “Yes, Professor.”
She gives Claudia a soft smile and squeezes her hand. “I believe in you, Claudia. ‘The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.’”
“Is that Aristotle?” Claudia guesses.
Olivier’s smile grows. She nods. “See? You’re going to be just fine.”
A FRIEND
Cygnus’s curriculum was determined by which disciplines best facilitated the transformation of desire into magic. Other fields were explored, but they were too arcane, too unpredictable, and too often fatal.
The Book of Cygnus: Desire 5:4–5
Claudia marches into the Treaty with a stack of books and the determination to make a friend. An enormous moonlike window sits at the peak of the tall arched wall, letting in splashes of white light from the overcast sky. Dozens of students are seated at long wooden tables with steaming mugs and full plates before them. Throughout the room, there are plenty of open seats. The farthest corner of the room hosts the largest table, where eight Mathematica students argue over an impossible equation. Claudia doesn’t want to sit there—she’s terrible at math and has nothing to contribute to the conversation.The table to her right has a trio of Musices singers playing with a haunting arrangement of “Dies Irae.” The eerie dissonance gives her the shivers. She wants to sit far enough away so she can’t hear them. While she walks forward, everyone is staring at her with strange looks and pinched faces. She looks down at herself. Is she wearing her robes wrong? She makes eye contact with Marcherie, who is sitting across from Cassius; he won’t deign to look Claudia’s way. Did the two of them poison the school against her? They’ve probably shared their baseless theories that Claudia murdered Odette. Or maybe everyone remembers the last time Claudia walked through this room, when she was dripping fresh hot blood.
There are myriad reasons no one is eagerly inviting her to sit with them.
Her arms are growing tired from the heavy books, so when a Scientia student looks up at her from the far corner of the room and gives her a polite smile, she rushes toward him. His brows knit with concern at her swift approach. He clutches his book to his chest as if afraid she’ll steal it.
She drops her books on the table and sits across from him, extending her hand. “Hi there. I’m Claudia Jolicoeur, the new Rhetoric student.”
His large brown eyes, lighter than his dark skin, glisten when he sits up straight. He doesn’t make direct eye contact, though. He looks just below, either at her nose or mouth—she can’t tell. Warily, he takes her hand. “Alistair Salone, Scientia.”
Scientia; that’s perfect. Alistair can teach her about… plants? Or potions? She doesn’t exactly know what the other majors are studying day to day. But she doesn’t need to know yet—she needs only to be eager to learn. “It’s lovely to meet you, friend.”
He retracts his hand. “Friend?”
She pats her stack of books. “Two scholars, one table, and a dozen volumes between them? That’s camaraderie if I’ve ever seen it.”
“But we don’t know each other,” he says with an awkward laugh.
“That’s what I’m here to remedy,” she says, beaming. He doesn’t smile back, but his brow furrows. At the very least, he’s intrigued.
Noticing that both of them are without any food or drink, Claudia says, “After the grueling class I just endured, I need a warm tea and a sweet treat. Would you like me to get you anything while I’m up?”
He shakes his head. Claudia nods and departs. Just before she’s out of earshot, Alistair says, “Wait.”
She turns. “Yes?”
With a sheepish grin, he holds up two fingers. “Make two teas, please.”
“Milk and sugar?”
“Lots.”
“See, Alistair? We have things in common already.”
The tea table is at the front of the room. There are pitchers of hot water, cold milk, and golden honey. Silver bowls of sugar guard the towers of tiny porcelain teacups precariously stacked upon one another. Claudia pours their tea swiftly—both sweetened with three sugars and made blond with milk. She balances each cup on its own matching saucer and slowly turns back toward her new—and only—friend.
