Destroying Cassius in class would feel good, but it would feel even better for him to be forced to admit thatsheis good. As good as him. Better, even. She needs him to have no choice but to validate and praise her, and she’ll do whatever it takes.
Alistair, Cassius, and Marcherie disappear some nights—all three of them, at the same time. More than once, Claudia has hunted for Alistair’s company and stopped by each one of their rooms to find them all empty.
She wonders where they go and why Alistair doesn’t fight to bring her with them, but everyone is entitled to their secrets, like her meetings with Professor Lamour. So far, they’ve met three times, and Claudia has been memorizing the constellations in alphabetical order. Andromeda, the princess, the sacrifice. Represents a trap, an unbreakable bond, or a curse. Aquarius, the water bearer. Represents water, giving, and generosity, but known to be fickle. According to Lamour, celestial witches have nearly drowned when incorrectly using a spell with Aquarius. Aquila,the eagle—pride, hunger, flight. And Aries, the ram—feminine rage, justice, and, for some reason, sleep.
Every night, she cuddles her snake, feeling nothing but warm, contented exhaustion. Every day, Olivier inspires her. Lamour teaches her. Alistair makes her laugh, and Cassius drives her to be better than she’s ever been.
Things are good.
And as long as she doesn’t get killed, they’re only going to get better.
LUXOS
Longinus defined the sublime as the experience of greatness that inspires overwhelming intensity, awe, and transcendence of the mind. In line with that understanding, there is no greater instrument of sublimity than sex.
Excerpt from Serafina Olivier’s thesis “On Sublimity: Eros, Luxos, and the Techne of Sex”
The rhetorical mastery class first filled Claudia with wonder, then dread, then nausea, and now it’s somewhere at the intersection of all three. Sunlight streams through the stained glass, turning the air pink. Claudia pulls out her notebook and centers it on her desk as Cassius walks in.Stormsin, actually. He seems agitated, or maybe just exhausted. Either way, Claudia can’t wait to make it worse.
Professor Olivier finishes off her tea and stands before the class. “Last semester, we learned of the rhetorical triangle. Can anyone—”
“Ethos, logos, and pathos.”
Olivier pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Very eager, Miss Gibson.” Her gaze sweeps the room and lands on Claudia. “Miss Jolicoeur, can you define each of them?”
Her immediate response is panic, but she takes a deep breath. She knows this. She memorized it weeks ago. “Ethos is an appeal to authority, when the rhetor establishes their personal credibility to build trust with the audience. Pathos is an appeal to the audience’s emotions—examples include evocative language or fables or anything that makes the audience feel. Logos is an appeal to logic—arguing based on evidence and reasoning.” She surprises herself when she can’t stop speaking. “And where each intersects yields a different persuasive effect. Ethos and logos together create cogency. Logos and pathos inspire conviction. And ethos paired with pathos establishes credence.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she checks to see if her desk mate is looking at her, but Cassius’s eyes are fixed forward at the blank board. It’s like he didn’t even hear her.
Professor Olivier beams with pride. “Very good, Miss Jolicoeur. Excellent, in fact.” Her professor turns to the board and draws the triangle.
Claudia smiles so big that it hurts. Since Olivier marked up her paper, it’s as if she hasn’t taken a breath, hasn’t relaxed her shoulders, hasn’t so much as blinked until this moment. Until she earned it. Now it’s like her muscles and bones are all gone. She’s nothing but good, nothing but light. At this point, she can’t help herself—she looks directly at Cassius and flashes a wide, proud grin. He turns toward her and arches one brow. She expects him to say something, some sort of acknowledgment or validation or maybe even praise, but he doesn’t. He turns back to the board, and Olivier turns back to the class.
Claudia’s eye twitches.
“Who created the rhetorical triangle?” the professor asks the rest of the class.
“The father of rhetoric,” Benjamin answers, and Olivier, to everyone’s surprise, groans and scowls. She’s known to be bold, but very rarely is she rude, especially when a student is correct—it was indeed Aristotle who crafted the rhetorical triangle.
The professor looks up at the ceiling for a long time and purses her lips like she’s contemplating something. She scoffs, sarcastically muttering, “Thefatherof rhetoric,” while rolling her eyes. With an expression of resigned acceptance, she shrugs and says, “All right. Let’s talk about the very beginnings of rhetoric, shall we? Who was the first to use it? I can tell you now that it wasn’t Aristotle.”
“Right,” Cassius says. “It began with Corax.”
Olivier blinks. “No.”
The entire room stills. Cassius MacLeod just answered a question incorrectly. Claudia’s never seen this before. She can’t stop herself from smiling.
“Yes,” Cassius says as if he thinks the professor didn’t hear him correctly.
Olivier raises her brows and shakes her head. “No,” she says, even firmer this time.
Claudia sees Cassius’s fingers curl into a fist underneath their desk.
His nostrils flare. He tightens his jaw. “Corax wrote the first treatise on rhetoric in the fifth century BC.”
“I didn’t ask who wrote the first treatise on rhetoric. I asked who was first to use it.”
“And as I said, it was Corax. He may have only used it in court, so not quite in the sense we use it, but rhetoric began with him and his defining treatise. No one could have employed any rhetorical technique before he defined it.”
