“Clem Quinn, Professor.” Quinn gave a small bow. “At your service. Quite literally, at your service. If you ever have need of an assistant, even just to do some errands, or filing…” Quinn trailed off, his gaze drifting across the clutter of the office.
“Well, Mr. Quinn,” Throckmorton said with an air of benign condescension. “That’s a very interesting suggestion. While I nolonger engage in teaching, my research agenda is very active, and Icouldbenefit from the aid of a research assistant with the right priorities. Perhaps a little tutoring might happen naturally, in the course of things.” He gave Quinn a rheumy wink.
Quinn nearly gasped. “Professor—I—that would be the honor of a lifetime. I can hardly believe it. I mean”—he composed himself, adopting a more formal air—“I would be inexpressibly delighted to assist in your research. It would be the defining experience of my studies.”
“Good, very good.” Throckmorton smiled indulgently. “Well, I must say, I’m gratified on my part to know that some student of the younger generation appreciates the importance of this field. Livia,” he said, turning to the thew. “Perhaps you would give Quinn here the 1788 notes by Olney. I’ve wanted those transcribed for some time, and my eyes are not up to the task.”
The spirit thew nodded silently. She waved her arm toward the bookshelf. With a rustling sound, like a mouse running through the walls, a sheaf of paper wormed its way out through the armor and then floated serenely across to Livia. She walked forward with the papers, gliding over the cluttered floor, while Quinn attempted less gracefully to step past a breastplate to meet her. Livia placed the papers carefully in Quinn’s outstretched hands, saying, “The binding looks fragile, but it’s proved quite durable. Nonetheless, you might treat it cautiously.”
“Thank you.” Quinn gazed at the spirit in wonder. “I will.” His hands trembled as he accepted the pages. No doubt it was the closest he’d ever come to a spirit thew. He turned back to Throckmorton. “Shall I return later in the week when I’ve completed the transcription?”
Throckmorton waved. “That suits me fine. Come whenever you like; I’m almost always here.”
With a final exuberant flurry of thanks to Throckmorton and a polite nod to the spirit thew, Quinn dashed from the room, racing along the narrow corridor before remembering the pages he carried and slowing to a more reasonable pace. In the foyer, he opened his satchel and withdrew a leather folio. Carefully, he placed the Olney papers in the middle and closed the folio again, storing it back in the satchel along with Throckmorton’s book.
Curiously, Quinn seemed somewhat less ebullient as he walked back toward the center of campus. He had a distracted, pensive air to him, as though some very serious thoughts had carried him far away. No doubt that is why he didn’t notice the pine needles swirling around his feet, shifting and shaping themselves as if scattered by a fitful wind.
I noticed. I looked quickly in all directions but could see no one. This part of campus, lacking dormitories and classrooms, could be quite silent at certain times of day. Suddenly the path before Quinn was blown clear. He stopped, eyes alert, abruptly aware of his surroundings: to his right, the black iron fence, bordered by yews, that abutted the road and encircled the campus; to his left, a row of tall pines lining the walkway. And now, all around him, pine needles hung suspended in the air, undulating gently like ocean waves. The sun came through in patches, dotting the ground with flecks of light, and the waves rose higher until they surrounded Quinn, a startled Moses at the bottom of an unexpected ocean. He only stared. Perhaps he imagined that this was some whimsical display of talent, a spectacle designed to dazzle or delight. But Commonwealth students were not given to fanciful performances. I was sure that Simeon’s moment of revenge had arrived.
I sent Quinn a warning: a sense of urgency, a need to turnback. He didn’t budge. Ah, a man accustomed to ignoring his own heart. I tried again. Quinn only squinted, looking more intrigued than worried, as the waves of pine needles around him drifted, gathering now before him on the path, forming a tall, gyrating funnel. Useless man! What else could I do? If he wouldn’t heed the warning, he would have to learn the consequences for himself.
The funnel lifted, still swirling, its point slowly elevating. Quinn watched attentively, as if observing a curious experiment. The funnel stretched upward past the treetops, its point near the ground as sharp as a spear. And now it began to tip, preparing to launch. Quinn frowned. Finally! Finally he understood. This was no wondrous whimsy; it was a weapon.
But still Quinn didn’t move. Was he staring it down? What did he imagine this would accomplish? For the length of several heartbeats he stood immobile, facing the spear head on. And then, with a great surging gust of wind, it flew toward him, hurled by the arm of some invisible giant.
Swiftly, Quinn crouched low, turning his back toward the projectile and covering his head with his arms. Thousands of pine needles pattered against his back, drumming ceaselessly for half a minute, falling to the ground afterward in swirling eddies, restless but spent, then drifting languidly across the walkway, gathering in disordered clumps. Afterward, stillness.
A pair of running feet. Another student with wide eyes and a flapping coat approached as Quinn cautiously stood up. “Are you quite all right?” the student demanded, looking into Quinn’s face with concern. “What was that?”
“I’m fine.” Quinn smiled reassuringly. “Just fine. Though I have no idea what it was. Perhaps some poor student has had his experiment go awry.”
The young man looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “You should report it to the dean of students. Malicious castings are a violation of the university’s code of conduct, as I’m sure you know.”
“Thank you very much for your concern. That’s very kind.”
They parted ways, and the solicitous young man didn’t turn around as he walked away. Only I saw Quinn’s back, then, as he made his way toward the Brig. The coat was undamaged, but it had begun to change color. Blood spread across the seamed fabric like a bloom.
Quinn walked with deliberate steps into the Brig and mounted the stairs. He passed two students coming the other way and greeted them briefly. Entering his rooms, he placed his satchel down carefully and let out a small breath of relief. He stood with his back to the wardrobe mirror and slowly turned to look over his shoulder. The blood now covered his entire back. You will remember my weakness at the sight of blood; I could barely look. I’m ashamed to say that I focused all my attention on the ceiling as Quinn, suppressing groans of pain, removed his coat. I heard it drop to the floor.“Demonios,”Quinn swore.
Hazarding a quick glance, I saw the white shirt pasted to his skin, soaked through. Suffering spirits! This was an advanced enchantment, that could so lacerate the skin without leaving the slightest scratch on the shirt or the coat. Simeon’s abilities were apparently progressing rapidly. Quinn grunted as he slowly edged the back of the shirt upward. Then he fell silent. Reluctantly, I turned away from the cobwebs on the ceiling to steal a look. The shirt was still on, but he had peeled it off his back and rolled it up against his neck, exposing the whole of his slender back to themirror. Clem was concentrating on deciphering the words etched by a thousand tiny cuts into his skin:
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE
I was astonished. But Quinn didn’t look surprised. Grim-faced, he allowed the wet shirt to fall back down. He opened the wardrobe and took out the gray autumn cape, draping it gently over his shoulders. He tucked the spectacles into the pocket of his trousers; the fox pin was still in place. Then, carrying only his room key, he left the Brig.
Perhaps Quinn looked a little odd, wearing a woolen cape on a warm day, but no one seemed to notice. A short walk took him to the Oyster, and I briefly wondered if the assault had imbalanced his mind; this wasn’t the moment for fine dining. But Quinn directed his steps to the back of the building, toward the servants’ entrance. The double doors for deliveries stood open, and he coolly followed the tiled corridor into the long, massive kitchen. In the afternoon lull, slow preparations were underway for dinner: the peeling of potatoes, the scrubbing of pots, the kneading of bread dough, the assembly of late-summer fruit pies. Quinn slowed his steps as he approached a long wooden table where three young women were shucking corn. They looked up as he approached.
“Clem!” Vera exclaimed.
“Good afternoon.” Quinn attempted a small bow and immediately caught himself. “Vera, could I trouble you for a little help?”
Vera blinked, surprised, but she glanced at the other two, who nodded wordlessly.
“Is there a room where…” Quinn hesitated. “A private room somewhere?”
One of the corn shuckers giggled, and the other raised her eyebrows.
Vera rolled her eyes. “Ignore them. Yes.” She led Quinn back the way he had come, talking as she walked. “Clem, I was going to come see you myself, because when I unwrapped the gown I found something shocking.” She cast a sideways glance at him as they passed into the delivery corridor.
