Page 21 of The Witch They Fear

He's late. Class started fifteen minutes ago. Malloy is mid-lecture. And he strolls through the door like punctuality is a concept invented by people less interesting than him.

"Mr. Vassard," Malloy says, without turning around. "How kind of you to join us."

"Professor." His voice is warm. Easy. A bit seductive. "Won't happen again."

"It will absolutely happen again. Sit down Leopold."

A ripple of laughter. He grins—wide, boyish, not a shred of shame—and takes the stairs two at a time toward the upper rows. Students shift to make room for him the way planets adjust for a new gravitational pull. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else slides his bag toward his usual seat. He drops into the chair, drapes one arm over the back, and settles in with the loose, confident sprawl of someone who has never once doubted his welcome.

Then his eyes find me.

The warmth doesn't leave his face. That's the thing—it doesn't leave. It just... changes. Like a door closing behind a smile. Those brown eyes land on me and something behind them recalibrates. The easy openness tightens by a degree so subtle I'd miss it if I weren't watching so closely, and for a half-second—just a flash—I see something cold move beneath the charm. Something that looks at me and does math I'm not privy to.

He smiles. It's perfectly pleasant. It reaches his eyes in all the right ways. And it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

That's not the same smile he gave the room.

My pulse does something quick and unwelcome. I can't tell if it's attraction or alarm—his face is still disarmingly handsome, the kind that makes you want to trust it, but the frequency between us has shifted. There's tension in the air that wasn't there ten seconds ago, thin as spider silk and just as hard to see.

I look away first. I don't know why that bothers me, but it does.

Malloy finishes the lecture without acknowledging the interruption beyond a slight tightening around her jaw that tells me Leopold's entrances are a recurring irritation she's stopped wasting energy on. She sets down her chalk and turns to face the room.

"Directed channeling exercises. Same partners as last week. Begin when ready."

The room shuffles into motion—chairs shifting, students pairing off, the ambient noise rising as thirty people start talking at once.

I stay seated. Nellie gives my arm a squeeze.

"I'm with my partner. Will you be okay for a minute?"

I nod. She slips away, and the space beside me goes cold.

I wait until the room is absorbed in its work, then I make my way down to the demonstration area where Malloy is arranging a set of crystals on the central table. She looks up when I approach.

No surprise. She was expecting this.

"Professor Malloy. I'm—"

"Calypso Dellaby. Yes." Her voice is brisk but not unkind. "I've been briefed."

"Then you know I can't—" I stop. Start again. Honest and direct, the way Marion taught me. "I mean… I don't have control yet. I don't feel comfortable using my powers in a room full of people. I had my baseline assessment this morning and it—" My voice catches. I clear my throat. "It didn't go well."

She studies me over the top of her glasses. Takes a moment. Then:

"Miss Dellaby, I've been teaching witches for thirty-four years. I've had students who set their desks on fire. I've had students who accidentally turned their partner's hair blue for a semester. I once had a student who sneezed and shattered every window in the building." A pause. "You are not the first powerful witch to sit in my classroom without a handle on her magic. You are, however, the first to have the sense to tell me before someone gets hurt."

Something loosens in my chest. A thread.

"For the next few weeks, I'd like you to observe. Watch the techniques, study the incantations, take notes. Learn the theory before we ask you to apply it." She sets a crystal down with a precise click. "When you're ready—and you'll know when you're ready—we'll start you on practicals. Not before."

"Thank you," I say. And I mean it. For the first time today, someone has given me a choice instead of a test.

I return to my seat. Nellie is across the room with her partner—a shifter boy with broad shoulders and an easy laugh—but she catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. Okay?

I give her a small nod. She grins and turns back to her work.

For the next forty minutes, I am the quietest person in the room. I take notes. I watch the pairs work—the way they hold their hands, the way they breathe, the way energy moves between them in visible ripples and arcs. I ask Nellie quiet questions when she cycles back to check on me. She explains without condescension, without the careful, are-you-going-to-explode caution everyone else uses. She treats the questions like questions, not symptoms.