Would you care to guess what my greatest moment of fear had been in the affair thus far? Being an Irregular forced into a school for mages? Seeing dead students wherever I go and having the vague impression that I would soon join them? Or perhaps when my new roommate announced to me that his father was one of the greatest hunters in the British Empire?
Well, you'd be wrong only because you hadn't yet heard about my first class at magic school.
All things considered, Headmistress Griffin's delightful little speech did not affect me terribly. Less so than many of my compatriots who erupted into whispers of shock and horror the moment our venerable headmistress left the stage, and an apologetic young woman who did her very best to reassure us that school was about "having fun" and "making friends" and a smattering of other nonsense replaced her.
You could practically smell blood in the room as some kids looked around nervously while others, presumably those with smarter parents, stood apart in smug contemplation, already plotting how to get ahead of the rest of us sheep.
Lord Woodman had, in a rare moment of compassion toward me, taught me how to school my face into a blank mask. I let my eyes drop to the ground and kept my lips in a tight line as I shuffled out alongside my fellows.
Sylas was not in the dorm room when I returned, and I let out a slight sigh of relief at that. The less time I spent around that one, the better it would be for all parties involved.
I could, however, still feel the faintest hints of that ghost I'd felt earlier, shambling around the dormitories. It hadn't seemed to have noticed my return, but I wasn't keen to wait around for it.
There aren't any surefire tricks to keep the dead away, or at least none that I've discovered yet, but there are methods to discourage them from being a bother if they do show up.
From my trunk, I retrieved a small bag of dried lavender and silver flecks I tucked underneath my mattress. After a pause of consideration, I also removed a box of salt and sprinkled a few grains into the cracks between the floorboards.
The scent of lavender supposedly soothed the dead, and they found both salt and silver to be repellent. So hopefully I had conveyed an impression of "nothing to see here" in my new living quarters. Granted, I'd also sprinkled lavender and salt all over the compartment of my train car and that had done piss all to ward off the dead.
It's entirely possible that all I'd done was make my new dorm room smell like one of Lord Woodman's fancy water closets, but I'd like to stay on the side of positivity.
Heaven knows I need something to be optimistic about.
With Sylas still not in the room, I took a moment to check on the wax and makeup that concealed my Witch's Mark in a mirror. The wax was flesh-colored, but it didn't perfectly match the skin surrounding it. I appeared to have a rather unfortunate and large birthmark or yellowing bruise above my heart.
I unbuttoned my shirt, and my pulse quickened.
Bathing would be the trickiest part of the day, as I would need to time it when I knew I'd be alone in the bathroom to reapply the wax in the showers quickly. Of course, the simplest solution could be to bathe as little as possible. I was no stranger to only doing so once a week when I lived with my family on the farm. However, Lord Woodman had drilled into me the importance of blending in with these aristocratic wizards, and part of that was a degree of personal hygiene that evidently exceeded most nulls.
Or so he repeatedly said.
It was all temporary anyway; I told myself. I just needed to stay long enough to discover a way out of the whole wretched mess.
I unpacked the rest of my trunks.
I didn't see Sylas again until the bell rang for dinner time, and by then, I had mostly unpacked my trunks of clothes and books. Someone had even placed a schedule of my classes in an envelope on my pillow.
Sylas didn't meet my eyes when he returned to our room, and I didn't bother to say hello.
"Do you want to get dinner?" he asked.
"No thanks," I said. "I'm not terribly hungry tonight."
"Oh," Sylas said.
He left, and by the time he returned, I had already turned in for the night.
All things considered, I rather thought things might go fairly well. Granted, I was under the vague impression that someone would have outed me as an Irregular within the first hours of my arrival at Angitia and they would drag me off to be killed in some wonderfully elaborate fashion. Maybe even my new friend Sylas, who may very well relish the chance to break into the family business, would do it.
***
On the first day of classes, I rose out of bed with my head held high. I ignored the various spirits, all former Angitia students, who moaned things like "Death. Death. Death comes for you, Theo Crowley," as I got dressed and cleaned my teeth. I had waited until the dead of night, no pun intended, to sneak in a shower. I layered wax mixed with makeup atop my Witch's Mark, making it resemble a large, unfortunate birthmark or scar. The stuff itched something fierce, though unless I cleaned the area with some regularity and it was only in the middle of the night, when I knew there was no risk of anyone seeing me, I slipped into the showers and had time to peel the wax off for a little while.
Before I left for the cafeteria, I glanced at Sylas's bed. He was still sound asleep, an itchy blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. For the briefest of moments, I almost considered trying to wake him up. He might be late to class or miss breakfast otherwise.
I chose to ignore the impulse and left our room.
Overall, things seemed to be looking up for good old Theo.
Why, as I ate breakfast in the cafeteria, eggs and a wedge of brown toast with jam, I even wondered if I might learn something actually useful. Perhaps in alchemy, there was some way a wizard might accidentally bleed all the magic out of themself. Or in demonology, there could be a manner to barter one's powers away to the Devil himself in exchange for a comfortable life for oneself and one's family. I won't say the prospect of being rid of my powers made me want to skip my way to class. But I won't say the thought didn't make me rather happy either.
I arrived at class a solid ten minutes early. After I sat myself down at a wooden desk in the middle of the room, I pulled out a pen and pad of paper to write on. I had never been to school before, as nulls only received schooling if they lived in a large city or were becoming in-house servants. There had been a boy in the house next to us named Donald O'Reilly who's Da had been one of Lord Windsbury's footmen, and he'd gone to the white-washed schoolhouse at the edge of the estate while I was in the fields making sure none of the sheep wandered off, the daft things.
That's not to say I didn't have any schooling. Da made sure we knew our sums. It's easier to keep track of sheep and such that way. My brothers and I learned our letters at night when Mum would teach us from an ancient black Bible she said we'd had in the family since before Walpurgis 1888. There wasn't much use in reading when it came to sheep minding, but it gave you something to do when it was too bloody cold to go outside for more than a few hours in the winter.
It was odd, given that the entire experience of having magic had been a profoundly terrible one, but I was actually excited to be in an actual classroom. The desk I sat at was bolted into the stone floor, and faced a chalkboard fixed to one of the room's walls.
Other students slunk into the room in a slow trickle, filling up the other seats in the room. There was a sort of nervous chattering between them all before our teacher finally joined us. She was a little thing, almost as if a child's doll had come to teach us classes. But the way she strode into the room, hair tied back in a tight brown bun, you would have thought she was Queen Victoria the Eternal herself. Her shoulders pushed back, her head held high, and holding a long piece of chalk in her hand like it was a scepter.
"I am Professor Babette Curtis," she said as soon as the last students had taken their seats. "I will be your alchemy teacher for your first year here at Angitia." She took a moment to survey the room and clicked her tongue. "Now, I do not know what you have heard about alchemy in the past, but let me assure you of its significance to our empire's magical traditions. In this course, we will discuss both the history and the practical application of alchemy in our daily lives. Now." Professor Curtis clapped her hands together. "I would like everyone to please take out your textbook for the course and we can begin."
It was at that exact moment that I realized I hadn't brought any of my books with me for any of my classes. In fact, I could perfectly picture them sitting on the slender shelf in my dorm room where I had tucked them away the night before when I had unpacked all my things. Despite knowing that perfectly well, I opened my bag, filled with pens and pads of paper but no books, and riffled through everything like if I just searched hard enough, I would find my textbook magically.
Meanwhile, Professor Curtis continued with the lesson, even if not all of her students had their books out. "You will note," Curtis noted, "That modern European alchemy draws heavily from the work of Nicolas Flamel of France and Paracelsus of the Swiss Confederacy. Indeed, many alchemical spells and books are in dead languages such as French, Latin, and German due to them predating the Unification Wars."
I ruffled the papers in my bag around a bit more. Donald O'Reilly probably wouldn't have forgotten his books on the first day of school. I shoved the thought away quickly and sat up with the calmest and most serene look I could muster while my heart beat like a jackrabbit.
"You will, of course, need a working knowledge of these languages as a result." Professor Curtis continued in her annoyingly chirpy voice. "Would anyone like to read the first passage of your textbook aloud?" She glances around the room, and of course, they land on me. "You, young man." Curtis glances down at her roster. "Theodore Crowley, was it?"
My mouth is dry. "Yes, Ma'am, you see the thing is—" There is a scraping noise and I look over to see the boy next to me has pulled his chair next to mine, and is quickly placing his own textbook on the desk. He gives me an awkward grin and glances at the open book meaningfully.
I clear my throat and start reading. "European Alchemy, superior by far to its Egyptian and Oriental counterparts, can trace its origins back to Ancient Greece and a woman named Circe."
***
I let out a breath of relief as the class ends and students move on to the next one. The boy next to me offered his hand. "Mason Albright. Pleasure to meet you." After a pause, I take Mason's hand and shake it. "Theodore Crowley, but I go by Theo. Thanks for lending me your book."
Mason waved it away with a good-natured smile. "Ah, it's nothing. You're just lucky I remembered to bring my books with me today. I'm often in the habit of forgetting things myself."
My shoulders relaxed and I let out a breath. Then the bell rang. "Oh," Mason said, looking up sharply. "We should really get going." He looked at me in concern. "What is your schedule for today?"
I patted my pockets and was relieved to discover I had slipped my schedule into one of them. I pulled out the slip of paper and glanced at it.
"I have 'Introduction to Elementism' next with Professor Calloway," I said.
"Really?" Mason asked. "Me too! We should walk there together."
As it turned out, Mason and I shared the same schedule for most of the morning. We spent every class sitting side-by-side, reading from his books.
I was planning on heading back to my room during our lunch period so I could retrieve the books I would need for my latter half of the day.
Then, of course, Mason had lunch before I did. "Sorry," Mason said. He gave me a smile, I think people call sheepish, and I walked to my last class before lunch all by myself. Dully I considered making a desperate attempt to make it back to the dorms, but decided that clearly wasn't in the cards. So, belly already growling, I trudged down to the last class before lunch period. Spell theory.
All the classrooms at Angitia seemed to be cut from much the same design. Wood-lined rooms with chairs and desks facing a chalkboard. When I entered the room, only one seat was available, smack in the front row, and so I sat down in it, cursing my luck.
Then a voice next to me asked, "How's your morning been?"
And I realized I had sat next to Sylas Thorne and hadn't noticed.
"Hello," I said, trying to keep the discomfort out of my voice.
Momentarily, I wondered if he was mad at me for letting him sleep in. Then I couldn't help but wonder if it would be better or worse if Sylas Thorne was angry with me. It would be better if he wanted to avoid me as much as I wanted to avoid him, but it would also be less than ideal if he disliked me enough to start actively working against me.
Sylas looked at me and seemed to wait for me to say something.
Before either of us could say anything, the teacher entered. Professor Ogg was a man shaped like a potato; squat, with short arms and legs, and balding slightly.
Professor Ogg glanced around the classroom, his lip curling out. He stood in front of the class perfectly still and just stared out at us.
As one minute stretched into two, then three, of absolute silence, I wondered if the man was some sort of mute. Then his moon white face snapped toward me like a hound on a bird.
"I am Professor Ogg," the man announced, "and I have the distinct privilege" his face twisted like the word was sour, "of being your Thaumaturgic Theorem teacher. The dullards among you may refer to this course as spell theory. I would advise you against doing so within my hearing range."
He pointed a sausage-shaped finger in my direction. "You. Boy, open your textbook and read the first three paragraphs to the class."
My blood froze in my veins, and I coughed slightly. "I'm sorry sir, but I—"
"You what?" Professor Ogg squinted at me. "Read the damn book, boy."
"But I—"
Sylas wordlessly pushed his desk next to mine and held out his book. My face flushed as I picked it up and started reading. "Thaumaturgy, spell craft, Narrative. These are all titles referring to the basis of all mystic disciplines. From Alchemy to summoning to elementism, all branches of magic can be traced back to a single base. The lie which we tell the world—"
"Yes." Professor Ogg said, unceremoniously cutting me off. "When you get right down to it, magic is a lie. Magic is a lie, an elaborate story we tell the world and will into being. That phenomenon, Narrative, is the root of all magic. Different traditions approach Narrative from separate angles. Some follow the steps of gods, others cast themselves as mortals becoming gods, and others just straddle the centerline grabbing power where they can."
Professor Ogg became silent again. It took me a second to realize that was my hint to continue reading. "The central base, or root of Narrative is the goal of many mages. Those who attempt to—"
"It is called the Abyss of Sorcery," Professor Ogg said boredly, cutting me off again. "A pit a wizard can drown in when they've pushed past all limits and want to drown themselves in power. Tribulation some call it. If any of you little bastards have a lick of sense, you won't even dream of attempting it."
My urge to throw the book at Professor Ogg's head was second only to the knowledge that if I did so, I'd probably have to apologize to Sylas because it was, after all, his book I was reading from.
There was a moment before I realized that Professor Ogg was staring at me expectantly, and I flushed before I resumed reading. "Those who attempt to grasp at Narrative, and bend it into the different forms of sorcery, must first learn how to gather mana—"
"Through the use of conduits," Professor Ogg said briskly, "Now, Mr. Crowley, can you give me an example of a conduit?"
My mouth went dry. "I um—" I waited desperately, hoping Professor Ogg would choose to interrupt me again and provide a helpful answer.
He did not.
I felt all the eyes in the classroom on me, and I sank deeper and deeper into my chair. My eyes flicked to the textbook, hoping to find some sort of answer there.
"Without looking at your book, Mr. Crowley," Professor Ogg sounded vaguely disgusted.
I swallowed again.
Professor Ogg sighed and withdrew something from a bilious pocket of his cloak. He walked over to the table I was sharing with Sylas and put whatever it was down in front of me.
It turned out to be three things: a slightly crushed feather, a piece of coal, and a silver scale the size of my thumbnail. "A Conduit is a focus a mage uses to home in on the mana around them, and draw it into their channels and core," Professor Ogg said. "However, as different magicians are often predisposed to certain types of Narrative, they often find one form of conduit suits them over others."
He reached out and tapped the feather. "For example, those predisposed to wind elementism may favor using feathers, or other representations of the sky."
He moved onto the piece of coal. "Alchemists traditionally find using natural minerals, such as a piece of pyrite or coal, is the surest way for them to gather mana effectively."
He finished with the scale. "And healers will gravitate to items containing medical properties, like the scale of a mermaid."
Professor Ogg eyed me. "Now, which do you suppose would suit you best, Mr. Crowley?"
Before I could open my mouth to respond, there was a rushing noise, and a gust of wind slammed into my chest, shoving me off my chair and slamming me hard into the stones paving the classroom's floor.
I gasped for air, but I couldn't breathe. The wind rushed around me, but I couldn't still couldn't breathe for some reason. I tried to get up, but something was pushing me down.
"You will observe," Professor Ogg said. "That Mr. Crowley is currently caught in a Working of my making. Stress is often a key factor in a mage's ability to use a conduit to draw mana. It's important to remember that a high-stress environment often helps a magician determine which conduit will serve them best out of those available."
Something dropped next to me, and through my watering eyes, I saw the feather, piece of coal, and scale were on the ground inches from my face. I tried to breathe in again and my lungs burned.
"Now," Professor Ogg said. "Mr. Crowley, please demonstrate to the class how to use a conduit to draw in mana. You should be able to determine which of these three conduits will serve you best, even if you are an utter dullard."
I tried to look at Professor Ogg to beg him to stop whatever it was he was doing, but whatever force holding me down forced my face back to the floor and to the waiting conduits.
I stared at them, wanting to vomit, my head pounding. If any of them were supposed to stand out to me, they chose not to. The feather was just a feather. The piece of coal was a black rock, and the scale looked oily to the touch.
My vision swam, little black dots filling my eyes.
"Sometime today, Mr. Crowley," I faintly heard Professors Ogg's voice. "I'd rather not lose a student on the first day to an exercise this basic."
I could feel foam glistening around the edges of my mouth and I tried to look at the conduits again, but there was nothing. Bloody nothing at all.
I'm going to die there. The thought came to me and I convulsed slightly, knocking the conduits away with a spasm of my arm.
My skin connected with the feather and I… felt something there. The feeling of wings flying in great beats, then falling to the ground violently. A cat's teeth and claws snapping bones and slicing through flesh. Death. There was death there, a trickle. A pinprick. But it was there.
My mind latched onto it. My Witch's Mark gave a twinge of excitement on my chest, beneath its veneer of wax makeup, my undershirt, and shirt.
Death. I drew on it instinctively, desperately lapping it up like cold water after a long hot day in the sheep pastures in the middle of summer. Energy, mana, slithered its way into me, tucking itself neatly into my Witch's Mark.
But as soon as it started, it stopped. The feather in my hand, once vibrant yellow, sickened into grey, then crumbled into dust.
The room was quiet, and I didn't even realize I was breathing again or that I could sit up until Professor Ogg spoke.
"Took you long enough," he said. "Return to your seat, Mr. Crowley, and I will expect you to have a replacement feather for me next class. Heavens only knows how you burned through that one so quickly. Incompetence."
I managed to struggle back to my feet and felt the round, wide eyes of my fellow students on my back as I returned to my seat next to Sylas.
"Honestly," Professor Ogg said. "I have never seen such a sorry display of conduit use. It appears I will have my work cut out for me this year."
By the time I slumped back into my chair, I'd regained enough of the impulse to throw a book at Professor Ogg's head that my hand immediately tightened around Sylas's book. I turned around, ready to cock my arm back and clock that old fucker straight in the face. Damn all what would happen to me afterward. But a firm hand closed around my wrist.
Sylas Thorne had my wrist in a white-knuckle grip, stopping me from any attempt of book-related retaliation against Professor Ogg.
I relaxed and let the tension out of my arm. Taking a deep breath in and out, the mana danced behind my Witch's Mark.
You knew things would be shit here, I reminded myself. Take what you learn and use it to survive. Use it to get out and use it to get rid of your magic and be normal again.
"Now," Professor Ogg said, either oblivious or uncaring that one of his students had to be restrained from throwing projectiles at him. "Let us discuss channels and cores and how they relate to mana."
It wasn't until the end of class that Sylas finally released my wrist. Almost like he was afraid I would snap any second and decide attacking Professor Ogg was a jolly good idea after all.
When class finally ended, though, I tore my hand away from Sylas's grip. I left the class without even bothering to look at him.