Authors: Caroline Stevermer

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BOOK: A College of Magics

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From her reading, Faris concocted theories of her own. The warden of the north, she calculated, might communicate with the wardens of the east and west but not the south. The warden of the west could call on the wardens of the north and south but not the east.

For the rest of the model, the Dean explained, the world lay at the heart of nested celestial spheres. The highest degree of magic in the world was lower by far than the lowest of that in the next sphere of the model. But nothing linked the spheres. There was no passage from one to the next in life. Within the precincts of the world, the wardens held the mundane sphere in balance.

Without the wardens, the mundane sphere would soon distort. Once disfigured, it would upset the balance of the other spheres.

Try as she would, Faris could not keep from thinking of the spheres as soap bubbles, floating one within another. She gathered that if there were no wardens to rectify the balance, the entire model would vanish, to go wherever soap bubbles go, just about as suddenly. Since the world showed no signs of vanishing, Faris presumed this was more of the Emperor's wardrobe.

The lectures ended, without climax or conclusion, when classes did, at Whitsuntide. Those students who were qualified took their comprehensives. All students left at the end of term. Those who passed their comprehensive examinations were entitled to call themselves scholars of Greenlaw,
and to be referred to as witches behind their backs. Those who didn't pass, such as the Roman, withdrew and the crooked passages of Greenlaw College saw no more of them.

Those first- and second-year students who were not yet qualified to attempt the comprehensive went home for the summer and early autumn. Not until Michaelmas would they return, and not until they were at their studies for a fortnight would the first of the first-year students appear.

H
er uncle had made it clear to Faris that she was not to return home to Galazon for the long vacation. Had she the means, she might have traveled elsewhere, but lacking funds, Faris stayed at Greenlaw, where her keep was paid.

As the classrooms closed and the dormitories emptied, Faris found she had the college nearly to herself. Even Odile was gone, permanently. She had passed her comprehensives, slept off the resulting exhaustion, packed her belongings, said her farewells, and set off for Sarlat, a fully-fledged witch of Greenlaw.

Faris did not notice much difference in her days after the term gave way to the long vacation. She had always spent more time in the library than in company, and the library's hours were unchanged by the season. She read, at first with an eye toward her classes, soon for pleasure alone. She took her meals in the dining hall, same as ever, but she was one of half a dozen boarders, instead of one of a hundred. What conversation there was at the table was stiff and civil.

To her surprise, Faris found she missed the grumbles, shrieks, and giggles of the regular term. She began to sleep
late in the mornings and the long afternoons passed more quickly out of doors than in the library. She ventured out of the confines of the college and explored the steep streets of Greenlaw village. Wound around the base of Greenlaw like ribbons, the streets led to the seawall that circled and protected the place. At the foot of the promontory lay the great gate. Beyond that, the encircling rocks and sand flats ringed the seawall.

One hot afternoon, Faris was sitting on the rocks at the base of the north wall. Tempted by low tide, she kilted up her skirts, took off her shoes and stockings, and went for a walk along the cool gray sands. Fine bubbles broke on the surface as every step fizzed against her bare soles like champagne. Ahead she spied a larger bubble, where something lived beneath the sand. A clam, a winkle? She bent double to peer more closely.

“Come back. Come away from there.”

Faris frowned over her shoulder to see who addressed her.

On the rock where she'd left her shoes and stockings stood a blond man with a broad, rosy face. He was dressed in badly cut black, very different from the light and elegant flannels of the usual summer visitor. He frowned back at her and called, “I think you'd better return at once.”

Faris straightened so that she could look down her nose at him. “Who are you?” The look had no effect.

“These sands aren't safe. You could be pulled down.”

“Thank you for the warning. I won't go out any farther.” In the face of his silent disapproval, she added, “You can see I'm perfectly safe.”

“I can't just leave you there.”

“Why not? It's no business of yours what I do.”

The man opened his mouth and shut it again without speaking.

“Is it?” asked Faris, suddenly suspicious.

“Certainly not. Good day to you.” He turned on his heel and walked away, as quickly as the footing on the rocks allowed.

Faris returned to the rocks as soon as he was out of sight. Lost in thought, she brushed the sand off her feet and replaced her stockings and shoes, frowning.

T
he next time Dame Cassilda took the cart to Pontorson to meet the train, Faris made it her business to go along.

“It's a long drive for a hot day. I wouldn't bother if it weren't for the baggage. There will be student trunks coming on nearly every train now. And some of them come from the ends of the earth.” Dame Cassilda favored Faris with a sidelong glance.

“Any trunks that arrive today will be in good time for the beginning of term,” Faris observed. “Nearly two months early.”

“You're not expecting a parcel yourself?”

Faris shook her head.

“You'll maybe want to see the seamstress then.” Dame Cassilda eyed the ragged hem of Faris's gown. “It often happens that you young people have a growing spell when you spend the summer here. It's the air of Greenlaw, the fresh sea air. You'll be wanting some alterations done.”

Faris smoothed her skirt. “No, I have no business in Pontorson. I'm just along for the change of scene. Do you mind?”

“Glad of the company. I don't blame you for getting fed up with Greenlaw. If it wasn't for the work, we'd all go round the bend in a week.”

Once at the station, Dame Cassilda kept a wary eye on Faris, but her charge contented herself with examining the people on the platform. After a brief wait, the train pulled into the station and halted in a magnificent billow of steam.

Faris craned her neck as passengers left the train to mingle with onlookers at the station. Departing travelers climbed aboard. When the last parcel was unloaded, the train lurched and drew away. After the porters had lifted the lone student trunk into the back of the cart, Dame Cassilda resumed her seat.

“You haven't even gotten down from the cart. Don't you wish to explore Pontorson now that you're here?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” said Faris. “Tell me, do you know that man standing beside the ticket kiosk?”

Dame Cassilda inspected the man Faris referred to. He stood barely an arm's length from the ticket grille, his back against a poster-covered wall. Despite his hat, his blond hair was plain to see. It was hard to judge his features, for he was reading an illustrated paper with great concentration. His dark clothing was ill tailored. “No, why?”

“I've seen him somewhere. Or perhaps he only resembles someone I met once.”

“A chance likeness can often be quite startling.” Dame
Cassilda took up the lines. At her signal the Greenlaw team set off at the amble which would eventually bring them back to the college.

As they left the station, Faris glanced back, frowning. “Quite startling.”

F
aris spied the blond man again at the very end of summer. It was a cool clear day, with little white brush strokes of cloud so thin and fine they let the blue sky show plainly behind.

Faris was at the vegetable market at the foot of the high street, trying to distract herself by looking at leeks and cabbages. She was homesick for Galazon, where such wide blue windy days brought in just such a harvest, along with a dozen other useful sorts of produce. When she saw the man, she turned to the owner of the leeks, a rangy woman with her black hair tucked up beneath a red scarf.

“Do you know who that is?” Faris asked. “The yellow-haired man so absorbed by that basket of turnips? Have you seen him before?”

“I have,” said the leek-seller. “He rents a room from any godmother and takes his meals there. He's foreign.”

“Do you know his name?” Faris knew that anyone not born in Greenlaw and living there anyway was considered to be foreign by the villagers. “Do you know how long he's lived here?”

“He rented his lodging a week before the new year.” The leek-seller gazed skyward for a moment. “It's just come back to me. He calls himself Tyrian. Foreign sounding name, isn't it?”

“It is.” Faris gave the woman the last of her money. “Your leeks are lovely but I've no way to cook them. This is for your trouble.”

“Would you like an introduction?” The leek-seller pocketed the coins. “My godmother might oblige.”

“No, thank you. I don't care much for foreigners.”

“Wise girl,” said the leek-seller, and turned back to her vegetables.

At the Glass Slipper

B
y the time second- and third-year students returned to Greenlaw, Faris was miserably homesick. Odile had written from Sarlat. Faris knew she ought to take comfort from her friend's happiness, but it seemed to make things worse.

Every sign of harvest that she saw made her think of the harvest that she was not in Galazon to see. Every small thing that did not remind her of Galazon reminded her that she was far away and years from going home. Faris grew so homesick, she stopped a returning student in the corridor for no better reason than the embroidery on her shirtwaist.

“Pardon me,” said Faris. “That's Galazon white-work, isn't it? Have you come from Galazon?”

The student, a girl who would have been taller than Faris
a year ago but was now an inch shorter, glanced down at the fine embroidery, snow white on the snow white of her blouse. “You have excellent vision,” she said politely. She regarded Faris a moment, her clear gray eyes curious. “I've never been to Galazon. This was a gift.”

“Oh,” said Faris.

Something in the flatness of her tone melted the student's reserve slightly. “Have you been to Galazon?”

Faris shook her head. “I'm from Galazon. I haven't been back since I came to college a year ago.” She broke off as she felt her reliable mask of composure alter. To conceal her embarrassment, she became absorbed in an examination of the toe of her shoe. One more word and her voice would betray her.

The student eyed Faris curiously. “You didn't go home for the long vacation?”

Faris shook her head.

“You'll know better next year. But think of it this wayâyou're lucky you have somewhere to go that's worth being homesick for. Not everyone has a home better than Greenlaw. Hardly anyone, I should say.”

Something in her clipped words made Faris look closely at the girl. “Do you?”

“I suppose I must, mustn't I? But I don't wish to live anywhere but Greenlaw. If you don't like it here, you ought to go home.” With a rustle of faultlessly tailored charcoal serge, she brushed past Faris and stalked away up the corridor.

Next morning, as she left Hall after breakfast, Faris felt a hand touch her sleeve. She looked around to find the gray-eyed
student, immaculate in crisp academicals, black over a blue frock, her silky brown hair pinned up with precision in a neat Psyche knot.

“Yes?”

“I must apologize,” said the student. “I'm terribly sorry for what I said yesterday. My only excuse is that I had no idea who you are. I didn't know until just now, when I asked the Pagan. I am sorry.”

Faris frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The student looked perplexed, then chagrined. “I thought I'd dropped the brick of the century. Has the Pagan misled me? Or are you just being chivalrous and pretending I didn't drop it at all?”

“Who's the Pagan?”

“Oh, dear. Look here, I can't explain now. I'm already late, of course, and my tutor will slay me if I'm any later. You'll have to come to tea. I promise I'll explain everything. Are you free at four o'clock?”

“I think so,” Faris replied, warily.

“Good. Number five study. Don't be late.” She touched Faris's sleeve again and hurried away, black poplin billowing behind her.

Faris watched her go, wide-eyed.

At the appointed time, Faris made her way to the door of number five study. She was puzzled and inclined to misgiving. Only third-year students, and not all of them, had study privileges.

Odile had scorned study privileges as clubby, cliquish, partisan, and distracting. She had often told Faris that third-year students were a moody lot, and first-year students
ought to steer clear of them as a rule, lest they be distracted into wasting time before their required courses were complete. But of course, Odile had her moody moments, too.

Faris knocked. Her hostess answered the door so promptly she might have been lurking in wait on the other side. Faris followed her into the study, a high-ceilinged room with a fireplace, a mullioned window, and a view of the sea. The room was furnished only with a table and four chairs. On the table, the tea service was solid silver and the china was old and fine.

Faris stopped with her back to the door. Perplexed, her hostess turned from the tea service. “What's wrong?”

“For one thing, I'm not certain I ought to be here. I don't know who you are and I'm not at all sure that you know who I am.”

Her hostess winced. “So much for my manners. I'm Jane Brailsford. We were in deportment together last year. I have a very forgettable face.”

Faris was silent for a moment. The name was familiar, though the face wasn't. Jane Brailsford was English, the daughter of a determinedly respectable family. Finally, Faris said, “My name is Faris Nallaneen.”

“I know. The Pagan told meâMenary Paganell. I ought to have recognized you from class but I'm afraid my memory for faces is perfectly shocking. I was always worrying about pearl necklaces, too. Oh, dear. It was dreadful of me to say you should go home, but I had no notion of your circumstances. You must believe me.”

Faris stiffened. “I beg your pardon? What circumstances are you referring to?”

“Menary told me you'd been sent here because you couldn'tâer, because you might, ah, press your claim to the duchy.” Jane raised her brows. “My, what good posture you have when you bristle. I'm sure Dame Brachet would be pleased to see it.”

“What else did Menary Paganell tell you?”

Jane frowned. “Is it possible that Menary has taken liberties with the truth? All too likely, I expect.”

“What else?”

“You'll forgive me for repeating it? She told me you are the duchess of Galazon's natural daughter by a sea captain, and that you were exiled to Greenlaw for the good of the duchy and for the improvement of your character.” Jane looked apologetic. “If it is any consolation, I didn't believe the part about the sea captain. Menary seems to have a fondness for all things nautical.”

Faris stared at Jane. Jane sustained her angry gaze, her eyes level and calm.

“I have two questions,” Faris said at last. “One for you and one for Menary Paganell. Before I ask her why she slandered me, tell me why you asked her who I was. I scarcely know her.”

“You come from Galazon. Galazon is in Aravill. Menary never ceases boasting about her family back in Aravill. She's the only student I know from that end of the world. So I asked her.”

Her answer provoked another wordless stare from Faris. Jane returned it courteously.

“If it matters,” said Faris finally, her tone icily polite, “Galazon is an independent principality. Aravill claims suzerainty
but they are wrong to do so. My mother was the duchess of Galazon. Until I reach my majority, my uncle rules the duchy. To honor my mother's last wish, he claims, but really because we do not agree, he has sent me here to age, like cheeseâ” Faris paused to steady her voice. “In two years, I shall return to Galazon and turn him out. Perhaps after that I shall travel to Aravill, even attain the heights of Aravis itself, and insult Menary Paganell as she has insulted me.” Faris whirled and threw the study door open.

Jane caught at Faris's poplin sleeve. “Are you going to find Menary now? It's tea time.”

Faris froze, staring at Jane's hand as though it were made of raw liver. “Of course.”

Jane's voice held only calm interest. “What will you do when you find her?”

Faris met her eyes. “I don't know. Deliver the same lecture to her, I suppose.”

“Dry work. I'd hate to miss the spectacle but I'm perishing for my tea. Just sit with me for a moment while I drink a cup and then let me come along to watch you murder Menary.” She closed the study door and led Faris back to the table. “Though of course, we'll have to queue up for the privilege. She does love to do an ill turn when she sees the chance.”

“Do you speak so highly of all your friends?” asked Faris, coldly.

“Menary doesn't have any friends. She doesn't want any. She's more interested in servitors. I merely asked her a few questions. And don't snipe at me for my shocking geography,”
Jane added. “If it isn't the Empire, it's all the same to me: Galazon, Aravill, Graustark, or Ruritania. You really can't expect me to keep all those little countries straight. I'm not ignorant, just English. Milk? Sugar?”

“Can you tell Wales from Finland?”

“Don't sulk, it's not becoming. The tea's a bit stewed, I'm afraid, but that's your fault for distracting me. The milk may render it palatable. Now, tell me about this wicked uncle of yours.”

Faris glared at Jane but accepted the cup and saucer Jane offered. “If you were in my place, would you sit here and drink your tea?”

“In your place, I would challenge Menary to pistols at dawn.”

“May I call on you if I should need a second?”

Jane inclined her head graciously. “I am at your service. Now sit down. I have a stem ginger cake from Fortnum's.”

“Very well. But I won't tell you about my wicked uncle. You're going to tell me what you meant yesterday, when you said you didn't want to live anywhere but Greenlaw. Ever?”

“Oh, dear. I talk too much, don't I?”

“Not yet,” said Faris, and took her place at the table.

B
y the time the last morsel of cake was gone, Jane had given Faris two pots of tea and a fair notion of her circumstances. She had several uncles, none of them wicked by Faris's standards, a father, and three brothers with no higher ambition than to shoot as much game as possible as frequently as they could. She also had a mother, whose goal
was to marry her children to the most chinless aristocrats available.

“I wanted to go up to Oxford,” Jane explained, “but of course Father and Mother think only bluestockings go to Shrewsbury, so that could never be.”

“What persuaded them to send you to Greenlaw, then?”

“My cousin Henry attended Glasscastle. Greenlaw and Glasscastle are nothing more than a matched pair of ridiculously expensive finishing schools, as far as my parents are concerned. If Glasscastle was unexceptionable for Henry, Greenlaw was unexceptionable for me. Henry came out of Glasscastle so highly finished, no one notices that he never uses any magic. No one knows whether he's capable of it or not. Not even Henry, I suspect,” Jane added. “I wasn't enchanted with the idea of a French finishing school, but when Papa suggested it I thought three years of Greenlaw might be worth it, if only to give Mama more time to find me a husband with a chin. So here I am.”

“Here you are, and you don't want to go back again.”

Jane shook her head. “The first day I saw Greenlaw was the first day I ever truly saw anything. The sun shines differently here. Even the tides are different, lower and higher than anywhere else. It was as though I'd come home to my own country, in a place I'd never visited before. These months since Whitsuntide were torture. Now that I'm back, I never want to leave.”

“But this is your last year. What will you do next Whitsuntide?”

Jane inspected the depths of her tea cup. “Travel, perhaps. But even if I go back to Brailsford, it won't be the
same. From the first time I stepped into the great hall to see the proctor, Greenlaw has been home to me.”

“If the Dean asked you, would you stay and teach? Then you'd be able to live here as long as you liked.”

“If they asked me, I'd accept. My family would consider it eccentric but I don't think they'd disinherit me.”

“What subject would you teach?”

Jane put her cup down. “I'd tutor if I could. What interest is there in lecturing? That's just window dressing for the finishing school.”

Faris looked surprised. “Fearsome window dressing. Is tutoring so different? I don't start with Dame Villette until tomorrow.”

“Don't you know? Hasn't anyone told you? Don't you ever gossip?”

“My friend Odile graduated last term. She told me to think carefully about what topic to choose for my thesis and to hope for a tolerant tutor.”

“Oh, the slyboots. As though there's any topic that doesn't lead to magic eventually. That's what you're tutored in, Faris. Choose what thesis you like, it's magic you study. After all, this is Greenlaw, not Shrewsbury.”

T
he following day, as Menary Paganell left her tutor's study, Faris Nallaneen eased out of the next doorway and fell into step beside her.

“On your way back to the dormitory? That's the way I'm going. I'll walk with you.”

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