Category: Liaison

5. I’ve Got the World on a String

The next morning, the quick moving clouds let through the rough morning light between the haze of light rains. Orpheus felt a jolt of shock waking up in an unfamiliar bed but soon came to his senses that this place is real. The tittering of the rain against the little window was real, and it reminded him of the soft mechanical sounds ever emanating from the mill back home. He brushed his hand along the threads of his sheets and stared around the room, his eyes eventually landing on the books which lined half the walls.

Orpheus spent the next week reading them all. (He was ambitious, starting first with the immense Divine Comedy, which took him just about the entire week. After that he resolved to stick to smaller texts of poetry and prayer.) He only left his room to bathe and to eat in the mess hall, and he spoke to nobody at all. This was not for any particular reason other than that it simply never occurred to our protagonist to do so, being accustomed all his life to confinement. Beyond his first interaction with Ferris, none of the other students approached him, and Orpheus was in fact none the wiser to the goings-on of the Aurelian building. He noted that the dorms were starting to fill up, however, and the mess hall was growing noisier each night, so that by the 33^rd day of the month, he was sitting tucked between two strangers in the most uncomfortable of positions at just about every meal. Each day, the laughter which he had glimpsed in the courtyard grew louder and more boisterous.

At a certain point on Monday afternoon, Orpheus got up from his couch where he was reading a guide to CHISEL exams (which was not growing to be any less obscure to him) and began to stroll down the corridor, soaking in the gentle features of the furnishings and decorations. The day before, John had brought some supplies and books, so Orpheus felt very comfortable by now strolling down the row of open dorm doors in more youthful fashion, the linens rustling gently like an undercurrent to the heavy rapids of the voices of his peers. He had taken a wrong turn on his way to breakfast that morning and found himself in a tiny closet with a window overlooking the courtyard. Keen not to miss his meal, he had left the room, to its quietude, but now he returned to its attic comfort. He felt comfortable there, hemmed in by the aimless walls and looking down unnoticed upon his neighbours who were lazily tossing a small ball about, the rapid movements of its arc causing the threads of smoke to split and waver into a common haze which clung hungrily in the still air of the space.

Indeed, the scent of smoke was familiar to Orpheus by the time John Andestinic returned again on Solday the 37^th to take him to church as promised. So much so that when Orpheus opened the door to his guardian, the young man greeted him by correctly identifying the cigarette in his mouth as a Blond Imperial.

“I’ll be! You’ve quite the nose on you, Jim!” Remarked John, stepping through the threshold clutching a suit bag. “Don’t tell me you’ve been smoking this stuff?”

“Never, sir,” responded our boy. “I wouldn’t dare. I just thought…”

John wasn’t listening, already thrusting the newly procured suit upon ‘Jim Wynyard.’ It was a lightly mottled slate patterned with a wide window check in soft pink like the morning light which was humming in the air. He changed into it quickly (he was growing much more accustomed to this, having now spent a week in the unfamiliar state of public bathing with his peers), and was impressed by how well it fit.

“I took your measurements remotely, you see, with the help of Mr. Satsouli’s tailor-inator 1000. I’ll take you in to meet him if you ever want another suit, but I’ll say it’s pretty ace handiwork. Now, let’s quit whistling dixie and get outta here!”

Orpheus thanked him profusely, and they set off for church.

As they walked, John explained, “By the way, I’m real sorry I couldn’t take you to church last weekend. All this talk of war’s got the Commissioner working us all double shifts.” Orpheus paid him no mind, now completely enraptured by the sights of the city. They had left the boundaries of the Academy’s campus and were by now strolling through a large park which was thronged with towers. To their right, the metal and glass of Victoria Square, the city centre, persisted in periphery.

John’s church, the sanctuary of Saint Martha the Sleepless, was quite a walk north in the area of the city known as St James Grove. They passed by two or three beautiful looking churches on the way, but John led them through winding streets and rows of shops before they reached a small plaza near a wharf.

Along the way, Orpheus found himself marvelling at the immense variety of people who hurried and lounged and chortled in the calm and busy streets of Canon City: women with dark skin and hair like clouds enjoying a coffee; pale old men laughing loudly on the steps of an alley as they played a game of dice; a trumpeter was battling with musical fervour against the whistling of the hot summer wind in the valves of the city streets; a man with almond-shaped eyes and jet hair strolled with a woman of a grey complexion and long silvery hair, their daughter skipping alongside them; a group of young men in turbans stood at carts on the corner of the street selling spiced meats and fresh bread, their gentle, accented voices singing melodiously against the din of cars; men and women of all sorts in military uniforms stumbled out of a bar, their hedonising from last night having extended into morning; young boys playing in the fountain to stave off the summer sun, their trousers rolled up past the knee and their shirts unbuttoned completely; an elegant looking woman with green eyes and green robes was attempting to enjoy her breakfast with an older looking Wizard with a wispy beard and beady black eyes, but the pair were constantly interrupted by the flash of cameras as a crowd began to form around their table.

When at last they arrived at Saint Martha’s, Orpheus was impressed by the majesty of the building he beheld. It appeared quite out of place among the wooden houses and Victorian brick terraces, being itself composed of cyclopean masonry of unhewn stones which looked so ancient as to have even preceded the city. The chapel was quite small of similar size and dimensions as described in the book of Acts, with a narrow, dark entry that led into a semi-circular narthex packed with people and bubbling candles. Over the heads of the other churchgoers, Orpheus could see the central nave, where more people stood upright like blades of grass, each moved by the force of the priest who sang a passage from the book out front. Though the room was quite dark, with only a single window shining dark sunlight from the domed roof overhead, Orpheus observed with the others the plastered walls painted with the likenesses of the Saints and of the Trinity. By the light of the candles, which swayed and leapt in the kinetic atmosphere of the space, the eyes of Ibex and Kathan and Thelonius seemed to flit about, watching over the devoted with a passionate gaze. John led Orpheus through the crowd to a vacant spot near the front of the narthex which had a sufficient view of the nave and of the priest through a window. Father Pelios was standing before the altar with an immense Bible, his singing complimented by the other priests and priestesses who stood by the iconostasis. Each of them was invested with a white garment with golden embroidery of the QIIK tetragrammaton, which is an encircled cross with a letter in each quadrant representing the Trinity. Indeed, everyone was on their best behaviour, dressed smartly and pretending to pay attention as the mystical singing filled the tiny space. Orpheus imagined the words filling him with meaning as he attempted to grasp the intention of the phrasing, of the word choice, of the allegories contained within which took the listeners to lands distant and near. For what reason should the Trinity be represented by a tetragrammaton? How is it that the figure in the reading, St Andrew Nehpyr, was saved, even after renouncing God? Where exactly was God, and whether he was in the room with them (this being God’s house as Father Pelios claimed) or not, why did he not reveal himself? All such mysteries were pursued in vain and Orpheus felt no closer to God than he had felt two hours ago.

When he expressed this to John as they exited the building out onto the stone steps in front, the old fellow simply chuckled.

“Yah know, that’s not such an uncommon sentiment. I guess knowing the Bible doesn’t make a fella better at church…”

An old lady hobbled over, dressed completely in black, and kissed John on his bearded cheek. He greeted her warmly in an unfamiliar, fast-moving language, then offered his elbow to help her down the steps. Once at the bottom, John introduced Orpheus, speaking in a more familiar tongue again.

“Baba Sonia, this is Jim. I’ve been showing him around town since he moved here from the country.”

“Eh?” She said, looking confused. “Dzim? I don’t know. I don’t know these names, Ivan Andestinic.” Her accent was thick and completely foreign, although it shared some similarities to Andestinic’s when he forgot to put on the Canon City accent.

“It’s short for James, ma’am.” Orpheus put in, feeling unsure of this new environment but determined to hold his own.

“James! Ah you will be Yashka, then!” She turned to John with a cheeky smile. “Ivan Andestinic, why didn’t you tell me sooner? It looks like you’re hardly feeding the boy!” She scolded him further in her own language before reverting her gaze to Orpheus. “You will come to lunch.”

Given no choice in the matter, and now the proprietor of a total of four names, he agreed.

Baba Sonia’s house was one of the stout wooden homes which populated the shore of St James Grove. It only had three rooms — a tiny bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and a considerable salon for receiving guests. The salon was well carpeted and incredibly well furnished, with plush couches and uncomfortable chairs all situated around a stout wooden coffee table. Everything, including the minute piano in the corner, was covered with a doily, and the windows were covered over with the thickest orange curtains imaginable. Photographs, paintings, and icons covered just about every spare inch of wall, and the smell of coffee and cigarettes clung to everything.

Besides Sonia, who had brought out a tray of cold meats and cheeses and would pout her lightly moustached lip when refused, there was also in the room Grigor and Danai Bebas, an old married couple who still went everywhere together. Grigor spoke very little, having lost the mood to speak long ago, but his dark eyes were so expressive that it didn’t matter. Danai was a frail woman with the most beautiful old face Orpheus had ever seen.

The five of them — Orpheus (Yashka), John (Ivan), Baba Sonia, Grigor, and Danai — were all situated about the salon discussing the politics of the city. Baba Sonia was the most outspoken, reprimanding the authorities for the brutal crackdowns on the people of St James Grove when criminals “fucked in the street” just across the lake in Morrow City. John seemed to agree, pointing out that Morrow City was only allowed to stay in business due to all the revenue the United States government earned from the casinos. Grigor’s face expressed his discontentment with this criticism, evidently both a patriot and a gambler.

Of course, Orpheus found all of this to be beyond him. He watched Danai dip her biscuit in her coffee and followed suit only to discover a brand-new sensation unimaginable to the senses. Having never tasted neither coffee nor Biscoff, nor even the special velvet of the couch pulled through the threads of the doily, Orpheus experienced a combined revelation of his aesthetic functions which reminded him distinctly of the moment in his brimming youth when he met with a thin young man with a mop of black hair in a dimly lit coffee shop sat on a velvet couch not dissimilar to this.

“Good evening, my name is Mercurius Drake. Would you mind terribly if I joined you? All the other tables are full, and I only have a few minutes to finish my coffee before class.”

“Certainly,” I said, shuffling over on the couch to make room. “What class are you attending? I’m looking to study magic, myself.”

“Is that so! Likewise. Perhaps we will be colleagues on the council one day.”

Orpheus shook his head suddenly overwhelmed with memory. He could recall the taste of the coffee (with a dash of cream) and the brush of the velvet. Except, he had never left the Aurelian building, had he? The cafe must have been inside the building, Orpheus surmised. He turned to John, about to speak, when he thought the better of it, recalling the last time he had identified a taste to him.

Grigor Bebas, whose discerning eyes missed nothing, expressed to Orpheus to speak, having noticed the moment pass over the boy’s face.

“Ivan, your boy has something to say, I think.” Said Danai, her voice still velvety and lustrous in old age.

Flushing red, Orpheus looked about at the old faces which now looked expectantly upon him. “Well I…” he began, “I just. The coffee reminded me of a moment. That’s all.”

Like a prospector seeing a river glint with gold, Baba Sonia’s eyes flashed in the orange light. Leaning forward, she said, “Yashka, you are… medium, no?”

“Well, I haven’t had my CHISEL test yet, so for all I know, I could be well below average really,” was Orpheus’ response, unsure of the old woman’s meaning.

She shook her head. “No, when coffee reminds you of a moment, you need no CHISEL. You need—”

John cut her off. “You’re talking nonsense again, Baba. Come on, Jim. Time to go.”

Reluctantly, Orpheus stood with John, following him out the door. When he turned to thanks his hosts, he saw Baba Sonia making a gesture at him by pulling her cheek down to reveal the underside of her eye. With a shudder, Orpheus walked out of the house and back up the long walk to the Aurelian building. Always a few steps behind John, they spoke quaintly about the church service and about the coffee, but the officer would answer no questions about Baba Sonia until they reached the door of the building.

“Listen, son. Sometimes, people — especially people from the Thelenic continent like my parents or old Sonia — have superstitions, baseless beliefs that serve no God other than distrust and anxiety and that are evidenced only by rumour. Take no heed of them, you hear me?”

“But sir, how can I tell the difference between superstitious rumours and veritable mysticism and scientific fact?” Orpheus said sincerely.

Andestinic paused a moment, then spoke clearly. “Trust your gut, Jim. You’ve got good instincts. Sometimes, that’s all a fella can do.”

‘Jim Wynyard’ was waiting in the foyer of Tablinck hall, one of roughly two-hundred other students being assessed for their CHISEL. The foyer was handsome despite its brevity and was designed by Yosip Agan in 1823 Ix (or so the plaque read) in order to instil a placid preparedness for students about to partake in the reshaping of their destinies. Underfoot, a mosaic of orichalc and nephrite were arranged to present a pleasant bucolic scene of nereids and dolphins frolicking in the waves while overhead, the arched roof was painted with cherubim chasing Petronia sparrows. Supposedly, in between should be the worldly student who lives in service and observation of both. On one side, magnificent windows opened off the side of the hill onto a panorama of the south side of the city and the low plains which stretched beyond the mangroves; on the other side, pillars painted in deep green hid couches which rounded short tables beside the door into the dreaded chamber. At this early hour, hardly any students were there. Indeed, Orpheus himself barely needed to be in attendance right now, being due to sit before the panel a little after lunch and having been instructed to arrive ten minutes prior to his scheduled start. Still, with nothing else doing, he decided to come early and observe his peers. He was easily the youngest among them, but besides the general eagerness and suspense at being there, he was hard-pressed to find two students who were the same. As the hours wore on, Orpheus watched as students, whether dark or light or hued, in capes or suits or skirts, in smocks or frocks or uniforms, unaccompanied or joined by parents or assistants or friends, chattering or studying or jittering, clutching wands or brushes or books, making the sign of the cross or clutching a black coin or lighting up, speaking plainly or eloquently or with an accent, sat or stood or paced, they all entered through that immense brass door and came out minutes later looking frazzled yet relieved. 

Just after midday, Orpheus watched Vanhim Shaw, who strutted out looking pleased with himself. He also spotted a few other students whom he recognised from the Aurelian dining hall. Eventually, with the sun hanging low over the concrete rows of factories and dim apartments in Rosewood, only ten students remained in the room: Masei Wang, William Woad White, Beiling Wong, Anna-Marie Wong, ‘Jim Wynyard’, Jennifer Xavier, Carlysle Yeoman, Theodora Yiannides, Antonio Zenobiara, and Zara Zirim.

Orpheus was by now perusing a pamphlet from a wiry rack near to the imposing door: Preparing for the Academy: a Guide to CHISEL, Courses, and Campus Life. None of it was new to him, having spent the last two weeks preparing himself for this day. Orpheus was so well-prepared that he had taken the time to memorise the way from the Aurelian Building to Tablinck Hall. The first attempt had left him stranded and wandering in circles around the narrow streets at the base of the Academy’s Ingle Hill (the young spectator got enraptured watching a tennis match among some students and didn’t find his way home until late evening). The second and third attempts were no better. On the fourth day, he managed to reach the keep of the Academy’s Old City, but he found himself marvelling at the might of the buildings and the mystery of the ruins that he forgot where he was meant to be going. Only yesterday, with a resolute mind, did he manage to direct his perambulations up Ingle Hill, through the magnificent Old City, then down the south side of the hill to Tablinck Hall. He walked said path three times to be sure, noting as he went the landmarks (There is the Iskander Building, and the equestrian statue of Senator Danse Maller, and Council Hall and the Upper Quadrangle, and the Archmage’s Tower, and ah, here is the Tablinck Building). Needless to say, Jim Wynyard was as prepared for his CHISEL exams as he could be. Now, having packed a sandwich from the kitchen and already eaten it, our boy was looking for something to do. He was about to go over the CHISEL descriptions again when a shadow obscured the sunlight from his perusing.

“Excuse me, but reading that pamphlet won’t increase your chances now,” spoke a prim voice, its owner a pale young lady with bulging eyes and a crown of coiffed hair. Indeed, a lady she was in her matching skirt suit with a blue tartan and cerulean purse. She was smiling smugly down at Orpheus, her face obscured by the shadow of the sun behind her.

“I’m only passing the time,” Orpheus said, calmly.

“Well, perhaps you would care to pass the time in conversation then?” She gestured to the empty couch, then sat when Orpheus nodded in welcome. “I’m Zara Zirim, how do you do?”

Scrunching his nose in confusion, Orpheus fumbled, “I’m O-… Oh, I’m James. Jim Wynyard. Pleased to meet you.” (He had read this greeting under the ‘Charisma’ section of the CHISEL handbook and figured now was an appropriate time to make use of it).

“Ah, Jim Wynyard.” Zara paused as if weighing up whether or not to say something. Her curiosity seemed to win as she proceeded to beg forgiveness for asking about the veracity of a tale regarding Jim and a certain curse of a dark slime which sealed his tongue shut. Perplexed, Orpheus could only answer in the negative.

“Who told you that?”

“Oh, only some of the girls at Graystone College. Gossip sure is strange!” She let out a well-trained laugh that set Orpheus at ease. “Anyways, where are you staying? My parents insisted I stay at the ladies’ college, since they think Canon City’s men aren’t to be trusted.”

“I’m staying in the Aurelian Building, just down near the ancient theatre,” said Orpheus, choosing not to comment on the state of Canon City. “I only just arrived here two weeks ago from the country.” He added, just to be safe.

“The country! How nice for you. I only arrived yesterday from the United Kingdom. I spent a good week of travel between the train and the voyage on the HMS Winston.”

Orpheus only nodded, unsure how to respond.

Zara grinned, now a more natural, joyful grin which reflected none of the smug superiority at their introduction. “My, two strangers in Canon City, come to study under the same roof! What a world…”

“Well, uh… what are you planning to study?”

“Diplomacy. On first glance, one might think that it is the influence of magicians that operates change in our society, but here’s the truth – and I will only ever tell you the truth Jim –” she added, slyly, “it is the tongue of a rhetorician that truly marks change. I have seen the most powerful Wizards in the world swayed from one side of a conflict to another by a well-placed word. I have seen a rousing speech move crowds ten times the size of any academic following. Men’s hearts are forged in ideas, not formulae. As they say, give me any Court Wizard, and I can tell you how their legacy was forged by a clever steward or a well-crafted letter. Rhetoric is the only discipline worth studying, for it is the only one that can pave the road to success.”

After hearing such an oration, Orpheus almost felt ashamed to reveal that he would be studying magic. He was about to overcome this barrier which restrained his tongue like a black slime when the examiner appeared in the doorway and called for “James Wynyard.” He excused himself and shuffled across the room. As his balmoral boots clicked on the polished stone floor, he heard Zara call out behind him, “Good luck!”

“State your name for the panel, please.”

The panel was a long table of ancient cedar wood presided over by five severe-looking professionals: Professor Vaneck, an old man in a tweed jacket, enormous glasses, and messy hair; Captain Jones, a young woman in an army uniform with her hair pinned up tight; Dr. Suisante, a dark man in an angular suit smoking a pipe; Mu. Papaioannou, an old woman with a constant frown in a robe clutching a slim bronze staff; and Nicky Blatic, a young person in a bright green cape and a feathered hat. Besides the panel, which perched on a raised platform like vultures, the room was equipped with some exercise equipment in one corner, in another, a certain collection of devices not dissimilar to those found in old Julius Whitecross’ office, and a stout podium at the room’s centre. This was where Orpheus now stood, uncomfortable in the dim red electrical lights which bore down on him. The old woman was looking expectantly at Orpheus over her tiny spectacles.

“Jim Wynyard.” He said.

“Mr. Wynyard, do you consent to having an ‘Abstraction’ spell cast on you to automatically determine your CHISEL stats?” Papaioannou asked, raising the bronze rod in her hand in anticipation of a ‘yes.’

John Andestinic had warned Orpheus about this, explaining that he must not allow them to cast any such spell on him. “Once they establish a mantic field around you, they will easily be able to see your name. Should that happen, your time in Canon City will come to a rapid close.” Orpheus had no wish to be exposed today.

“No,” he responded, boldly. A murmur dispersed along the panel.

The old Wizard was undisturbed. She exchanged the staff in her hand for a pencil and said, “Very well. We will now commence a series of analogue tests which will determine your aptitude in a variety of attributes. Each result will be scored out of ten and will be recorded for administrative purposes. At the completion of your studies, you will be allowed to take the test again, so do not worry if your results are not as good as you hope; this is only a diagnostic so we can understand where you’re at. Please begin by reading from this excerpt from the poem A Dance with Isolde…”

After reading the excerpt (softly and with some stumbling), they had Orpheus answer questions from a booklet which posed diagrams, complex ideas, or strenuous problems which he had to evaluate, discuss, or solve (which he did to varying degrees of success). He was then asked to flip a coin ten times and predict each result (which he did successfully eight times out of ten) and then to run around the room and catch balls as they were hurled at him by Captain Jones and then to bench press a bar which compounded in weight each time until he could lift no longer. In each of these, he was found to be average at best. When they finally came to the last test, Orpheus felt exhausted. His legs were shaking, his arms were weak, and his brain felt incredibly foggy.

“Now we will engage the final test,” explained the old professor. “We will be examining your capacity for spiritual connection, also known as Essence. Please proceed to the platform.”

The examining board watched as Orpheus dragged his feet toward the table with the complex mesh of bronze devices. Besides to assault him with balls during the ‘Haste’ test, the examiners had remained seated throughout the time and did not move as Orpheus approached the device.

Having performed similar tests with Father in his office, young Whitecross needed no instruction as he saw which device this was: a heliomantimeter. He stepped forward and gripped the handles as was familiar to him. He felt the buzz of the machine and the river-like flow of energy as it moved into him on one hand and out of him on the other, somehow passing through his soul wherever it was on his person.

“Stop!” Called old Papaioannou, still looking down as she read the printed read-out which was spilling out in front of her. “You started too early! The reader is off the charts. Please remove your hands and try again.”

Orpheus did as he was told, blushing at his apparent failure due to his eagerness.

The printer whirred as it spat its long tongue of grid paper before the panel. The Wizard’s eyes grew wide, only able to say, “huh.” Captain Jones leaned over Dr. Suisante to get a good look at the sheet.

“Impossible!” The Captain called out. Then, looking up, “Again please, young man.”

Orpheus went again, gripping the handles with uncertainty. Around him, the metal kept at its familiar, regular hum.

“It should be working fine,” he explained to the panel as he watched their perplexed expressions spread, “usually if the heliomantimeter fails, the pilot light will turn on.”

“He’s right,” nodded Blatic, obviously distressed by something.

“I’ve never seen anything like this…” muttered Suisante, falling back into his seat.

His heart dropping, Orpheus let go of the grips and leaned across the table to attempt a look for himself. “What is it?” Could it have been that bad?

After a long moment, Professor Vaneck spoke through pursed lips and furrowed brow. “James Wynyard, your Essence score is fifteen, the highest recorded in history.”

Once the administrative details were left to run their course, Mr Andestinic led Orpheus through the thin corridors and pleasant courts of black cobbles, all the while making plans for his new life here in the city.

“We’ll post you up in the Aurelian Building, starting tonight. During the week, I will have your student supplies sent to you; you’ll want to start studying quick sticks, since the CHISEL exams are in a week and a half. Lessons will start after midyear on the 21^st of Pentember, which is almost a month away. That should give you plenty of time to get genned up.”

“Excuse me Mr Andestinic,” Orpheus interrupted. “But what’s a chisel exam?” As they walked, he traced his hand along the rough, dark stone of the hill cliff-face, atop from which the imposing fortress of the ancient Academy bore down.

“It’s just a way for the Academy to measure your affinity for the things they deem important. It’s the state’s estimation of you, I suppose… Six letters, six numbers, and a name.” John glanced over at Orpheus as a worried look passed over the young man’s innocent face. “It’s nothing to get wound up over. They’ll just ask you some questions and before you know it you’ll be sitting in your first class!”

They soon arrived at the Aurelian Building, its white bricks glistening in the citrine light of the setting sun. They entered through the rear door, which backed right onto the black ridge, and which was endowed with carvings of floral and other natural motifs. The first atrium was handsome, and it was lined with cabinets of trophies and odd curios; the stairs that led up to the higher floors were equally lined with honour boards, frescoes, and tapestries. Beyond, a small, paved courtyard could be seen. Some young people were lounging about a tree, thin plumes of white smoke drifting from the cigarettes that they held lightly by their sides. They seemed to be laughing and so carefree that Orpheus almost thought the idyllic scene to be an illusion. Mr Andestinic led Orpheus along a corridor of closed doors and white wooden panels until they reached room number 022. The officer produced a key which he must have taken from the administration desk, and they entered into Orpheus’ new home.

The room was exceptionally small, made even more so by the plethora of furnishings. Every inch of the smooth wooden floor was well adorned with chests of drawers, plush-cushioned armchairs, and other odd items that Orpheus did not recognise. The sunshine yellow wallpaper (which seemed so ephemerally radiant in the evening light which spilled through the slats of the blinds) was concealed in certain areas by framed drawings of birds and pleasant sea-side scenes, their faded paper blending in well with the surrounding wall. A small writing desk and a cot were nestled in the corner behind the thing that really caught Orpheus’ eye – a large shelf packed with books. He turned to his guardian, who happened to be pressing his thumb against a small, dark stone embedded in the doorframe just beside the electric light switch. Oblivious to the magical effects this was having on the man and upon the room, Orpheus asked, “What is this place? Who lives here?”

“You do,” he said. With his spare hand, John pointed at the blue and gold sign which was fitted to the open door: WHITECROSS FELLOW DORMITORY. “Congratulations, Jim, you are the recipient of the 1940 Julius Whitecross fellowship prize, which includes your accommodation in this room. It’s all there in the official paperwork set up by Hrktos.” Finally, he removed his hand from the wall. He seemed more handsome somehow, and Orpheus realised that his grizzled look had become clean-shaven, the soot and sand from their travels now washed clean from his face and hair. Similarly, the film of dust and black soot which coated almost every surface of the room (especially around the fireplace) had now vanished, leaving the wooden panelling and tiled fireplace glistening with spotless purity. “This,” Andestinic pointed at the stone, which appeared inert and mundane in its mount on the wall, “is an Ūϙwοt Stone. It will cleanse you and the room in a jiffy, but I’d still recommend a proper clean when you can manage. There’s a large bathroom just down the hall. You’ll have to get used to sharing it with the other students.”

Orpheus, though initially amazed at this sudden revelation of such proximate magic coming with the news of his new home, now turned his gaze to the rug as he tugged at the hem of his sleeve.

“Mr Andestinic, I’ve lived alone my whole life, except for Father of course, who was just as private as I am. I’m not sure if my nerves could manage that, sir…”

The tenured detective smiled gently as he bent down so as to meet Orpheus’ gaze. “Son, you’ll soon find that the people of this world are really not as scary as you’ve been led to think. Just think of it like church: keep your gaze respectfully upturned, keep the chatter to a minimum, and only take practiced, precise actions – no need to get crazy. No need to make a mountain out of a molehill. If you goof it up, just know we’ve all been there, so nobody will rag on you. Got it?”

Shuffling nervously, Orpheus said, “Sometimes I don’t understand a word you say, sir.” Then, he nodded. “I’ve never been to church, but I see what you mean.”

Andestinic stood upright again, saying, “Right. Well maybe on Solday I will show you to my church if you like. In any case, I’ll come by again in a few days with some essentials.”

He moved for the door, tossing Orpheus the keys as he went out.

“It’s been a long day. You and me both could do with some shuteye.” John Andestinic winked at Orpheus Whitecross as he leaned forward to pull the door shut behind him. “It was nice to meet you today, Jim Wynyard. Try stay out of trouble.”

Having spent his entire life in solitude, Orpheus should have been more accustomed to being alone. Yet now, alone for the first time all day, the boy wished for nothing more than to be in somebody’s company. Though the books on the shelf called to him, a weight which had been growing in Orpheus’ chest all day like the swelling and crashing of a glacial river against a dam in spring now spilled over its lip, crashing down into the valley below. In a watershed of fear and panic and horror, Orpheus stood paralysed on the spot as shuddering and pathetic sobs washed over him. Warm tears shuffled down his face and wetted his collar as the events of the day overwhelmed him at last.

The worries which he had put off all day finally surfaced once again. Where is Father? Is he all right? What would he think of all this, him coming to Canon City? Why had he lied about what the world was really like? What the hell am I doing here?! Orpheus had no answers to any of these questions, and each one seemed more confusing and upsetting than the last. There was no rational way of organising any of what he was experiencing, no simple answer to his unending and terrible questions, nor was there any religious way of approaching his issues. Something told him that if he asked God for guidance on these matters, he would find no response. This thought only renewed his anxious sobs, the hopelessness of the situation hemming in on him. For a moment, he became angry, the room warping in tandem with his fury as blood rushed around his head. Vania Hrktos is obviously a powerful Wizard; why didn’t she do anything? Why couldn’t she bring him back?! Then, still angry, the blame moved to Andestinic, then to old useless powerless Julius Whitecross, then finally to himself. He should have been better. He should have been stronger. Maybe he should have been braver; what might have happened if he had gone with Hermeticus? Would he have had a chance to save his Father then?

His thoughts finally returned to Hermeticus. That wicked and dark Wizard who had presented himself to Orpheus this morning. “I shall explain all,” he had said.

Wiping his tears and fighting off the last of his shuddering sobs, Orpheus set his shoulders back and said out loud in his most resolute voice (though admittedly it was still shaky from the indeterminate amount of time he had been crying), “I shall find you Hermeticus. When I do, I shall best you and then you will explain all…”

Suddenly strengthened by his new resolution and by his hatred for the man (nay, villain) who had stolen his livelihood, Orpheus began to move himself again. He knew he had to take the opportunity now and today to memorise the scowl of that terrible stranger, to burn his face into the orchestra of his memory.

He threw off his shoes and lay flat on the bed, small tufts of dust pluming as he did so – residue from the Ūϙwοt Stone’s attempt to expunge the room of all grime. He decided that he would assign the piccolo to memorise Hermeticus, its lofty and stabbing tones calling forth his thin frame and cruel features. He began to envisage a silvery melody which set itself apart from the rest of the orchestra by way of its atonal sounds and syncopated rhythms. In no uncertain terms, he was sure that he would not let this man slip away into the recesses of his memory. The tune began with a long, drawn out note of a grey and off-putting exposition. This was his Father’s staff, wrongfully taken and maliciously wielded. Then, there was—

…

A rapping at the door interrupted Orpheus’ thoughts, the flautist having been stopped dead in his tracks. He plodded over to the other side of the room in his socks and opened the door. A young man perhaps only a year or two older than him stood in the corridor, smoothing out his well-groomed black hair. He wore a tailored suit of fine grey wool and glanced up and down at Orpheus’ simple attire as he said, “Hullo, my name is Ferris. Ferris Pavlov. I live across the hall and thought I might introduce myself. May I come in?”

He shook the other boy’s hand awkwardly as he turned to let him in. “Sure. The name’s… er… Jim Wynyard.”

A momentary look of uncertainty passed across Ferris’ face before he returned to his friendly demeanour. “Do you have a CHISEL score yet, Jim? My father had me do the test already, and I was quite pleased with the results.”

“Sorry, no. Not yet…”

Orpheus found himself suddenly awkward. The day spent with John had been easy, the detective expecting nothing of him and asking even less. Now that the young recluse found himself face-to-face with a true peer, he realised he had absolutely no experience in being social whatsoever. He stared obviously, though he was remiss to meet the other boy’s eyes, he shuffled strangely, and he fidgeted with his hands, unsure of what to do with them at all.

Ferris seemed to become quickly aware of this and took charge of the situation with practiced ease.

“This is an excellent room! May I sit down?” He said, somehow playing both the role of host and guest at once. Without waiting for a response, he threw himself comfortably into the nearest chair – a velvety number with a low back which he still managed to lounge upon. Orpheus found himself growing envious of his coolness almost instantly. “How did you come to reside here, chum?”

For his own part, Orpheus pulled up the chair from the writing desk and sat across from Ferris Pavlov, then said to him, “I’m the recipient of the Ju– the fellowship associated with the room.” He could not bring himself to speak his name. It was too personal, still too raw. He felt that if he said the wrong words, the whole truth might just come spilling out. Apparently, that would be a dangerous thing…

“Julius Whitecross took a shining to you did he?” Came Pavlov’s response, seemingly innocent of the panic twisting at Orpheus’ body. Or at least, his secretary I suppose. Nobody’s seen him in ages. Father thinks it’s a disgrace that a – well, disgraced – ‘Wizard’ could still be allowed to have a tower in the city and to be in cahoots with so many of the Council members even after everything. I tend to agree with him.”

“I’m sorry,” Orpheus began, “but who exactly is your father? And what is the Council?”

Pavlov put on a face of learned superiority. “My father is only Nikolay the Fortified, Wizard Minister of Annanvale. You do know where that is right?” Orpheus shook his head. “Gosh, chum. Where did you say you were from again? Anyway, Annanvale is the nice part of town, down by the lake and next to the Federal Reserve. It’s where most of the Council Wizards take up residence during their term in the city.”

Seeing Jim Wynyard’s puzzled expression, Ferris almost opened his mouth as if to explain further, then seemed to reconsider. “Perhaps I can explain further at dinner. Would you care to join me down at the dining hall? They’re serving plasditsij and it’s always best enjoyed piping [hot]. What do you say?”

Orpheus only nodded, by now completely lost for words. He pulled his shoes on and followed his new guide Ferris Pavlov down the corridor, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. They passed by the doors to the baths on their way to the stair, and Orpheus was about to comment on how pristine they felt and how much they reminded him of St Kilde of Arassos Isle. but, remembering Mr Andestinic’s reaction, decided against it.

They soon found themselves in the south part of the building, where a large set of doors opened onto a resplendent dining hall. At present, only about 20 students clustered in spores across the eight long tables, and the staff table had only two occupants who sat at opposite ends, but one could imagine the hundreds of students that might fit along these benches once the semester truly got under way. Throughout the room, metal footmen treaded with heavy steps as they ferried enormous trays of food that they served to each table. At one such table, a ratty looking girl in a large dress very much unsuited to the summer weather clicked her finger at one of the waiters, pointing at her glass with an expectant expression. The automaton stopped its course and turned back. Pointing its own finger at her glass, a smooth stream of liquid flowed from the point into her glass. Around them, regal portraits of old schoolmasters and -mistresses seemed to glare down upon the tables with the same expression of educated contempt that Ferris had demonstrated just minutes before, while above, countless little stone gargoyles and angels seemed to sing a silent hymn in praise of the carved-stone feast which hung suspended from the voussoir of the vaulted ceiling. Admittedly, it was only a small dining hall compared to some of the others higher up on the hill of the Academy, but how could Orpheus know any better than to stare up at this great feat of human engineering and marvel at his first true work of architectural art?

Pavlov looked about him with measured distaste, “Well it isn’t quite the Council Hall, but it is certainly better than some of the squalid housing they put the rabble in down in Waxhaven. Far less riffraff anyways. You should count yourself lucky to have ended up in the Aurelian Building, so that you may associate with a higher calibre of magical individuals.”

“Are you studying magic too, then?” Orpheus inquired as they sat down.

Ferris’s face reddened at this, but he quickly regained his resolve, his expression going flat as he said, “No, I have the luxury of studying literature and the arts, though I don’t plan on completely ruling out some magical education. However, if you plan on studying magic, you ought to get yourself familiar with how magical society operates, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

Orpheus did not know how to respond to this, and the silence of his lack of response might have drawn on longer had another boy joined them at their seats. He was introduced as Vanhim Shaw, and he bowed slightly in greeting. He seemed quite plain and dressed similarly thus, save for his extremely tall and conical mage’s cap which came to a point on a small, rounded bell. When he sat down or when he moved his head at all, the bell chimed softly, giving him a kind of pleasant melodic atmosphere or perhaps making him seem rather more like a cat than a nineteen-year-old.

“Vanhim, I was just explaining to Jim here about the Council and their doings, care to enlighten us?” Ferris poked between mouthfuls of plasditsij, which was a kind of rice dish with chicken and orange (Orpheus had to restrain himself immensely from attributing the flavours to Zirivan the Tantalising).

Vanhim spoke, his voice not quite as pleasant as the bell which joined him. “I refuse to talk about them. They’re just a bunch of grand-standing charlatans who think they can tell this city what to do and how to live when most of them only see it once every four years!”

“Shaw here’s just bellyaching because his mommy got taken off the council and reassigned to teaching. Haha!”

“At least my mother was on the council at all…” Vanhim said icily, and then, “and at least I’m doing her proud, studying magic instead of poetry!”

Pavlov soured at this, and they spent the rest of their dinner in silence, with Orpheus not finding the bravery to break the ice, and the others being too proud to speak at all. Eventually, they each finished eating and left the dining hall, Vanhim going in one direction and ‘Jim’ and Ferris going together in the other.

When they finally reached the corridor where their rooms were, Ferris Pavlov looked to Orpheus, the friendly demeanour now gone from his face, replaced with the sour look from dinner.

“I’ve met him you know.” He said, looking over Orpheus’ shoulder at the sign on his door. “Julius Whitecross.”

Orpheus’ heart skipped a beat, and his body twitched.

“My father showed me his mug once, and he told me, ‘House Whitecross is our enemy. They are dirt to us.’” Ferris continued.

Orpheus wanted to tell him that he had nothing to do with Julius. That he was just a lucky student. Yet in that moment, he could not bring himself to lie.

Before Orpheus even could register what was happening, Ferris had crossed the distance between them and then some, pressing the Whitecross heir against the door. His finger pointed at his chest, Ferris Pavlov said, “I know who you are. You look just like him. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Just know that your Whitecross blood makes you scum to me.”

Then suddenly he was gone, the lock turning in his door across the hall, and Orpheus was completely alone once more.

Having started the day with no name at all, Orpheus was about to receive the second name in a matter of hours, this time no less voluntarily than the first. His new name brought with it a certain pleasure that reminded him of the homecoming of Odysseus. Those words were real, and they had instantly become a dear possession to him, and one which could not be reclaimed now that it had been given. He had found himself repeatedly murmuring the name as they journeyed, ‘Orpheus Whitecross. Orpheus Whitecross,’ with a smile, no less.

Naturally, Mr Andestinic noticed this behaviour, but he only thought to comment on it now, as the car passed by the dense foliage of mangroves on the Interstate 5 overpass in slow procession behind a row of other automobiles. When the car came to a complete stop, the engine’s hum calming to a lesser drone, he overheard Orpheus’ muttering, and with a look of consideration said, “Well we can’t have that, now can we?” After Orpheus’ response of a confused expression, he continued, “You can’t be introducing yourself as Orpheus Whitecross to just any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Folks will have already heard what happened with your Papa, and he wasn’t exactly vocal about you around town. Word travels fast, especially around here.” He stroked his beard, thinking. “We need to give you a cover, at least until we set the record straight about a few things; and we need to keep you safe too, in case the assailant decides to find you again…”

“But I like my name!” Protested Orpheus, turning completely in his carseat to face John. Since the traffic had rended them almost stationary by now, John afforded a glance, spotting the satchel of bare possessions which Orpheus had packed. He seemed to consider.

“Do you like it enough to protect it, sonny? To keep it hidden until the appropriate time? Perhaps you remember Odysseus, when he returned home, first arrived as Aethon before he revealed himself.”

“You’ve read the Odyssey?” Orpheus responded, incredulous.

“Of course. It was required reading where I went to school…” He trailed off.

“Are there classes like that here?” Orpheus pressed, easily distracted.

“Sure there are. You should consider learning Giothien; it’s a valuable language for magic besides all the literature you can read with it.” Mr Andestinic gazed out the Panoramique window. They were coming out from the treeline now, and the city was coming into view again opposite the glimmering rice fields. He turned to face his ward as they came to a stop again. “So, Orpheus,” he said, the sombre look returning to his face, “what do you think?”

Orpheus hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Very well. What should my pseudonym be then?”

For a moment, Mr Andestinic had that same faraway look in his eyes and his hand went to his coat pocket, clutching at something. Then, he smiled softly, cleverly even, “James Wynyard,” he turned to Orpheus. “If anyone asks, you lived in a small, secluded hamlet with no name which never got any news of the outside world. When your grandparents died, I came out to investigate whether there was any foul play, and since they were your primary carers, I decided to bring you here under the protection of the State.” He glanced over at Orpheus at last, a worried frown forming in his brow, “Try to keep the details vague and don’t bring up your childhood if you can avoid it. Understand?”

Orpheus looked out on the city which finally seemed within reach. Now that they were closer, he could truly see what an absolute mountain of civilisation it was, its two peaks pointing to the sky like the hands of saints in icons; the first, the Sauer building, was glorious in the summer sun of the early evening, which still shone high even so late in the day, while the second was a dark castle atop a grassy hill peppered with spires in all manner of opulent colours: porphyry, silver, gold, blue and white, vermillion, each competing against the other on the calm backdrop of the cerulean sky. Something told Orpheus that this was the ancient heart of the Academy, with its Wizard towers sprawling from the base of the hill to the roiling lake at the edge of the city. The stone structures of the old city seemed to blend naturally where they met with the metal buildings of the modern one, creating a gentle slope of ever advancing towers from the city’s suburban edge to its acropolitan centre. Indeed, Canoniç had an immense footprint that spanned from the Federal Reserve in the east (the high-reaching trees of which were only just visible beyond the gabled manor roofs of the eastern suburbs) to the thick plumes of smoke and fog which tickled the clouds from the warehouses and power stations visible in the west. With this entire, spectacular view before him, the view of his incoming life, of his certain euphoric future, how could Orpheus have denied any request which would enable him entry into this new world of freedom? How could he not understand? A picture began to form in his mind of how he would live in Canon City, how one could choose to live visibly or invisibly in such an immense and expecting city. He realised, naturally, that he would now have to live invisibly, and he resolved that, when the chance arose, he would snatch up every opportunity he could to become visible.

Orpheus nodded, and he began to gently murmur ‘James Wynyard’ as they pulled under a little metal awning with a hut that read ‘STOP FOR INSPECTION.’ A long row of similar structures lined the span of the highway heading into the city, and just beyond the leftmost one (which John was now driving into) was a larger concrete building painted with large blue letters: U.S. ARMY / CAMP WAXHAVEN. Mr Andestinic leant out the window to address the bored young man sitting in the wooden booth. He was lean, with olive skin and close-shaven black hair under a green cap; beads of sweat were pooling around his wire-rimmed glasses as he watched the cars mill about the customs station.

“Ah, Cadet Most, a pleasure to see you” Mr Andestinic began with some familiarity. “I have a citizen in need of new papers here; we’ll need to come inside, I expect.”

A perplexed look darkened Cadet Most’s ovular face as he craned his neck to look beyond Andestinic into the passenger’s seat. Then, he stood up, waved at an officer standing by the door of the concrete building, and turned back to Mr Andestinic.

“Good to see you too, Officer Andestinic. Corporal Bollardo will see you inside.” Most smiled pleasantly, but it didn’t hide the nervous appearance that had come over him when he recognised his superior officer arriving at his station.

Andestinic brought the car to a stop in a place designated to them by Corporal Bollardo, who was a stout man whose eyebrows extended like wings much longer than his moustachios did. The two officers embraced each other warmly, and greeted each other as old friends: “How are you old chum?” “Very well, very well. Hrktos has me escorting this young fella here.” Bollardo examined Orpheus as he held the door for them to enter the complex. “Looking to enlist, son?” He asked sincerely. “Everything that’s happening on the Apsian sub-continent, we may need all the help we can get…” Andestinic shook his head as the three of them pulled up to the counter, “No, no. Jim here doesn’t know anything about that. We need to write up some identity papers for the kid.”

While the men began to speak in very official tones, Orpheus scanned the ante-room they were in, which reminded him of the salon at home, but more practical and serious. Plastic chairs lined the space, and men and women in uniforms hurried themselves through the many doors and corridors throughout. These people all walked with measured steps and postured gaits, being distracted by nothing as they resolutely soldiered forth to their duties. He watched them go by with eager curiosity and a growing paranoia.

What if one of these people somehow recognised him? It was possible that one of the men from Whitecross Mill could have joined the army. Then what? Orpheus knew the lie would stop somewhere. One of these officers would see the deception on his face and he would be ostracised from the city, condemned forever to wander the wasteland beyond and cry to himself, what if?

Luckily, Corporal Bollardo seemed to occupied with finding out if his old friend was ever getting married to scrutinise Orpheus too much, and eventually, they were allowed to leave. The newly made James Wynyard followed behind Mr Andestinic to the car with his new identity papers in hand, heart beating strong in his chest. They were made of a crisp, pristine paper and with a little photograph and all the details that the state apparently thought necessary. Name: James Wynyard; Place of origin: Ciral County; Date of birth: 24^th of Quattor 1923. They hadn’t known his exact date of birth, so Corporal Bollardo decided to make today his birthday. There was also room at the bottom of the page for more writing under the heading CHISEL, but when asked, Mr Andestinic simply said he’d explain later. From Orpheus’ first contact with the papers, they seemed heavy and dull to the touch, and seemed to emit a black, bitter atmosphere that weighed Orpheus down with shame. He wanted to tear up this vile tool of deceipt and announce his real name, I am Orpheus Whitecross, for God’s sake! But he restrained himself, remembering the pietas of Aeneas. If Aeneas could control his urges for the greater good, then so could Orpheus.

“Right,” began Mr Andestinic as he started the car, “Let’s see if we can’t get you enrolled, hey? If we hurry, we may still have time to catch the Academy administrators before they go home for the day. Otherwise, you’ll have to stay with me tonight…”

Orpheus only nodded in response. His focus had now returned to watching the city go by out the window. The great mound of modernity remained on their right the entire drive as they trailed along the street which cut through the low-seated houses and businesses of this area and when they turned right onto ‘Broadway’, the steel caps of the skyscrapers were visible directly ahead some kilometres away still. Orpheus was astounded, however, at just how many people there were in the street. The workday was now coming to a close, and the men and women of Canon City were donning their hats (which somehow managed to stay on despite the extreme winds) and closing up their shops that lined the wide street. Cable cars took up part of the middle lane, their green and yellow hulls slowly sliding along the corridor left to them by the cars as if gliding having been hoisted upon the overhead cables. At one point, they passed under a bridge of black concrete which ferried a handsome red train (he had heard of these previously from somewhere). At another, three people stood on a corner near a bakery playing sweet music from brass instruments (Orpheus smiled at this, for he had never imagined that music could come from anything but the radio and drunk factory workers). But, for the most part, the buildings slowly scrolled by like film reel, their almost identical brick facades fading into the rear windows of the cab. The shops were selling all kinds of things the likes of which Orpheus had never imagined, and they got ever stranger the closer they came to the black hill speckled with towers. Signs announced for sale radios, typewriters, and more! or more books than you could name and (further along Broadway) wands, divining bowls, psephoi, or any other magical accoutrements you may need, as well as the occasional tailor or outlet. Orpheus admired the several handsome outfits which the people on the street were sporting, between the square-cut suits and wide hats of the men and the boxy dresses and silk gloves of the women, and he imagined how each fabric must enlighten the senses. He also wondered, as they passed another magical supply store, whether he would be in need of other tools for magic (like Father had in his office) or if his wand would suffice.

Andestinic glanced over and tutted after Orpheus let out a heavy sigh. Following the boy’s line of sight to the shops and pedestrians outside, he said, “How’s about tomorrow, we go buy you some things? I bet you’re just dying to get ahold of more books than you have, hm?”

“Thank you, sir, but…” He paused. He wasn’t sure if this was a rude question to ask, and he didn’t even know where the thought came from. “Well, who will pay for it? I haven’t got any money.”

“Well, so long as you’re still 17, Archmage Hrktos will be minding your pappy’s estate, but we can still withdraw some money for you until then. So, think of it as a birthday gift from your old man.”

Orpheus seemed satisfied with this. He didn’t know what a birthday gift was, but the thought of receiving anything from his Father, even with him missing, was comforting. Still, the thought of old Julius Whitecross hidden so far off, brought tears to Orpheus’ eye, and he began to cry as the great city street brought them in between the ancient mount and the urban mound. John let the boy be as he sobbed in silence.

---

They arrived in the main office of the Academy just in time to stop the severe-looking young lady from punching her timecard. She rolled her eyes at the interruption, but allowed herself to be brought back to the admissions desk to begin processing the new student.

They had turned off of Broadway when the metal buildings on the right side of the street were nothing alike the brick ones on the left. Driving along the much older Vinipter Parade, Orpheus could now see the fantastic domed structures and quaint courtyards of the college, and the towers of wizards and spires of churches served their duty of verticality with sober indifference to the nearby towers of modernity. They eventually parked before a stout stone building some short way up the low slant of the Parade’s hill that eventuated in the castled peak of the old city. Inside was where they had managed to catch the lady they now sat with, whose desk informed Orpheus of her name, Mme Beatrice Fremont.

As before, Mr Andestinic was speaking on Orpheus’ behalf, and when Mme Fremont began to shake her head as she scanned her logbook with the end of her pencil, the officer replied with a grin, “Ah, by the way, Mme Fremont, Archmage Vania Hrktos asked me to bring this letter of recommendation for Mr Wynyard. Here.” As he said this, he reached into the inner pocket of his dark coat and procured a sharp-cornered letter labelled “For the admittance of one James Wynyard.” Orpheus was astounded by this, as not only had he not seen Hrktos give Andestinic any letter, he could not imagine how she could have learned at any point to address the letter on behalf of James Wynyard. Still, despite these impossibilities, he could identify the Archmage’s distinct dweomer on the envelope – the metallic yet roseate taste in his mouth returning instantly at the sight of it, familiar from his brief interaction with her earlier that morning. He nodded eagerly, as if to communicate all of this to the woman whose judgement would determine Orpheus’ livelihood. Mme Fremont ‘hummed’, then read the letter, her youthful eyes flitting across the page with scrutinous severity.

After her close examination, she finally looked up and into Orpheus’ eyes. For a moment, he thought that her gaze would pierce right through him, exposing all and damning him to obscurity for eternity. Instead, she said, “Very well, you will be admitted, James Wynyard. Classes start on the first of Pentember. What track would you like to enroll in, young man? We offer diplomacy, academics, ar—”

Orpheus never let her finish. He stood up from his seat and announced, over-eager:

“I want to study magic, please!”