2. Of Tea and Dark Tidings
2
Of Tea and Dark Tidings
Dorian
I picked up the whistling kettle and poured the boiling water into my favorite mug. The copper kettle had been a gift from a former student. It was originally charmed to play Mozart when the water boiled. I'd modified the spell to play an old Irish tune instead. The melody of "The Parting Glass" filled my kitchen, reminding me of my grandmother's cottage in County Cork where I'd first learned to speak with spirits over tea and soda bread.
Eyes closed, I inhaled the familiar scent of Earl Grey tea and smiled. It was as pleasant and welcome a scent as the warm vanilla of old book bindings or the delicate black petals of the Ebonrose.
Bones, my faithful skeletal hound companion, clattered about the cottage, his bony tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm as he chased after a rather lively little murkling. He was wearing the tiny bow tie I'd enchanted for him last week. It was black silk with silver skulls that glowed in the dark. Rather dashing, if I did say so myself, though he had a terrible habit of losing them in the garden when he got too excited digging up interesting bones.
“Now, now, Bones,” I chided gently, “leave the little murkling be or we’ll have sour milk in the morning.”
The murkling darted under the couch, its tiny, translucent wings fluttering in agitation. Bones skidded to a halt, his skull tilting quizzically as he peered into the shadowy depths. With a resigned rattle of his bones, he turned and trotted over to me, nuzzling his smooth skull against my leg.
“That's a good boy,” I murmured, scratching him affectionately under his jaw. “Why don't we take our tea out to the garden? The moonflowers should be blooming any moment now.”
I grabbed a well-worn book from the shelf, tucked it under my arm, and headed out the back door, passing under strings of fairy lights made from captured starlight in mason jars. My cottage was a modest affair by Blackstone standards, but I'd made it my own over the years. Shelves of spell books lined every wall, interspersed with potted plants in various states of deliberately artistic decay. A collection of mismatched teacups floated gently in the air, organizing themselves by era. The skull-patterned curtains (a cheeky gift from a colleague) fluttered in a breeze that smelled of Earl Grey and old parchment.
The hawthorn tree I'd transplanted from home stood guard at the garden's edge, its ancient magic mingling with the newer spells I'd woven. The Fair Folk might have less power here in America, but I wasn't about to risk their displeasure by forgetting the old ways.
As I settled into my favorite wicker chair, the moonflowers unfurled their luminous petals, casting an ethereal glow across the garden. Bones curled up at my feet, his bones softly clinking together as he settled into a contented pile.
I had just cracked open my book, a delightfully obscure tome on the migratory patterns of spectral moths, when the soft crunch of footsteps on the garden path caught my attention. I glanced up, my eyebrows rising in surprise as I recognized the stern figure of Dean Elise Blackwood approaching through the moonlit garden. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back in its usual severe bun, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face. She wore her customary black robes, but I noticed she'd pinned her favorite brooch to the collar, which was a delicate silver spider that actually caught flies. A practical woman, our dean, who believed even jewelry should earn its keep.
“Dean Blackwood,” I greeted her warmly, rising from my seat with a flourish of my coat. “What an unexpected pleasure! I would have prepared a tray of those delightful little cucumber sandwiches you so enjoy had I known you were coming.”
The Dean's expression remained somber, her dark eyes reflecting the shimmering silver glow of the moonflowers. “Professor Crowe,” she acknowledged with a curt nod. “I'm afraid this isn't a social call.”
A flicker of unease passed through me, and Bones, ever attuned to my emotions, let out a soft, concerned rattle. I reached down to give his skull a reassuring pat before turning my full attention to the Dean.
“Ah, I see,” I said, my tone growing more serious. “Please, come. Sit. Can I get you anything? I'm afraid I'm all out of cucumber sandwiches, but I do have some Irish tea brack I baked this morning—Gran's recipe, with a splash of whiskey for the spirits. Both kinds.” I smiled at my own joke, though the Dean seemed less amused.
Dean Blackwood's fingers twitched slightly as she declined. “No, thank you, Professor.” She glanced at the shadows gathering in the garden corners. “I'm here on a matter of grave importance.”
We took our seats and Bones curled up at my feet as I took up my teacup again.
“I understand you've been observing some rather peculiar spirit activity as of late?” said the dean.
I nodded, a frown tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Indeed, I have. The spirits have been uncharacteristically restless, even agitated. Just the other evening, I came across a spirit in the cemetery that was positively belligerent, hurling spectral objects and howling like a banshee. It took a great deal of coaxing and a rather potent calming charm to settle the poor fellow down.”
The Dean's brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “And this isn't an isolated incident, I take it?”
“Far from it, I'm afraid,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I've noticed spirits lingering in places they shouldn't be.”
“Such as?”
I shrugged and sipped my tea. “Well, in the library.”
Her frown deepened. “Professor, there are always ghosts in Fenshaw Library.”
“Book sprites, dusk wraiths, and ink eaters, certainly. But not ghasts and shades, Madam Dean. Those are highly unusual to find anywhere outside the necropolis itself.”
The Dean leaned forward, her expression grave. “Professor Crowe, I must ask. Have you any inkling as to what might be causing this unusual spirit activity?”
I took a thoughtful sip of my tea, the warm, fragrant liquid soothing my nerves. “In truth, Madam Dean, I've been turning that very question over in my mind for days now. The spirits are not typically prone to such erratic behavior without cause. Something, or someone, must be agitating them.”
I pulled out my research journal and added another observation to my growing list. The patterns were troubling: spirits appearing in unusual locations, displaying uncharacteristic aggression, some even manifesting without being summoned. Classic signs of magical interference, but with an odd twist I couldn't quite pin down.
“There's something we're missing, Bones,” I murmured, flipping through my notes. “The spirits aren't just restless. They're searching for something. And whatever it is, it has them scared.” I paused at a sketch I'd made of unusual rune markings I'd found in the older sections of the necropolis. They seemed familiar somehow, tugging at old memories I couldn't quite grasp.
“If only they could tell us directly what's wrong,” I sighed, “but fear makes spirits speak in riddles. Rather like my grandmother when she's trying to teach a particularly difficult lesson.”
“Indeed,” the Dean murmured, her fingers drumming a pensive rhythm against the arm of her chair. “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. I'm afraid I must impose upon you, Professor Crowe, to take on an additional responsibility this semester.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh?”
“Professor Reedy, who was scheduled to teach the introductory necromancy course this term, has been... injured. An incident in the ossuary, I'm told.”
“Heavens, is she all right?”
The dean waved a dismissive hand. “She’s being tended to in the infirmary as we speak.”
I leaned back in my chair, a pensive frown on my face. “Forgive my skepticism, Madam Dean, but I cannot help but wonder if there might be a connection between Professor Reedy's misfortune and the unsettling behavior of the spirits. It seems a rather peculiar coincidence, does it not?”
The dean pursed her lips, a glimmer of uncertainty flickering in her dark eyes. “While I understand your concern, Professor Crowe, I must remind you that speculation without evidence is a dangerous path to tread. We must focus on the task at hand. It is our duty to ensure that our students receive the education they require, even in the face of these unusual circumstances.”
I inclined my head, though the nagging sense of unease remained. “Of course, and normally I’d be delighted to take on the introductory class…But with so little warning…”
The dean fixed me with a piercing gaze, her voice low and measured. “I am well aware of the challenges this last-minute change presents, Professor Crowe. However, I would not have come to you if I did not believe you were uniquely qualified to handle this responsibility.”
She paused, a flicker of something inscrutable passing across her features. “In recognition of the inconvenience, and as a gesture of my appreciation for your willingness to take on this additional burden, I am prepared to offer you something in return. Something I believe you have been seeking for quite some time.”
My breath caught and my heart quickened. “The Chain of Echoes.”
The Dean nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I am willing to grant you access to the artifact, for a limited time, of course. I trust you will use this opportunity wisely, Professor.”
I set my teacup down, my fingers trembling slightly against the delicate porcelain. My heart raced at the prospect of finally gaining access to the legendary Chain of Echoes, an artifact that had haunted my dreams and consumed my waking thoughts for years. Its secrets whispered to me from the depths of ancient tomes and the murmured tales of wandering spirits. To hold it in my hands, to unravel its mysteries...it was an opportunity I could scarcely refuse.
And yet, even as the thrill of anticipation coursed through my veins, a flicker of unease stirred in the shadowed recesses of my mind. Unbidden, a memory surged forth, as vivid and visceral as the day it had seared itself into my soul.
The acrid scent of burning sage and the metallic tang of blood were heavy in the air. The intricate circle of runes etched upon the stone floor, pulsing with an eerie, otherworldly light. And at the center of it all, my parents, their faces contorted in a rictus of agony as they clutched the ancient chain, its links crackling with dark energy.
I had been but a lad then, barely old enough to comprehend the enormity of what they were attempting. They had forgotten the old wisdom, the careful balance our people had maintained with death for generations. In their hunger for power, they'd abandoned the protective circles of rowan and salt that every Irish witch knew to draw, thinking themselves above such “folksy” precautions.
They had spoken of it in hushed whispers, their eyes alight with a fervor that bordered on madness. To bind their souls to younger, stronger vessels, to escape the inexorable march of time and the looming specter of death.
But something had gone wrong. Terribly, horrifically wrong. The runes had flared with a blinding intensity, the air crackling with the raw power of the necromantic energies they had unleashed. And then the screams. Oh, the screams. They echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the stone walls, searing themselves into my young mind.
I shook my head, dispelling the ghosts of the past that clung to me like a shroud. No, this was different. I was not my parents, consumed by a reckless hunger for power and immortality. I sought knowledge, yes, but tempered with wisdom and a profound respect for the delicate balance between life and death.
With a deep breath, I met the Dean's gaze, my voice steady and resolute. “I accept your offer, Madam Dean.”
The dean nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. “Very well, Professor Crowe. I shall have the necessary arrangements made.” She reached into her robes and withdrew a slim, leather-bound folder, holding it out to me. “Here are the files for your new students. I trust you will find everything in order.”
I accepted the folder with a gracious nod, my fingers caressing the smooth, supple leather.
As the dean took her leave, I settled back into my chair, Bones nestling his skull against my leg with a contented clatter. I cracked open the folder, my eyes skimming over the names and faces of my new charges. Five students in total, a rather intimate gathering for an introductory course, but not unusual. Necromancy was not one of Blackstone’s largest specializations.
My eyes skimmed down the list of names, taking in the brief biographical details provided for each student. And then, a name that caught my eye, accompanied by a small, hand-drawn star: Ren Wickens. The name beside it, likely a birth name, had been neatly crossed out and changed alongside the gender marker.
I frowned. “This won’t do at all,” I said. “Bones, fetch me the white out. Let’s fix this file up properly for our records.”
Bones scampered off, his tail rattling like a merry wind chime. He returned moments later, a small bottle of white out clenched between his teeth.
“Thank you, my faithful friend,” I said, taking the bottle and giving Bones an affectionate pat on the head. I carefully applied the white out over the birth name, erasing it from existence. Ren Wickens was the only name that belonged on that file.
As I closed the folder, a soft breeze rustled through the garden, carrying with it the faint whispers of wandering spirits. The moonflowers swayed gently, their luminous petals casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the stone path.
“Change is in the air, Bones,” I murmured, my fingers absently tracing the embossed letters on the folder's cover. “I can feel it in my bones. Quite literally, in fact.” I chuckled at my own joke, and Bones let out an appreciative rattle.
But beneath the levity, a sense of unease lingered, like a chill mist clinging to the hollows of my soul. The unusual spirit activity, Professor Reedy's mysterious injury, and now the dean's unexpected visit and tantalizing offer...it all seemed to be woven together in a tapestry of secrets and shadows.
I sighed and stood, draining the last of my now-cold tea. “Come, Bones. I’m afraid we’ll have to miss saying goodnight to the moonflowers tonight. It’ll be early nights for us this semester, it seems.”
Bones let out a mournful rattle, his skeletal head drooping in disappointment.
I couldn't help but chuckle at his dismay, reaching down to give his smooth skull a comforting pat. “I know, I know. But duty calls, my bony friend. We have young minds to mold and mysteries to unravel.”
I gathered up my book and empty teacup, casting one last wistful glance at the moonlit garden before heading back inside the cozy warmth of the cottage. Bones followed close at my heels, his bones softly clinking with each step.
As I settled the teacup in the sink, my gaze fell upon the folder the Dean had given me, now resting on the worn wooden countertop. The weight of responsibility settled heavy on my shoulders, mingling with a thrill of anticipation that sent a shiver down my spine.
Teaching the introductory necromancy course was no small feat, even under the best of circumstances. But with the added challenge of the unusual spirit activity and the tantalizing promise of access to the Chain of Echoes, I knew I was in for a semester unlike any other.
I hummed an old protection charm under my breath, the Gaelic words as familiar as breathing. “Codladh sámh,” I whispered to the garden spirits, promising them peaceful sleep. Some traditions traveled well across the ocean, and the spirits here seemed to appreciate the old language as much as those back home.
I pulled my favorite raven feather quill from its stand and began drafting lesson plans. The candlelight flickered across the parchment as I wrote. Bones settled at my feet with a content rattle, and somewhere in the garden, the moonflowers sang their silver song to the stars.
“Well,” I mused, dipping my quill in ink that shimmered like captured moonlight, “at least it won't be boring.”