Chapter 7 Rhetoric
RHETORIC
Malevimus, God of Wit and Secrets, grants the gift of truth. Keeper of all secrets, he hears the prayers of scholars asking to know what and who they can trust.
Claudia wakes up to the sound of banging on the door.
Bishop glares up at her—he had been sleeping in a ball by her shoulder.
He’s always grumpy when he gets woken up by loud noises.
Claudia’s father would often come home in the still-dark hours of the morning, shouting and slamming doors after a night of gambling money away. Bishop would hiss and pout all day.
She stumbles out of bed and pulls open the curtain. The sun hasn’t risen yet. Stretching her arms up, she yawns loudly when there’s another—louder—knock. Cracking the door open, she pokes her head out and scowls at Cassius. He’s glaring right back.
“Do you greet every door with such aggression, or just mine?”
He arches a brow. “Do you want to be late?”
“No, but I need to be dressed. Needs come before wants.” She slams the door and runs her fingers through her hair while darting across the room to her wardrobe.
“Thirty seconds,” Cassius warns.
She groans, throwing open the wardrobe doors and pulling on a robe over her chemise.
Shit, it’s backward. She tries to pull it off, but her arm is stuck in the wrong sleeve.
Why is this robe so damn complicated? She wrestles with the silky fabric when Cassius yells, “Fifteen seconds, Jolicoeur. I’m not letting you make me late. ”
Finally, she gets the robe on correctly and yanks on her stockings. While she’s stepping into her black shoes, Cassius throws open the door. Bishop is lying in full view on the bed, and he makes eye contact with the intruder. Cassius gasps, jumping back, straight into Claudia.
Panicking, he grabs her shoulders and says, “Don’t move. There’s a snake on your bed. Stay still and I’ll kill it.”
“You most certainly will not. He’s my pet.”
Claudia tries to push his arms off, but he’s too strong. This close, she can take in his spiced, almost smoky scent. He smells like coffee on a cold autumn night.
His eyes narrow and his jaw drops. “You have a snake in your room on purpose? Are you mad?”
She shrugs. “He’s friendly. His name is Bishop.”
“You named a snake after the clergy?”
“No, I named him after the chess piece because of the shape of his head.”
He palms his forehead and laughs in disbelief. “You can’t possibly think you’re going to be able to keep him here.”
“I haven’t seen any rule stating he’s not allowed.”
“It’s common sense, Jolicoeur. The High Sage will never allow this.”
“Well, who’s going to tell him?”
“I will,” a girl snaps from the doorway.
She lets herself in and stands before Cassius and Claudia with her hands on her hips.
It’s the singer who scowled at her yesterday during their tour.
Exceptionally tall with sleek black hair down to her waist, the girl looks like a heroine on the cover of a penny dreadful.
The purple Musices emblem on her chest sits like a badge of honor.
Cassius finally lets go of Claudia, and she rushes over to Bishop to pick him up from the bed. He wraps around her arm and his head settles in her hand. He’s calm until Claudia approaches Cassius and the girl—then Bishop hisses. Claudia bops him on the nose with her finger.
“Don’t come any closer,” the Musices student says, lifting her hands as if she’ll shove Claudia if she takes another step.
“You don’t get to command me in my own room.”
“This is Odette’s room. Not yours.”
“Odette is dead.”
The girl winces. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
Oh, not this again. Claudia scowls at the girl, then at Cassius, then back at the girl. “Who are you to barge in here uninvited and accuse me of something I didn’t do?”
“I’m Marcherie. Odette’s partner. And I know it was you.”
Bishop hisses again and Claudia doesn’t punish him, but his hostility is not helping their case. She takes a deep breath and a step back.
“I promise, Marcherie, I had nothing to do with Odette’s passing.
I’m very sorry for your loss. I know how it feels to lose someone you love and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Now, I’m sure you’ve decided not to like me because I’m taking Odette’s place, and that’s fine.
Honestly, I don’t care. But please, please, don’t take it out on Bishop. ”
Marcherie and Cassius look at each other and seem to have a conversation with only their eyes.
Is that some sort of power from the gods that Claudia doesn’t know about?
She feels so far behind everyone here. She can barely pronounce the names of the gods, much less understand the full capabilities of their magic.
To get caught up, she’s at the mercy of people like Cassius who only want to see her fail.
Finally, the two of them look back at her and Marcherie asks, “Where are you keeping him?”
She gestures to the entire room. “He likes it here.”
“You don’t even have him in a cage? You just let a vicious snake roam around? What if he gets out? What if he attacks one of us in the night?”
Cassius looks up at the clock. “Can we have this conversation another time? We have to go.”
Claudia ignores him completely, keeping her eyes on Marcherie. “He won’t hurt anyone. I promise. He’s only hissing now because you’re threatening him.”
“He’s a reptile. He doesn’t understand what I’m saying.”
Bishop hisses again. Claudia shushes him harshly and cuts her eyes to Marcherie. “He’s reading your body language, which is needlessly hostile.”
“It’s purposefully hostile.” She tosses her heavy hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to tell the High Sage immediately.” Marcherie walks toward the door, but Claudia charges ahead of her, blocking the exit.
“How can I change your mind?” Claudia asks, eyes wide, brows raised.
Marcherie grits her teeth. “Get out of my way.”
“There must be something I can do.”
“No.”
She can feel Bishop getting ready to strike. Quickly, she tosses a warning glare down at him. He slinks back in her hand obediently. “I’m not moving until we come to an agreement.”
Marcherie scoffs. “You can’t stand there forever.”
Claudia straightens her spine. “You can’t make me move.”
They glare at each other in heated silence until Cassius groans, stepping between them and pointing at the clock.
“We do not have time for this.” He glowers at Claudia.
“Star Girl, get your snake an enclosure immediately and we’ll think about keeping him a secret.
” Turning his head, he says, “Marcherie, if she doesn’t get this sorted, we’ll tell the High Sage together.
Good? Good.” He pushes open the door, his jaw clenched and his brows tightly pinched in frustration. “Now, come on. We’re already late.”
It’s a short walk to Professor Olivier’s class on rhetorical mastery, and Cassius is a liar—they aren’t late by Claudia’s standards.
Sure, they’re the last to arrive, but they’re here before the professor, and that’s good enough for her.
Tomorrow, afforded with the privilege of walking to class without an escort, Claudia plans to sleep in a little longer.
There are about twenty other students in the room scribbling ferociously. Once Claudia takes her seat—the only seat left—she sees a prompt written across the blackboard: DEFINE GOOD.
That’s it? It seems too easy. But maybe it only feels easy for her because she is good. For others, like Cassius sitting next to her, goodness is probably an indefinable, arcane concept. Claudia picks up the quill and dips it in their shared inkwell.
Good is the absence of evil.
After a pause, she crosses that out. If that were true, then she couldn’t be good, for she has done the ultimate evil—she killed someone. Her own father. She drove a blade through his chest and licked his blood from her teeth like an animal.
But she is still good. She simply needs a less rigid definition.
To be good is to put others before the self.
But that’s wrong, too, because she’s still good even though she put herself above everyone she knows in order to come here, and she would do it again. What others want is not always good. Goodness must be able to exist in its own right. It can’t be defined by the absence of something.
Goodness is
She stares at the words for too long. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she realizes Cassius is already done with his response.
In fact, he’s been done—the ink is dry and his paper is face down.
Her heart pounds. She can’t let him see her struggle with something so simple.
Why can’t she do it? One definition. Just one sentence. It shouldn’t be hard.
Goodness is when everything is right, and
FUCK. That’s the start of the dumbest sentence ever written.
Again, she crosses it out. She needs a string of impressive words to cover the fact that she has no idea how to define good in a way that includes herself.
Good girls don’t lie, and they certainly don’t kill.
Good girls aren’t curious or mouthy or masochistic or weak.
And good girls aren’t this dumb. Good girls know how to write good words.
Claudia can’t even do that.
I don’t know. I am not good. I am stained.
This tiny admission of guilt makes her feel a little better. It’s a tease of a confession, a taste of relief. With an exasperated sigh, she crumples up her paper and shoves it in her bag before grabbing a clean sheet. She needs to sound smart. Convincing. Good.
Focus, she thinks. Good is what you’re pretending to be. Just write it down.