Chapter 11 The Phaedrus #2
Back in her room, Claudia is enraged. She may not be a real rhetorician yet, but she could be.
Already she’s started devouring the books that Olivier loaned her, and there’s one more piece of Professor Olivier’s advice that Claudia could follow if she’s really, truly desperate: learn from the best, who is also the worst—Cassius MacLeod.
He’s the darling of Rhetoric. He’s every professor’s perfect gold star.
He’s even the High Sage’s favorite. If she could push herself to his level, or—even better—if she could best him, she could truly earn her place.
She could make discoveries that prove her too precious to lose.
She could earn the favor of Professor Lamour, and she could crush the man who has made her life hell since she arrived.
She can beat him at his own game. All she has to do is watch her rival as closely as possible and then do exactly what he does, but better.
She’ll steal the valedictorian’s blessing right out from under him, and she knows exactly who can help her do it.
“Alistair, what does Cassius do outside of class?” Claudia asks, sitting across from him in the Treaty.
He swallows his bite of bread. “He works.”
“And?”
“And what? He reads. He studies. Practices speeches. Writes papers. Reads some more.”
“What does he read? What’s he writing? Tell me everything you know.”
He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
“We’re in different disciplines, so I can’t say I’m all that familiar with his materials.
All I know is this: He wakes up before the sun every morning and prays to Malevimus.
I’m not sure why, since gods almost never respond to first-years, but I suppose if anyone were to be an exception, it would be him.
After class, he reads either in his room or at the library.
He prefers the Lexora over the Caedleian because he likes it dark.
He publishes at least one paper a quarter, and he usually works on those either in his room or at his desk in the High Sage’s office.
And as far as his apprenticeship goes, his duties mostly include paperwork and keeping a watchful eye on us Cygni to report back to Triche. ”
“Hm,” she says, sipping her tea.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m going to do exactly what he does, become as smart as he is, and then I’m going to destroy him.”
He arches his brow. “Someone’s fiery today.”
“Yes, well, Professor Lamour thinks I’m a ‘dispassionate student,’” she grumbles. “I’m going to prove him wrong.”
“Dispassionate? I would never use that word to describe you.”
“Right?!” She groans. “He infuriates me. Almost as much as Cassius.”
“Let the spite fuel you,” he says with sarcastic tranquility. He then raises his hands in a priestlike gesture, as if blessing the air with pettiness.
Claudia smirks. “Aren’t we supposed to be motivated purely by desire?”
“Yes. The desire to spite your enemies.”
“Cheers to that,” she says with a laugh, toasting her teacup before taking another sip.
He smiles down at his hands and fidgets. “So, Claudia…”
“So, Alistair?”
Clearing his throat, he asks, “Remember how you said that if I help you beat Cassius, you’ll help me impress Angel?”
“Of course.”
“I want to do something for him. Something that’s clearly romantic that shows I’m interested.”
“Ooh, what are you thinking?” she asks, leaning in close.
“Well, that’s where you come in. I do not know. Just something. Do you have any suggestions?”
She reaches into the pocket of her robes and pulls out the spider lily that Dorian gave her. “Flowers? They’re always romantic.”
“A bit cliché, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but not if you grow them yourself. You are a Scientia major, after all. I’m sure you could conjure something entirely unique in the greenhouse.”
He nods, staring off while a smile spreads over his face. “I like this. Keep going.”
“You could name the blooms after him, or make them his favorite color, or maybe find some clever way to honor Mathematica with them? You know, to show that you’re interested not only in him but also in his passions.”
“Math and flowers? How, though?”
She stirs her tea idly, pondering. “Maybe a certain number in a bouquet? Or… oh, I know! Effeuiller la marguerite!”
“Effe-what?”
“It’s a French expression that means ‘to pluck the petals of a daisy.’ Surely you must know the game; you pluck flower petals while saying, ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’” She demonstrates on her spider lily.
“If it lands on ‘he loves me,’ it means that the object of your desire loves you back. You could design each flower to have the perfect number of petals so that when Angel plays the game, he will know you have romantic feelings for him.”
She finishes plucking the petals. They land on he loves me not, which is surprisingly disappointing. Of course, she doesn’t think Dorian loves her, nor does she expect him to. She certainly doesn’t love him. Still, for reasons she can’t explain, it stings.
She sighs and hands Alistair the stem of her unpetaled spider lily.
He takes it, eyes wide with awe. “You are a genius.”
Rolling her eyes, she laughs. “Tell that to Lamour.”
When she returns to her room, Bishop is sitting on her pillow, curled over a slip of paper.
Another entry from Odette.
October 4th
I hate Lamour. I hate him. I cannot stand our lessons.
I don’t think he is particularly bright.
He bores me. I can’t pay attention to anything he says or anything he asks me to read.
I stare up at the stars and think of Marcherie.
I study the meanings of different constellations and think of Marcherie.
That star is the sharp point of her nose, the other is the freckle below her eye.
The constellations, I realize, are all part of a grander, more perfect shape.
They all represent different things—love, death, destruction, euphoria, heartbreak, sex, misery, fear; all of them, Marcherie. Everything, everywhere, points to her.
I love her. I want to swallow her and keep her inside my skin. I want my bones to keep her safe, my blood to keep her warm.
Perhaps this is paranoia talking, but if the killer who slaughtered the members of the Eyes of Andromeda is still here, I can think of only one way to stay safe and alive for my perfect girl, and that is to find Sidarphion and make him perform his duties.
As the god of stars and nightmares, he should be protecting those who have been blessed with his magic.
The anxiety is too much for me. Everyone frightens me. Even, and I hate to say it, Marcherie does not see me fully relaxed. There is a glint in her eye, and beautiful as it is, I do not trust it.
I spoke to Cassius about it all. I kept as much information to myself as possible, because I can’t be sure he is innocent. Anyone could be the killer.
I don’t know, though. I really don’t. There is so much love in our group.
While Angel and Cassius have drifted apart, we’ve brought in an absolute gem—Alistair Salone.
He’s a Scientia major with too many quirks to name, but he makes me laugh, and he’s a damn good cook.
I can’t imagine any of them hurting me. In truth, I can’t imagine any of us hurting one another. I think we’re soulmates. All of us.
That’s why I want to keep living. For us.
Sidarphion is the answer, and Cassius can help me find him, even if he doesn’t realize it.
I led him into my trap over a meal in the Treaty.
- What do you believe to have happened to Sidarphion? I asked him.
- I have my theories.
- Such as?
- None that I have enough confidence to share.
He paused.
- Yet, he added.
- Please tell me.
- Only since you begged.
Cassius believes that Sidarphion is asleep. That happens to idle gods, you know. All that power and nothing to do with it. It weighs them down, tugs at their eyes until they can no longer keep them open.
- Can he be awoken? I asked.
- Theoretically, Cassius said.
He was nearly right where I wanted him.
See, Cassius often speaks of Starlake, his family’s manor.
I need to go there. I need to hunt through his family’s secrets.
I want to go now, which is significantly earlier than our current plan of going there for our holiday break instead of returning to our homes.
Cassius’s family is gone. The whole place belongs to him alone.
He said that when we go there in December, we will have weeks of revelry all to ourselves.
There are parties at Cygnus, yes, but too often I find myself feeling either anxious or bored.
Being bored is worse. Everyone watches us—me, March, Cas, and Bones.
(Did I already explain why Alistair’s nickname is Bones?
Haha—he would kill me if I wrote it down…
Well, hopefully he wouldn’t actually kill me.)
The other scholars follow our lead. They sit on edge all night lurking, waiting for a chance to talk to us.
All those eyes leave us with no privacy, no honesty.
The plan to holiday at Starlake came about after the last “bacchanal” here at Cygnus, though I can hardly call it that.
It was a bacchanal in theme, but nothing more.
I want an authentic experience, one that separates my mind from my body.
I want to be naked and feeling. I want to be strange and miraculous. I want to be undying.
And I need answers. I need protection.
So, I turned to Cas, and I said:
- Do you think a true bacchanal might be the way to wake a sleeping god?
- It’s possible.
- Can we agree that a true bacchanal will never happen here?
- Certainly.
- Where could we go, if we wanted one?
Marcherie’s hand curved over my shoulder and squeezed. A subtle way of asking to go back to her room. It took everything in me to keep my eyes toward Cassius.
- Maybe we can go to Starlake a little early, he said.
I beamed at him.
- When? I asked.
- Tomorrow night.
- Excellent. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will wake a god.
If I am not killed tonight.