Chapter 23 Raven
Raven
There was everything.
—Henry James, The Turn of the Screw
“Jesus Christ,” Atticus blurts out.
“I don’t think that’s him,” Dorian jokes.
I shush them both. I’ve never seen a real skeleton before. It isn’t anything like the plastic models I recall from high school science class. The bones are yellowed and rotted, and clumps of hair still dangle from the skull. Here and there, hints of flesh cling to the bone.
“You guys, it’s real,” I tell them. “A real dead body.”
It takes a second for it to sink in. This isn’t some Halloween decoration. This isn’t a prank.
Someone died down here.
Atticus moves as if to scream, but Dorian clamps his hand over his mouth. Atticus stares at him with panicked eyes, his voice muffled. He tries to jerk away, but Dorian holds him tight.
“Don’t,” Dorian says, shaking his head. Atticus’s nostrils flare as he breathes hard against his glove. “I know, I’m freaked out, too, but people can’t know we’re down here.”
Once he’s sure that Atticus won’t scream, Dorian lowers his hand. Atticus still looks terrified, but he swallows it down. Dorian turns to me, eyes hard. “This is a bad idea. We need to leave. Now.”
He pulls Atticus toward the door. But I don’t follow. We need answers, and I know where to look for them.
I pull out the book from my bag.
The Life’s Work of Adelina Ward.
I stare at the cover as if it might spring open and devour us whole.
“Raven, what are you doing?” Dorian asks. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Maybe the book will tell us something about what happened here.” I open it to the first page. Just to see. Just to read. The script is delicate, if a little hurried. Some letters are smeared, and the pages are thick and sometimes tattered. I’m transfixed by it.
“We can read it later, let’s just go!” Atticus hisses through his teeth. I ignore him. He doesn’t see the potential here.
“It’s a diary,” I say. “The first entry, it’s dated from 1917.” Then I read the first line, “ ‘Everyone said it couldn’t be done.’ ” I pause. The rest of the page is smeared, the ink faded. “I can’t read the rest.” I move to flip the page, but Dorian puts a gloved hand on top of mine, stopping me.
“It’s just a dead body. It’s not going to hurt us,” I say, tempering my annoyance.
I’m right, and he knows it. He glances at Atticus, who looks like he might vomit.
“We came all the way down here. Let’s see this through. This might be our last shot here, Atticus,” I remind him. “Do you really want to run away now?”
Atticus swallows thickly. “Dead people freak me out,” he says, but he stays put. I’ve won.
Dorian sighs. “Fine, Raven, wait. I want us to try something,” he says.
“Try what?”
He takes off his gloves and holds out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
I stare at his bare fingers, at his skin. We’ve never touched before. And somehow, the prospect feels oddly intimate. I glance in Atticus’s direction.
Atticus stares at Dorian, battling himself, before he comes over. “I’m going to hate this.”
“I know,” Dorian says.
He places one hand on the book, and Atticus places his hand on Dorian’s, and they wait for me to do the same. I reach out tentatively, wondering what we’ll see. Too late to stop myself, I join them, and I’m sucked into inky blackness.
—
I’m teleported somewhere else…another time, another place.
We’re not underground anymore. Sunlight streams into large windows, casting puddles of light onto a polished desk. Students dressed in black robes sit at attention. We’re in a classroom. At Sibylline. The school crest hangs on a plaque above the door, a single eye watching over everyone.
I’m in the middle of the classroom, still holding on to Dorian’s hand. It’s as solid as the new world around me. Atticus is here, too. We stare at each other, wondering if this is really happening.
I try to ask where we are, but I can’t. My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I’m simply an observer. We’re shades traveling through history, haunting another time. His power has pulled us into the journal, into the memories imprinted when it was held.
Dorian looks at me, nodding, assuring me that this is okay, and I turn back to the scene in front of us. A teacher lectures a classroom of students.
“—elements require balance,” he says, finishing an elaborate alchemical circle on the chalkboard.
“The natural world requires an equilibrium. Much like Newton’s laws of motion, there are laws of magic.
For example, Newton’s second law states that the acceleration of an object is directly proportional to the force applied to it.
In other words, the stronger the spell caster, the bigger the result.
Finally, Newton’s third law dictates that when there is an action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction.
When a spell caster exerts his will, the world itself pushes back.
In this way the balance of forces is maintained. Let me show you how this works.”
The professor writes a series of equations on the board, prompting everyone in the room to open their journals and take notes.
One student stands out among the rest. She’s sitting at the front of the class, her head bowed as she writes in a leather-bound book.
It’s the same book Atticus took from Professor White.
Adelina.
She’s small in stature, her auburn hair cut into a short, wavy bob, stylish for the time.
A smattering of freckles dots the bridge of her nose, and her bright green eyes look like emeralds.
Like the other students, she’s wearing black robes.
Around her neck is a delicate silver chain, and she keeps one hand wrapped around the pendant as she writes furiously.
I notice she has a graded test tucked under the journal. She aced it.
But she’s not writing down what the teacher is saying. She’s scribbling a mixture of Greek, Latin, and…Akkadian, almost like a secret code. In fact, she’s not paying attention to the lesson at all; she’s working on something else entirely.
The teacher drones on about the balancing force of nature until Adelina raises her hand. “Yes?” the teacher asks curiously.
Adelina looks up from her journal, her face bright with anticipation as she asks, “What about chaos?”
“Chaos?”
“Yes, primordial chaos. The chasm from which the universe was born.”
The professor furrows his brow. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Miss Ward.”
“Do the same laws apply for the manipulation of chaos?”
Students in the class glance at each other, confused.
The teacher looks somewhat uncomfortable, but he answers the question anyway. “Some early mages believed that chaos was the fifth element, yes, but they found that it was impossible to apply the same mechanics to it. The equations fall apart, leaving us unable to manipulate it.”
“So then you’re wrong,” Adelina says.
The professor’s jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You said that the laws apply to everything. But not to chaos. So you’re wrong.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, almost haughty.
Whispers rise up in the classroom.
The professor’s eyes dart left and right, studying the students’ reactions.
He takes a deep breath and says, “In this instance, we’re looking at the applied mechanics of spell work.
Since we do not understand the mechanics of this fifth element or the magic related to it, there is no point in discussing them. Chaos is not relevant.”
“Then how did the universe begin? All of the elements we are discussing rose out of the primordial void of chaos, so they must somehow be related to it. The laws of these elements must relate to the laws of chaos in some as yet undetermined manner. Correct?”
The class buzzes with nervous anticipation, the students glancing from the professor to Adelina and back. The teacher maintains his calm. “Nothing can come from nothing, Miss Ward.”
“Not unless you have the right tools,” she says, her speech quickening with excitement. “Like a powerful wand—”
The professor cuts her off with a raised hand. “That’s enough for today. Thank you, everyone. Class dismissed.”
The students file out of the room, and the vision shifts, the classroom fading from sight, replaced by a different scene.
We’re in an apartment, though not one I recognize.
There’s a record player scratching out an old song, a velvet chaise in the living room, and an old-fashioned radio on the floor.
Books upon books upon books stand like leaning towers beside it, with loose papers and rolled parchments and fountain pens dipped in ink scattered about the floor.
A young woman I don’t recognize storms into the room.
She has flowing brown curls wrapped with ribbons in a neat bun atop her head.
She’s wearing a long silk skirt, a blouse with wide sleeves, and heeled boots, looking like a proper Edwardian-era socialite.
She marches in, a book clutched in one hand and a wide-brimmed hat full of flowers in another.
She looks at the mess of the living room and groans.
Adelina follows the woman. She is dressed in a similar style, but she’s wearing a pleated skirt that’s a little wrinkled, and her hair is messy. It’s as if she’s been up all night studying. Deep shadows are beneath her sparkling green eyes.
“You don’t understand, Mary!” she cries. “This will work!”
“No, Adelina,” says Mary, spinning around in front of us, oblivious to our presence. “You’re only going to make trouble for yourself. These equations are dangerous.”
Adelina scoffs, rolls her eyes, and moves about the room, gathering her things.
She takes a book with a green leather cover from the shelf and stuffs it into her schoolbag.
There is something familiar about the book, like I’ve seen it once before on a shelf when I was a child, but I can’t remember where.
Before I can get a better look, it’s already gone from sight.
Adelina’s readying herself for class. She grabs two more books and a stack of papers from a nearby desk.