Chapter Thirteen
Harold’s office was dominated by shelves that climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, sagging slightly under the weight of leather-bound tomes, journals, and the occasional curious artifact—a mounted beetle, a globe with faded markings, a crystal prism catching the light from the tall windows.
The windows overlooked the quadrangle with its skeletal outlines of bare trees and cobbled paths slick from the autumn rain.
Faded curtains hung open, allowing the pale October light to spill in.
A small fire crackled in the stone hearth, the scent of burning coal mingling with the musk of books and wood.
A battered Persian rug covered the center of the floor, fraying at the edges, its muted reds and blues softening the hard wooden boards beneath.
Two armchairs, well-worn and inviting, faced a massive mahogany desk cluttered with papers and a scattering of brass instruments whose purpose Isla could only guess at.
Behind the desk, the vice chancellor sat in a high-backed chair, the leather dark and polished, its arms smoothed by years of use.
Harold’s eyes were studying her as she tried not to squirm like a child. “I’m sorry, Isla. Though I know those words are poor compensation for what you’ve been through.”
Isla hesitated, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t his fault, yet the weight of recent events pressed heavily on her. Finally, she managed a small measured nod. “I ... appreciate your words, sir. It doesn’t make what happened any easier, but it’s ... nice to know I’m not alone in all this.”
His eyes always seemed to see more than she wanted as she spoke that last part. Could he sense her emotions now ... or could she block them?
“You are absolutely not alone in this,” he said gently.
“Edmund, Juliette, and Andrew have already informed me they intend to watch over you round the clock. I offered to expand the rota, but Edmund felt it best to keep the number limited. He and I are continuing our investigation, though as you know, the university must carry on as normal.”
He frowned slightly. She could tell he was torn between wanting to keep her safe and wanting to continue the work they did here, which in time, would aid the war effort.
“Though ...” He hesitated before continuing, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to take some leave. To get away from here for a while.”
Did he mean long term? Isla’s stomach tightened. She couldn’t afford to lose her position—not after how hard she’d worked to earn it. Jobs like hers didn’t come easily, and she wasn’t about to step aside so someone else could take her place.
“Thank you for the offer, but I wish to stay,” she said, her tone a little clipped.
Harold nodded as though he had expected her answer and understood her reasons without needing them explained. A small reassuring smile softened his face. “I want you here, Professor. Never doubt that. Even if you left for a time, there would always be a place for you at Osbaldwick University.”
She gave him a small nod, appreciating his reassurance but not willing to risk it. Though the kindness in his tone nearly undid her; she felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes but refused to let them fall. Strength, always strength.
“In the meantime,” Harold continued, “I’ve arranged a few activities to help you better understand the world in which you now find yourself.”
He leaned forward and lifted a thick, solid-looking textbook from his desk. Its dark green cloth had golden lettering on the spine. The pages were slightly yellowed.
He set it before her with a faint smile. “A bit of light bedtime reading for you. It’s the latest edition. Some of our students find it ... enlightening.”
She gave a quiet laugh, the sound brief but genuine. “Light reading, you say? Somehow I doubt that.” She felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. “At this point, I’ll take any enlightenment I can get.”
Harold’s smile deepened. “You’re a bright woman, Isla. You’ll catch on soon enough.”
“Let’s hope so,” she replied with a wry tilt of her mouth. Looking at the book, she studied the title.
Embossed in tidy serif letters it read:
An Elementary Guide to the Aetheric Arts and Their Practical Applications
A Concise Manual for Beginners and the Incurably Curious
She opened the cover. Inside it was stamped Osbaldwick University and the date read 1902 Edition.
Turning a page, she ran her fingers gently over the title of the chapter and scanned the text.
Who are the Aetheric Art users?
Long ago, humanity was touched by the Aether, and fragments of its essence remained dormant in certain lineages. Over generations, only some have inherited these Aetheric traces strongly enough to awaken under the right emotional or intellectual conditions. These people are the Aetherians.
She looked up. Harold clearly had this book memorized, as this extract matched that of the explanation he had given her in the library.
“You’re welcome to attend any of the classes we offer at the university,” Harold said.
“You can sit in with the students when you’re not teaching.
But to ease you in gently, I thought it best to begin with something in a more private setting.
” He paused, eyes twinkling. “I’ve arranged for you to take a pottery class this evening. ”
“A pottery class?” she echoed, uncertain whether to laugh.
“Yes,” he said, amused by her tone. “One of our students has agreed to open the studio for you ... and your bodyguards.”
He smirked slightly at the word, clearly sharing her private amusement at the idea of Juliette and Andrew in such a role, though there was no doubt he trusted them to do it well.
After they’d pulled her from the pool, Isla could hardly disagree.
And having Edmund close by was, she admitted to herself, only adding to her feeling of safety.
“His name is George, and he is a medical student here at the university,” Harold continued.
“He works in the gardens to pay his way and studies the Aetheric Arts—a Terra Summoner, like yourself. He finds that working with clay steadies his focus. The earth responds best to calm intention, not force. Pottery helps him listen to that rhythm.”
He leaned back, folding his hands. “It’s patient work. You’ll learn to feel when the clay resists you and when it yields—much like the Aether itself. A fitting lesson for any Terra.”
“Okay,” Isla said slowly, eyeing him with mild suspicion. “And what will the others do while I’m learning my craft?”
Harold’s eyes twinkled. “They’ll be doing pottery the good old-fashioned way—with their hands, not their elements. No wielding for them.” He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Though I imagine Juliette might prove rather useful when it comes to the glazing. Saves on coal, at least.”
Isla laughed. “Pottery it is, then,” she said, a faint smile ghosting across her lips.
“Let’s hope the clay behaves.” Harold chuckled softly.
The grandfather clock chimed in the corner, its sound steady. Isla gathered her belongings, pressing the green book to her chest.
“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly. “For ... everything.”
He nodded once. “Go and get your hands dirty, Isla. You will find the earth has more to teach you than I ever could. ... Oh, and—please, call me Harold.”