Chapter 4
Maeve
BY THE TIME A DEEP rumble from the clock signals the end of the class period, I’m still simmering from my debate with Professor D’Arques.
Under my skin, my storm magic sparks, and as I close my notebook and cap my inkwell, I take a few slow breaths, trying to calm the energy wanting to burst out of me.
He doesn’t know me, I think as I stand and slip my bookbag over my shoulder. He has no idea what I’m capable of.
Isis shifts where she’s coiled under my hair, hiding herself further.
I start down the stairs toward the front of the classroom, where Professor D’Arques is standing beside his lectern, hands clasped behind his back, mouth in a firm line while he watches the students exit the classroom.
I tell myself not to look at him as I pass, not to let him see how frustrated he made me.
But my eyes have other plans.
Right as I pass him, my gaze flicks up. And he’s looking directly at me.
His eyes are dark, slightly narrowed, and ancient. I wonder how old he is, how many years those eyes have seen.
My magic reacts to his intense gaze, like lightning flickering in my blood, looking for somewhere to strike.
It sends a brief electric current pulsing over my skin, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
Isis hisses, and I quickly tear my stare away and pass through the doorway and into the crowded corridor without another glance back.
Even if my eyes—and what feels like my instincts—fight me every step of the way.
In the hallway, I join the flow of students moving to their next classes, but for just a moment, the air around me feels pressurized, the way it does as a summer storm rolls in.
One of the tall windows in the history corridor trembles as I pass, humming softly with the energy rolling off me, and the warlock next to me laughs at his friend when her hair starts to float, making her look like a feather duster.
“Maeve,” Isis hisses. “Your static is shocking me.” She slithers from her spot around my neck and into my bookbag, where my skin can no longer shock her.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
I take a deep breath and flick my fingers, trying to disperse the electrical buildup—and forget about Professor D’Arques’s dark eyes and stern mouth.
Because I really don’t have time for that this semester.
“THIS IS A GOOD START,” Professor Azula says, her fiery crimson eyes scanning the parchment lying on her desk.
She’s a professor of advanced elemental magic and is my senior advisor, meant to assist me through my fellowship application process.
Many students never even meet with their advisors—like my stepbrother, who graduated last year—but I’m determined to do everything I can to get that fellowship for next year, even if it means meeting with the intense professor every week.
“A good start, Professor?”
I worked on that fellowship essay all summer, since deciding I wanted to apply to the Arcanum Collective this year. But she thinks it’s a start?
“Yes.” She lifts her head, leveling me with an intense stare.
“But it needs to be more logical, Miss Vandermere. Right now, it’s too .
. . fervent. The Arcanum Collective isn’t looking for an impassioned student with big dreams and bigger ideas; they’re looking for a graduate with focus and deliberation.
Someone who’s steadfast and controlled and will be able to contribute to the advancements and achievements of the guild. ”
Controlled.
There’s that word again. I’m growing tired of hearing it. It makes me feel like I’m something to be smothered and contained.
“I am controlled,” I say, voice meticulously careful.
But Professor Azula must hear the frustration simmering beneath my words, because she arches a sharp crimson brow and says, “Oh? Then how is your demonstration coming along?”
In addition to my application and written essay, part of the process includes demonstrating the magic I intend to further study should I be accepted into the collective: my storm energy.
I was able to hold the sphere together for longer today than I ever have in the past, so that’s something, at least.
“I’m making progress,” I say, and this time, I keep my voice even more level, ensuring she has nothing to pick apart in my intonation.
Professor Azula makes a small humming sound, then reaches out to stroke a hand over the head of the iguana perched beside her on her desk: her spirit companion, though I don’t know its name.
“Good. It may feel like you have all the time in the world, but the coming months will go fast, and you must be prepared by the end of this semester. And remember: Potential is meaningless without discipline. Uncontrolled magic is a liability.” She turns my parchment around with one twist of her fingers and slides it toward me.
“Write this again. Less emotion, more intention.”
Trying very hard not to grit my teeth, I nod and slip the parchment into my bookbag—where about five other drafts of this essay are already waiting.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say as I push to my feet.
It’s the end of my school day, and all I want right now is to sink into a deep pool in the bathhouse and scream under the water, where no one can hear me.
It’s one of my rituals—and it keeps me from frying anyone with a lightning bolt when I get too pissed off.
“I’m hard on you, Miss Vandermere, because I believe in you,” Professor Azula says when my hand wraps around the door handle. “Don’t forget that.”
A small sigh slips from my lips, and I soften the tension in my shoulders. “I know.”
If only she knew how hard I am on myself.
There’s no comparison.