10. Sam A Message #2
Curiously, Quinn seemed somewhat less ebullient as he walked back toward the center of campus.
He had a distracted, pensive air to him, as though some very serious thoughts had carried him far away.
No doubt that is why he didn’t notice the pine needles swirling around his feet, shifting and shaping themselves as if scattered by a fitful wind.
I noticed. I looked quickly in all directions but could see no one.
This part of campus, lacking dormitories and classrooms, could be quite silent at certain times of day.
Suddenly the path before Quinn was blown clear.
He stopped, eyes alert, abruptly aware of his surroundings: to his right, the black iron fence, bordered by yews, that abutted the road and encircled the campus; to his left, a row of tall pines lining the walkway.
And now, all around him, pine needles hung suspended in the air, undulating gently like ocean waves.
The sun came through in patches, dotting the ground with flecks of light, and the waves rose higher until they surrounded Quinn, a startled Moses at the bottom of an unexpected ocean.
He only stared. Perhaps he imagined that this was some whimsical display of talent, a spectacle designed to dazzle or delight.
But Commonwealth students were not given to fanciful performances.
I was sure that Simeon’s moment of revenge had arrived.
I sent Quinn a warning: a sense of urgency, a need to turn back.
He didn’t budge. Ah, a man accustomed to ignoring his own heart.
I tried again. Quinn only squinted, looking more intrigued than worried, as the waves of pine needles around him drifted, gathering now before him on the path, forming a tall, gyrating funnel.
Useless man! What else could I do? If he wouldn’t heed the warning, he would have to learn the consequences for himself.
The funnel lifted, still swirling, its point slowly elevating.
Quinn watched attentively, as if observing a curious experiment.
The funnel stretched upward past the treetops, its point near the ground as sharp as a spear.
And now it began to tip, preparing to launch.
Quinn frowned. Finally! Finally he understood.
This was no wondrous whimsy; it was a weapon.
But still Quinn didn’t move. Was he staring it down? What did he imagine this would accomplish? For the length of several heartbeats he stood immobile, facing the spear head on. And then, with a great surging gust of wind, it flew toward him, hurled by the arm of some invisible giant.
Swiftly, Quinn crouched low, turning his back toward the projectile and covering his head with his arms. Thousands of pine needles pattered against his back, drumming ceaselessly for half a minute, falling to the ground afterward in swirling eddies, restless but spent, then drifting languidly across the walkway, gathering in disordered clumps. Afterward, stillness.
A pair of running feet. Another student with wide eyes and a flapping coat approached as Quinn cautiously stood up. “Are you quite all right?” the student demanded, looking into Quinn’s face with concern. “What was that?”
“I’m fine.” Quinn smiled reassuringly. “Just fine. Though I have no idea what it was. Perhaps some poor student has had his experiment go awry.”
The young man looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “You should report it to the dean of students. Malicious castings are a violation of the university’s code of conduct, as I’m sure you know.”
“Thank you very much for your concern. That’s very kind.”
They parted ways, and the solicitous young man didn’t turn around as he walked away. Only I saw Quinn’s back, then, as he made his way toward the Brig. The coat was undamaged, but it had begun to change color. Blood spread across the seamed fabric like a bloom.
Quinn walked with deliberate steps into the Brig and mounted the stairs.
He passed two students coming the other way and greeted them briefly.
Entering his rooms, he placed his satchel down carefully and let out a small breath of relief.
He stood with his back to the wardrobe mirror and slowly turned to look over his shoulder.
The blood now covered his entire back. You will remember my weakness at the sight of blood; I could barely look.
I’m ashamed to say that I focused all my attention on the ceiling as Quinn, suppressing groans of pain, removed his coat.
I heard it drop to the floor. “Demonios,” Quinn swore.
Hazarding a quick glance, I saw the white shirt pasted to his skin, soaked through.
Suffering spirits! This was an advanced enchantment, that could so lacerate the skin without leaving the slightest scratch on the shirt or the coat.
Simeon’s abilities were apparently progressing rapidly.
Quinn grunted as he slowly edged the back of the shirt upward.
Then he fell silent. Reluctantly, I turned away from the cobwebs on the ceiling to steal a look.
The shirt was still on, but he had peeled it off his back and rolled it up against his neck, exposing the whole of his slender back to the mirror.
Clem was concentrating on deciphering the words etched by a thousand tiny cuts into his skin:
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE
I was astonished. But Quinn didn’t look surprised.
Grim-faced, he allowed the wet shirt to fall back down.
He opened the wardrobe and took out the gray autumn cape, draping it gently over his shoulders.
He tucked the spectacles into the pocket of his trousers; the fox pin was still in place.
Then, carrying only his room key, he left the Brig.
Perhaps Quinn looked a little odd, wearing a woolen cape on a warm day, but no one seemed to notice.
A short walk took him to the Oyster, and I briefly wondered if the assault had imbalanced his mind; this wasn’t the moment for fine dining.
But Quinn directed his steps to the back of the building, toward the servants’ entrance.
The double doors for deliveries stood open, and he coolly followed the tiled corridor into the long, massive kitchen.
In the afternoon lull, slow preparations were underway for dinner: the peeling of potatoes, the scrubbing of pots, the kneading of bread dough, the assembly of late-summer fruit pies.
Quinn slowed his steps as he approached a long wooden table where three young women were shucking corn. They looked up as he approached.
“Clem!” Vera exclaimed.
“Good afternoon.” Quinn attempted a small bow and immediately caught himself. “Vera, could I trouble you for a little help?”
Vera blinked, surprised, but she glanced at the other two, who nodded wordlessly.
“Is there a room where…” Quinn hesitated. “A private room somewhere?”
One of the corn shuckers giggled, and the other raised her eyebrows.
Vera rolled her eyes. “Ignore them. Yes.” She led Quinn back the way he had come, talking as she walked. “Clem, I was going to come see you myself, because when I unwrapped the gown I found something shocking.” She cast a sideways glance at him as they passed into the delivery corridor.
“Is that right?” Quinn asked faintly. He opened the swinging door, wincing, and held it open for Vera.
“Yes. Clem, you repaired the gown! It looks like new.”
Quinn smiled weakly. “You caught me.”
“That’s well beyond first-year enchantment.
” She led him into a long, sunny room with windows high up near the ceiling.
Here, hooks on the walls and shelves below them stored the servants’ personal belongings.
A cluster of chairs stood around a low table with an unfinished card game.
She turned to confront Quinn, arms crossed.
“Are you some kind of prodigy? It would be nice to know.”
Quinn looked around. “Do you have a sink?”
Vera looked at him quizzically. “Through there is a lavatory.” She gestured toward the rear of the room.
Quinn made for the lavatory with unsteady steps.
The heat and pain—perhaps, too, the loss of blood—had finally caught up to him, and Vera reached out with alarm.
“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed. Quinn didn’t answer, only dropping the cape and sinking, his hand on the wide bowl of the sink basin, to his knees.
If anything, the blood looked even more revolting now, beginning to dry at the edges on the white shirt, making a stain that ran from brown to crimson red. It was atrocious.
Vera gasped.
“Can you lift the shirt?” Quinn asked, through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. I am truly very sorry to have to ask this. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
After a moment’s horrified paralysis, Vera took charge. She disappeared into the lounge and returned with a stool. Seating Quinn before her, she gently lifted the shirt and examined the bloody letters on his back. “I didn’t tell anyone,” she said quietly.
“Oh, I know,” Quinn replied. “Of course. I didn’t come because of that. I came because I can’t clean the cuts myself. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll take care of you, love.” Vera softly dropped a hand on Quinn’s head. “Don’t worry.”
I’d seen more than enough. Enough blood for one day. I left them to the unpleasant task of tending to Quinn’s broken skin.
I imagined, foolishly, that he would heed the warning.