Poke it with a Stick
Not only do I find my way out of the parking garage, but with the GPS’s help, I also manage to find the mages college in Albany.
“Why are you so excited?” Rowan asks as we travel down the country road and park outside a large iron gate.
“Because it’s fun seeing new things,” I answer.
The fence looks far too grand to be protecting the small, aged farmhouse peeking from the tree-and-shrub-lined lane beyond. It must be an illusion, and a grand one at that.
I peer at the house, looking for cracks in its facade, delighted.
Rowan flaps his wings. “You’re nearly suffocating me with second-hand happiness.”
“How uncomfortable that must be for you.” I turn my attention to the gate. “How do we get in?”
Rowan makes a strange noise, and when I look over at him, he’s peering at the lock like there’s a problem.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“You have to open the gate with a spell.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, I know.” He hoots, annoyed. “You’ll have to use the call box.”
“There’s a call box?”
I look around, but I don’t see it.
“There.” He flaps his wing toward a bush near the car. “You’ll have to get out.”
“Okay…” I gingerly open the door and step outside. “What does poison ivy look like? Do you know? What’s that rhyme? Leaves of three, let it be?”
“I never studied botany. You’re a pixie—shouldn’t you know?”
I contemplate the vine. It’s wrapped around the bush, crawling like a bindweed. I can just make out the call box through the leaves, but it’s going to be impossible to reach the button without touching the plant.
“Not by sight,” I say, “but I can tell this green vine is angry, whatever it is.”
“Then don’t touch it.”
I shoot the owl a look as I tug my phone from my pocket and pull up a plant identification app I use on hikes. “Dang it.”
“What does it say?” Rowan demands.
“Poison ivy.”
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you were a mage,” he points out.
“Nor would it be a problem if you were a mage.” I search the ground for a twig and gingerly nudge aside the vines and branches. When I spot the button, I push it with the end of the stick. Pleased with myself, I step back. “There.”
“Look at you,” Rowan says wryly. “Who needs magic when you have a stick?”
“This is why everyone says mages overcomplicate things.”
“May I help you?” a bored-sounding woman answers, her voice crackling in the seldom-used speaker.
“Yes, hello. I’m here to visit Professor Morris Bellview.” I almost add, if he’s still alive.
“The gate is charmed with a basic lock spell,” she says. “Come on in.”
She sounds like she’s about to end the call, so I quickly say, “Oh no, wait! I can’t. I’m a pixie.”
There’s an audible sigh on the other end. After several seconds, and with great reluctance, she says, “I’ll send someone out.”
“Thank y—” The speaker goes silent before I can finish. I turn back to Rowan. “She seems friendly.”
Five minutes later, a man wearing jeans and a dark blue T-shirt walks down the lane. His boots are brown, and his dark blond hair is short. He looks like a regular human, but I can sense his magic. It’s the same sort that enveloped Ansel.
“Hello.” He stops on the other side of the gate and slides a clipboard between two of the iron pickets. “I just need you to check in.”
Awkwardly balancing the clipboard, I fill out the visitor form. “I have an owl with me. Will that be a problem?”
“Not as long as you clean up after him,” he answers, his tone bored, like they see owls in the college all the time. And maybe they do. Pixies are weird, but mages aren’t exactly normal.
He looks over the form when I return the clipboard. “You’re a summer pixie?”
“That’s right.”
“What business do you have with Professor Bellview?” He pulls his wand from a narrow sheath that hangs from his belt, draws a glowing icon in the air, and then flicks it toward the lock. Seconds later, the gate rolls open as if electric.
Dumbfounded and delighted, I stare. Once I get my wits about me, I say, “My friend studied under him. I wanted to ask about an experiment he was working on a long time ago.”
A little too cheerfully, like maybe my magic got away from me again and I infected him with a dose of happiness, he says, “Well, that sounds just fine. Welcome. Drive straight in and turn left at the sign marked 'Visitor Parking'. If you need a map of the grounds, stop by the office.”
I glance at the seemingly empty wooded area behind the farmhouse. “Okay, thank you.”
“And be sure to check out before you leave, all right?”
I nod, returning to my car as he walks back up the lane. Once he’s out of the way, I drive slowly through the gate. The asphalt doesn’t turn to bumpy dirt as my eyes suggest it should, but remains smooth.
The illusion drops as soon as we’re fully inside the grounds.
The farmhouse mirage fizzles like smoke, and the college appears behind it.
It’s a massive brick building, many stately stories tall, with ivy crawling up the walls.
A wide expanse of manicured lawn stretches out in front of it, along with a courtyard, a fountain, and several flower gardens.
There are trees and walking paths, and the pretty picture is topped off by several squirrels that scamper around the grounds.
“It’s beautiful,” I say to Rowan. “How old is it? Do you know?”
“The college was established in 1802.”
He sounds a touch sad, and I turn to him. “How old were you when you graduated?”
“I didn’t complete my final year. I was working on my capstone project when I did…this.” He flaps his wings.
“What was your field of expertise?” I offer him a smile. “Not botany apparently.”
“Metamorphosis.”
I nod, having suspected as much.
“What career were you hoping to go into? Were you going to be a sorcerer?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I worry I overstepped my bounds. But finally, he says, “Yes. I wanted to focus on spell creation.”
“Ah,” I reply softly. Then, in hopes of lightening the mood, I add, “Next time, you should probably find a willing test subject before you start experimenting.”
He turns his head to look at me, his golden eyes incredibly expressive for a bird. “I have.”
“Right,” I say, a touch uncomfortable, acknowledging that test subject is me.
Is it really a good idea to let a man who turned himself into a bird attempt to manipulate my magic? My parents wouldn’t be impressed, that’s for certain.
I park in the designated lot and then step into the sunshine, leaving the door open so Rowan can fly out. “It’s strange to think everyone here is a mage.”
“Why?” Rowan lands on my shoulder, startling me.
“What are you doing?” I demand, craning my head to the side so I can look at him.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go, and we need to stay together. You’ll get lost on your own.”
“So, you’re going to use me as a perch? Shouldn’t you land on my arm at least? Isn’t that how it’s done?”
“Your arms are bare, and my talons would scratch you. At least your purse strap and clothing are protecting your shoulder.”
“I feel like a pirate.”
“I’m not a parrot,” he snaps.
“No, but you’re the size of one.”
“I am not.”
“You’re right—more like a parakeet.”
Before he can respond, a young blonde mage stops not far from us. Her eyes go soft when she spots Rowan. “Oh my gosh. He’s so cute.”
I look at Rowan, my cheek brushing his soft feathers. “Thanks.”
“Is he, like, tame?” She takes a tentative step forward. “Can I pet him?”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
“Yeah, absolutely,” I say. “He likes it when you pat his head.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” Rowan mutters as the girl scampers over.
“Don’t cause a scene or they’ll kick you out,” I whisper back.
“He’s so soft,” the young woman says as she strokes her hand over Rowan’s feathers. Then, in a baby voice, she says to him, “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? What a little doll.”
He shifts a little, moving one of his talons so it’s off my purse strap—then he digs it into my shoulder.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
I grit my teeth against the pain and put on a smile. “Mr. Feathers.”
“That’s so cute.” She laughs, scratching the top of his head. “Do you think he’d let me hold him?”
“Sure.” I scoop him up, tempted to give him a good squeeze, and then I set him on the young woman’s shoulder.
Rowan stares back at me, death threats in his glare. I raise my eyebrows in a silent, “What?”
It’s not until I pull my eyes away that I realize we’re drawing a crowd. Several more women arrive, along with a couple of younger guys. They all gather around Rowan, proving that the college doesn’t see owls all that often.
As they tell him he’s “such a handsome boy, yes you are,” I acknowledge I’m going to pay for this.
But it’s worth it.
When I think he’s probably at his wits’ end, I gently push forward. “Mr. Feathers and I need to get going now.”
“Thank you for letting us see him,” the blonde woman says solemnly. “I think I’d like to get one. He’s so sweet. Where did you find him?”
I return Rowan to my shoulder. “I inherited him from my great aunt.”
Looking disappointed that I can’t point her toward an owl breeder, she nods. Pouting a little like she’s so darn sad they’re parting, she says, “Bye, Mr. Feathers.”
Feeling ornery, I take his wing and wave it for his new fan club. “Say goodbye, baby. Bye, everyone! Bye!”
“I hate you,” he hisses.
“Oh, you’re fine.” I laugh once we’re out of earshot. “Besides, it’s your fault for changing yourself into something so cute. I guarantee you’d get more attention if you were a gryphon, but no one would dare pet you.”
“If I were a gryphon, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, whose fault is that, you cheapskate?”
He grumbles and then directs me past the main building, toward another that stands behind it. There are several buildings on the college grounds, each housing different departments.
“Now what were you saying about it being weird that everyone here is a mage?” he asks, relaxing when no one else approaches us.
“Oh, right. It’s just that you’re the first mage I’ve ever met, and now I’m surrounded by them.”
“You lived a rather isolated life.”
“That’s not unusual for pixies,” I point out. “And it was necessary for a while.”
He doesn’t answer that, even though he has an opinion on everything. Which means he might feel bad, and that’s not the mood I’d like for our outing.
And that makes me feel bad for bringing it up, even if it is true. It’s harder to hunt pixies when they’re spread out across the world.
But that sort of thing hasn’t happened in several centuries, not since fae royalty emerged from their glistening towers, and the depraved group of mages was brought to justice.
Oh, sure, there are a few isolated events here and there. But for the most part, we’re as safe as any other fae race. If we weren’t, places like Moss Hollow could never exist.
“I’m sorry,” Rowan finally says.
“It’s all right. That was ages ago, and you weren’t involved. But it’s true that we do tend to live our lives amongst humans these days.”
I watch a groundskeeper watering the planters that line the walkway. He’s using a watering can, which looks terribly inconvenient. But as soon as it's empty, he points his wand at it, draws a glowing symbol, and it’s full again.
Realizing I’m staring, I pull my eyes from the man and ask Rowan, “Why are there no high fae here?”
“They have their own colleges.”
“I know that, but why?”
“Originally, I imagine they didn’t want us half breeds in their high and mighty learning institutions. Now it’s just easier. Though our magic comes from them, the human in us causes it to react differently. They have to learn to manipulate their unique magic, and we have to learn ours.”
“What about elves? Their magic is different, yet they study with the high fae.”
He shrugs his owl shoulders. “It’s just the way it is, Kit.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s that building up there,” he says, “with the trees blooming outside the doors.”
I follow Rowan’s instructions, and we end up in an entry that looks very much like a historic English estate on the inside. The floors are marble, but they’re covered with tasteful carpet runners to subdue the echo.
“So fancy,” I say. “Exactly how much is the tuition here?”
“Too much, probably. But it’s a good school, and my uncle was all about prestige.”
“Your uncle sent you here?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you close to him?”
“He and my aunt raised me.”
I want to ask him what happened to his parents, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t improve his mood.
“Where is Professor Bellview’s office?”
“Take the stairs up ahead.”
I do as he directs and end up on the second level. Up here, the floors are wood that’s been polished to shine, and there are large vases of cut roses. The flowers are charmed to be everlasting. I can’t decide how I feel about that, though it’s a little unsettling.
Death is a part of life. Flowers should eventually wilt, not stay frozen in time. Yes, someone would have to change them every few days, but then they’d match the season. These roses are going to look out of place come fall.
“Down the hall,” Rowan instructs. “Second door on the left.”
“How do you know that’s still his office?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Choosing not to answer, I make my way to the door. And sure enough, it says “Professor Bellview” on the brass plaque.
Just how old is this man?
All fae live a little longer than humans, on average, but Rowan must have attended the college sixty years ago. It’s amazing the professor hasn’t retired.
I’m about to knock when the door swings open. I take a step back, startled.
The man on the other side appears just as surprised. He’s easily 6’2”, with short white hair and a gangly sort of look about him.
With his long nose, dark eyes, red waistcoat, and gray jacket, he reminds me of a sandhill crane.
“You’re a pixie,” he says, dumbfounded.
“I am. My name is Kit.”
He squints, fumbling for the reading glasses nestled in his hair. “A summer?”
“Correct.”
Once his glasses are in place, he turns his eyes on my owl companion. “Who’s your friend?”
I nod my head toward the bird on my shoulder. “This is Rowan. He used to be one of your students.”