Chapter 6
~6~
C illian tucked the fresh kolaches into a basket, fussing a little with the cloth napkin as he tucked a tiny fire elemental into the folds to keep them warm. He’d fed Alise enough cinnamon rolls, he’d decided, and while sweets always had a place in the world, he worried about Alise getting sufficient protein. Ever since the battle at House Phel, she’d looked thin to the point of fragility, too pale, and strained to breaking. Knowing her, she’d skipped the evening meal in the dining hall to catch up on her schoolwork. The meat-stuffed pastries smelled hot, fragrant and delicious. Alise wouldn’t be able to resist.
She hadn’t replied to his earlier message, but he hadn’t really expected her to. As a general rule, students didn’t have access to Ratsiel couriers. Even those students with families who could afford personal couriers were allowed to use them only for external communication with their sponsoring houses, not within the academy. That was reserved for staff and faculty. No teacher wanted a swarm of Ratsiel couriers interrupting their lectures. So, he wasn’t surprised not to hear from her, but he was bothered, and then concerned, when she didn’t show.
He kept an eye on the antique El-Adrel clock as it ticked away the evening hours and the library gradually emptied out. Cillian always liked taking the night shift—which was fortunate, as him being the newest hire meant he didn’t have a choice—because of the quiet that allowed him to read and pursue his own modest research projects. Now the lack of busy work felt crushing as he fretted, continually checking that the elemental had kept the pastries warm in the drawer he’d stowed the basket in. It hadn’t taken him long to catch up on the small backlog of work and correspondence from his absence. He wasn’t all that important, far from irreplaceable, which was usually fine by him. But time moved slowly, dragging by as the few queries from students and faculty needing assistance had dwindled to nothing as the witching hour approached.
And still no Alise.
He went back and forth any number of times on sending her another message, but that would be weird and needy. She’d received his note. The courier he’d sent had confirmed delivery, as had the small enchantment he’d embedded to alert him when it had been read. Besides, he told himself, Alise had often not made it to the library until this late or later, with the insane hours she kept. No doubt her schedule was even worse than before, with her additional absence. And her backlog of work would not have been light. Or, she could have turned in early, getting rest and taking care of herself for once. He could hardly be irritated about that.
Though she could have told him.
No, he reminded himself of that, too—she owed him nothing. They didn’t have the kind of relationship where she would let him know what she was up to or what she was doing or even how she felt about anything. Alise was a closed book, nearly impossible to read, and not for him to pry open anyway.
Still, he was her supervisor on this independent study now and she could have given him at least the courtesy of—
He lost the irate thought when Alise walked into the library, looking like the ghost of some ancient princess. His heart gave a helpless, hopeless lurch at her exquisite, ethereal beauty, and he knew himself to be a lost man. Her gaze fastened on him with unerring precision—no surprise there, as he was always in the same spot—her wizard-black eyes luminous with some pain that hadn’t been there the last time he saw her.
Mundanes thought that all wizard eyes were equally black, and there was some truth to that. Aside from the early days post-manifestation, when a wizard’s eyes gradually darkened with magic use, at faster or slower rates, depending on how much they practiced and how powerful their native magic, all wizards had black eyes. And black was black, more or less. But Cillian had made a study of it—and had done a bit of research into the phenomenon, out of curiosity—and he’d decided he could discern a great deal about a wizard by the depth, shine, and, for want of a better descriptor, sharpness of the iris coloration.
Alise had beautiful eyes, not only because of their large size in her piquant face, the lavish fringe of her lashes, and elegant framing of her arched brows. No, it had to be because her black shimmered like a starless night, profound and full of the secrets of the universe. Alise complained that her slight stature made people treat her as younger than she was. Those people were fools. They needed only look into her soulful gaze to see someone far older occupied that delicately shaped skull. Privately, Cillian thought people saw the inherent wistfulness in Alise’s resting expression, something she was unaware of. That wistfulness made him want to cuddle her on his lap and feed her bites of melting sweet pastry until she smiled with true warmth.
Alise cocked her head at him, her blue-black hair sliding in glossy feathers around her perfect face. “Are you quite yourself, Wizard Harahel?” she prompted, making it clear she’d addressed him once already.
“Erm, ah, yes,” he stuttered, sounding like the fully bedazzled and brainless idiot he was. “Ah, hi. How have you been doing?” There was so much he wanted to know, needed to ask.
“I’m fine. How are you?” she returned politely, with the vaguest hint of impatience.
Yes, right. This was not the appropriate moment for less than formal conversation. “I was beginning to be concerned,” he offered, waving a hand at the ticking clock, as if that explained anything. “It’s quite late. I’d expected you much earlier.” He didn’t exactly trail off, but his voice faded with uncertainty at the end of his sentence, in the face of her chilly expression. He very nearly asked if something was wrong.
“I apologize, Wizard Harahel,” she said coldly, not sounding in the least apologetic. “I received your missive regarding my independent study, but I was unaware that you expected me at a set hour.”
“Oh, well, no,” he babbled on, clearly unable to stop or rescue himself. “I didn’t set a time, it’s true. It’s only that, in the past, you know, you were usually, um, here… earlier.” Cillian briefly considered using the tiny fire elemental in the pastry basket to set his hair on fire. He might have, if fire wasn’t such anathema to an archivist like himself. Even bringing the tiny creature into the library had been a violation of several rules, personal and professional.
Alise continued to watch him blather on, head still slightly tilted, her full lips pressed tightly together, lines of strain bracketing her mouth. She always seemed to be locking words behind compressed lips with ruthless determination.
“Still,” he said finally. Think about work, not kissing those lips until they softened and opened, he sternly instructed himself. She is not for you. “You’re here now. Shall we discuss our research strategy?”
She gave him an odd look, one he couldn’t quite interpret. Well, even more so than usual. “About that…” she began, then slid her eyes to the side.
Oh! He was such an idiot. The library was mostly deserted, but not entirely. “Allow me,” he said. He couldn’t match Alise for wizardly ability, but what he could do, he did very well. With a flick of magic, he installed a silencing shield around them. He performed that exercise tens, sometimes hundreds of times every day, primarily to ensure the requisite silence for study and to set a good example. The reference desk needed to be able to hear and answer questions, so the silencing shields came in handy. “We’re private now,” he told her, though she would obviously sense that. “How are you really? I brought you something.”
“I’m fine , Wizard Harahel,” she said frostily, arresting him as he brought out the basket from his lower desk drawer. “But I have a great deal of work to do and very little time to do it in. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m going to have to temporarily table the independent study.”
“What?” His mind had gone blank. As void as the expression she turned on him, one that said she barely knew him. Or, worse, was somewhat familiar with him and didn’t think much of him. “Alise. You can’t back-burner that project. We need to—”
“ I need to focus on my primary coursework if I have any hope of graduating,” she interrupted. “I can’t afford to be distracted by side projects.” Her night-dark gaze lingered on the basket of pastries he foolishly still held aloft, halfway between here and there, accusation in her eyes, the distaste with which she pronounced the word “distracted” lingering in the air like a bad odor.
“Provost Uriel assigned you that independent study,” he said, grasping for sense. “She appointed me your supervisor and—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting him off again. “I received your missive,” she added, pointedly reminding him that she’d said so already. “I’ll devote what attention I can, when I can, and will speak with the provost, if necessary, but I don’t think I’ll need much supervision. Or assistance. Much as I appreciate the offer,” she added, a light flush on her high cheekbones, as if she only then became aware of her rudeness. “I won’t take up more of your time than I already have.”
“What about our excursion to House Harahel?” he asked, disappointment already settling into his stomach. “I have good news there, you see. The provost approved the trip again and—”
“I can’t possibly afford the time away,” she interrupted dismissively.
“But…” Realizing he still held the basket of kolaches, Cillian set it down midway between them, as a barrier or an offering, he wasn’t sure. He’d been so looking forward to showing Alise the house of his birth—the endless archives and shelves and reading nooks. The lake, which would be frozen this time of year, but where he’d thought they might go ice-skating. He’d planned to teach her to skate, if she didn’t know how already, and imagined her surprise and delight at seeing his skill at the spins and leaps. And his parents… he’d imagined introducing her to them, how they’d take to her sweet reserve and dazzling intelligence. How he’d talk to them privately and say how he knew she wasn’t for him, but they’d say, well, stranger matches had been made and—
“It simply won’t be possible,” Alise said firmly, putting paid to all of his admittedly foolish romantic imaginings.
“But, the petition…” he said weakly into her stony resolve.
“House Phel can handle that. If they even decide to pursue it. Likely they won’t. Who has any use for musty old records anyway?”
Her scorn seemed directly aimed at his heart and it thudded home with painful accuracy. Who has any use for musty old you? she might have said.
“Alise, have I… done something?” She had always placed a certain distance between them, always so careful of herself, maintaining a cloak of protection like an enchantment to ward off the slings and arrows of the world. Always so deliberately alone. But she’d never treated him with this chilly disdain. “Did I say or do something to offend you? To hurt you in some way?”
She laughed, softly, without humor, cutting mockery in it. “Don’t be absurd, Wizard Harahel,” she answered, making it clear a low-level nonentity like himself could hardly harm someone as lofty as she. “I realize our recent… adventures may have invited a certain level of familiarity, but I’m simply a student and you are faculty. It’s not as if we are friends.”
The remark sliced across his heart, deftly delivered to wound. “No,” he replied faintly, feeling the blood loss from his face, a chill contraction of skin tightening over his cheekbones. “I suppose we are not friends, and never were.”
“I do, ah, appreciate all of your help,” she offered, her cold poise thawing for the first time and looking away, as if unable to meet his gaze any longer. “In the past. You were… kind to me, when you didn’t have to be. I won’t forget that.” Her voice wavered, just a tiny bit.
That small crack in her composure told him everything. Alise was deeply upset and trying to hide it. Trying to push him away. He’d seen her do it to others, isolating herself in a pillar of solitary independence. And she was crumbling under the pressure of whatever was going on. He refused to abandon her to it.
“I take it back. I was and am your friend, Alise,” he said with firm intensity, hoping to reach her in whatever cave of self-reliance she’d retreated into. Something had happened, he was sure of it, and whatever it was, she shouldn’t have to face it alone. “I will always be your friend, no matter what you say or do to try to push me away.”
Her startled gaze flew up to his and, for a brief moment, a hint of vulnerability flickered there. Then she caught and composed herself, shifting her gaze to stare a thousand leagues into the distance past his ear. “A very kind offer,” she said, as if he’d invited her to tea some day. “If you should ever need a favor, I owe you one.”
He nearly spat that he didn’t need her favors. Fortunately, his better judgement took over before he could open his foolish mouth. She’d offered him a more than gracious gift. If Alise did end up as the head of House Elal someday, having Lady Elal owe him a favor could be priceless. He’d be a fool to refuse. Besides which, a favor owed left a door open between them through which he could still be attached to her, if only in the smallest way. He might need that leverage.
“I am grateful,” he said, pinning a square of Calliope paper with his index finger and sliding it to her, nodding at a cup of styluses. “If you would be so kind as to write that down?”
He’d startled her with that, enough so that she met his eyes, hers full of honest emotion for the first time since she’d walked into his library, and she flushed—in anger at his effrontery or embarrassment at her heartless treatment of him, he wasn’t sure. But Alise was a class act and she barely hesitated before plucking up a stylus and scribbling the promise. He claimed the square of paper before she could change her mind, sealed it indelibly with his archivist magic, then tucked it into his shirt pocket where it felt as if it would burn through the thin material.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a kolache?” he asked, making sure he sounded cheerfully solicitous, dipping his chin at the basket. “They’re still warm and you look as if you haven’t eaten, quite thin and pale.” He added that last with the smallest bit of malicious pleasure, knowing how it annoyed her when people commented on her frail appearance. He was only human, after all.
A direct hit for him and she flushed deeper, definitely in anger this time. “Thank you, no,” she replied harshly. “And I’m surprised at you, Librarian Harahel, bringing a fire elemental into the archives. I understood that was against the rules. Let me take care of that for you.”
With a scalpel-precise whip of her magic, she squelched the elemental. Then turned her back on him and left.