Chapter 10
Gwendolynne
The next day at our weekly dean’s lecture, the dean, Professor Kaur, is away. Apparently she’s unwell, so Seamere’s vice dean, Professor Thomas Pickering, is standing in.
The vice dean’s speech is all about the magical power surge that happened in the common room two nights ago; Professor Pickering assures us all that it’s a “one-off event” and that “no students were harmed” and that we should all focus on our studies and exams in a few weeks’ time.
The professor’s speech baffles me because for one, there’s no mention of the other power surges that have been occurring across London—including the one at the charity gala.
And two, students were harmed. Several students, in fact.
Heloise is still in the infirmary, and her empty chair is like a burning hole beside me.
At the conclusion of his lecture, Professor Pickering invites questions from the audience.
A fifth-year student at the back of the hall raises her hand. “What about the rumors about MLO involvement, Professor? Some people have been saying that it might be connected—”
Professor Pickering harrumphs and cuts her off.
“I would encourage you not to listen to unfounded gossip, Miss Larsson.” With one finger, he pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses.
The overhead lights catch the beads of sweat that have sprung out on his forehead.
“There is absolutely no evidence that a terrorist organization like the MLO could breach Seamere security. However, if anyone has any concerns about the matter, or wishes to discuss these…rumors…in more confidence, see me in my office.”
I mull over this as the vice dean continues to answer questions, fielding several related to how much time students can legitimately take out of classes in order to tend their injured familiars.
While it’s true that the MLO sneaking into Seamere is unlikely, that doesn’t necessarily make it better. Even if it isn’t them that caused the explosion, shouldn’t that still be a cause for concern?
I cast a surreptitious look around the room. What if it’s one of us?
Professor Pickering doesn’t seem worried, however. Any further questions about magical surges or explosions are quickly and expertly shut down. I begin to suspect that the professor has been given some sort of media training.
It’s only when we’re finally dismissed that I realize I’d been clenching my fists the whole session. My palms are covered with little red crescents from where they’ve been indented by my nails.
I’m supposed to meet Harrisford by the large paddock tonight, fifteen minutes after the end of class.
I’d suggested we meet somewhere outside since I didn’t want to risk him coming by my dorm again.
When the time comes, I rush to my room: Fifteen minutes is just enough time to throw on some clean clothes and smear on some lip gloss.
It’s silly, but I’m actually nervous, my pulse erratic.
My thoughts keep sliding back to what had happened in the library yesterday. How—and why—had Harrisford known the way I take my tea? As far as I can remember, I’ve never told him. He can’t have been watching me that closely, can he?
Unless…I pick up my brush and drag it through my hair, barely noticing it snagging in my knots.
No. It’s probably just because Harrisford is highly observational and likes to figure people out.
I suspect he wants to know everything he can about his rivals—including me—so he can properly destroy them.
Percy watches as I try to scrape my hair back into something resembling a hairstyle. He’s lying on my brown cardigan and has burned a hole right through it. It could well have been intentional, but I’m not brave enough to ask.
I still don’t understand why you humans insist on grooming yourselves with those dreadful plastic things, he observes dryly, as my flat hair fights a losing battle against Earth’s unconquerable gravity, when a tongue is clearly so much better.
“I don’t have spines on my tongue, Percy.
It’s less functional than yours.” I let out a sigh, then give up on my hair, letting it tumble loose around my shoulders.
Momentarily, I consider trying a hair-volumizing spell.
But I’m not well practiced at doing them, so I decide it’s not worth the bother.
This is true, Percy replies. I suppose you do have less hair overall anyway. You’re all…ugly, and hairless, and beige-colored. He yawns and shifts position, tucking his paws tighter beneath him. Then he squeezes his eye shut, as though he cannot stand to look at me for even one second longer.
I battle the urge to point out the state of his own coat and decide, on balance, it’s not worth it. So, ignoring his musings, I scoop a cup of cat food into his puzzle feeder and grab my bag before dashing out the door. I’ll be just in time.
But as I’m passing Conall Peters’s room, I hear a great, heaving sob from within.
I pause, chewing my lip, staring at the cracked-open door.
“Conall?” I say, peering into the darkness within. “Are you all right?”
There’s no answer; just the sound of more weeping.
I try again, this time gently knocking. “Conall?”
Finally, footsteps approach, and Conall’s tear-streaked face appears in the crack. His light brown hair is all mussed up and he has burn marks along both arms, and I realize in retrospect that he hadn’t shown up to Saint Gertrude’s or to today’s lecture.
I stare at him in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
He lets out a snivel, then chokes some words out. “It’s—it’s Gary.”
My heart sinks. “What happened?”
Conall doesn’t respond, just swings the door wide and goes inside. I follow, not quite sure if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know Conall well; he’s only been at Seamere since fourth year, when he transferred from another degree.
This is the first time I’ve been inside Conall’s room, and the first thing I notice is that the walls are plastered with geometric ink drawings. Although I’m no artist, I recognize that they’re really good—the line work is intricate and precise. I’m guessing they were made by Conall.
By now, Conall himself is kneeling in the center of his room, cradling the tiny brown-and-white body of his familiar, Gary. And considering the guinea pig’s matte, glassy eyes and straight, stiff little legs, it’s quite clear that Gary is stone-cold dead.
“Oh no, Conall,” I say, sinking to my knees beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
Conall blinks, and several tears slide out from beneath his eyelids, dripping down his long pointy nose before pattering onto the floor.
“It was”—he sniffs, then swipes at his eyes with his forearm—“the magic surge. The other night. I tried to save him, Gwen, I really did, but he never quite came good…”
Pity twists itself into my chest and I reach out, awkwardly placing an arm around Conall’s shoulders. I give him a squeeze as he dissolves into a cacophony of wails.
“He was such a help, you know?” Conall continues, his voice catching between sobs. “Before, I felt so alone, so dysphoric…but Gary always knew who I was. He always saw me as a boy.” Conall raises his red-rimmed, watery eyes to mine. “He understood, you know? Like only a familiar can.”
I think about my own newly acquired familiar, who doesn’t seem in the least bit understanding. If I’m being honest, Percy’s actually a massive jerk. But from what I’d seen of Conall’s familiar, Gary the guinea pig had been a gentle, empathic soul—much like Conall himself.
Multiple emotions are warring inside me: grief and pity, because of what Conall’s lost. But also…rage. Rage because of what is happening, and how little the higher-ups are taking it seriously. My chest tightens at the memory of Professor Pickering so casually dismissing students’ questions.
It was bad enough when Heloise told me that people had actually died from the magical surges.
But they were nothing but names written on a screen.
Now it’s Conall—who, if not necessarily someone I’d consider a friend, has always been unflappably kind—and his poor guinea pig that have suffered.
And it’s brought it that much closer to home.
Putting my arms around Conall, I let him cry and cry, his tears dampening my shoulder, until he is all cried out. Then I hand him some tissues and say, my voice gentle, “Come, Conall. I’ll help you fill out the paperwork for cremation.”
It’s six forty-five p.m. before I manage to make it down to the paddocks, a good half hour after I was supposed to meet Harrisford.
As I hurry toward our meeting point, I let out a relieved sigh. Harrisford hasn’t finished up yet. He’s still in the paddock, holding a dragon by a tether.
I edge closer, not without some trepidation.
I haven’t been this close to a dragon since third year, before our year level split into our respective streams. Prior to this, we’d all had to take Dragon Studies, learning not only their lore and history and the extent of their magical abilities but also the particulars of their anatomy, physiology, and nutrition.
At the end of third year we’d been assessed on our knowledge; I’d fumbled at the point where we were supposed to label the dragons’ markings and colorings.
But the examiner, knowing that I was dead-set destined for the Magical Familiars stream, had taken pity on me and given me a passing grade.
I think it had come with the unspoken caveat that I never touch a dragon in a veterinary capacity again.
The truth is, I’d found that exam kind of difficult because dragon colorings make no fucking sense.
It’s like horses, where a white horse is gray and a brown horse is bay and still other brown horses are called chestnut.
To a non-horsey person like me it seems completely illogical.
For dragons, orange dragons are labeled red, black dragons are called sable, and—because they’re the most common—green dragons aren’t given a color at all. They’re just called dragons.