Viola observed them thoughtfully.
Finally, Sage scrambled out from under his friends, red-faced and glowing. “How many cool points is that worth, Vale?”
“Fewer by the minute,” she said crisply.
Jules laid his head on Viola’s shoulder again, looking jealous and pouty. “Which one is Kraken?” he whispered at her.
She squeezed his knee. “Don’t worry, Nightshade. You have your looks to fall back on.”
Part 3
Monday Morning Again (Still)
Chapter 15
Adulting is Over-rated
Viola’s paper was calm and intelligible and coherent. None of the professors laughed or scowled at her (except for Professor Schumaker who always had ‘grumpy’ as his default expression even when presented with birthday cake). It was a resounding success.
She was barely aware of that, because he was here, watching her from behind those forbidding eyebrows while she outlined the mythical treatment of a world without magic, according to Hesiod and his later imitators.
Every line out of her mouth sounded like a passive-aggressive dig at Chauv, and how he had dealt with his own “world without magic” over the past several months. Every line sounded pointed, or cruel.
Chauv wasn’t here to hear it. But he was.
Dr. Nicolas Chauvelin, High Quill of the Basilisk Board. Approver of scholarships. Terroriser of admin staff. Legendary shadowmancer. Chauv’s father. He never came to student presentations; never came to faculty events at all, at least for as long as she had been a part of the College of the Real. Viola had never exchanged more than two sentences with Dr Chauvelin on campus — most of their interactions were at private family events and consisted of something in the line of “Hello, young lady and how are you going with your studies?”
Somehow she got through her presentation and sat down, hands shaking. Somehow she sat through three other grad student papers, none of which was as thoroughly researched as her own.
Somehow, she survived to morning tea, and stood as an island with a cup of Earl Grey, swarmed by well-wishers. Many of them had a question about her paper, but had not bothered to ask it during the formal time for questions and answers.
(She had been so terrified that Dr Chauvelin would ask a question; so relieved and somehow disappointed when he had not)
“Miss Vale,” he said now, approaching in her blind spot. The question-askers took one look at his glowering face, and melted away with polite excuses.
She turned. Jules was nowhere in sight, the coward. “Dr Chauvelin. Are you enjoying the conference?”
He did not bother to make pleasantries. “I think it’s time you and I talked about my son, and how to stop him throwing his future away.”
Then he talked, and he talked.
It was Sage who rescued her, in the end. Sage McClaren, of all people. He swept past, said “Sorry sir, can I borrow Viola for a minute? Vale, Professor Dunkirk needs you, something about an undergrad meltdown in the foyer, one of your students? Have you back in a minute.” He swept her up and away through the crowd, firmly steering her with that large, comforting presence of his, until she was outside, in the back stairwell.
Viola choked on the cool, concrete-tasting air, shocked to be free of that awful conversation. “He was saying…”
“I know what he was saying,” Sage said grimly. “It’s bullshit, all of it.”
“I knew they wanted to bring him in for more tests, but… He’s treating this like it’s some sort of disease, like they can cure Chauv if he submits to more radical experiments. Which don’t sound remotely legitimate, by the way.”
“They’re desperate. It’s nothing Ferd hasn’t heard from them already. That’s why he cut off contact with his family. They were talking about blood replacement therapy, and some other freaky stuff that’s completely against current medical or magical advice. His mother sent him tickets to a Swiss hospice for his birthday. I know they were trying to get some bullshit legal injunction to force his hand…”
“I didn’t know it was this bad. His Dad was talking about him like he’s barely human now.” Viola covered her face. It was hard to breathe. “I tried telling him how well Chauv was doing — that he’s sorting his life out.”
“Yeah, they don’t care about that. They want him to fit back into his old life.”
“Like I did,” Viola said bleakly.
“Vale!” Jules banged through the stairwell door and joined them on the landing. “Sorry, I thought McClaren had a better chance of getting you away. Maman’s been trying to get me to agree to a meeting with Dr Chauvelin for weeks.”
Viola’s lungs felt tight. “Jules.”
His eyes narrowed as he took in her condition. “Oh fuck, let me have it, then.” He leaned in.
She slapped him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Holy shit, what’s wrong with you people?” Sage yelped in alarm.
Viola breathed. It was easier now. “It’s the best way to stave off a panic attack. I used to get them a lot at school.”
“Tried and tested,” said Jules, rubbing his face.
“Why is he the one getting slapped?” asked Sage.
“Would you slap her? Seriously? Even if she asked?”
Viola bared her teeth at them both. “He volunteered. Indefinitely.”
The rest of the conference was manageable. Viola returned to the lecture hall late, flanked by Sage and Jules. Dr Chauvelin did not attend the remainder of the day’s presentations, but Viola felt herself constantly looking over her shoulder.
Afterwards, Sage dragged them back to the Manic Pixie Dream House, with a vague promise of Dec cooking dinner. Viola wasn’t sure how she felt about Dec or his unbelievable spaghetti recipe, but she knew that she needed to see Chauv.
She needed to hug him around the neck, and say sorry.
Because the truth was —
The truth was that if Dr Chauvelin had come to her a week earlier, she might have agreed that Chauv was throwing his life away, that it was concerning how he had cut all ties from his old life. She might have agreed to help him get his son into treatment, and back into the College of the Real where he belonged.
She had been doing his parents’ dirty work for them all along, without even being asked.
“Hey, how was the conference?” Chauv called out when they got to the upstairs flat. Dec was chopping onions, and Hebe was reading something on her hand mirror.
Viola threw herself at Chauv, hugging him hard. “Shut up, you’re fine,” she snuffled into his chest.
He patted her on the back. “I know I am, Vale. Are you fine too?”
“Work in progress.”
“Hey, would the band be up for playing Winterfest out at Mandrake Sands this year?” Hebe asked out of nowhere.
“That depends,” sniffed Viola. “Are they planning on getting good between now and then?”
“Ouch!” laughed Sage.
“I apologise for Vale, she skipped two years of manners to get ahead on her spellcasting classes,” said Jules.
“That’s OK,” said Chauv. “We’re not looking to change her.”
Viola raised an eyebrow at him. “I’d like to see you try.”
Mirrorweb Exchange
Subject Heading: Thesis Topic Revisions y/n?
Viola Vale:
Would it be worth incorporating an extra chapter in my thesis about positive portrayals of the loss of magic in mythological characters? Suggesting that it isn’t always a source of epic tragedy?
* * *
Professor Ariadne Medeous:
Interesting take on the subject. I might have some sources. This will increase your workload. Are you sure you want to risk blowing out your timeline?
* * *
Viola Vale:
I can maybe write less on the romanticisation of magic in early literature? That’s a topic that’s been done to death.
* * *
Professor Ariadne Medeous:
That sounds like a good plan. Your closing date to lock in your final thesis outline is Thursday, but I can extend that to Saturday if you need more time.
* * *
Viola Vale:
Thursday’s fine. I have plans this weekend.
* * *
Professor Ariadne Medeous:
Of course, Friday Night at the Cauldron. They’ve been doing that since I was in undergrad. What’s the current The Band like?
* * *
Viola Vale:
Annoying. Infuriating. Noisy. Pushy. Overly invested in my love life. Asking far too many questions about a certain t-shirt. But… they’re growing on me. Don’t tell them I said that.
The Bromancers
Chapter 1
Hebe Plans For Failure
Sound-muffling hex bags are the most useful item that any university student can invest in. I always have three at a minimum in my bag, at all times.
But the exam hall of the College of the Unreal is long and old and had magic-repelling spells baked into its bricks in the late 1800’s. This means witches like me can’t use magic to cheat on our perfectly mundane literature or mathematics or engineering or law exams.
It also means we have no way to protect ourselves from the thoughtless antics and distractions caused by our fellow students outside the exam hall.
I was sitting near the window, my lucky essay-writing pencil worn down to the nub. I could hear the raucous popping sound of celebratory fireworks on the other side of campus. The College of the Real was warned on multiple occasions that they weren’t allowed to indulge in any noisy magical celebrations until 4:15pm today, when the final College of the Unreal exam concluded. They hadn’t listened.
A horde of purple butterflies whooshed past the window, trailing golden streaks. This was followed by a cloud of bats. Someone, clearly, was proud of their work on a Metamorphosis prac.
One student, breaking three different Belladonna University rules by holding an open beer can while riding a broomstick shoeless, swooped past the windows on the far side of the hall. He dropped like a stone when he came too close to the aura of the magic-repelling bricks.
Ouch.
Around me, students were frowning, muttering, turning away from the windows. Every Unreal student in the hall was united in a mass seethe against Them. Our other half.
The sense of entitlement and importance that magical students claim over the unmagical has been a part of this university since its beginnings.
The College of the Real is named that because the university’s Founders felt magic was the only important, practical topic that any witch or other magically-inclined person could possibly choose to study.
The College of the Unreal covers the subjects that have nothing to do with magic. Belladonna University claims that all students are treated equally, but the faculty of the College of the Real are just as likely to sneer in our direction as their undergrads. College of the Unimportant, they call us. College of the Unprepared. College of the Why Even Bother?
I’m a Hallow, which means I’m descended from an old, highly traditional family of witches. Some of my best friends study at the College of the Real. And here am I, majoring in Unreal Literature because as it turns out? Some of the most interesting plays and poetry in the history of the world were not written by witches. The College of the Real doesn’t even have a Department of Gender Studies. I was happy with my choice, even if my family were bemused.
Today, I’d written everything it was possible to write on the poetry of Sylvia Plath, and there was still forty minutes left of the exam. I could stand up and leave — the professors never actually get told who stays for the entire time and who takes an early minute.
I know that. But I can still never bring myself to do it.
So I flipped a couple of pages of the exam booklet and started a draft of the Plan, the same Plan that’s been rolling around my head for more than a month now.
OUR QUEST: to get the indie rock band Fake Geek Girl to the Winterfest campgrounds at Mandrake Sands with all necessary gear to survive a three day music festival. Without anyone murdering anyone else.
OUR PARTY: Three band members, one reluctant manager substitute (me), 2 volunteer roadies, and X number of significant others. I can’t tell you how much I was hoping that X = 0.
OUR TRANSPORT: 1 van, 1 very elderly VW beetle, several broomsticks.
OUR GEAR: A drum kit, a cello, three large tents, one small tent, six sleeping bags, a crate of protein bars, a crate of instant soup, 4 broomsticks, 1 enchanted porridge pot (family heirloom), 2 spare cauldrons, a dozen sound-muffling hex bags and a sack of insect repellent charms.
Oh yeah. Someone was definitely going to die.
The trick was figuring out the best possible configuration of people to travel in the same vehicle for several hours, and still be friends by the time we were ready to set up camp. A similar configuration had to be found for the sharing of tents — thank goodness the SOs had agreed to give Winterfest a miss this year, or it would never work out at all.
I had to trust that it would stay that way, that we weren’t going to get any sudden ‘romantic’ surprises. This weekend was about the band, not the drama.
Who was I kidding? Fake Geek Girl was always about the drama.
Our drummer Sage had embarked upon an epic on again/off again enemies-with-benefits relationship/shagging arrangement with Jules Nightshade, who was best friends with my boyfriend Ferd Chauvelin. Jules and Ferd’s other best friend Viola had settled into something romantically undefined with Dec, who was our volunteer roadie as well as being Sage and Ferd’s flatmate.
Our lead singer, my twin sister Holly, had managed somehow not to acquire a terrible, world-destroying boyfriend in the last two months, which sounded good on paper but meant she’d be on the prowl this weekend, and could be bringing anyone back to the campsite. So that was going to automatically screw up any of the planned sleeping arrangements.
Yeah. I should have hired more tents.
Juniper, the band’s cellist, and Mei (my and Holly’s flatmate and our second volunteer roadie), did not currently have girlfriends despite my wistful attempts to set them up together.
In an ideal world, I’d put the two of them in the same tent and hope for the best, but that would leave me sharing with Holly and the plan was to avoid murders this weekend. So Holly could have calm, lovely Juniper, I’d share with Mei, Sage and Dec could have a bro tent to themselves, and everything would be fine as long as — and I can’t stress this enough — everyone’s significant others stayed well away.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to come,” I promised Ferd.
“Sweetheart, I know.” He sat on the edge of my bed while I crawled on the floor, redrawing my battle plan for the camping situation on to a poster board. My last version of the Plan was submitted with the rest of my exam, disappearing from my sight forever. (Had I drawn a line through it to indicate it shouldn’t be marked? I hoped so!) “Believe me, Hebe, three days in a tent with my flatmates, whatever insects can survive an Australian winter, and a bunch of musos is not my idea of a good time.”
I smiled up at him. “It’s going to be hell. And you’ve got — your own stuff to worry about right now.”
Ferdinand Chauvelin is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I wonder sometimes what he’s even doing with me — and I know that other students wonder that too, when they see him walking across campus holding hands with my mousy, ordinary self.
Ferd is of French-Arabic descent, his family belonging to the wealthiest elite tier of magicians, and I’m pretty sure that every ancestor in his family tree chose their spouse for glamorous good looks and elegance as well as magical ability. His elite status is signified by the rare, extraordinary magical tattoo across his collarbone and shoulder — a fluttering, animated phoenix.
He’s what kids at uni call a Basilisk King — legacy child of the Basilisk Board, born with a silver wand in his mouth. He still wears his signature sof
t silk designer shirts and thousand-dollar boots, because his family weren’t such complete arseholes that they kicked him out without access to any of his belongings.
They did, however, kick him out. There have been a few mirror calls lately, awkward attempts to reconnect, but nothing solid. Nothing he can count on.
“So what are your plans for next weekend, while I’m slumming it in muddy tents with a sleep-deprived rock band?” I asked, moving from the floor to cuddle up next to him on the bed. “Something trashy and indulgent with Jules and Viola? Hot rock spa? Champagne brunch?”
“Why would you assume that a hot rock spa and champagne brunch were separate activities?” Ferd teased. “Nah, I’m, uh.” He looked uncomfortable. “I’m actually visiting my parents.”
I blinked. “Really? You’re going home?”
“Well, lunch at my Aunt Samara’s house, which is, yeah. The closest we could get to neutral territory without meeting in some kind of public park or restaurant. But they’ll be there. So.” He looked anywhere but at me.
“Ferd, why didn’t you tell me?” This couldn’t be a new development. He’d been on edge lately, and had always excused himself when his mirror pinged with one of those awkward calls. But it had been hard for me to concentrate anything that wasn’t about exams, the last few weeks. Was I a horrible girlfriend, that I hadn’t pushed him to talk about this? “Do you — I mean, do you want me to come with you?”
“Hell no,” Ferd said quickly, and then looked horrified. “I mean. I didn’t mean.”
Unreal Alchemy Page 10