Safely on the tram, Pearl dug out her book and wished she could have afforded a decent set of ear plugs this year. At least the weather made the revels outside a little easier to ignore. Pearl hunched over her book while the tram jolted on its way to the city centre, where she’d have to change stations, and let herself get lost in a dramatic failure of a rescue that had definitely not been part of Sivellus’ poem and yet fit snugly into Garrett Newport’s adaptation.
Looking up, she found her stop blurring into view. The high street was lit up by lanterns, bespelled to burn even through the rain and swinging above them in the breeze. The regular street lights were out like on every Liberation Day celebration she’d attended. Pearl tucked Daughter of Light back into her rucksack and got off while a handful of people got on. Pearl had to wait at the crossing until the tram rode off. When the last compartment disappeared from her sight and she turned to face the high street opposite the stop, she discovered that it was just as empty. The people who’d remained outside had fled under awnings or were carrying umbrellas and even the newly-invented watershields. Shivering in the cold and the wet, Pearl pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and hugged her rucksack closer to her chest. She’d be soaked by the time she got home, but at least the rain meant she could cross the high street without bumping into anyone.
As she hurried down the cobblestones, shopkeepers and stand-owners were hawking their wares at those still braving the downpour. Sweet, savoury foods that made Pearl’s mouth water, gifts, charms, scents, souvenirs… They all had their place and everything was scattered according to whatever whim the city council had decided on that year. There were strategically placed musicians that Pearl had long since learned to avoid, even though she could shut them out as little as she could anything else. Several times, she found herself sorely tempted by the scent of fresh lamb and the promise of hot, skewered meat, but she restrained herself. She didn’t know if it fit her budget and she’d be too tempted by it to say ‘no’ if she got too close.
By the time she got to the grocery store she’d been aiming for, she was soaked to the bone and could only hope that her rucksack was faring better. The store was blessedly quiet and empty, even allowing for the hour. Pearl hurried to gather what she needed: some easy-to-prepare vegetables, slices of smoked bacon that didn’t require preparation at all, some beans… Students’ food. It wasn’t what Pearl felt like eating, but nothing ever was. She’d adapted.
Stuffing her purchases in her rucksack revealed that everything in it was, at worst, damp and when she left the store the rain had stopped again. Night had almost fallen in its entirety and the festival lights were the only reason Pearl could tell what was what as she made her way to the next tram station. Clouds obscured most of the moon and the stars were barely visible at all. It was a night for taking to the sky. If Pearl had been wingborn, she’d have done it, government edicts be damned. As she wasn’t, she waited for her tram to arrive and let her mind imagine flight.
When she was settled on the tram, Pearl leaned her head against the window until she got to the train station. It looked deserted and forlorn, even flooded in light, and Pearl could neither hear nor see any of the students, commuters, travellers and revellers that should have been present around the entrance and inside the great hall. The shops were already closed, but a look at the announcement boards told Pearl that she hadn’t mysteriously sat on the tram until after midnight as well as that her connection had been delayed by five minutes.
With a shrug, Pearl made her way to Platform 3 and settled on a bench to wait, grateful that the wood was still dry and that the station was so empty. She really didn’t want to deal with strangers. Her stomach was growling too, so she ate all of the bacon before her train had even arrived. After licking the grease off her fingers, she wiped them on her jacket and dug out Daughter of Light again. She was about ten pages from the end when her train rolled into the station.
Nose still stuck in the book, Pearl made her way onto the nearest carriage and settled into the first empty seat she found. When she’d finished, she jotted down a few more ideas on the end-papers because her notebook had slid too far down, tapped her fingers on the window pane as she thought and then decided that the very best thing she could possibly do was throw her whole essay around. She could save her original idea for her dissertation easily, surely, but she was far too intrigued by the way Newport had expanded on ‘The Moon Bride’s B Minor’ to leave it unexplored. Plus, it would suit the essay’s length requirements far better.
Pearl spent the rest of the half-hour journey flipping through the book to look up where exactly the passages she’d particularly wanted to quote were and to note where she’d underlined things that she’d thought especially apt, worth remembering or checking up on. The walk home barely registered as arguments and counter-arguments for her new essay flitted through Pearl’s brain so fast she could barely hold on to either. She was practically marching down the streets with excitement. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could write everything down.
And she did write everything down. The essay lacked footnotes, annotations and the required amount of support from other academics — she’d have to find a way around that — but that was a matter for another day. She could always ask professor Featherstone for suggestions; he’d comment on first drafts if they were handed in early enough and Pearl had spent all night feverishly writing this one out. It was long and winding and terrible, but it was finished.
Pearl didn’t even realise she’d fallen asleep beside her papers until she woke the next morning. She flew out of the chair, cursing and snarling first because of the time and then because of the protest in her limbs. “No, no, no, no, no, no.” Pearl flailed out of her crumpled, still-clammy clothes and into something at least semi-presentable. She’d better not have caught a cold, she thought to herself, pulling a shirt over her head. She’d be late for class, but rather that than show up in the grimy, damp clothes she’d slept in. She grabbed the essentials from her rucksack and threw them into another bag. The tote wouldn’t hold as much, but it was faster than repacking everything. Foregoing the rummage for the textbooks she needed, Pearl stuffed a pen and a notebook into the tote, grabbed her keys and flung herself out into the hallway of her apartment building. This would be so much easier if I could fly, her thoughts grumbled all the way to the station. She bolted up the stairs and just about made it onto the train in one piece.
Her actions had earned her a long glare from the conductor, but Pearl didn’t care and sank gratefully into a seat. Her reflection in the glass confirmed that her hair was a mess. She hated looking dishevelled if she could possibly help it, but she had no comb with her. Hissing at herself, Pearl started to comb her hair with her fingers. She watched the landscape go by as she did, saw civilisation make way for pastures and fields and then encroach on them again. Today, she was grateful for the time the ride took. She could make herself look a little more presentable before she’d encounter people who actually mattered. Presentation mattered.
Once at Eston Central, Pearl treated herself to a sandwich for breakfast and ate it as she walked. It was delicious; light on the salad and heavy on the ham. Halfway towards the exit, she turned and marched back to buy another. She was far too hungry to worry about the cost, though she promised herself she’d try to save part of it for lunch, then ate it all on the way to university anyway.
Her classes that day were all right. They weren’t particularly thought-provoking or interesting, but they were informative all the same. Pearl was only taking Modern Literature and Literary Theories this semester because she was required to. Her Modern Lit professor kept assigning books no one in her class was particularly interested in because no one thought the books were all that good, but the discussions on what made them stand out in academic circles were fascinating. Like so many of her seminars, Modern Lit wound up dealing more with what ensured a text would endure than with anything else. Literary Theories was dealing with eco-criticism for the
week, which made Pearl want to fall asleep in class. She’d realised early on that she’d completely forgotten to read the assigned material because she’d been too caught up in preparing her Sivellus essay. As a result, she was even quieter than was her wont and after the class had finished she slipped into the toilets.
She waited for a few minutes until the murmur of discussion had mostly faded and left. Lesley was waiting for her outside and together they followed the rest of the group to the nearest affordable restaurant for their department’s weekly social gathering. It wasn’t as noisy as the cafeteria had been the day before, but it was still cacophonous enough. Pearl ordered a bowl of tomato soup because it was the cheapest option and she at least tried to chat with Lesley and her Literary Theories professor, Martin. When he asked her about her lack of participation that day, Pearl explained that she’d fallen asleep at her desk the night before and that Liberation Day was generally stressful for her. Thankfully, he was a sympathetic and fair man, not the type to be too strict about a single unprepared class. Several, yes, but one, he said, was still acceptable.
When she told him that she was writing an essay on Garrett Newport’s Daughter of Light, Sister of Night, Martin was delighted. Lesley wasn’t; fantastical fiction wasn’t her style. She wandered off to greet a couple of other friends while Martin regaled Pearl with stories of his youth. He’d grown up with Newport, as it happened, and had helped the author with several earlier manuscripts. Pearl, wishing her ears could perk up the way they should have, pounced. She rattled off approximations of her arguments and the trouble she could see in finding academic papers on such a contemporary writer. Finding commentary on Sivellus’ work was easy — he was very popular and he’d been dead several centuries, after all — but finding sources discussing Newport’s work was far trickier and she worried about the essay’s requirements. Unlike Martin, professor Featherstone was very strict. He would mark her down for the lack.
“I still stay in touch with Garrett,” Martin said. “I’ll see if he’s willing to discuss the book with you.”
Pearl wanted to roar, but contented herself with bouncing undignifiedly on the spot.
“You should look for a copy of Rupert Thelosnion’s Rhythm and Structure too. It might not be useful for this essay, but I think you’ll find it interesting. The library should have a copy.”
“Oh?” Pearl shook her head to try and get rid of the buzzing in her ears. “What’s interesting about it?”
“Thelosnion has some interesting observations regarding ‘The Moon Bride’s B Minor’, if I remember rightly. You’d either find them fascinating or argue with the book.” He rubbed his nose. “I’ll ask Garrett if he’s all right with talking to you.”
She still wanted to roar and make herself big. She still had to content herself with undignified bouncing. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”
The man grinned. “Don’t thank me. I’m being entirely selfish.”
“Still…” She yawned. “Actually, I think I should head home.”
“You do look beat.”
Pearl rubbed at her neck. “Yeah… I am.” She wanted to curl up with her tail wrapped around her and her wings folded close. She couldn’t, of course, not even if she’d been right-shaped. After she’d paid for her food, Pearl let herself be shooed outside and dozed her way home. She even almost missed her train stop. She didn’t have any classes tomorrow, so she could spend all morning, all day if she needed it, getting herself sorted out again. Pearl yawned and swayed in the night air at the station. It was cold now. By the time she got to her apartment building, it’d woken her right back up. She made herself a cup of tea and set about cleaning her room and reorganising her academic plans. By changing her essay, she’d messed up everything she’d planned and it irked her. Besides, if she could get all the work done before her regular bedtime, she promised herself she’d let herself spend all day tracking down this Rhythm and Structure book Martin had mentioned.
Of course the next day saw the temperature drop far, far more than Pearl was comfortable with. She shivered, looking out the window. It was cold enough for snow, even though it wasn’t yet cold enough for it to stick around. Almost she decided to stay home, snugly inside, but she was only going to the library, only going to nose through their books. She could brave the weather long enough to get there, surely.
Coaxing herself into leaving her apartment involved setting up everything to make a nice, hot cup of tea when she got home, promising herself she could dip into her savings to get herself a treat, and wrapping herself up in two coats, a thick woollen scarf, gloves and a ridiculously bright, red hat. Pearl buried her nose in the scarf and tucked her ears under the hat. None of it kept her any warmer, but the sentiment was there at least. Then, remembering what had happened the last time she’d gone to the library, she shrugged everything off and started to pack herself a decent lunch. Maybe, if she took forever, the weather would magically turn around, but soon enough she found herself wrapped up in as many layers as she could manage once more. Pearl hunched up as small as she could and, rucksack in hand, she went out.
When she got to the library, Greg was sitting at the desk and he waved at her when she came in. She waved back — she’d decided she liked him — then briskly continued walking towards the first floor of the library. With the Liberation Day festivities ended, it was blessedly quiet and normal again. Pearl strolled past the faculty’s fiction section to the non-fiction and, because it was cold outside and she felt like it, started going over the titles one by one just to see if the librarians had added anything new to the collection. They hadn’t, she knew, but she could always live in hope.
Pearl found Thelosnion’s Rhythm and Structure easily enough; it was right where it was supposed to be (unlike the adjacent Views from an Ivory Tower, which she dutifully moved back to its rightful place among the fiction). The Thelosnion was a thin book and it looked tattered, but it was still serviceable.
Pearl’s stomach rumbled loudly in the silence and she decided to look for a small, secluded nook in the cafeteria. Maybe she could find one; it was early enough. She tucked the book under her arm and wandered back down. The cafeteria was almost entirely empty. A handful of students were discussing a presentation for some subject or another. Pearl ignored them as best she could. Discovering a niche with a window seat, Pearl settled into it. She could barely hear any of the students from her little corner, and she barely had to get her phantom wings squashed to fit comfortably.
Pearl lay Rhythm and Structure down on the table and spread her lunch out beside it. Cold sunlight fell on her table, causing the gilded lettering on the book to sparkle invitingly. To read or to eat lunch… Or, since she’d made sandwiches, do both at the same time. Pearl opted for the last. She unwrapped her sandwiches and picked up the book, keeping it open with one hand as she held the bread with the other. She leafed past the table of contents to start reading and almost choked before she got a page further. This wasn’t Rhythm and Structure.
She twisted her hand so she could reread the front cover and took another bite from her sandwich. This time she chewed slowly and she was prepared. The book had ‘Rhythm and Structure’ printed in big, gilded letters and below it, in smaller and equally gilded letters, the name ‘Rupert Thelosnion’. Frowning, Pearl put her sandwich down and returned her attention to the interior of the book. The copyright and the table of contents looked much like she’d expect, but the text afterwards… wasn’t even remotely about rhythms or structures in any form. Judging from the ink and pencil notations in the margins, it wasn’t even a library book, whatever the stamp on the front end-paper said. Pearl checked the cover again. It hadn’t changed. It said it was a copy of Rupert Thelosnion’s Rhythm and Structure. The contents were just anything but about poetic rhythms and structures.
The book was fascinating (and fiendishly difficult) to read, though, and Pearl soon quite forgot about the rest of her lunch. The book was written in what she assumed was an ancient dialect. She’d n
ever encountered it before, but it was similar enough to Old Eske that she was able to puzzle out parts of the general idea. The margin-notes (some of them anyway) helped her with the more difficult passages and she soon had a notebook filled with words she didn’t understand, words she thought she understood, grammar rules she felt confident about or wanted to poke at more. (Did they really use a dative to indicate possession like some of the notes suggested? No language Pearl had studied did.) She tried to write down a translation of what she was reading in another notebook, but that just went absolutely nowhere. The closest she could get to capturing the sense the text made in her mind was translating it literally, word by word, and noting down the grammatical markers that seemed to belong with them, which left the text even harder to understand.
When it was time for the library to close, Pearl had only gotten through about a tenth of the text (and only in a broad outline she couldn’t quite put into words). The book dealt (seemed to deal) more with mythology and legends than anything else. One of the cafeteria staff shooed Pearl from her seat at the window and she dithered out in the hall. She didn’t want to leave without the book, but she’d already borrowed the maximum amount. The stamp told her, quite clearly, that it wasn’t allowed to leave the library, and so she trudged back up the stairs to where she’d found it and dithered between the shelves, hand poised to put it back.
Pearl couldn’t do it. She wanted to decipher more of the book and if she left it on the shelf someone else might stumble across it. And so she did something she’d never believed she’d do: she put the book in her bag and tried to sneak it outside. She’d return it later. She would.
Feather by Feather and Other Stories Page 8