The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Yes, sir.” Percy nodded, commanding her tears to remain at bay.

  “Look at me please, Miss Parker.”

  Percy looked up, and she was sure her glasses only half hid her fear. Neither the professor’s rigid expression nor his dark eyes—as inscrutable to her as her own dark lenses must be to him—softened.

  “A series of tutorials will commence, dependent on your progress. We will begin tomorrow at six in the evening. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  “Yes, Professor. Thank you, sir, for your gracious patience with my inability.”

  “Try not to test that patience, Miss Parker, for it does not run in ample supply,” her instructor offered blandly, returning to his paperwork.

  Percy rose, attempting to be as unobtrusive on her way toward the door as possible, but Rychman’s voice halted her. “Trying to make yourself invisible is to no avail, Miss Parker, no matter how hard you try,” he declared. She did not turn around, for she was at the exit. But then he added, “You have to know the correct spell.”

  Percy raised her eyebrows and spun, expecting to perhaps see that he was joking, which she would have found very odd. But his face was stoic as ever, which was just as disconcerting.

  “Also, Miss Parker, it would…seem you have good eyes.” He tilted his head as if to invite a challenge of his assumption. “I merely ask you not practice other visionary work in my class.”

  “Th-thank you, Professor. I promise I’ll try, I—”

  “Enough. Stop stammering, we both have work to do. Tomorrow at six.”

  “Yes, sir!” Percy opened the door to his office and felt a cool draft tickle the hem of her dress.

  “Miss Parker,” Professor Rychman called, just before she fled. “Before you go, answer me one more question.” His voice was careful.

  “Of course, sir.” Percy turned back into the room, but she kept herself pressed against the exit.

  “What was that door you were drawing?”

  Percy wrung gloved fingers together. “I do not know, sir. I saw it in a…dream.” There was a long pause. The weight of the professor’s stare was heavy. “If you don’t mind, Professor, why do you ask?”

  Rychman leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers upon his desk. “It reminded me of something.”

  Percy smiled timidly. “Well, if you could decipher the meaning, Professor, I’d be much obliged.”

  “Indeed.” He held her with his stare a moment longer. Percy hoped she had calmed her blush, but she couldn’t be sure. The professor returned his attention to his paperwork. “Good day, Miss Parker.”

  “Good day, sir.” She curtseyed and left the room.

  Alexi watched the door close slowly behind his student and listened to her darting footfalls recede. He unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a notebook. As usual, he ignored the spirits wafting in and out of his office, even if they were trying to speak to him in words he was unable to hear. He wished he could hear them for just a moment, enough to determine if they knew about Prophecy or had a message from his long silent goddess. But, to his infinite chagrin, since that first day in the chapel she’d never again been seen. Still…this girl had just drawn a door. That was the sign.

  And yet, this wasn’t an actual portal he’d seen or would see; it was just a picture. He couldn’t base the fate of his world on the sketch of a young woman, however unique. Prophecy decreed the seventh would be his peer. This girl was his student not his peer, and there were rules. It was his job to teach here, not to look for his destiny; he had to set aside foolish notions.

  Opening the leather-bound volume he’d withdrawn, Alexi hummed a melancholy little tune as he thumbed the pages. Finally arriving at a blank one, he scrawled a few hasty sentences into the book before closing it. He then stared at its cover, black and plain save for a tiny circle of feathers, and demanded his heart slow its uncharacteristically brisk pace.

  A man in a dusty coat bent with a hammer and chisel over a particular piece of rock on a distant coast. A remote and once sacred place, it was now unguarded, and the Groundskeeper hummed, brushing stray locks of multicoloured hair from his weather-beaten face that was both old and young. The only unchanging thing about him was his caste; his voice shifted and melded into every servile accent of the ancient and New World, with a few conquered dialects between.

  “So much work to do. Loosening the Sepulchral Seals! My sweet, milky white lady…I work for you now that Majesty’s gone! Loosening, loosening, to slit the seal!”

  He threw his weight against the stone and it turned like a screw in a piece of wood. A wet exhalation sounded, and vapour lifted from the rock like a puff of tobacco smoke from an ancient pipe. A sound of glee gurgled in the man’s throat. “Only a few more, my dear!”

  The Groundskeeper pressed his head to the stone. A sound rattled from behind it. A skeletal finger shot from the crevice, but the Groundskeeper swatted at the protruding digit. “Patience, you’ll have your time! But give me leave. So much work to do for my lady, and so many seals yet to break!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Percy could not calm down. She and Marianna had been studying in her room when the bell tolled half five, and now she jumped to her feet with a distracted whimper.

  “And where are you off to?” her friend asked, looking up from her books.

  She had been too embarrassed to tell Marianna prior to the engagement. “Since I’m a disaster at mathematics, I’m required to attend evening tutorials with Professor Rychman.”

  The German girl raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Tutorials with him? In private? Is that even allowed? Well…I suppose you are a bit of an exception here to begin with.”

  Percy collapsed upon her bed with a groan. “Oh, how he intimidates me! He speaks the one language I can’t understand. Yet, there’s so much to commend him. Art and books fill his office. He writes by candlelight, not gas lamp. So melancholy, a philosopher of the world whose heart is cool, but deep within…in the moments when he almost smiles, those eyes…”

  “Listen to yourself, Percy!” Marianna fought back a laugh.

  Percy winced. “I know. I know, God help me. I’m utterly hopeless, and this talk will be my undoing.” She picked up her books, adjusted her glasses, drew her shawl tighter around herself as if it were armor and set off.

  Hurried, nervous steps carried her toward Apollo Hall, and her quaking, gloved hand knocked clumsily on door sixty-one.

  “Come,” said the voice within.

  Percy mused that if she heard a voice from Olympus, her professor’s might sound similar. She pressed her hand to her collarbone and the pendant hidden under her dress. She felt the weight of the phoenix against her flesh and it bolstered her, as it always had.

  She slipped into the office and stood quietly at the door. The warm firelight was inviting, at odds with the professor’s cool demeanour. He stood before one of his massive bookcases, long fingers running slowly over several spines. He plucked a volume, nodded to Percy, moved to his desk and gestured for her to have a seat. They both sat and took a long moment to evaluate each other.

  “Miss Parker.” The professor finally broke the silence. Percy started.

  “Yes, Professor?”

  He fixed her with a measured stare and folded his hands upon his desk. “After some reflection, what seems to give you the most trouble?”

  “The actual mathematics, Professor. I have no problem with remembering terminology. That is simply language. I’m actually very good at languages—”

  “Numbers are no different, Miss Parker. They are a language in and of themselves.”

  “I wish my mind could consider them as such, sir.”

  “You are the verbal type, I see.”

  Percy offered a tiny smile. “Well, actually, sir, I’m rather quiet.”

  “Your mind prefers words to numbers,” the professor clarified, unamused.

  “Y-yes, Professor.”
/>   “I see. Read the following for our next meeting. This book covers basic mathematics I’ve not thought to review in class, as they should already be commonly known.” He handed her the book, open to a specific chapter.

  Percy nodded, feeling very small. “I am sorry, Professor.”

  “Do not apologize. Not all of us can be mathematicians or master chemists,” he replied with a passing, lofty air.

  “I suppose not,” Percy agreed, setting her jaw. She forewent pointing out that she would have nothing at all to do with the subject matter were it not an absolute requirement to continue at the academy.

  “Return with this book next session, and with any questions that you may have. I will do my best to translate.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all,” the professor replied. After a moment: “You are quite proficient in language, then, Miss Parker?”

  “So it would seem, sir,” she replied. She was careful to maintain her modesty.

  “What tongues are known to you?”

  “Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, French, Swedish, some Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Gaelic…”

  “Rather studious of you, Miss Parker. Convent education alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You learned all these in your time there?”

  “Mostly, sir. They came to me…easily, as if I had heard them before. But I suppose that sounds terribly strange.”

  “It would surprise you how little I find strange, Miss Parker,” the professor said, tapping his fingertips upon the marble desk.

  “How odd,” Percy mused. “Headmistress Thompson expressed a similar sentiment. In exactly the same fashion.”

  “Did she now?” Professor Rychman smiled slightly, as if Percy had referenced some private amusement. There was an awkward pause; then the professor rose from his chair, towering above her, and Percy looked up, her eyes unable to hide her awe. “Miss Parker, I don’t suppose you might hazard a guess as to the only question you answered correctly on your last exam?”

  “Ah.” Percy nodded ruefully. “‘What symbol crowns the alchemical pyramid?’ The phoenix.”

  Something flashed across the professor’s face before it became again his usual cool, disinterested expression. “Transformative power. Rebirth,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What do you think of the symbol, Miss Parker?”

  Baffled, Percy considered her reply, unconsciously pressing her hidden pendant to her flesh. “I…I think him beautiful, and comforting.”

  The professor seized on her words. “Him? How so?”

  “The phoenix myth has always captivated me—the idea that, if something lovely perishes, it might have the chance to rise again.”

  The professor’s eyes were fixed upon her with an intensity she found thrilling. Percy shyly took folds of her dress into her hands; the fabric rustled in the silence that followed.

  “Indeed,” he muttered with an odd sharpness, breaking contact with her and turning away. “Good evening, Miss Parker.”

  “Good evening, Professor.” Percy rose awkwardly and moved to the door.

  “Dream well,” the professor added.

  Percy stopped in her tracks but did not turn around. She nodded slowly, allowing his words to sink in, then opened the door and disappeared into the hall.

  Into Alexi’s notebook went the record of his conversation about the phoenix, another possible clue. But if he was gathering data from Miss Parker, which he shouldn’t, he needed to also be looking elsewhere. He needed to be out collecting probable sources, data and proofs outside in London where a peer was meant to be placed in his path. Prophecy would never come so young, so meek, so unlike the goddess he had long expected. She’d come in a blaze of light, glory and beauty. Not quietly. And yet, something was keeping him rooted to Athens, keeping him looking for the next moment he’d talk with this ghost of a girl…

  Before she knew it, there were the bells again, luring her to the professor. Alarmingly, it seemed to Percy as if no time had passed. Had she merely daydreamed the minutes into oblivion? There had been two full days of classes between tutorials, two days she did not actively remember. She had only thoughts of him. And, oddly, she recalled the rumbling and constant bark of a dog.

  At room sixty-one, Percy knocked. The idea that she might be living solely for the moments spent in the professor’s private company concerned her; her entire body had thrilled in class today when he’d asked her to visit.

  “Come,” the unmistakable voice called from within.

  Percy entered the office yet hovered at the door, waiting for an invitation to sit. The professor sat writing at his desk and did not glance up. He had replaced his professorial robe with a long black frock coat and new cravat, a cloth of a distinct shade of crimson that hung slightly askew. He waved a hand to the chair opposite. Percy slowly took that seat, silent.

  The professor set his papers aside. Percy could see him parceling her by pieces: her snow-white face with length of scarf about her head, her high-collared dress, gloves and tinted glasses. Percy watched him watch her and was prepared for more questions.

  “Before we begin today, may I ask, Miss Parker—?”

  “About my appearance, sir?”

  The professor tried to smooth the pause that followed with a strained, unsuccessful smile. He said nothing.

  “Ask anything you wish, Professor. You may stare in wonder. Gape, even. I’ve grown accustomed to it all.”

  “I hope you would not consider me so rude,” her instructor retorted.

  Percy offered a conciliatory smile and was appalled by the subsequent spots she felt bloom upon her cheeks like fiery carnations. “Of course not, Professor. I did not…I mean, you have never gazed at me in a way…in that way…I mean, in a rude manner. I—” The words had tumbled forth, but now her gloved hand flew to her lips to stop the hemorrhage. Terrified that her private fascination could be seen through her awkwardness of speech and the transparency of her skin, Percy prayed she would not be sent away immediately. Humiliated, she took a long breath and tried to begin anew. “I was born with this skin, Professor. I’m well in health, my pallor has never been indicative of my constitution. Except, of course, that while I do enjoy sunlight, it isn’t very kind to me.”

  “I see. And the glasses?” Professor Rychman asked.

  “I have quite sensitive eyes as well, sir.”

  “Ah. I hope you find yourself comfortable here? In my office?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ve always been most comfortable by candlelight.”

  The professor nodded. “It’s always more of dusk than daylight in here, as I tend toward the nocturnal.” He plucked a book from behind his desk and leafed through the pages, not glancing up at her.

  “As do I, sir. The night is full of mystery and magic—though sometimes the magic may tend toward nightmare. My stars of birth are governed by the moon.”

  “Ah, we have a romantic in our midst. And an astrologer as well?” Percy could not tell if the professor’s tone was cordial or disdainful. His expression, however, was stern. “Before we continue, Miss Parker, I must find a more basic guide than the one I previously gave you—your work in class over the past few days has shown several new deficiencies. If you have any interest, you may peruse my library while I look for something suitable.”

  Percy winced. Never before had she been the handicapped student; she’d always excelled. Nevertheless, she rose and glided across the room while the professor hunted for what she felt sure would be a grade-school primer.

  As she expected, many shelves were devoted to mathematics and the sciences, natural and arcane. She was delighted to discover various books of drama as well, including a Compleat Works of Shakespeare, and the collected works of other great poets. But what engaged her most was a particular shelf bookended by Pythagoras and Liebniz. In the middle of these treatises by academia’s gods of logic sat books on ghosts, possession, exorcism, mesmerism, witchcraft, demons, angels and all manner of unexplained phenomena.r />
  “Fascinating,” Percy couldn’t help but murmur.

  “Hmm?”

  “Oh!” Percy started, whirling around to find the professor standing close. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.”

  “What are you—?” The professor looked up briefly from the book through which he was flipping. “Ah. I see you have found my particular collection on the occult.” He returned to the contents of his tome as he walked back toward his desk.

  “Yes,” Percy breathed in wonder. “I assumed that, as a man of science, you would discount such things.”

  “There are many types of science, Miss Parker,” was the professor’s sharp reply.

  “Quite right,” Percy agreed. “Quite right indeed.” She glanced at the shelf below, which was filled with books on the mythologies of manifold cultures. “Ah.” She smiled, spotting a popular modern volume, which she retrieved. “Dear Bulfinch. I rather say he had me inventing my own myths at an early age. I’ll never forget when Reverend Mother brought a copy from the city. I must have read it a hundred times.” Percy felt a glow of pleasure, her true, passionate nature sneaking past her timidity. But when she stole a glance at Professor Rychman, he was staring at her with impatience.

  She looked away. “I’m sorry, Professor, I do not mean to prattle on—”

  “Bring the volume with you if you must, Miss Parker, but take your seat. We’re well into our time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Percy hurried to her chair, the book still in her grasp.

  The professor glanced at the copy of The Age of Fable clutched in her hands and admitted, “I always found the ancient religions far more entertaining than England’s sober Christianity.”

  Percy raised an eyebrow, surprised by such a personal comment. “Do you not consider yourself a Christian, Professor?”

  He regarded her for a moment. “Forgive me, Miss Parker. I forget I speak to one who was convent educated. Worry not for my soul. I am…a man of spirit.”

  “Of course, Professor.” And Percy nodded, compelled by the fact she had similarly described herself to the headmistress.