Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (23 page)

I made enough noise walking to be sure I would not startle
him. As I approached the front of the room, I could see that he was dressed
simply compared to Dr. Livingston and the other professor I’d met. More like
Dr. Livingston than my uncles in their business best, but this man did not seek
attention with his clothing. He was, well, gray . . . . From boots of dark gray
leather to a white satin brocade vest, and everything in-between. His dark hair
was silver streaked and a bit shaggy, and his face, as he turned to me, was
clean-shaven and sharp-featured, his nose strong but suiting his solemn
expression.

His eyes stopped me. They were a deep green, the pupils
black and large in the dim light. Staring back at him, I momentarily held my
breath.

What kind of practitioner was he? He felt so . . . remote. As if
he was coming back from a far place, and trying to focus on something small and
interesting.

In truth, he did not feel like any human I had ever looked
at . . . not at all.

The man blinked, and the sensation vanished.

“You are Alfreda Eldonsdottir Sorensson,” he said in a deep
voice. “I am called Professor Shipley in this time and place. Have you any
Latin or Greek at all?”

“I have started learning prefixes, and suffixes, to use with
English,” I said, giving him a slight curtsey since we had jumped over the
usual “How do you do.” “And vocabulary. I have started learning verb forms. All
Latin,” I added quickly, realizing I had left out that important piece of
information. “I do not have any formal Greek, but my family had three books
written in Greek—the Bible,
The Iliad,
and
The Odyssey.
I learned
many words from comparing the Greek to English versions of the tales. Then I
borrowed Greek plays to read, like
Antigone.”

“Interesting.” I could hear all four syllables in how he
stressed the word. Yes, Catherin was a skilled mimic—I heard the same slow
speech pattern in Professor Shipley’s voice. “Let us examine your pronunciation
and memory.” He handed me his stick of chalk. “Define and pronounce these
words.”

I did not spend a lot of time that morning with Professor
Shipley, but I did so much thinking my head hurt. Every single Latin word I
knew was pulled from me, with emphasis on pronunciation. He switched to Greek
at one point, and asked me to read from a Greek book he pulled off a bookshelf.
It was
The Odyssey,
and it was like seeing an old friend among a crowd
of strangers.

“Your accent is execrable,” he told me, “But you have gained
a great deal of vocabulary and understanding of Greek grammar from your
attempts. We will put you with the beginning Greek students. Most of them have
less vocabulary than you do, but having one class that is not a strain is not a
bad thing.” A faint smile flickered across his face, relaxing his mouth, and in
that moment he felt human to me. “You have learned most of what is taught in
beginning Latin. You shall read this book.” He laid a Latin tome before me. “We
will arrange another meeting next week, where you will report your progress and
ask any questions that you may have. Once you are comfortable with this book,
you may join a second year class. A new group will start up in a few weeks. It
is possible that you will be ready for it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, to let him know I understood the challenge.

Professor Shipley gave me a hard look. “Students who learn
Latin for Classics study at university have different goals than we, Miss
Sorensson. Simply put, Latin is the primary language of ritual magic. The great
spells are written in Latin. If you mispronounce a word—if you write the wrong
word—you are saying something else. And in magic, if you are not saying what
you mean, you may be saying something dangerous . . . something
fatal. Have I been clear?”

“Yes, sir. A careless practitioner is a dead practitioner.”

His eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth indenting ever
so slightly. The professor did not actually smile, but I did feel like I was
looking at a real human  . . . a practitioner. “Precisely.”

So ended my first lesson.

o0o

This time no rush of students followed me into the
hallway. It was very quiet.

Who knew that Latin would be so necessary?

My mother had hoped I would stop before this point, I
realized. Otherwise, she would have stressed the Latin vocabulary more. The
Latin book clutched to my chest, I headed back toward the house and the women’s
wing.

I found a tiny fire built in my fireplace, taking the excess
chill from the air, and several books on the study table: a French dictionary,
a Latin dictionary, a Greek dictionary and even a German dictionary. There was
also a book called
Endor’s History of Magic,
a huge herbal by someone
named Nightroad, a French studies book, a book on ethics, another small book on
logic, a book called
The Great Religions of the World,
and a blank book.

The blank book was not a composition book, full of lined
paper for writing and taking notes. I saw several composition books waiting in
a stack. In this case, the book had page numbers, the quality of paper seemed good,
and the binding was made of stiff, smooth, oiled black leather. Several pages
had print on them, but the letters appeared faded, as if someone had tried to
erase them. Someone had rubbed two words on the spine in what might be gold
leaf:
Ars Magica
. Something magic . . .
I reached for the Latin dictionary to check the first word.

I found that I had picked up the French dictionary. Making a
face, I started to set it down and then paused. While I had it, I might as well
look for my first word of the day. Peppermint seemed to be a reoccurring theme
in my life . . . the French was
menthe poivrée
.
Mint was feminine, but pepper was masculine. So, which was peppermint?

I held the dictionary in my hands, savoring the word, the
feeling of the book under my fingers.

Something was wrong.

Purposefully, I closed the book, set it down, and picked up
the Latin dictionary.

“
Ars”
meant “art.” The Art of Magic? So was it blank, or was there a trick to it? I
examined it closely, to see if there was a portion of the book you touched to
reveal the trick. The bookplate on the marbled end paper showed the gates and
entry trees of Windward, and merely said “From the Library of” above the
etching. The engraving was a winter theme, and was beautiful in its stark
simplicity.

What was the French word for thyme? It turned out to be
thym
,
and was masculine—

“
This
is ridiculous.”

I spoke aloud, to get my own attention. Not that I wasn’t
interested in doing my lesson. But I had a real mystery in my hands, a book
with blank pages, and the French vocabulary was distracting me. I wanted to do
a good job, but I wasn’t that prompt of a student—

Suddenly I realized what must have happened, and I flushed
from head to toe.

“
She
put a spell on me.”

Professor Sonneault had put a spell on me!

I closed the dictionary and pushed it to the far end of the
table. Did she do that to everyone? Was it a nudge, or a command?

When was I going to get training so I could keep things like
that from happening?

A rapping at the door seized my attention. “Enter,” I said.

“
Here
you are! It is time for brunch,” said Catherin Williams, leaning in through the
doorway. “Oh, your books have arrived! That is always such fun. I love the feel
of a book, especially a new one. Are any of them new?”

I held up the black book with the blank pages.

“
That
one is always new,” she said soberly. “We are given that book once, and are
expected to take care of it!”

“
How
do we read what is inside?” I asked.

She did not deny that the book did have something within it.
“Professor Tonneman will explain it to you later. Leave them for now. Come, we
are having French minced chicken on toast for brunch!”

“
So
how long does Professor Sonneault’s spell last?” I asked as I double-checked
the fireguard and pulled the door shut behind me.

Catherin actually started laughing. She had a beautiful
laugh, bright and happy, totally feminine. “Miss Rutledge told me that you
would notice the spell quickly! It lasts two to four weeks, depending on how
long Professor Sonneault thinks you will need to get into the habit of that
homework. Some of the younger children have that spell renewed a few times, if
they prove that they will not do their homework without it. Once they know
enough words to carry on a conversation, the spell fades and they have to keep
up with the others, or be left out of a ‘secret language,’” Catherin said as we
went downstairs. Margaret caught up with us on the landing, and we went into
the dining hall together.

The brunch was finely chopped chicken meat, pecans and onion
mixed with salt and a tiny hint of rosemary. It was held together with some mix
of eggs and oil. We were served fresh biscuits with it, and the boys put their
meat within the biscuit like tiny meat pies. Mashed potatoes of a new variety
were served, as well as a precious tangerine!

“
Did
I not say we ate well?” Margaret asked, her head tilted at me in inquiry.

I nodded, my mouth full.

The quick consensus was that I had done well with Professor
Shipley. “He is a hard one,” Catherin confided. “I don’t think he has a lot of
use for the younger students, until he knows if they are going to seriously
pursue the craft.”

“
He
teaches elements to older students, as Dr. Livingston and Professor De Lancey
do,” Margaret said. “I know that he instructs in Air and Water.”

He’s an odd one
,
I thought.

“
Several
of Miss Rutledge’s flirts are his students,” Catherin said, one side of her
mouth curving up in a tiny smile.

“
You
know we are not supposed to talk about who is learning what field of endeavor,”
Margaret said primly, avoiding our gazes.

I wondered if another student was actually courting
Margaret. Or more than one student? She was certainly pretty, but the wealthy
did not marry solely because a woman was attractive . . . although
it did not hurt the chances of marriage.

“
You
have Professor De Lancey next, and then Professor Tonneman,” Catherin said. “I
think you will like Professor De Lancey. He teaches magical history, among
other things. Professor Tonneman, well . . . . ”

“
His
class is never boring,” Margaret offered, as if conceding a truth.

“
You
are forgiving.” Catherin’s brows lowered and drew closer together, her delicate
chin lifting. “He likes to frighten students, Miss Sorensson. Be on your guard!”

“
We
are not supposed to talk about entrance tests,” Margaret said quietly, glancing
to see if she were overheard.

“
I
knew
that
before I went in. Many
students do,” Catherin said, as if justifying her words.

I kept eating. I had been frightened several times in my
pursuit of magic. If he had something more frightening than an
utburd
stored in his room, I might be
worried. But I did not think he would be allowed to injure us, at least not as
beginners.

“
Can
we protect ourselves?” I finally asked.

“
He
expects it,” Catherin replied. “Take your wand!”

I didn’t tell them that I hadn’t yet used my wand for
anything other than accidentally melting snow.

o0o

Both Catherin and Margaret took me to Professor De Lancey’s
classroom.

“Professor De Lancey teaches all his book classes here,
beginning and advanced,” Margaret said as we reached the door. “He teaches
private classes as well, but there is a lot of fieldwork for his private
students. The ritual chamber is used for those classes, or outside.”

“
Makes
sense if he’s teaching elemental magic of some kind,” I replied.

Both girls looked a bit surprised, but Catherin nodded. “My
brother is taking classes with Professor De Lancey. The professor is very
patient with new students.”

“
Good.”
I must have sounded relieved, because Margaret looked hard at me.

“
He
will like you,” Catherin said, her voice light. “He likes students who are
eager to learn.”

“
He
values a good heart,” Margaret said in turn, squeezing my forearm as she was wont
to do. “Just talk to him. He can help you learn what you need if he knows what
you know and don’t know.”

“
Sometimes
you don’t know just how much you don’t know,” I murmured, looking at the dark
door.

“
That’s
why the Second Rule is so important,” Catherin told me, giving me the tiniest
push. “To keep us always looking for new knowledge, the forgotten step, the
unsuspected piece of information that makes all suddenly clear.”

“
We
will see you after class!” Margaret finished, setting her hand lightly between
my shoulder blades in farewell.

I was alone. But it would not last; soon other students
would be climbing the stairs, heading for their next class. I didn’t care for
them to find me waiting like a frightened hutch bunny. I turned the handle and
pushed open the door.

The light from a burning branch of candles matched the pale
winter light from the three heavy windows. A small fire burned in a fireplace
set in the outer wall. A man, dressed darkly, sat by the candelabrum, reading a
large book laid open on a table.

Without lifting his gaze from his book, the man stood; he
read a bit longer then turned toward me, his bearded face smiling. Although his
hair had receded to a horseshoe around his head, his eyebrows were thick,
several hairs extending from them like the antennae of a butterfly. He was of
average height, a few inches shorter than myself, and barrel-chested, as proud
as a rooster upon the roof of the barn.