The Unexpected Enlightenment of Rachel Griffin (Books of Unexpected Enlightenment Book 1) (8 page)

Then, it was Rachel’s turn. She carried Mistletoe down the torch-lined walkway. The cat spilled over her arms, and
mrowed
, threatening to bolt. By the time she reached the ivory arch, her arms were shaking. She put him on the ground and held her breath.

He did not bolt. He sat down and washed his paw.

“Come on, Mistletoe,” she called in a high sweet voice, her heart pounding. “This way.”

Mistletoe stood and raised his tail. With perfect poise, he walked beside her. They passed underneath the ivory arch together.

The chatter and chimes and
tocks
of bamboo receded. Rachel moved forward, but she felt as if she were dreaming, as if she were floating weightless, as if she could continue forever and never reach the other side. Silvery light swirled over her and her cat. It happened so quickly that she might have feared she imagined it, had she not been able to recall the instant perfectly. Playful tingles danced up and down her limbs. A feeling of hope took hold of her, of excitement.

With the abruptness of waking, they had reached the other side. The noises came rushing back. Rachel breathed a huge sigh of relief. They had done it.

To her surprise, she discovered that she could tell where her cat was, even when she was not looking at him. Mr. Tuck chuckled merrily at her startled expression.

“One of the joys of having a familiar, Miss Griffin,” he rumbled jovially. “One of the joys of having a familiar.”

Rachel’s first class was Language. To her delight, Siggy and Nastasia were in this class, too. Comparing their schedules, they discovered they shared all their classes. Another student explained that this meant they were in the same core group and that most classes contained two to three such groups. This meant that some of the students would be the same in every class Rachel attended, but the remaining people in her classes would be different each time.

Freshman Language was on the second floor of Roanoke Hall, overlooking the lake. The windows were open, and a cool breeze blew through the chamber. The room echoed slightly as the students tromped in and slammed their books on the large central table. The classroom was not like the schools she had seen in photographs, with small desks lined neatly in rows. Instead, straight-backed chairs surrounded one big polished-wood table. Choosing a seat between her two new friends, she sat on the edge of her chair, nearly bouncing with anticipation.

The tutor for Language class was Mr. Tuck. He strode into the room, his robes swishing, and ponderously lowered himself into a large arm chair in front of the blackboard. When all the students had arrived, he stood, sticking his thumbs behind the pleats to either side of his chest.

“As you already know, I am Mr. Hieronymus Tuck, Canticler. In this class, we will study the ancient works of magic and translate them from their original languages. We will be studying Aristotle’s
On Magic
, Plato’s
Arcanium
, the volumes of Pliny the Elder’s
Natural History
that deal with Enchantment and the Wise of his day, as well as many other important texts.

“We will also be studying the Original Language, both words and gestures. There is more to a great canticler than mere pronunciation and hand motions. How well you can command the natural and unseen world will depend upon your talent for sorcery, the confidence of your delivery, and the discipline with which you develop your skill.”

He paused and then asked in his deep resonating voice, “Questions? Problems? Major dilemmas? No?” He looked to the left and right. “Everyone, open your books to page five.”

Rachel did not need to open the textbook. Having glanced at it once, she could now recite it from memory. Yet she obediently opened hers like everyone else. Her mother had warned her that if others found out about her gift, they would expect her to take all the notes and answer all the homework questions for them. It was better, her mother said, to let others underestimate her.

Rachel waited, tense with excitement. She loved the feel of new ideas pouring into her thoughts. It was like drinking knowledge, and her mind was always thirsty.

“Language class,” Mr. Tuck explained as he paced back and forth, “is the study of the Original Tongue, the language from before the dawn of time, in which all objects were originally named. Our knowledge of it comes down from Ancient Sumeria. If one knows this tongue, one can speak to the very world itself and convince inanimate objects to do one’s bidding. The sorcery performed using this language is called canticle. Hence, I am a canticler. A single act of sorcery performed using this method is called a cantrip. Cantrips use the sound and the gesture that represents each word of the Original Tongue.”

Mr. Tuck pointed at a book on his desk with the first two fingers of his right hand and made an intricate sign with his left hand. He spoke some words Rachel did not catch. She played the memory back several times. It started with
Ti
and ended with
lu
. The syllable in between had been pronounced too softly for her to hear.

Mr. Tuck moved his right hand. The book followed the motion, rising into the air. Then it soared around the classroom, rising and dipping as the tutor indicated. A girl shrieked and covered her head.

“Fear not, Miss O’Keefe. I have not brained a student with a flying tome yet,” the tutor stated dryly. “Of course, there is a first time for everything.”

“How…how did you know my name?” asked the girl. She had a heart-shaped face and mousy brown hair held back by a black and white checkered headband.

Mr. Tuck chuckled. “Miss O’Keefe. You are the seventh of that name whom I have taught. When the day comes that I cannot recognize an O’Keefe at a hundred paces, it will be time to put me out to pasture. Tell me, are you the last? Or are there more where you come from in the Land of Infinite O’Keefes?”

“I-I’m the last.” Miss O’Keefe had pale skin. When she blushed, her entire face turned pink.

“Hmm. A seventh daughter. And your mother, if I recall, was also a seventh daughter, is that not so?” Mr. Tuck mused. She nodded. “I expect great things of you, seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. See that you do not disappoint me.”

He lowered the book gently to the table. “Very well. Today, we will start with four simple words: up, down, open and close. Repeat after me:
Ti. Doe. Libra. Legare.
”

Mr. Tuck repeated the lesson a number of times, emphasizing both the sound and the gesture for each word. Rachel’s eyes glazed over. She had understood the first time and would not forget. Waiting for him to move onto the next subject, she daydreamed about growing up to be a great sorceress who could call all things by their proper name.

Eventually, the time for the hands-on portion of Language class arrived. Mr. Tuck handed out small rectangular boards, each with a hinged door set into the middle. He instructed the students to practice by raising and lowering the piece of wood and opening and closing the door.

Rachel took a deep breath and tried it. A rush of something that felt like excitement traveled from her toes and fingers through her limbs and out her mouth, leaving her feeling tingly and slightly breathless. The door opened slowly. She had to press her hand against her mouth to keep herself from giggling uncontrollably. She had done it. She had performed a cantrip. No matter what happened for the rest of her life, nothing would ever take this accomplishment away.

She was officially a sorceress!

Sigfried Smith, Princess Nastasia, Wulfgang Starkadder, and Joy O’Keefe, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, turned out to be naturals. Their doors flew open. Their boards zipped up and down. On the other hand, skinny Remington Blake, with his mop of dark hair, and pimply redhead Zachary Duff could not get theirs to do anything.

Rachel found herself somewhere in between: better than many, worse than others. She was a bit disappointed not to be among the best in the class. Apparently, she was not destined to be a great canticler, like her sister Sandra. She noted with some small pride, however, that her control was excellent. Her block of wood might float slowly, but it went exactly where she directed it. Siggy’s and the princess’s swerved wildly. Siggy grinned like a maniac at the mayhem caused by his block, as it knocked into the chandelier and slammed against the window. When the princess’s did not obey her, however, she grew impatient and glared at it imperiously.

The only student with better control than Rachel was Astrid Hollywell, a girl with a caramel complexion and a head of tight black curls. Over her robe, she wore a bright silk scarf of cornflower blue. She sat by herself, guiding her piece of wood through slow lazy loops. Rachel watched, impressed. She smiled at Astrid, but the other girl ducked her head shyly.

When the class came to an end, the princess asked Rachel to introduce her to the other students they had been working near. Rachel introduced Princess Nastasia Romanov to Joy O’Keefe and Prince Wulfgang Starkadder. Joy gaped open-mouthed at the honor of shaking the hand of a real princess. Nastasia graciously accepted Miss O’Keefe’s admiration, though Rachel caught a tiny crinkle of embarrassed amusement at the corner of her eye. When the princess shook Wulfgang’s hand, however, her lovely face went rather pale.

As they walked to Art class, Rachel whispered to her, “Princess, what’s wrong? You look…distraught.”

Gliding along gracefully, Nastasia spoke in a perfectly even tone. “I fear I may be losing my mind. Something most strange keeps happening to me.”

“Strange…how? Like hearing animals talk?”

The princess threw her an odd look. “Occasionally, when I shake the hand of another student—when my skin touches their skin—I…go someplace else.”

“Did you go somewhere just now, with Wulfgang?”

“Yes. I have shaken hands with eleven students since my arrival and upon six of those occasions, I have found myself in another landscape.”

“The same landscape each time or different ones?”

“Different. But none of them pleasant.” The princess looked beautiful even when she was frowning thoughtfully. “Something is always blowing up or burning or freezing. This last time, with Mr. Starkadder, it was a glacier.”

“I wonder what that means?” Rachel mused.

“It gets worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“In the case of Miss Iscariot, I was standing on her grave.”

“Her grave!” Rachel cried. “When does she die?”

“Twenty years ago,” the princess replied. “According to the date on her headstone, she is already dead.”

Rachel pondered the Princess’s disturbing news as they made their way to class. She did not question whether Nastasia’s visions were real—many sorcerers had visions—but she did struggle to comprehend what they could mean. Under what circumstance could a young girl have died before she was born? Could Salome be a vampire? But they met in bright sunlight. Or a revenant? Was that why she looked so much more mature? It made no sense…which meant that there was more to know.

Whatever the truth was, Rachel could not wait to discover it.

They arrived at Art class to find animals milling around the classroom. Dogs, cats, and ferrets sniffed at the cabinets where the art supplies were stored. A magpie and a red-winged blackbird flew among the rafters. Apparently, Art was a class to which one brought one’s familiar. Lucky was already with Siggy. The two girls ran back to their room. To Rachel’s delight, Nastasia was one of her roommates. She had the bunk above Rachel’s.

Rachel had not met her roommates the night before. She had arrived after dinner and fallen asleep almost immediately, still being on London time and exhausted from her family outing in New York City. As they gathered their books for class, the two girls who shared the other set of bunks entered the room. With Kitten Fabian was the shy Astrid Hollywell. Astrid’s familiar turned out to be a red-winged blackbird named Faraday.

Even with her new empathy bond, Rachel could not catch Mistletoe. He had slipped through a hole too small for her. She could sense the cat, but she could not get to him. She called, but he did not come. Mistletoe never came when called; becoming a familiar did not change this.

Back in the classroom, Rachel was the only person without a familiar. She sunk as low as she could in her seat, hoping fervently that no one would notice. The tutor for this class was Mrs. Heelis, an old woman with round glasses, who wore her white hair in a bun. Her high-necked robe was black and red, like those worn by all conjurers. She did not wear a cap. Her ancient cat slept beside her on the floor in a pool of sunlight.

Seated at the table, she spoke to the students with a lively gleam to her eyes. “Art is the basis of the Sorcerous Art of Conjuring. All conjured objects must be conceptualized in the mind,” she tapped her head, “before they can be drawn into the world of the real. Here, your familiar will be a big help. Your familiar can see into the world of dreams from which conjured items come. It can help bring definition and perspective to your creation.”

She made a gesture and glanced at her cat, who suddenly sat up alert. The two of them bent their heads toward each other. Straightening, Mrs. Heelis held her palm up and drew her fingers together until her fingertips touched. Then the cat raised his paw and batted, just as Mrs. Heelis moved her hand downward.

“
Muria
,” she stated firmly.

As if she were waking from a dream, Rachel realized that a sweet white duck with a light blue bonnet that looked like a living version of Jemima Puddleduck waddled around the room. There were gasps of astonishment, and girls squealed with delight.

“It is only temporary. It will fade soon,” Mrs. Heelis explained. “But you may all come over and examine it.”

They all went forward to examine the animated duck. Looking up, Rachel realized that there were framed pictures of Peter Rabbit, Squirrel Nutkin, Jemima Puddleduck, and Benjamin Bunny on the walls. She smiled at the pictures. They seemed so charming and friendly.

The princess felt otherwise. “I do not care to look at so many rabbits.” Nastasia frowned fiercely at the walls. “The rabbit is the enemy of my people.”