She smiled. “Thanks, Sydney.”
We usually parted ways when the bus reached Central Campus, but she held back once we got off. I could see again that she wanted to tell me something but was having trouble getting the courage.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I . . . just wanted to tell you I really am sorry for giving you so much grief. You do a lot for us. Really. And you being upset, it’s because . . . well, I know you care. Which is more than I can say for other people back at Court.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “They care. They went to a lot of trouble to get you here and keep you safe.”
“I still feel like it was more for Lissa than for me,” she said sadly. “And my mom didn’t put up much of a fight when they said they were going to send me away.”
“They want you safe,” I told her. “That means making hard choices—hard for them too.”
Jill nodded, but I don’t know if she believed me. I gave Eddie the morning report when I reached history. His face displayed a range of emotions with each new development in the story.
“You think Keith will write the note?” he asked in a low voice.
“He has to. The whole point of us being here is to keep her alive. Starving her to death kind of defeats the purpose.”
I didn’t bother telling Eddie that I was in trouble with my father and the Alchemists and that in two weeks, there was a good chance I might not even be around. Eddie was clearly upset over Jill’s situation already, and I didn’t want him to have one more thing to worry about.
When I met up with Ms. Terwilliger at the end of the day, I turned in the last of the notes I’d made for her on the old books. As I was settling myself at a desk, I noticed a folder of articles sitting on a table.
“Ms. Terwilliger . . . didn’t you say you knew people at Carlton College?”
She glanced up from her computer. “Hmm? Oh yes. I should think so. I play poker with half of the history faculty. I even teach there in the summers. History, that is. Not poker.”
“I don’t suppose you know anybody in admissions, do you?” I asked.
“Not so much. I suppose I know people who know people there.” She turned her attention back to the screen. I said nothing, and after several moments, she looked back at me. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Of course there’s a reason. Are you interested in attending? Goodness knows you’d probably get more out of there than here. My class being the exception, of course.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “But my brother wants to attend. He heard classes haven’t started yet but isn’t sure if he can get in on such short notice.”
“It’s
“Oh. Oh no, ma’am. I was just hoping to get some names I could contact. I’d never ask you to do something like that.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Why ever not?”
I was at a loss. She was so difficult to understand sometimes. “Because . . . you have no reason to.”
“I’d do it as a favor to you.”
I couldn’t muster a response for that and simply stared. She smiled and pushed her glasses up her nose.
“That’s impossible for you to believe, isn’t it? That someone would do a favor for you.”
“I . . . well, that is . . .” I trailed off, still unsure what to say. “You’re my teacher. Your job is to, well, teach me. That’s it.”
“And your job,” she said, “is to report to this room during last period for whatever mundane tasks I have for you and then turn in a paper at the end of the semester. You are not in any way required to fetch me coffee, show up after hours, organize my life, or completely rearrange your own to meet my ridiculous requests.”
“I . . . I don’t mind,” I said. “And it all needs doing.”
She chuckled. “Yes. And you insist on going above and beyond in your tasks, don’t you? No matter how inconvenient for you.”
I shrugged. “I like to do a good job, ma’am.”
“You do an excellent job. Far better than you need to. And you do it without complaint. Therefore, the least I can do is make a few phone calls on your behalf.” She laughed again. “That startles you most of all, doesn’t it? Having someone praise you.”
“Oh no,” I said lamely. “I mean, it happens.”
She took off her glasses to look at me more intently. The laughter was gone. “No, I’m thinking it doesn’t. I don’t know your particular situation, but I have known a lot of students like you—ones whose parents ship them off like this. While I appreciate the concern for higher education, I find that more often than not, a bigger piece of students coming here is that their parents simply don’t have the time or inclination to be involved with—or even pay attention to—their children’s lives.”
We were dealing with one of those interpersonal areas that made me uncomfortable, particularly because there was an unexpected element of truth in them. “It’s more complicated than that, ma’am.”
“I’m sure it is,” she replied. Her expression turned fierce, making her look far different from the scattered teacher I knew. “But listen to me when I say this. You are an exceptional, talented, and brilliant young woman. Do not ever let anyone make you feel like you’re less. Do not ever let anyone make you feel invisible. Do not let anyone—not even a teacher who constantly sends you for coffee—push you around.” She put her glasses back on and began randomly lifting up pieces of papers. At last, she found a pen and grinned triumphantly. “Now, then. What is your brother’s name?”
“Adrian, ma’am.”
“Right, then.” She took out a piece of paper and carefully wrote down the name. “Adrian Melbourne.”
“Melrose, ma’am.”
“Right. Of course.” She scribbled out her mistake and muttered to herself, “I’m just glad his first name’s not Hobart.” When she was finished, she leaned back casually in her chair. “Now that you mention it, there is one thing I’d like you to do.”
“Name it,” I said.
“I want you to make one of the spells from that first book.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say, make a spell?”
Ms. Terwilliger waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not asking you to wave a wand or do an animal sacrifice. But I’m terribly intrigued by how complex some of the formulas and steps of the spells were. I have to wonder, did people actually follow them in such painstaking detail? Some of these are quite complicated.”
“I know,” I said dryly. “I typed them all out.”
“Exactly. So, I want you to make one. Follow the steps. See how long it takes. See if half the measurements they ask for are even possible. Then write up the data in a report. That part, I know you excel at.”
I didn’t know what to say. Ms. Terwilliger wasn’t actually asking me to use magic, certainly not in the same way vampires did. Such a thing wasn’t even possible. Magic was not the province of humans. It was unnatural and went against the ways of the universe. What the Alchemists did was based on science and chemistry. The tattoos had magic, but it was us bending vampire magic to our wills—not using it ourselves. The closest we came to anything supernatural was the blessings we called down on our potions. She was only asking me to reenact a spell. It wasn’t real. There was no harm. And yet . . . why did I feel so uneasy? I felt like I was being asked to lie or steal.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
For a moment, I considered using religion again but then dismissed it. That excuse had come up too often today, though this time, it was actually semi-legitimate. “Nothing, ma’am. It just seems weird.”
She picked up the first leather book and flipped to the middle. “Here. Do this one—an incineration amulet. It’s complicated, but at least you’ll have an arts and crafts project when you’re done. Most of these ingredients should be easy to come by, too.”
