The next morning.

Hedi blinked awake, fog still pooled behind her eyes like morning mist.

Once her body clock resets, she always wakes before the alarm, like a bird beating the dawn.

The window, once shut, now gaped halfway; a cool draft slipped in, ruffling the gray-white strands at her nape, spiced with coal-smoke, jasmine, and linseed oil.

She shifted; the mattress springs took her weight and hummed low, like a bass note under still water.

As her mind surfaced, the world outside sharpened, like ink lines drying on parchment.

Tin chimneys stood in serried ranks, breathing out thin ribbons of steam.

Airships stitched of gears and rivets lumbered across the sky, slow and strong, dragging long contrails like brushstrokes.

Row houses in a Victorian vein pressed shoulder to shoulder; their triangular roofs opened like books flipped face-down on the street.

Selina mumbled in her dreams, broken sounds like soft wind threading a forest, drifting into Hedi’s ears in waves.

When did you sneak into my bed?

Hedi tapped Selina’s cheek with the back of her hand; Selina rolled, drowsy, short, fluffy black hair spilling over a pale, plush face, no sign of waking.

Exasperation tugged at Hedi’s mouth, warm as tea. Last night, I tossed off a line—no need to wait till you’re low to comfort me; feel free to touch, to lean in, anytime. Then at midnight she crawled in. Bold, a little too bold.

Barefoot on cool boards, Hedi gathered the clothes scattered nearby, slipped them on, washed up quick, and left; the door sighed shut behind her.

What happened yesterday?

Just a bit of stomach pain. Hedi clamped an elastic between her teeth, combed sleep-tossed hair, fingers tracing hairline, ear, nape, to ends until knots yielded like snarled vines.

Skipping meals is a bad habit.

Cut a few classes from my docket. Better than any tonic.

Hedi shot Bruns a look, rolled her wrist to herd her hair into a bundle, looped fingers under the pony’s base, then cinched gray-white curls tight with a black band.

If you really want out, no schedule will chain you.

I’m just doing a Professor’s duty.

That’s why you’re easy to bait.

Says the one who keeps running schemes on me—you don’t get to talk!

Bruns stroked his beard, thought a beat. I’ll retire next year. Leaving then won’t be late.

Before that, the magic exchange meet lines up?

Yeah.

Same as before—I compete as Hervor Academy’s representative?

Right.

Then I win again and put a bow on your headmaster tenure?

Yes and no. The prize and glory are yours.

Hedi raised a finger. Year before last—incurable illness. Then a second. Last year—fighting a divorce. A third. This year—sending a child overseas. A pinky. Next year—retirement.

A poor memory is the secret to a cheerful life.

Whether you actually retire next year is still up for debate.

If you do retire—

Old goat. Some “incurable”—you’ve been living on it for years!

Hands clasped behind his back, Bruns walked shoulder to shoulder with Hedi. Think about it. You entered the Academy at sixteen. First glance, I knew you’d go far.

Doesn’t tempt me.

Next year’s different.

Magic research has hit bedrock. Decades haven’t budged it an inch.

Not research. Enns Ivry will sponsor next year’s magic contest.

He’s old nobility, right? Hedi pinched her chin, thinking. Can’t pony up much.

Triple.

That much?

Knew you were a pragmatist. Money talks best.

Hedi shook her head; her short ponytail brushed her neck like a cat’s tail. Forget it. Let someone else have a turn.

She stepped into the office and thanked yesterday’s proctor and the substitute teacher in turn.

Morning light seeped through ivory window frames. Air swam with ink-scent and drifting dust. Hedi sat grading, the pen’s tip kissing each answer. A breeze toyed with her loose strands.

That’s Academy work.

Simple, orderly, dull.

Wake with the sun; brush teeth, dress, walk to the Academy, grade before you lecture.

Move by timetable alone, like a clock with no heartbeat.

She used to have the magic exchange meets; in recent years they soured—frustrated folks gathering to flatter and sneer.

Duelings turned perfunctory, standings fixed long before the first spell.

All the first fire was gone, like ash after rain.

Still, Enns Ivry’s sponsorship might be worth a look.

The old man runs on iron principle; he won’t allow cheating. His temper’s odd. Young, he smoked his lungs ragged; old, he downs pills and tonics, bargaining days from fate.

Hedi finished grading. Scores clustered around the pass line. Did I make magical theory too abstract? Or am I pacing too fast?

Fine. I’ll pare the lessons down.

The bell chimed, thin as glass.

Hedi gathered the papers and walked into class, explained the sick leave, then broke down the problems as simply as she could.

She wove in the Three Laws of Magical Theory, mana conversion efficiency, and temporal delay—the first-year bedrock—without waving a flag.

Magical theory is dry and abstract, Hedi said, chalk in hand. If you’ve got questions, ask. Don’t turtle up in silence.

Now, the Law of Protection: every spell has a counter or resistance. No magic is invincible in the absolute sense.

A student raised a hand. Does that include Dark Magic and Sacred Magic, or only the common schools?

All of them, Hedi said. But Dark Magic is still being decoded. Few truly command it.

If I learn Dark Magic, can’t I catch opponents off guard?

Dark Magic targets the body—compulsion, mind control, memory revision and more.

Sounds terrifying.

It only sounds terrifying, Hedi said, chalk whispering. Every known Dark spell has a counter. The real threat is the unknown—witches’ arts lost to history.

From the back came a jeer: If witches were so strong, why did humans tame them into docility?

Hedi rapped the desk; the room settled like dust in still air.

Dark Magic isn’t on my syllabus. Your job is to nail the laws and how they bind to mana.

So that means the Professor knows Dark Magic?

Another student snapped before the words cooled. Idiot, you’ll land the Professor in prison with that.

Hedi shook her head. It was fine.

The bell rang, crisp as a knife on porcelain.

She stepped out and a security guard stopped her.

Professor Melvina, someone’s waiting at the gate.

Who?

Says she’s a friend. Stella… something. Twisty name.

Hedi nodded and headed for the gate.

Evelyn stood sideways by the gate, a cigarette at her lips, eyes half-lidded behind a veil of smoke.

When she tapped ash, she drew the hand from her pocket for warmth, pinched the half-burned stick, fingertips stained a smoker’s yellow.

A black trench hugged her lines; the open collar bared a smooth, tempting collarbone.

What do you need me for?

Class over?

Don’t answer a question with a question, Hedi folded her arms. I’ve only got noon. I teach this afternoon.

Won’t take long.

Talk.

Not here. The café up front?

Hedi tipped her chin. Lead on.