The Holy Maiden led Hedi into the Priest’s bedroom. The furnishings were spare yet complete: a sturdy four-legged bed, a plain rug, an honest desk, and a vintage rotary phone that sat like a relic. Everything breathed the scent of new wood and varnish. It was all pure white, no elaborate patterns—an austere space that banished ornament, where whimsy and personality didn’t count.
There was also a camera, a radio, and a petite mechanical speaker whose grille gleamed like fish scales. By the wall near the window sat a retro turntable and a thin stack of records, their sleeves faded like old dawns. Most striking was a wooden cabinet at waist height. Hedi bent and opened it; inside, about twenty battered volumes lined up like soldiers with scarred spines. The frayed pages told of hands returning again and again. She skimmed the titles—old works, dust-dry, their ideas already out of date.
“Only this room has a phone.” The Holy Maiden pulled the curtains. Daylight wedged in like a blade and flooded the stifled room.
“I know. Back then, when the sisters needed to call, they came here.”
“It’s the same now.”
Hedi nodded. Her fluffy ash-white hair trailed along her pale cheeks and sketched tangled curves. Under the beam of day, her ears flushed like shy petals. She stepped to the rotary phone and sniffed; her breath puffed softly like a tiny bellows.
“What’s got you tense? I remember you used this phone,” the Holy Maiden said.
“You keep steering me into the past.”
“We did spend more than ten years together…”
Unease rose first. Hedi looked at the Holy Maiden’s face and tried to sort her thoughts, like tidying a messy drawer while her fingers turned the dial. But in that drawer, things had shifted: a pencil sharpener where the paperclips should go; an eraser sitting in the sharpener’s place, like pieces of a life swapped and mislabeled. The woman before her felt like a shape lifted from deep brain-water, chaotic enough to tilt her sense of self. How am I supposed to tie this Holy Maiden to the companion I remember? Each friend from then had a different temperament. To match them to her feels like smashing someone from memory to pulp—blood-red mince—and molding a new body on that heap, just to rewrite what I believed about my peers.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The line clicked alive, and the voice on the other end sounded plainly bewildered by the unknown call. Once Hedi’s voice came through, Bruns shed the confusion and teased, easy and light: “Is the world ending or what?”
“What nonsense is that?”
“Because you never call me. You even swore, ‘We see each other so often, why bother with phones.’”
“When the distance gets long, you use a phone.”
“Well, well! Melvina actually stepped outside? Where are you off to this weekend?”
“My long break—”
“Perfect timing!” Bruns’ voice climbed a few notches, bright with zeal, words tumbling like tossed coals. “You remember next year’s Academy of Magic tournament? I was going to talk tomorrow. Since you called, I’ll say it now—Mr. Enns Ivry wants to sit in on your class. You know he’s the main sponsor for the event. So when you teach, give them your very best!”
“It has to be me?”
“Who else can carry that weight? Only our reigning most-popular Professor—Hedi Melvina!”
“Ha… ha…”
“Oh? What were you saying? I didn’t catch it—this clunker’s signal is trash.”
Frustration pooled first. Hedi said nothing. Four fingers tapped the phone table in a steady rhythm, like rain on tin. After a pause, she mumbled, “My leave… isn’t there still a few days I haven’t taken?”
This time the other end went silent, like a rehearsed mime; the quiet stretched tight with drama.
“No. Not possible,” Bruns said, his breath roughened like sand. “You know Enns Ivry’s an old aristocrat. He’s done a lot for our academy.”
“I know, I know…”
“Right now, academies of magic face pressure from Mechanical Academies the new nobles founded. They’ve developed anti-magic gear, steam-powered devices aimed at Spellcasters, and who knows what else. You know I don’t get machines—I’m an old man of magical studies. These hits have shut a lot of magic schools. Public opinion says steam power applies more widely than the rare Spellcaster. Its future reach outstrips any single magical field. And a talent like you is rare. If you don’t come tomorrow, you’ll embarrass Enns Ivry and batter our academy’s name.”
“Figures. You’re here to shut me up.” Hedi sighed helplessly, the sound thin as a reed.
“The Hervor Academy of Magic is a jewel the old nobles built with blood and care. The traditional forces backing magic and the new nobles obsessed with mechanics are locked in a hard clash, sparks flying. Tomorrow’s open class isn’t just about your performance. Its success will swing the course of magic’s future, and the old aristocracy’s pride and honor.”
“I hate magic stained by politics… I want to resign, and you won’t agree…”
“That’s exactly why.” Bruns’ words dropped like stones into water. “With talent like yours, I can’t decide alone if you stay or go. Your resignation has to go to the old aristocracy for review. Even if I stamp it right now, if they don’t approve, you won’t get out clean. The Cabinet’s Talent Restriction Act targets high-tier Spellcasters. But the wind’s shifting—people are turning from spell circuits you must be born to grasp to machines you can build with your hands.”
“Magic demands too much talent.”
“Exactly. But tomorrow’s open class—you must teach it. Even if the Empire’s old nobles stop funding magic entirely, even if the public forgets it or throws it away, you still need to show up.”
“Even if I want to return, I can’t. Heavy rain caused a landslide; the road’s blocked.”
“There aren’t many mountains in the Empire.”
“Naghtown.”
“Ah—you finally went back to see John.”
“Sort of.”
“I’m honestly relieved. Did I never tell you? John wrote often, praising you, letters like steady lanterns.”
“No.”
“He already knew his health. The academy wouldn’t admit you on one letter from a village Priest. He wrote me many, many times. So when you came with that letter, I knew John was entrusting his daughter to me.”
Hedi’s face stayed calm. She murmured, “Mm.”
“And look—you’ve had five or six years… You’ve done well…”
“I’m here begging leave. I should’ve just skipped class.”
“What’s it matter? John and I go way back. I never found the time to visit. Since you’re there, give him my regards.”
“What about tomorrow? You made it sound dire—”
Bruns burst out a curse. “No matter how big the deal, it can’t outweigh mourning family! Besides, you haven’t gone back since you left Naghtown. I can’t guess what you feel for John, but he poured himself into you—feeding you, shaping your future. I used to think you were all restraint, all work. Hearing you returned to Naghtown—honestly, that makes me happy.”
“I’ll check other transport—”
“No, no. I’m approving your leave. Mourn John. Sit and talk.” Bruns paused a beat, breath settling like dust. “I’ll take tomorrow’s open class.”
“Can you?”
“Hell yes. When the principal teaches in person, what can the new nobles gripe about?” From his side, a softer woman’s voice chimed in, warm as a shawl: “The doctor said watch your emotions!”
Bruns muttered agreement and came back to Hedi. “That’s settled. Stay in Naghtown.”
“Hey, hey—” Hedi listened to the scratch of the line cutting out and set the handset down, helpless, the click like a lid closing.
“Sounds like—” The Holy Maiden by the window turned her face to Hedi, light drawing a silver edge. “Tomorrow matters.”
“I need to leave here.”
“You’re still confined.”
Resolve rose, edged with fear. Hedi bit her lower lip and thought in silence. Then she lifted her face and said, word by word, “I have to go back.”
“Another slapdash, headstrong decision?” The Holy Maiden turned to the view outside, the sky pale as porcelain. “Professor, you live like a chosen one, always under everyone’s protection.”
