When it had been Rachel’s turn to pick, she had fallen in love with the little black and white kitten that was the feistiest of the litter. He showed such spirit and curiosity. He immediately won her heart. When the time came to test for supernatural aptitude, little Mistletoe failed all the tests. Grandfather declared him a sport, a throwback with no magical talent. He and her parents urged her to pick a different kitten, but Rachel would not abandon the little fellow. She was sure he would improve with time.
Only, he had not.
Three times in the last week she had dreamt a nightmare where, upon reaching the ivory arch, Mistletoe bolted, leaving her standing by herself, humiliated in front of her entire class—the children she was going to be living with every day for the next eight years. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she wished she had accepted her father’s last-minute offer to buy her a different familiar.
To take her mind off her fears, she glanced around, pausing briefly on each student’s face and filing it away in the well-ordered library that was her mind. The crowd was international. Rachel picked out American, Irish, French, Spanish, Egyptian, and Japanese accents. As they were called forward, she recognized many family names, some of which belonged to children of high members of the Parliament of the Wise.
Everyone stared with interest when the lovely girl with piercing blue eyes and chestnut hair that floated around her like a cloud turned out to be Wendy Darling, the daughter of the famous James Darling—the star of the James Darling, Agent comics. The mischievous red-haired boy behind her was Wendy’s cousin, Ian MacDannan, the son of Finn MacDannan, Darling’s right hand man from the Terrible Years, when they battled the Veltdammerung, led by the Terrible Five. Rachel knew both these children. They had attended Yule Parties and other functions together since they were little. She waved, but they were looking the other way.
A dark boy with a sardonic expression and a wolverine at his side was announced as Wulfgang Starkadder, whom Rachel knew to be the seventh heir to the throne of Transylvania, or perhaps he was the fifth heir, depending upon whether women could inherit in his country. Two of his older siblings were sisters. Nearby, she saw Cydney Graves and her two friends. They were standing with several other children, including a rather mean-looking dark-haired boy. The whole group of them sneered at her when they caught her glancing in their direction.
The majority of familiars were cats, dogs, owls, or ferrets, though there were a number of magpies and snakes as well. Some students had large mammals that had been shrunk by magic. Juma O’Malley fed peanuts to a tiny elephant. Mei-Xing Lee, from China, carried a miniature panda, and a little polar bear played with Wanda Zukov’s long dark-red hair. Rachel only noted two supernatural creatures among the crowd. Misty Lark, a girl with a dull, almost lifeless expression in her eyes and straw-colored hair that stuck out like hay, stood next to a tiny unicorn. A boy by the name of Mortimer Egg had a red-eyed rabbit that Rachel was sure was a phooka. Lots of phooka roamed Dartmoor, where Gryphon Park was located. Rachel had learned how to spot them. She wondered what kind of a gift came with a phooka familiar.
One girl, Magdalene Chase, was even smaller than Rachel, a tiny dark-haired thing with skin so pale one could practically see through it. Rachel knew that she herself looked as if she might be ten; this girl looked as if she could have been eight—though, according to Salome, she was actually fourteen. Magdalene tried to present a porcelain doll as her familiar and was laughed at by the assembled students. Rachel did not laugh. She felt very sorry for the tiny girl and wished she had some way to protect Magdalene from scorn. Squeezing Mistletoe tighter, she wondered if everyone would laugh at her like that when her cat deserted her at the arch.
As Mr. Tuck called Mortimer Egg and his phooka forward, Rachel spotted the person she had been hoping to see, a short girl with straight brown hair and many freckles. She had an open, friendly face, but there was a glint of steel her eye, as if she was little but fierce. Standing beside her was the tiny lion.
Rachel joined her. Mistletoe squirmed. She held him tighter to keep him from escaping. “Hallo. I’m Rachel Griffin. Um…do you mind if I ask you a rather peculiar question?”
“Not at all. I love peculiar questions.” To Rachel’s delight, this girl also had an English accent. She extended her hand. “I’m Jane. Jane Fabian, but everyone calls me Kitten.”
“Kitten? That’s a bit…”
“Odd?” Kitten gave her a knowing nod. “My family is like that. We are all nicknamed after animals and have rather unusual familiars. My brother Squirrel—Cyril is his real name—has a phoenix. My sister Panther has…a panther. A full-sized one, too. And Bobcat has a psammead—a sand fairy. I have Leander, of course. Though, frankly, some days it might be more appropriate to say that he has me.”
“Nice to meet you, Kitten. I would shake hands, but my cat will get away,” Rachel apologized. “Do phoenixes and psammeads make good familiars? My sister Laurel wanted a chimera, but Father said supernatural creatures were a bad idea.”
“The phoenix is irascible, and the psammead is both cantankerous and shy, which makes for a horrid combination,” Kitten replied. “Still, my brothers seldom complain. Both creatures are terribly good at conjuration, and supernatural familiars tend to have strange gifts. Squirrel can teleport, thank to the phoenix. But he says that’s a pointless gift, as he’s over eighteen, so he’s allowed to jump anyway. But here I am babbling on, and you haven’t had a chance to ask your peculiar question. Do ask.”
Rachel paused, gazing down at the tiny lion. “Does…does your familiar talk?”
“You mean Leander?” Kitten looked at her lion, who stared steadily back at her with large golden eyes. She looked back at Rachel. “What makes you ask that?”
“Just wondering.” Rachel noted that Kitten had not denied it.
“It certainly seems to me as if he does.” Kitten gave her lion a very kind smile, but it was not the sort of smile Rachel would have given her familiar. It was a look of respect, almost awe.
The tutor called Kitten’s name. She threw Rachel a grateful look and ran off with Leander. The two of them walked down the line of torches and passed through the ivory arch, followed by Diogenes Flint, Claudia Ford, Zoë Forrest—whose hair was dark green, Warren Foster, and the horrid Cydney Graves, whose familiar was a large fruit bat.
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.”
Chapter Six:
Unfamiliar Classes
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 st
udent 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 elev
en 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.
The Unexpected Enlightenment of Rachel Griffin (Books of Unexpected Enlightenment Book 1) Page 6
