Room A70, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown
“You’re really going to spend two weeks in this class?” Francoise asked. She was sitting cross-legged in her nightgown on the bed behind Niccolette, a pillow in her lap. “Just think of all the shopping we could do! The term starts in two weeks and you’l have plenty of classes then.”
“But not this one,” Niccolette said. She stilled her lips, resisting the urge to run her tongue over them, and went back to it.
“Oh, that’s a lovely color. Is it from Florne?” Francoise hopped off the edge of the bed and came over, sitting against the vanity. At Niccolette’s nod, she sighed, a little dreamily. “I suppose you’ve done enough shopping. That peach silk dress would suit me wonderfully, you know.”
Niccolette laughed. “It is yours,” she said, grinning at the other girl. “A gift for letting me stay.”
Francoise’s face lit up. “Thanks, Nicco! Oh, lovely. I’ll just have my maid let out the seams in the bust -“
Niccolette shrieked an objection; both girls were too busy, then, laughing and talking.
“I do have to go,” Niccolette said finally, glancing at the clock. “I shall see you tonight.”
“All right, but you’d better not be too tired,” Francoise grinned, wickedly. “I’ve found absolutely the best bar just on the other side of Ro Hill. You’ll love it.”
In carriage, Niccolette took out the textbook which had occupied her on the airship from Florne, and flipped it open once more, skimming through. She read as the carriage went over the stones and streets of Vienda; motion sickness never dared to trouble her.
Of Uzoji, and whatever it was he was doing all summer in Thul Ka, she thought not at all.
Niccolette let the Deschamps coachman help her down, the fashionable narrow yellow skirt swishing gently as she did. The entire costume was the same pale yellow, the bodice asymmetric and tightly fitted to her frame, the product of the last of her fittings in Florne. It was as Bastian as she was, the skirt adorned with a delicate series of ruffles down one side.
The Broverton Vienda Institute was one of the various Brunnhold centers in Vienda. Niccolette felt that someone must have all the red brick should make students smarter or something; she was quite skeptical.
She made her way through the campus, and, just before the chiming of the bell, took a seat in the lecture theater where the two week long spell writing intensive was to be held.
Professor Abruzesse was sitting against the desk at the front of the room, spectacles on his nose, his dark hair pulled back in a small tail. The Living Conversation professor glanced up and around the room, periodically; once, his gaze met Niccolette’s, and he smiled. Niccolette nodded back, and didn’t look around.
Every other student she had seen thus far, the Bastian thought, irritated, was male; most of them she knew, and two she had beaten at the last tournament of the semester before. It had been the same in the class she had taken in her eighth year; DeFrancs had at least been direct with her that he did not think women had what it took for spell writing.
Just the memory of him made Niccolette’s hands clench, tight, into fists. She exhaled, and opened them, and set her notebook out on her desk, for all that she did not really need it. She stared straight ahead, and cared not in the least what anyone thought of her presence. Abruzesse has told her she might attend; the rest of them, Niccolette thought, could find themselves at the mercy of Her claws.
The grandfather clock against the wall ticked down, steadily; there were only a few minutes left until the course was to start, and almost all of the dozen or so students intending to take the summer intensive were already in their seats.