[Closed] Can’t Stop Me Now

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid Morning, 71 Roalis, 2711
Room A70, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown

Niccolette leaned forward, studying the sweep of kohl around her eyelids. She closed one eye, and evened it out with a gentle sweep of her fingertips, then set the brush down, and began to fill in the color on her lips.

“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.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

71st of Roalis, 2711
BROVERTON VIENDA INSTITUTE | MID-MORNING

He didn't really want to be here. Even if it was Mateo's house and his friend's parents were generous hosts, being in godsbedamned Vienda felt ridiculously too close to being home, even if his parents hadn't answered any of his letters requesting somewhere to stay for this summer course he'd worked so hard to get invited to, to get approval for, to be even considered allowed to attend.

"Matty, I really don't know why I'm here." He frowned at himself in the mirror, adjusting his cravat for what felt like the millionth time, watching more of the way the left side of his lips stayed so inexpressive compared to his right no matter how hard he tried to scrunch his face up into a disapproving expression.

"Because the Broverton Vienda Institute is full of clocking brilliant professors and it's going to be an excellent spell-writing class, you dumberse. You must've really impressed someone with that research paper in the spring." The auburn-haired boy rolled his eyes and shoved his taller friend from the mirror, "Forget about your clothes. They're not a uniform, anyway, and you'll be late."

"Impressed someone—when? Oh, right. It's not like I had anything else to do but research the converging points of electromagnetic currents as expressed in Monite through the last century." Naul grunted, hardly encouraged by the compliment. Perhaps it was more of an experiment, some pity-motivated academically sanctioned acceptance of a much younger student into a class that would be filled with near-graduates, near-graduates who probably knew his name and face and would make sure he felt as unwelcome in the classroom as he did here in Vienda. He was a good student, godsdamnit, and he'd been a promising sorcerer. The eldest Siordanti now just wanted to prove he'd not squandered his giftedness, that he was capable of learning from his mistakes and making something of himself in spite of everyone's opinions otherwise.

"Shut your head. Let's go." Mateo wasn't even going to be in the same class as he was, the other seventh form choosing this summer to delve further into Perceptive conversation through one of the intensives offered at the same Institute. The shorter boy hardly gave his friend a chance to grab his satchel, shoving them both through his spacious home right in Uptown within walking distance. Had he even stayed with his parents, Naul would have had a half hour coach ride from outside Vienda proper, so, honestly, he got to sleep in and have a much better commute to class in the sweltering, humid late-Roalis morning.

The two made drinking plans for afterward, planning their week of studying and pub crawling, sweating until they parted ways in the spacious foyer of the Institute, fountain sparkling in the sun. Nauleth fussed with his cravat some more, suddenly nervous when alone, making his way through the very well-manicured campus and realizing that there were more students attending than he'd assumed he'd see, given the exclusivity of acceptance.

Ah, but there was the bell. He was clocking late. Nothing new, really.

Gold-rimmed eyes scanned the numbers of classrooms and he slipped in through the door to immediately catch the glare of Professor Abruzesse just as the man seemed to have been considering it his time to stand.

"Mister Siordanti." The Living Conversationalist knew his name, of course. More than that, he knew his face.

"Apologies, Professor." He bobbed his head, much taller than the other man, and didn't even bother glancing around the room of students because he didn't need to see them to know they were all staring at him now.

"You did realize being invited to this class meant you should show up on time to honor such a privilege, right, young man?"

Someone sniggered.

"I did—I do, sir. I won't be late again."

He felt the various weights of their auras as he shuffled into a seat, setting his satchel on the desk and folding his hands on top of it, ignoring the whisper to his left and contemplating the familiar monic signature to his ri—

Oh, gods.

He didn't turn around, sinking further into his seat, the physical gravity of his own field an invisible barrier of annoyance and embarrassment as it sigiled tautly. He didn't need to look to know who was just over his shoulder, and so he didn't. The room was mostly full of mixed-form students, almost all of them young men like himself which was, admittedly, not unusual for spell-writing and advanced theory classes.

Professor Abruzesse stood and cleared his throat, "Now that we've all arrived, students, if you would please all take out your syllabus which you received by mail so that we can go over my expectations for this intensive. You will also want to write your group members down somewhere as I reveal them to you."

Nauleth realized with chagrin his was slightly crumpled, and he spread it out carefully across his desk, attempting to listen and not look around the room, and not look in Niccolette's direction, not once.

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid Morning, 71 Roalis, 2711
Room A70, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown

The bell rang, and Niccolette straightened up in her seat, her hands settled together before her and the notebook open to a blank page. Professor Abruzesse shifted his weight, glancing over all of them, when the door opened once more.

Mister Siordanti, Abruzesse said.

Niccolette’s gaze flicked towards the doorway, for just a moment. She had not seen Nauleth Siordanti since the day – near two years ago – when he had thrown his lunch on her, insulted her until she goaded him into challenging her to a duel, and then backlashed badly enough that half the campus had seemed to think him dead.

Here he was, upright, looking about as freckled as ever. He came into the classroom, and sat in the row just in front of her. Niccolette felt the brush of his physical field with some surprise – it did not feel ‘just on this side of scrap,’ as a girl had told her with relish some six months ago.

Frankly, Niccolette did not much care whether Naul could ever cast again.

Niccolette had dueled him, yes, and in truth her eighth form was not a year she looked back on with much pride. But she felt little in the way of shame, either, nor discomfort. They had dueled; with his conduct, she had had little choice but to force him to challenge her, and would have been justified in challenging him outright. They had dueled fairly; if he were the less experienced, that had been his choice to make. She saw no reason to take the blame for his mistakes and inadequacies.


And yet, Niccolette thought, idly, she saw no reason he should not recover to whatever extent possible and cast again. That was up to his will and the mona; it was nothing to do with her. He had never humiliated her, for all that he had meant to; she had not let him. She felt nothing, particularly, either way, but perhaps a faint annoyance that Professor Abruzesse had not begun the class due to the other student’s tardiness.

Niccolette opened her notebook; the syllabus was neatly clipped to the inside. She had read it, of course, and did not need the visual aid to remember, but Professor Abruzesse had been rather specific. The sooner they got through this – and all the rest of the boring things which always occupied the first moments of a course – they could proceed to that which was actually interesting. She hoped it should not take long; it was a short course.

“This is a class in which we will attempt to distill the heart of spellwriting into something which can be taught in two weeks,” Professor Abruzesse went on, the strength of his Flornese accent dulled by years teaching in Brunnhold and Vienda. “This is no easy task. You will have work, nightly; I will expect your complete focus for every moment which you spend in this room. This is not a semester course; there is none of you here for whom this is essential for graduation. You are here because you have chosen to be so; I expect, therefore, that you will choose to work hard.”

Professor Abruzesse paused; he went on. “If you do not,” he said, glancing over them all, “the door is there,” he gestured lightly with one hand.

Once the rest of the details were finished, Professor Abruzesse began to call out the groups. Niccolette sat straight upright, listening and watching, her chin raised. It lifted further, her eyes hardening, when he did not call her name, not in the first group, the second, the third – the fourth – she found herself clenching her teeth together. There were only fourteen of them, and the other dozen already assigned.

“Miss Villamarzana and Mr. Siordante,” Professor Abruzesse finished. “Turn, and take two minutes to introduce yourself to your group mates.”

Niccolette stood abruptly; she did not so much as look back at Nauleth, striding to the front of the room. She had the sense, at least, to keep her voice low, though the quiet, shrill anger in it thrummed through her.

“If this is your way to inform me that my admission to this class was a joke,” Niccolette said through half-clenched teeth, “Professor,” she all but spat the word, “then I would rather you have refused to permit me to attend.”

Professor Abruzesse looked down at her, then back up at the rest of the class. There was a wave of sniggering from the back row, and silence. “Did I instruct you to listen?” He asked, sharply.

They began to chatter once more; Niccolette did not so much as think of glancing back, her back straight and her jaw clenched.

“Mr. Siordanti?” Professor Abruzesse asked, glancing at Nauleth. “Do you feel the same about your group member for these two weeks?”

[Nauleth Siordanti]

71st of Roalis, 2711
BROVERTON VIENDA INSTITUTE | MID-MORNING

Nauleth felt a heat far warmer than the Roalis weather burn the back of his neck, reaching for his freckled cheeks and crawling down his spine. He shifted and sat up straight in his chair slowly, almost reluctantly, digging deep into that dark well of indignant defiance that had kept him going in physical therapy and allowed him to endure the barrage of judgmental medical and monic professionals who'd let him know on a daily basis just how hard he'd have to work to be a proper galdor again, if ever. His jaw clenched, finally fumbling for the pair of thin-rimmed glasses in his coat pocket and putting them on while Professor Abruzesse rambled through the syllabus and made some very specific comments most likely meant to discourage useless sods like the eldest Siordanti.

Could spellwriting really be distilled into a two week course? No clocking way, but it was a foot in the door that Naul wanted to claw open. The professor's ponytail bobbed in emphasis with his words and the ginger student watched the way his face scrunched up whenever he lingered on a word—work nightly? Well, it wasn't like he was here to be clocking social. It wasn't like he was social at all, anymore, really.

Matty would want to drag him out drinking, would want him to be a good copilot when he tried to drunkenly flirt with older, more refined Viendan women. Gods. At least the level of expectation for an intensive course gave him an excuse to not spend every evening half-guttered and bored.

Professor Abruzesse issued his challenge and Nauleth squared his shoulders, unmoving. No one left. How could they now?

The man began to go down the list and Naul felt his pulse against his temples, fluttering against the wireframes of his glasses. He stared down at his hands, curled on the desk, resisting the temptation to pick at a particularly painful hangnail while not hearing his name.

He didn't hear Niccolette's either. Pair after pair—

For clock'sake.

His eyes narrowed. The math was easy. Math was always easy.

He looked up in time to feel the shift in Niccolette's field when their names were spoken together, but instead of turning around, his shoulders slumped when the sound of motion and the blur of her figure descending to the front of the class passed by his blue-green gaze. Someone else nearby chortled, clearly amused that she was annoyed, perhaps even agreeing with her. Did anyone else want to partner with Mister Siordanti? No. He guessed not.

It was cruel. Everyone who was anyone knew who he'd been dueling that day, but did Professor Abruzesse? The man obviously knew of Nauleth's backlash and punished him by pairing him with the only woman in the class—inferior students, naturally stuck together to make sure the rest of the class succeeded.

What an idiot.

The man couldn't have been more wrong.

The tall redhead didn't have to like the Bastian duelist, even if perhaps, for a brief moment in his stupidity, he'd liked her more than he should have, but even in all of his suffering, he'd not begrudged Niccolette Villamarzana for any of it. It'd been his fault, and that had been a hard lesson to learn—the consequences of his choices and no one else's. He understood she was a brilliant sorcerer and he respected her for that, even if he didn't expect any of that to be returned in his direction.

He didn't deserve it—but—

She was objecting. He could tell by her face, by the way she didn't look at him, and he sat there, saying nothing, staring down at them both from his desk. Something stung the back of his eyes, but he bit the inside of his cheek and curled his fingernails into his palms, not expecting to be given a choice in the matter while the rest of the class took their amusement at both their expenses.

"I do not, actually."

Naul let his attention shift from the professor to Niccolette, who wasn't even looking at him, and his voice wavered with both surprise and the sheer amount of bravado it took to be this honest in front of a bunch of judgmental erseholes that all proper Anaxi were raised to be, "Miss Villamarzana clearly deserves the best possible study partner, and considering the behavior of everyone else, I'd say you've made the correct choice. I'm the only one who knows that there is no humor in her willingness and nothing laughable about her capabilities. I'm also the only other superior caster in here, let's be honest—"

He smiled then, one side lilting into a predatory expression before the other, brief but very genuine,

"—half of this class is only here because daddy's already a Magister or a Professor and they can't think for themselves."

Oh, that got a rumble of commentary, and Nauleth seemed to sit up a little straighter at the reaction it caused, whispers and hisses of insults slid without shame in his direction. He kept his smile for a moment longer, before his bravado faltered and he looked away, back down to his hands, something hot and angry simmering from his chest to sink heavily into his gut.

This was such a mistake.

Professor Abruzesse? He was not pleased at all, scowling and looking back to the young woman next to him,

"That was your answer, Miss Villamarzana. I don't hear any humor in it. I have made my decision, and, again, you know where the door is if you don't like it." He lowered his voice, adding without a hint of sarcasm, clearly believing the presence of her sex in his classroom to be more offensive than whatever the seventh form he'd assigned as her partner could possibly have said about anyone else in the class, "Honestly, I wouldn't want you distracting the more serious students in this class, anyway, so if you're so opposed to working with Mister Siordanti for the next two weeks, maybe it's for the best."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid Morning, 71 Roalis, 2711
Room A70, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown

Stripe it, Niccolette thought, furious. Her hands clenched tight into the folds of the skirt at her side – not so much at Nauleth Siordanti’s words, but at the scowling look on Professor Abruzesse, his gaze past her towards Nauleth. Her field was calm and indectal around her; none of the fury she felt burning in her chest washed out through it.

She had petitioned him to attend; she had taken courses with the Living Conversation Professor before, and he had given her excellent marks – top marks – and before the end of first term, thinking it could not hurt, she had gone to him and asked if she might attend the summer spellwriting course. He had said yes.

Worse, Niccolette thought, furious, much worse, she had spent the last month eagerly looking forward to this course. Through the lengthy, insufferable dinners at the homes of families with eligible sons – and eligible, Niccolette thought furiously, seemed to encompass her age and up to forty years above it – through all the lectures on duty and what was owed, through the days which passed with no letter from Uzoji delivered to the friend she had trusted to receive such, and the silence which still lingered –

Did he know that she was in Vienda? Did he remember the date of the intensive? He wrote her, even if it took days for the mail to reach from Florne to Thul Ka; he wrote that he missed her, and she understood by now that he would not say such a thing if it were not true. And yet he would not be coming back to Anaxas before the start of the term, not even by a few days.

A sharp smile twitched across Niccolette’s face at the words can’t think for themselves. She breathed in, deeply.

When Professor Abruzesse looked back at her, Niccolette was still smiling. She listened to each repulsive word which came from him, her gaze fixed coolly on his face. She smiled, thin and even. “I do not intend to leave, Professor,” Niccolette said, and it took all her effort to widen her smile. “I simply wished to know the truth of the matter.” She inclined her head; Niccolette turned on her heel, the narrow yellow skirt swishing with the motion, and made her way back to the desk. She went up to the second row, and took her things, the notebook and all the rest, and settled them against her chest.

Then, perfectly calm, she walked back down to the front row, set her things at the seat next to Nauleth, and sat down next to him.

For the first time, Niccolette turned and looked at him. She met his gaze, noticing, curiously, that it really was true that his body seemed to move out of sync, a brief but noticeable delay between the two halves. She held his gaze, all the same, and inclined her chin very slightly in a nod.

Niccolette flipped open the notebook to her syllabus once more, her gaze flicking over his crumpled page with an amused little smirk. “Let us begin,” the Bastian said, evenly. She glanced back at Nauleth.

Before, theirs had been the casual field contact of two people sitting near one another. Now, Niccolette reached out, firmly, and caprised him deeply and abruptly. Her field was crisp and indectal, bright and vibrant with the living mona which filled the air around her. The month away from her practicum had done nothing to dull it, and she had practiced what she could in Florne, in the long hours of the various nights she spent away.

“I assume,” Niccolette said, “that it is physical conversation spells which you are interested in writing? There is little overlap with living conversation.” Her lips pressed together, faintly, as she studied the syllabus. She glanced back up at Nauleth once more, lifting her chin. A swell of something – determination, perhaps – shivered faintly through her field, all deliberate.

“We shall make do,” Niccolette said, crisply, and bent to the syllabus once more.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

71st of Roalis, 2711
BROVERTON VIENDA INSTITUTE | MID-MORNING

Distraction. What a clocking ersehole. Niccolette was admittedly pretty—for a Bastian—but that wasn't at all what made her alluring. Anyone who was intimidated by her magical prowess but didn't find that attractive was an idiot, but that wasn't exactly the point, to be honest. Just because she was a woman didn't mean she couldn't stand on par with all the young men in the class. Nauleth, for his part, didn't understand the complexities of his culture when it came to just how entrenched in sexism it was, if only because he'd long ago shoved aside the politics of things to focus on skill and ability as his only criteria for acceptability. If the rest of Anaxas, if the rest of galdorkind, honestly, could just see the world so simply, then really, a few problems might actually be solved?

Right?

He didn't even care if he was wrong.

He kept his attention on Professor Abruzesse when the Bastian student stalked away from his desk to step past himself and gather her things. He sat there quite still, palms aching with the force of his fingers curled into them, expression just on that cusp of a frown. At least she'd made her intentions clear. When she sat, he finally spread his palms out over his desk, over the syllabus and his notebook, remembering he needed to both inhale as well as exhale in order for his body to consider him breathing.

Narrowing his eyes through the lenses of his glasses when the other duelist in question finally glanced at him, he knew the look she gave him. He knew what it felt like to be looked at but not seen, aware that when he blinked at her, his left eyelid was just noticeably slower than his right. Not quite in synch. Like the rest of his face—

He might have said something, then, Naul's mouth about to move, meeting her gaze, but then he felt it, that seething tide of living monic particles, and instead, it was all he could do not to flinch. It tingled still, perhaps forever, but more like tiny knives dancing along the nerve endings of the left side of his face, deep and unreachable, crawling down his neck and reaching all the way for his hand as if whatever had nearly paralyzed him forever had created some kind of scar tissue in his ley lines only living magic seemed to irritate. His eyelids fluttered and his jaw clenched, but the heavy, physical mona of his own field moved with their sentient centrifugal force in equal measure, a forceful barrier as much as a caprise in return.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat to give him an excuse to move his left hand, to press the weird sensation in his fingers against the desk as if that would banish it.

"It is difficult for me to, uh, fully participate in Living Conversation due to lingering, um, complications, Miss Villamarzana, but I am here for the foundational principles of spellwriting which are, for the most part, universally applicable across the disciplines." The eldest Siordanti attempted to both reveal his weakness and maintain some level of academically-flavored dignity, the one eyebrow that moved best quirking and the brief hint of some kind of actual humor warming the tone of his voice, "I don't really much care what conversation we write spells for, so, I'll defer to my elders."

He did not say lady's choice.

He could have.

He felt the temptation to do so, but it tasted sour against the back of his throat given their Professor's assumptions, so he had some small glass sliver of common sense. Niccolette was to be his partner for this whole damn class. He might as well attempt to keep it civil. He was sure at this point he could endure just about anything for two weeks in comparison to all he'd been through since his backlash, but, then again, he didn't feel like tempting the gods so much—again—with his haughtiness.

Naul did his best not to frown in the vicinity of her field, shoving down the what little pride he kept hidden somewhere, he kept himself going with, to add with some hint of humility (but only a hint because clearly he had his own preferences), "We can also just take turns. Working outside of what we're otherwise familiar with is not always a bad way to study. Either way—I don't clo—care."

The professor, once satisfied he'd given the small class all the time they needed to be social with each other stood,

"Very well, then. I'm sure you'll all have plenty of time to figure out your usefulness to each other during the evenings while you're studying and researching. Now, let's get today's lesson under way."

The implication that they'd actually have to spend that much time together was excessively annoying, but perhaps it was also just meant to be another discouragement. Nauleth was becoming used to being spoken to in such a manner, and while sometimes it was meant to motivate reluctant students to push themselves harder, other times, it was just not helpful.

He settled in to take notes, risking one sideways glance in Niccolette's direction before placing his attention fully on Professor Abruzesse and the Magister's names he was writing on the blackboard:

Dorset Gadshill
Pauside Giacometti
Zjeya Megk

"Can anyone tell me what these three fine examples of spellwriters have in common? I know you've talked about all of them in your classes over the years."

Besides the obvious answers that they were all dead, that only one of them was even Anaxi, and that they'd all made their mark for their very vigorously researched spellwork, there was a long pause in the classroom as each student was forced to work through where those names had been a part of their educations and for what purpose.

Nauleth was not the only student to raise his hand, but when the professor noticed, he clearly paused before accepting the tall seventh form as his first choice to answer. He pinched the bridge of his nose with boney fingers, looking over the rims of his glasses at the ginger student in the front of the class,

"Yes, Mister Siordanti?"

"They were all made famous by their works published posthumously instead of the spells published while they were alive, mostly due to controversies surrounding their approaches, which were—"

It was obvious that the eldest Siordanti knew what he was talking about and so Professor Abruzesse waved his hand for the young man to stop,

"That is correct, and while it wasn't my point, this is a longer path to the same answer. Anyone else know what the commonality in their controversial writing careers might have been?"

A few other students raised their hands and Naul scowled at the syllabus, cut off too soon,

"Mister Poole?"

"They all left out a single key Monic phrase from each of their unpublished spells, leaving that component up to the caster and therefore causing a lot of debate over whether or not they were proper spellwriters at all, despite their more accepted works."

"Correct. Thank you. And does anyone have a particular thought on whether or not they should be considered successful spellwrights? Your opinions won't affect your final grade." The older man was smirking, curious about the minds he'd allowed into his very focused intensive despite his own rather biased opinions.

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid Morning, 71 Roalis, 2711
Room A70, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown

When she caprised him, Niccolette noticed, Nauleth’s eyelids fluttered – his right and then, a moment later, his left. He shifted, and pressed his left hand flat against the table. Niccolette’s gaze dropped to his hand, curiously, and went back up to his face, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Linger complications, he called it.

“Of course,” Niccolette said with a little smirk when he spoke of foundation principles, her eyebrows lifting. He spoke of deferring to his elders, and Niccolette nearly laughed, or perhaps snorted, the fainted nose emerging from her, followed rapidly by a grin.

“I should rather take turns,” the Bastian said, casually. “I am not uninterested in the physical conversation,” his field, she thought idly, was all physical weight, without the heat of static. From the feel she should have said gravity, at least, featured heavily in his casting; she knew something of the feel of the subspecialty now, within the discipline.

Niccolette turned her gaze back to Professor Abruzesse when the class began once more, ignoring Nauleth nearly as fully as she had before they were partnered together. Her caprise had withdrawn, although their fields were still mingled by the nature of their proximity.

Niccolette’s gaze drifted up to the board. Doset Gadshill, Pauside Giacometti, Zjeya Megk. She listened, curiously; Nauleth gave the first answer, and Algerton Poole the second.

“I think not, Professor,” Hughesley answered from the back row when Abruzesse called on him, smirking and confident. “A spell should be complete, shouldn’t it? If it isn’t written down in a form which can be communicated to the mona, then is it even really a spell?”

Abruzesse’s gaze lingered on the student. “Interesting, Mr. Hughesley. Does anyone else agree or disagree?”

“I disagree, sir,” Mallarme said. Niccolette did not glance back, though she listened all the same. “We modify certain clauses when we cast, don’t we? A well-written spell makes it clear where it must be adapted for the purposes of tempering. How is that fundamentally different than a clause omitted at publication?”

“A valuable question,” Abruzesse’s gaze flicked up. “Mr. Hughesley? Has Mr. Mallarme changed your mind?”

“No sir,” Hughesley’s voice was a smirk. “Tempering is one thing, but if it’s a key clause, then that’s an entirely different matter.”

“And were they key clauses?” Abruzesse asked. “Who knows where the clauses were situated within any of the three spells? Can any of you quote the surrounding paragraphs?”

The class fell silent, then; hands lowered.

Niccolette shifted in her seat; she glanced over her shoulder at Naul, and then behind her, gaze scanning the rows of students. After another moment, she raised her hand.

“Miss Villamarzana?” Abruzesse asked.

Niccolette sat up straight and elegant in her seat. “Magister Gadshill’s spell investigates the resonance frequencies of the mona,” she said. “He leaves out the description of the change clause, although he does not omit the enforcement of it which follows, which restricts the caster rather precisely. Shall I quote the relevant section?”

Abruzesse’s eyebrows lifted; he gestured lightly.

Niccolette, back straight and chin lifted, recited the monite in a calm, even voice. She did not need to close her eyes to picture the page of the course book; she had could see it before her, and read the words as if she were still looking at it, even sitting there in the midst of class. She spoke without intent, her tone slightly flat, the harsh sounds of the monite filling the air.

When she had finished, Niccolette added, “it is the change clause’s enforcement which is considered the spell’s contribution.” Her gaze flicked over the rest of the class, over Naul, and settled on Abruzesse once more. “In fact, by leaving out the description, one could argue that Gadshill actually writes several spells instead of just one, since there are a variety of potential applications.”

Abruzesse shifted. “No one likes a show off, Miss Villamarzana. Does anyone else have something interesting to say about Gadshill, Giacometti or Megk?”

Niccolette smirked, undaunted, her hands curled together in her lap; only Naul, sitting next to her, would be able to see how tightly she had them clenched. The discussion went on around the two of them; Niccolette did not, after all, take notes.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

71st of Roalis, 2711
BROVERTON VIENDA INSTITUTE | MID-MORNING

"That man wouldn't know showing off if it hit him in the clocking face on the Lawn." Nauleth muttered under his breath, already judging the caliber of their professor not based on his currently unknown magical prowess but by his generally uninteresting and dismissive mannerism. It was going to be a waste of his damn summer if this man was only going to prove himself a closed-minded, history-spouting bore. Begads, the ginger student panicked briefly, what if the entire swath of Anaxi magisters were all just dusty repetitive spell books on some forgotten shelf?

Ugh. He'd have to shake that chroveshit up. No wonder politics was so stupid—

Shifting in his seat and scowling at no one in particular save for his notes, he was actually interested in the debate over a single spell with multiple variations versus multiple spells under a single label as published. Whatever line of thought Niccolette was attempting to present to the class was quickly cut short, however, and he tilted his head only slightly to glance at her, freckled face etched into lopsided disapproval. Under the edge of his spectacles, his blue-green gaze caught but a glimpse of her body language, of the white knuckles in her lap.

If he'd said the same thing, the young man wondered, chewing his lip in some unintentional hint of empathy, quickly looking away in hopes the petite Bastian didn't notice the curious quirking of his eyebrow or didn't have a chance to actually triangulate from his own expressions that he'd actually clocking sided with her on any level of interest, he refused to raise his hand and experiment with his hypothesis. He would wait for a better opportunity to weigh Professor Abruzesse's ability to assess the academic worthwhileness of his students beyond their gender presentation instead of smothering his enjoyment of a class he'd at least looked forward to ... a little bit.

More than he wanted to admit, considering how much younger he was than most of the other students, considering his current social—and, honestly, academic—standing that ran deeper than his superfluously excellent grades.

And so the pair simply endured the rest of the lecture in relative silence—some of it was interesting, some of it Naul felt the need to write down, and some of it saw him curling a hand into his trouser leg instead of raising it to ask further questions, almost out of a bizarre sense of solidarity.

Or something.

Gross.

Eventually—thank the Circle—the class was asked to break into their groups and apply what they'd heard,

"Now then, we will be analyzing your choice of one of the three spells I've written here by our esteemed and learned authors, choosing at least one variable, and then we will reconvene as a class to discuss. Perhaps we will head out into the Courtyard to give a few of your conclusions a test, hmm? You have—" The man was digging for his pocket watch, humming the last syllables of the word he'd left hanging there in the air while he did so, glancing down at the watch face while his ponytail bobbed behind his head,

"—half a house together. Here or in our most carefully curated libary down the hall is acceptable, but everyone be back here at half past the fourteenth hour."

Gathering his things into a neat pile, the eldest Siordanti felt a bit of relief at the thought of leaving the classroom already. He'd not really enjoyed the handful of glances Hughesley'd sent in his direction—had the other student been sneering in his direction or Nicco's? Either answer was unacceptable, if only because Nauleth was quite sure the smug-faced kenser was an easy victory. A waste of a seat, given what he knew of the other student,

"Do you have a preference of our spell choices?" He asked without looking to the young woman next to him, studying the monite on the board and sifting through the opportunities for interesting variations possible in the three sample spells, "Megk's work is surprisingly Physical Conversation for a Hoxian, while Giacometti is clearly Living in specialty. I admit I see more room for variance in the spell Professor Abruzesse chose from Giacometti's works—"[/b][/color]

Nauleth didn't frown about it, but there was displeasure in his tone,

"—so there are more possibilities for interesting results. I would, uh—it would be my preference to conduct our research in the library, however. If you're still feeling that spirit of compromise, Miss Villamarzana."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Morning, 71 Roalis, 2711
A Wing Library, the Broverton Vienda Institute, Uptown

Niccolette had heard Nauleth’s comment; she thought she was probably the only one who had, muttered as it was half beneath his breath. Her lips twitched; she did not quite smile, but perhaps she was not so far from it, in the end. She did not turn and look at him, or do anything else which should betray that he had spoken. Her gaze held forward; in her lap, beneath the height of the desks, her hands unclenched, fingers loosening, and folded together, one flat beneath the other.

The discussion went on; it meandered back into a lecture, and then into a discussion again. Niccolette did not contribute, this time, though there were no more such pauses, in any case. She left her notebook untouched before her; she did not need it to remember that which was said or written down. She rarely had needed such aids, even as a girl, and she had never liked to be forced to take notes; she did not see the value in them.

Niccolette swept up her things. Some part of her, standing there for a moment at her desk, thought of taking her bag and her dress, sweeping out to the street, calling a carriage, returning to the Deschamps’s house, and leaving Abruzesse and his miserable condescension behind.

In the same moment she dismissed it; to yield, Niccolette thought, would be to let him win. If he wanted her out of the class, he would have to force her out. She would not make the mistake of leaving willingly, not again.

Niccolette turned, looking at Nauleth. Difficult, he had said, earlier, to fully participate in Living Conversation. She did not much care; if he did not wish to work with Giacometti’s spell, Niccolette felt, then he should not have made the suggestion. “Giacometti, then,” Niccolette agreed. She shrugged. “I have no problem with working in the library.”

Behind them, the room was bright with voices and chatter; if any other group had determined to leave for the library, Niccolette had not seen them. She did not much care, of course.

The two of them walked side by side through the Institute’s hall; the ground beneath them was brick, and the arches overhead brick as well. On the other side of the pathway was the courtyard, clean crisp grass lined with low bushes at the edge, gleaming in the warm late Roalis morning sun.

The library was halfway around the courtyard; Niccolette would not balk at opening the door herself, nor arguing with Nauleth if he insisted on opening it for her. She had no energy to spare on such; these sorts of trivialities bothered her very little, weighted against the barriers that kept her from these sorts of classes, and made her unwelcome within them.

The shelves were neat and orderly; there were a few small sparse tables spread though the room, and a loud grandfather clock which made the only audible noise. Niccolette sat at one of the tables, waited for Nauleth to take his seat as well. She looked at him, evenly and squarely, for perhaps as long as she had since first seeing him earlier.

She did not look away from the strange temporal imbalance on his face; she did not, either, try to hide her curiosity. She watched him, her gaze visibly on one side of his face, and then the other.

“How incapable are you?” Niccolette asked, sitting back after a few moments with a little shrug. “When it comes to the living conversation.” Her hands came together in her lap; her back was straight upright, the full pale yellow skirt of her dress folded over the edge of her chair, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. There was no malice in her voice as she asked the question, no outright cruelty; she did not shy from it, either, or try to sugarcoat it. If we are to work together on this, she might have said, I need to know; she did not bother, assuming him intelligent enough to understand this for himself.