Chapter 7

MAY 3RD IN TRELLECH

T hessaly was normally a fairly patient person. Today, though, was testing every grip on her calm she could muster. Magistra North was unhappy with her, and with good reason. Thessaly had missed not only May Day because of the rites at Arundel, but also April 30th and yesterday, May 2nd. Now it was Friday, and half of what Thessaly wanted to do would take several days of work in a row to set up. She could scarcely start now.

Magistra North had left her strictly alone all day, as if ignoring her would make the problems go away. On one hand, that was an apprentice mistress’s prerogative. Magistra North had long since earned every bit of respect for her time and skill that she demanded and expected. And it wasn’t as if Thessaly would make an argument about fairness. Even when that was true and valid, people rightfully assumed - given Thessaly’s background - that she was doing it for some other reason than correctness.

Besides, it was hard to argue with someone who was on the opposite side of the building. And it wasn’t as if Magistra North didn’t have cause. Thessaly had heard the commentary and concerns about the failures of apprentices in her year, and a few years on either side. People who had an awful run of ill health, or who just weren’t up to standard. She’d talked to Aunt Metaia about some of it, but Aunt Metaia hadn’t had an answer either.

It meant there was pressure on the people who were apprenticing to finish, and to meet - exceed - the expectations of their field. That was true in Alchemy, in Healing, in the things that kept people alive. But for all people assumed Illusion was an optional art, Thessaly knew perfectly well how important it was. Illusion work, lasting illusions, was essential in keeping non-magical folk away from Silence-kept spaces or magical homes or places where they could get hurt by magic they didn’t understand. Aunt Metaia did quite a lot of that work for the Council and for private clients.

Even if Thessaly never did much direct consulting, she could take on that role at Arundel or other properties in the family. It would free up illusionists to work on other spaces. Or it would be a way to offer a contribution to the well-being of those in Trellech. The sort of thing where other women, like Mama, might organise a philanthropic luncheon or raise funds with their gifts and talents.

All of it meant Thessaly couldn’t argue with Magistra North’s irritation, even if she had had little control over it. Instead, Thessaly had spent the day getting her workroom in order. She could not start the new projects yet, but she could lay out everything she’d need for them come Monday. She had the materia in the protective storage over on the worktable. Thessaly had also set out and comprehensively annotated her notes, then written up the steps in sequence.

The project at hand was a lasting illusion, projected and formed onto a carved piece of wood. The technique was most commonly deployed for children from families rich enough to have a substantial piece of magical work in the nursery. It was also sought by the occasional theatre who could afford it on a larger scale. It was, however, an excellent technical challenge, both in the crafting and the artistry.

It had also involved sanding a board smooth and preparing it for the fixative and applying that, which had given Thessaly far too much time to think. And mostly, Thessaly had been thinking about the past few days. That might in fact be dangerous to indulge, and yet simultaneously necessary.

The rites at Arundel had been both fascinating and frustrating, in about equal parts. She certainly knew the basic theory of it. She’d earned near enough top marks in Ritual class in her year at Schola, but there was always a distance between the theory of the thing and the application. Professor Hayes had hammered that into them, especially once they got into the practical exercises. Every ritual depended on many factors in the moment, much like the difference between a play on the page and in the theatre.

The Powells had their own customs, of course. Usually she spent the seasonal turning days with Aunt Metaia and that side of the family, rather than Papa’s. The Lyttons had rituals, of course, but they ran on a different cycle and schedule. The Powell rites weren’t about the land magic, though, not formally. They had to do with the continuation and flourishing of the family and those they supported. There were the customs to bless the fields, give thanks for the harvest, for health and happiness, and to offer propitiation when that was called for.

The Arundel rites hadn’t been like that. And worse, she hadn’t even been able to talk about them with anyone. Her parents hadn’t been invited, and when Thessaly had tried to talk a little about them, no one had wanted to listen. Maybe she’d get a chance in private with Aunt Metaia on Sunday. There was a garden party, but after everyone left, they might get half an hour, maybe longer. She could write a letter, but somehow putting magic on the page always flattened it, like someone just learning the rudiments of illusion. It came out like drawings where the dog’s legs had bends in the wrong places or some of the mediaeval illustrations of dragons that looked more like a misplaced crocodile.

That just brought her back to how trying to put her thoughts into words kept stalling. For one thing, a fair bit of the Arundel rites had been in French, and not modern French, either. There’d been something that had been - Thessaly had followed about one word in four - a particular sort of duel in words and poetry. It had classic forms. She thought it was possibly a mesh of ritualised couplets strung together in different combinations. It had built enchantments, though, a web of magic that built up piece by piece, into something like a net.

It had not been a surprise to the others there, though she’d caught Alexander Landry nodding at some particular detail here or there. But of course, he’d grown up with those as the rites he knew. And he had a particular interest in Ritual as a magical form, though Thessaly knew that he’d also had several out-and-out arguments with Professor Lollard. The gossip about the volume and range of those arguments had spread outside Schola quickly. She hadn’t had Lollard. He’d begun helping Professor Hayes with some of her classes as she approached retirement or when a ritual needed a second.

The good part about it, such as there was one, was that the Heir’s role wasn’t terribly complex. She wasn’t likely to need to have a vast stock of magical poetry memorised by next year, anyway, but she might be called on to scatter flowers. Or do something with flowers. There had been an awful lot of precisely chosen flowers, and not just for the usual materia reasons.

It had, however, also been a tremendously long couple of days. Lady Chrodechildis had mentioned - but not fully explained - that their traditions came from older and even more powerful times. They were anchored first in the great Merovingian courts, then transformed and woven with arts from Aquitaine, brought across the Channel in the Conquest.

The night before had involved a feast, more French poetry, a sort of pageantry, which had not, she thought, been essential to the land magic, but rather a custom of the family, a chance to show off their wealth and power. There had been illusionists, all competent but not terribly imaginative. Or, she thought now, not permitted to be imaginative, and that was an interesting and also worrisome concern.

They’d all been men, all skilled, but also curiously restrained in their arts. The feasting and pleasantries had continued after the dawn rites. There had been processions to the four corners of the manor’s immediate grounds. Someone had to make the traditional blessings on the water and the earth, and every garden in those bounds, down to the kitchen courtyard herbs.

She’d ended up entirely fatigued, far beyond what she’d done in the day. It had been complex, yes. It had been long. The day had involved four complete changes of clothing, starting with ritual dress in the morning, then a day dress. Then she’d changed in the afternoon for a more formal gathering with a larger guest list. It had ended with a last change into evening dress, with a pause for an hour’s rest in a wrapper between afternoon and evening. That should not have tired her so much, though, that she needed to sleep half of the second away.

Thessaly felt the approaching presence before she heard the footsteps. That was just good sense, both as an apprentice and as a trained duellist. Magistra North’s magic had a definite signature. It meant Thessaly was standing facing the door, head properly inclined, when Mistress North knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a reply. “Thessaly?”

“Ma’am.” Thessaly raised her eyes the proper amount.

“You must not let your betrothal interfere with your studies. I should not need to say this.” Magistra North looked at Thessaly straight on. “Do not make me call attention to it again. If you need to take additional time besides the Solstice break, let me know in good time.”

“Yes, magistra.” Thessaly weighed her options. “I am all set up for Monday. Is there any reading you suggest I do as well?”

That brought a slight pause, then Magistra North walked to the worktable, pulling out a piece of notepaper, and writing a few things, the pen scratching at the paper. “Several articles. You have all of those?”

Thessaly peered at the list as it was handed over, all neat copperplate writing. “Yes, magistra. Monday, then?”

“Your betrothed is waiting for you. None too patiently. Kindly arrange for him to meet you elsewhere in the future, if you don’t mind. We’ve not space, for one thing.”

Thessaly blinked. “I had not expected him, magistra, but of course, I’ll let him know. I’m sorry he disturbed your work.” She waited a moment for the nod of acknowledgement, then Magistra North swept out of the room. Thessaly gathered up her things, tucking the notes into a small leather portfolio that was delicate enough to carry in public. She added her shawl and made her way downstairs as swiftly as possible.

Childeric was in the front parlour, looking impatient. “There you are, Thess.”

“I didn’t expect you.” She came over as he stood up and pressed a kiss on each of her cheeks. “I - were you waiting long?”

“Long enough.” He shrugged, but in a way that made it clear it had been too long and also her fault. “I needed to check some things on my own, and also with you. Walk you to the portal, then?”

She nodded, and once they were outside and there was more space, she slipped her hand through his arm, a proper escort. He did the thing right, of course, walking at her pace and minding the sway of her skirts, putting himself between her and the traffic on the street. Childeric didn’t speak again until they were about halfway to Portal Square.

“I need you to get free two afternoons next week. Tuesday and Friday. Maman has some people she’d like us to have tea with.”

Thessaly didn’t quite stop, but it was a near thing. She swallowed, gathering all the words she’d been taught for when she had to disagree with something, but do it with absolute politeness. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, not on such short notice. I’ve already promised Magistra North I’ll be available.”

“Maman said it wouldn’t matter. And after all, your illusion work is lovely, of course it is. But you’re scarcely going to need to keep good relations with others in the field.”

Now she stopped, and she tried to get her face to look baffled rather than furious. She was fairly sure she was failing, and the two expressions didn’t exactly have much common ground. She turned away for a moment. When she looked back, Childeric was standing there. Finally, what Thessaly mustered was, “It’s a part of our agreements - the formal ones and the informal ones, you did promise. I’m given freedom to complete my apprenticeship to Magistra North’s standards. Besides, I’m just getting into the really challenging part.” Also, the most interesting parts.

He dismissed that last. She’d wondered if he might. “It won’t matter when we’re married. Of course, you can still do that sort of thing. It’s certainly more suitable to the family than flower arranging or purely ornamental embroidery or some such. But you needn’t strain yourself now.”

Thessaly took a breath. “Still. Magistra North has just been quite firm with me. She’s upset I missed three days this week. I’m afraid I can’t ask for more, not until at least after Solstice.”

“You can explain it to Maman, then. Before Sunday.” He held out his arm, elbow crooked, pointedly. “Tea today, or will you find time tomorrow? Maman is at home to callers in the morning.”

Tomorrow, it would have to be tomorrow. “I need to get home. Mama and Papa are having a few family guests for supper, and I need to be ready. Please convey my greetings to your mother, and I’ll call in the morning.” At least doing it in that order, she could consult with Mama and maybe one or two other people on how to navigate an additional complication.

Childeric nodded sharply, and then walked off again, with no warning to Thessaly. She didn’t trip over her feet, thankfully. Once they were in motion again, he picked up an easier conversation about something he’d seen in the shop windows earlier. He could be entirely charming - and decidedly amusing - when he chose. And yet, once he left her at the portal, she found herself feeling at sea again. She wanted nothing more than to go home, sit, and rest for a little.