Reflections[continued from The Keres Night Out] Gillian found her room very much as she’d left it – albeit slightly cooler than usual. Nothing appeared out of place or disturbed. The locks on her door and window remained secure. But the image she’d witnessed matched the layout of the room. Ginger grumped in her arms, “I hope you intend to feed me, at least. I’m starving.” "I haven't eaten either," Gillian replied distractedly. She dumped Ginger on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling. Ginger recognized Gillian's preoccupied tone, which in essence meant Ginger was looking for her own supper that night. Gillian dropped her eyes to the small round braided rug in the middle of the floor. Besides adding a layer of comfort and warmth to the otherwise chilly wooden planks, she'd brought in the rug to cover up a vaguely disturbing brownish stain that had been here when she moved in. Curious, she lifted the edge of the rug and flipped it over. She uncovered the stain – a russet discoloration so old that it had become part of the wood itself. It reminded Gillian of her years in Feldane’s kitchens and the chopping block her mother had used. No matter how much lye and water she’d used, Beth could never remove the shadow of blood. Someone had scrubbed and scoured this stain, as well – but it remained like a guilty conscious. However, knelt over as she was, Gillian could see faint discolorations beyond the stain. These waxy marks had collected the lint and dust from her carpet. They were… symbols. Protection symbols. Gillian drew in a startled breath and moved the rug to the side. She summoned a small ball of light to provide better illumination and bent over to inspect the symbols more closely. Protection to keep something out? Or something in? "Ginger, look at these... I wonder if these glyphs are still active?" Gillian reached out and touched one of the symbols. It felt oily and unpleasant like head cheese gone bad. She jerked her hand back and wiped it absently on her skirt. Ginger hopped down and brushed against Gillian. After a moment of studying the symbols, her tail stood up like and exclamation mark. “This is demonology, kitten,” she hissed. “These protective runes are used in communing with a true daemon – I think Sathariel in this case. Morons like you think these wards keep avatars from getting out and eating your face. Of course, when it comes to Death Angels, protective circles are about as useful as a screen door in a submarine.” She plumps down, annoyed. “I swear karma must hate me. First, I got bound to a woman that carpet-munched with a demoness on a regular basis. And now I’m bound to her meat-sack and there are runes devoted to the Devouring Mother in her room! I knew I should have stayed in the Wake.” Gillian stroked her familiar's back. "Poor Ginger," she crooned, almost sympathetically. "I didn't sign up for any of this, either. And I'm sure you vicariously enjoyed the carpet-munching." She put the rug back where it was and went to sit on her bed. "My head is whirling," Gillian announced. "So I have demonic rites performed in my bedroom at some point in its murky past and a mirror that spies on the process. Not to mention the information dump that occurred earlier this afternoon. I'm surprised my brain hasn't turned to soup and started leaking out of my ears." Despite Gillian's sarcastic words, Ginger felt through the link a familiar academic interest growing in her, that her curiosity had been piqued. This definitely meant Ginger was finding her own supper tonight. "I need to go downstairs and research," Gillian announced as well, standing up. She headed for the door. Ginger grumped, “Can you at least tip your head and pour out that soup you mentioned? I’m freakin’ starving! This is abuse, you realize. I can complain to my union! Dammit!” Gillian was out the door and starting down the stairs before Ginger even finished. Leaving behind her cursing familiar, Gillian eventually found herself in the library. With the first day celebrations in full swing, the library remained virtually deserted – only a few students here and there. A sharp squeaking announced the approach of Professor Hobbs and his cart of books. He glanced up, squinting from behind his spectacles. Smiling fatherly, he said, “Never far from your second home, I see.” He spoke the truth. All the leathery and papery smells, the sounds of pages rustling and chairs scooting across the old floor, the warm glow of the table lamps—the library was home to her. She felt safe here, protected from the outside world by all the words and wisdom of thousands of books. Gillian smiled back. "Professor, good evening. Tonight has become busy academically (which wasn't exactly a lie, Gillian rationalized) so I'll finish the reshelving tomorrow, if that's all right." She paused, then asked in a low voice, "Professor Hobbs, do you know anything about the word Desparytide?" A book slipped from Hobb’s gnarly fingers – the clatter causing students to lift their heads in shock. He licked his lips nervously, clutching the cart tightly to steady himself. Perhaps for the first time, his friendly face showed its age, a wrinkled mask of yellowed silk. “My dear girl, where would you have heard that term? Such things are of the darkest magic and certainly not for a mind so young. "Not for minds of any age.” Gillian bit her lip. Damn. Time to try a distraction. She picked up the fallen book and handed it back to him. "Professor Hobbs, can you tell me what my room was used for before I turned it into a bedroom?" Hobbs wrapped his arthritic fingers around the tome. But at the question, his grip nearly failed him once more. He wet his dry lips and set the book on the cart. With a slight nod, he began pushing the cart into the back room. Gillian followed him worriedly. “I’d hoped you’d never ask this question, Gillian,” he said. “I fear your room has a tragic past. It once belonged to a very troubled student. And the requirements of her studies overwhelmed her. She committed suicide.” He paused, “Forgive me, Gillian. I thought it best that you never know.” "Su...suicide?" she squeaked, her eyes wide. "Wh...what was her name?" “Liliane Vehlendorf,” Professor Hobbs replied. “A dispossessed noblewoman, she turned her back on a political marriage to study here. I believe the pressures of that past may also have contributed to her unfortunate choice to end her life.” Once inside the sanctity of the rear room, he turned to meet her eyes. “Why do you ask this now, Gillian? Did something happen?” In the back of her mind, something stirred... and became... suddenly attentive. <GO BACK TO SLEEP!> Gillian mentally shouted in anger at Cybele. Cybele chuckled <Very well> This took Gillian back a bit—she expected more assertiveness from Cybele. Maybe Raina was right and they could keep control... More time to think about that later. "No," [Gillian] lied, and forced a smile. "I just wondered. A tragic tale, but that's all in the past, right? I can't wait for classes to start tomorrow, sir. A new year, filled with assignments and lectures and projects!" Few people could make such a proclamation and truly mean it like Gillian did. "Would you like me to finish with these books, Professor?" Hobbs considered her for a moment and then breathed a sigh of relief. With the conversation now turning toward books and away from tragedy, he appeared his old, jovial self. "Yes, yes, that would be most helpful, Gillian," he said. He achingly lowered himself into his leather chair, closing his eyes. Gillian smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "I am ever thankful for you, Gillian. The years have crept up on me, I fear. And your peers are as useful and obnoxious as a gaggle of lame geese." She shrugged demurely. "I come from different circumstances than most of them. I have more to be grateful for." Gillian put her hand on the book cart. "Sir, just rest and I'll take care of reshelving these books. I'll see you in the morning, all right?" He gave a retiring nod, “Thank you again, my dear. This tired old man is in your debt. Good night.” Hobbs glanced away – his brow wrinkling as if carrying a heavy burden. His arthritic hands tightened around his cane as some memory pulled him away to another time. She paused and watched him for a moment before pushing the cart back out the door. Gillian discovered that most of the students she’d seen on the way in had abandoned their places. The vast library now possessed the cool comforts of a mausoleum – silent and still. Just the way she liked it. No one to disturb her. Gillian pulled the cart behind the stacks so it was out of the way, intending to reshelve the books in the morning before breakfast. She then pursed her lips and considered the layout of the library. "Now, if I was a book on Desparytide, where would I be...?" Gillian – being Gillian – knew the library better than her room. Considering Raina’s description and Professor Hobbs’ outrage, the restricted conjuration section would be the most likely location to begin her search. She recalled one tome Professor Hobbs reacted poorly to when he caught Gillian leafing through it – the Collected Observations of Master Hartmund. A glassmaker, Master Hartmund, had created magical lenses to observe the various levels of reality, including the Wake. If a desparytide existed on a different level of existence, Hartmund may have detailed observations on them. Of course, the restricted section did have a few safe-guards. And Gillian only knew how to bypass a few of the less insidious ones. She stood outside the wards and gazed at the restricted books and gave a little heartfelt sigh. Not enough time—ever. Even though she couldn't see the sky from where she was, after so many Dark Hours Gillian could feel its inexorable approach deep in her bones and knew time was growing short. She headed back to the lab, making a short detour to the kitchens to retrieve Ginger on the way—whatever happened, she and Ginger would weather the Dark Hour together, always. “Oh thank the Unicorn!” Becca exclaimed as Gillian entered the kitchens. The enormous room felt like a furnace with every oven ablaze – a boiling and burning landscape of pots and pans set overrun with exhausted cooks and servants. First Day could not end soon enough for the ragged staff. Gillian’s friend thrust Ginger into her arms, “Would ye mind warning me the next time ye intend to abandon this demon. Honestly, Gillian! How could you abuse your familiar so? And beset it upon us?” Ginger slumped in Gillian’s arms and mewed most pitifully. Her belly felt like a medicine ball and she smelled of elderberry wine. “Shhheee, Bu-buuucka? Thish is what happensh when you’re bound to a heartlesh wench.” Gillian refrained from rolling her eyes. Becca wiped her hands on her apron, “Now be off with ye both. I have a faculty howling like a pack of hungry wolves.” "I'm sorry, Becca," Gillian murmured, but the kitchen servant was already gone. Gillian sighed and carried Ginger outside. "You picked quite an inconvenient time to become incapacitated, but you did manage to capture the essence of patheticalness. I swear your eyes were larger than normal. What did you tell Becca? On second thought, I don't want to know." Ginger tried to lift her head to appear haughty and offended. Gravity, however, had other plans. She thumped face first into Gillian’s chest, the uniform muffling her voice. “Welth, it washn’t my fault thash thosh bottle got in the way of my tail! I justh wash being polite helping clean them up!” Gillian frowned. "Which? Clean them up? Or help them clean up...?" Ginger grinned proudly, “Bottlesh fall. I lapped up the wine. Becca cleaned up the pieces. It wash shisterhood at its best. “Floor wine ish Gooooooood. Erp.” The girl sighed again. "Have you eaten, O Most Piteous Familiar? I'm not going back to the kitchens, but I have a few coins and maybe there's a vendor open in the Square." Ginger hiccupped, “Oh yes. A very nice fish head marinated in chardonnay. And oysthters. Lots of thosth.” She squirmed happily in Gillian’s arms. “Maybe you and yer boyfriend can shend me shome warm fuzzies, if you know what I mean. I got an itch.” She wiggled her tail most unwholesomely. And then she belched like a cannon shot, startling a few students in the hallway. “So, letsh fight evil!” the cat cheered with drunken bravery. "And then get laid!" When people around her turned to stare, Gillian forced a smile and struggled to get Ginger's butt under control. She quickly detoured around a convenient corner. "Are you out of your mind?" she hissed at her familiar. "What has gotten in to you?" “It’s mure what hashn’t gotten into meh, if you get my drift,” Ginger whined. “I’m beautiful. Right? I desherve to be loved. Chashed after. Kisshed and diddled until the dawn. ‘Cause I’m a good pershon. I desherve a wholeshome night of mindless smex.” She pressed her fishy paw into Gillian’s nose, “Right? I am, right? Wait... wait! I got shomethin’ to say before you anshwer that.” She stared at Gillian intently. Stared some more. Another moment passed. And then a drunken snore rumbled in the feline’s wine swollen chest. She’d fallen asleep. Gillian rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable." She gently tucked Ginger into a fold of her school uniform black cape. Knowing her familiar would be ravenous when she woke (and vocal about it), Gillian turned toward Temple Street. She didn't expect to find a vendor selling fish heads marinated in chardonnay, but perhaps she could find something Ginger would eat for the few coins she had. There were more than enough vendors from which to choose – a stand featuring deep-fried rock lizard being within her price range. The slumbering feline did not protest. Gillian eyed the rock lizard and decided to just buy some for Ginger. By the time she reached the lab, Gillian could here numerous voices filtering out from beneath the door. Her arm had begun to ache from the dead weight of snoring fur. Afterward she headed back to the lab. [continued in A Night to Remember] |
