Chapter 8

Over the next few weeks Laurel tried to get used to college life without a sorority. She and Kate met occasionally, but not as often as Laurel would have liked.

Some boys did try to talk to her, but never the right sorts of boys: they were always unattractive or uncouth, or else she doubted their intentions. It was best, Laurel decided, to engage them as little as possible.

Laurel drove back to her family’s home on the night before Thanksgiving. Her father was asleep and there were sex noises coming from her brother’s bedroom. Disappointed that there was nobody to welcome her, she sat down in the office - the room closest to Hunter’s - and eavesdropped.

The family’s yellow cat spied her from the doorway. “C’mere, Snikt,” Laurel whispered hopefully. The cat jumped up onto the drafting table at which she was sitting and passed by her hands, rubbing itself against them, but then abruptly left.

The house’s kitchen was abuzz in the late morning on Thanksgiving. Laurel’s father, James, was starting on the meal preparations. Her brother, Hunter, introduced the family to his girlfriend, Trisha. Laurel began to feel at home as she found ways to help with the cooking.

“By the way, kids, Richard and his girlfriend are coming over. They’re not staying for dinner, but they wanted to be sure they said hello.”

“Dad, no!” Laurel gasped.

“What’s wrong, hon?” James asked.

“Nothing,” Laurel insisted. “He just can’t come over. Please?”

“Okay,” James said without a fight. “I’ll call him and make something up.” The fact that he didn’t argue suggested, to Laurel’s dread, that he knew what had happened between Richard and her. She was glad that she didn’t have to explain her objection, at least.

After Laurel’s mother Clover died, it was Richard who took over instructing Laurel in magic. The middle-aged foreigner was a friend of the family, and maybe as good a magician as Clover had been. He was wealthy, but didn’t seem to have any real job, so meeting after Laurel was done with school was convenient.

Richard had a professional chef prepare his meals, so Laurel got in the habit of skipping lunch at school and eating with him instead. They often drank wine with their food. (“Americans!” He had scoffed the first time, when Laurel had been worried about getting in trouble. “You put a rifle in the hands of a six year old and call it ‘civil rights’, but threaten jail time for the man who gives a young woman wine. Not in my house.”)

The last time they met for a lesson was in the spring, eight months ago. Laurel knew what she was doing - she had a plan. The day began with a quick review of the previous lesson on molybdomancy. Laurel did everything right: she focused the flame to the correct probability spectrum, cleansed the water of disharmonious influences, and infused the metal with her question translated into symbolic form. She smiled at Richard while she held the crucible over the candle, and then she poured the liquid metal into the bucket of water.

“You tried to trick me!” Laurel accused her teacher coyly. “You replaced the tin with lead this time!” She withdrew the oddly-shaped lump of metal from water and looked it over.

“And you adapted correctly. Bravo,” Richard answered. “What was your question?”

“I asked which class I’m going to have an exam in next,” Laurel answered. She turned the metal over in her hands. “It kinda looks like North America, so, I guess, American History?”

Richard nodded, satisfied with her assessment.

“Lunch should be ready soon,” he added, looking at his watch. “Let’s take a break.”