“Fuck.” Frieda clenched her fists, angrily. “I don’t even know where to begin!”
Emily studied the notebook for a long moment. Celadon had decided to combine charms, alchemy and crystallomancy to produce a set of alchemical tools that would make potion brewing considerably easier. Or so he’d said, according to the first set of notes. He’d talked Frieda into working out how magic flowed through different materials, then into planning a set of practical designs. Emily had a sneaking suspicion that some of the smaller devices wouldn’t work well—they’d explode if the magic level rose too sharply—but she had to admit it was innovative. The combination of charms and alchemy was particularly clever.
“You think it’s a good idea, don’t you?” Frieda rose and started to pace. “Why does everyone think he’s always right?”
Emily didn’t look up. “You helped to devise the first set of plans, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Frieda said. “And those plans have now been scrapped.”
“I see,” Emily said.
She found herself utterly unsure how to proceed. She understood precisely why Frieda was so upset. How could she claim a share of the marks if he’d done most of the work? Celadon had done nearly all of the theoretical work, as far as Emily could tell. He’d certainly done all the theoretical work for the second set of designs. And yet, most of his modifications appeared to be better. That could not be denied.
Not easily, she corrected herself. But it would be pointless.
“Sit down,” she said. “Do you actually understand what he’s done?”
“No.” Frieda sat down heavily, crossing her arms under her breasts. “I can’t follow half of the equations. His spell notations are ...”
“Poor,” Emily finished.
She frowned as she skimmed through the final pages. Her handwriting wasn’t that good, but Professor Lombardi had drilled the importance of writing clearly and concisely into her skull, forcing her to write entire sections out again and again until he deemed them readable. She wondered, absently, just how Celadon had managed to avoid those lessons. Perhaps he’d been careful to write properly in class, perhaps he’d been good enough to get a free pass ...
Or perhaps he’s trying to conceal something, she thought, darkly. She’d read countless reports where the grains of truth had been buried beneath a collection of polite, but ultimately meaningless, nonsense. It had taken her weeks to explain to her subordinates at Cockatrice that she wanted facts—including bad news—rather than obsequious toadying. There might be all sorts of gaps in his logic.
“If this is his work,” Emily said slowly, “he certainly should be capable of explaining it to you.”
Frieda looked pained. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Anything can be broken down into bite-sized chunks.”
She sighed, inwardly. Frieda was very far from stupid, but she was far more interested in practical magic than theoretical studies. She mastered charms, hexes and incantations with terrifying speed, yet it took her days to grasp even the simplest theoretical concept. Someone who wanted to snowball her could snowball her, if they worked at it. There was certainly nothing to stop them.
“You haven’t signed off on it,” she said. “Tonight—” she glanced at the setting sun and changed her mind “—tomorrow, go to him and ask him to break it down for you. Explain what he’s done, explain what he wants to do ... explain everything. And if he can’t explain it, insist on going back to the original set of plans. You have to understand what you’re doing before you get interrogated by the supervisor.”
Frieda flushed, darkly. “He’ll say I’m stupid.”
“You are not stupid,” Emily said. Frieda was in Martial Magic. She was surprised that Celadon had the nerve to suggest she was stupid. “Not understanding something doesn’t make you stupid.”
“Hah,” Frieda said. “I don’t understand what you saw in Caleb.”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t understand what Pandora sees in Mathis either.”
“He’s handsome,” Frieda said. “And his parents are very wealthy.”
“True,” Emily agreed, dryly. If there was one thing she’d picked up from Alassa’s stint on the marriage market, it was that money and land could make anyone look attractive. Ugly daughters and charmless princes were still courted with great enthusiasm. She found it hard to believe that any of the resulting marriages were actually happy, but stranger things had happened. “Do you like Celadon?”
Frieda glowered at her. “He’s a conceited little git!”
“It must be love,” Emily teased. “When’s the wedding?”
“Never,” Frieda snarled. “I ... I should never have agreed to work with him.”
“You were getting on fine last year,” Emily said. She couldn’t help feeling a flicker of disquiet. Had something happened between Frieda and Celadon? Frieda could take care of herself, physically, but emotionally? “What happened?”
“We were, until he decided to change everything.” Frieda reached for the notebook and glowered at it. “What was he thinking?”
“Perhaps he was trying to find a better way to do things,” Emily mused. She liked trying to find new and better ways to do things. “Or perhaps ...”
“I don’t know.” Frieda’s voice rang with frustration. “I don’t know.”
Emily looked at the distant school, thinking hard. She could take the notebook and work her way through it, trying to understand what Celadon had written. There was nothing to keep her from understanding it—or determining that it wasn’t meant to be understood. If Celadon had written a great deal of nonsense—or even ill-defined spellwork—she should be able to figure it out. But he’d have to be out of his mind to do it deliberately. The supervisor would not be amused. Celadon would, at best, have to repeat the year.
Or worse, because he’ll have ruined Frieda’s work as well as his own, Emily thought. She might have to retake the year too. His punishment will be very unpleasant.
She sighed. She didn’t really have time to do anything of the sort. There was no way she could check each and every piece of spellwork, not in less than a day or two. And there were too many other demands on her time. The Gorgon or Cabiria—or Caleb—wouldn’t have much time either. Besides, Frieda would sooner fail than ask Caleb for help. She’d never warmed up to him.
“Get him to explain it to you,” she said, as another gust of warm air washed across the hollow. Dark clouds were already forming over the Craggy Mountains. It looked like a thunderstorm was on the way. “And if he can’t, you can file an official complaint.”
Frieda gave her a sharp look. “Wouldn’t that be tattling?”