“All right,” Frieda said. “I ...”
She looked up. “I’m sorry, Emily,” she said. Her eyes were bright, but there was something odd in her voice. “You’ve been a really good friend.”
“So have you,” Emily said. Frieda had saved her life, back in Beneficence. “You will be fine.”
She watched as Frieda carefully wrote out the note, word by word. Her handwriting had improved immeasurably since they’d first met—Emily’s hadn’t been much better, given she’d never used a quill pen before coming to Whitehall—but she still labored over the paper. Master Tor was the sort of person who’d reprimand her for not crossing every ‘t’ or dotting every ‘i,’ although—after everything that had happened over the last two months—his reprimand would probably be meaningless.
“Very good,” she said, when Frieda had finished. “I’ll take it now.”
Frieda looked alarmed. “And you’ll come back?”
“I need to have a word with Cirroc,” Emily said. By her offhand calculations, Cirroc should have finished clearing up the mess by now. If not ... well, she could find him anyway. “I’ll come back after dinner.”
“I have to eat with the servants,” Frieda said, looking downcast. “Everyone will laugh at me.”
Emily winced. Frieda was probably right. Eating with the servants wasn’t something she would have considered a punishment, but it meant everything to status-conscious students at a boarding school. The servants were at the bottom of the social hierarchy, after all. Forcing Frieda to eat with the firsties would have been less of a humiliation.
“Just be glad you’re eating,” Emily said. She briefly considered inviting Frieda to eat in her suite, before deciding it would be a step too far. Gordian would be keeping an eye on Frieda now, if he hadn’t been already. “The food will be edible.”
She smiled. Lady Barb had told her that the cooks always kept back enough food to feed the staff, save perhaps for certain rare delicacies. Frieda might not enjoy eating with the servants—there’d be no chance to banter with them, or to discuss classes—but at least she’d have something to eat. The servants wouldn’t know what to make of her, Emily supposed ... she shrugged. Frieda would be able to eat, and that was all that mattered.
And no one will see her eating with the servants, she reminded herself. Unless someone decides to go cadge a late-night snack ...
She groaned. Someone would. Of course someone would.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised. There was probably no way to keep the rest of the school from noticing that Frieda was eating with the servants. Frieda would just have to put up with the taunts. “And I want you to have the study plan ready by the time I come back.”
Frieda smiled, but there was an unsteady edge to it. “And if I don’t?”
Emily frowned. “I’ll put a geas on you to make you do it,” she said, only half-joking. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if Frieda refused to take advantage of her last chance. “And then I will leave you to the tender mercies of your tutors.”
She rose, trying to ignore the flicker of pain in Frieda’s eyes. “This is your last chance,” she said, flatly. “Please. Don’t waste it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“THAT YOUNG MAN NEEDS A SLAP across the face,” Cirroc said, quietly. They sat at one edge of the workroom, watching Frieda and Celadon try to work together. “Or probably a thrashing with a belt.”
Emily nodded, sourly. The last two weeks had been better than she’d feared—Frieda had improved, after dropping a number of classes—but the joint project was the real problem. And it was almost completely insurmountable. Frieda was starting to master the material, but Celadon—suddenly aware that his grade depended on her contribution—was trying to push her forward too fast. Emily was morbidly certain that the only thing keeping them working together was the looming presence of two seniors in the background.
And if they don’t hang together, they’ll hang separately, she thought. Celadon’s family would not be happy if the joint project failed—or his GPA fell past the point where he could automatically transition into Fifth Year. Having to retake a single year—let alone two—would not reflect well on him. At least he understands what’s at stake.
She sighed. Celadon wasn’t bad, per se, but he wasn’t the ideal partner for Frieda. He was too impressed with his own brilliance to tolerate someone slower, too concerned about making a splash to worry about the groundwork. Celadon might have been better off sticking with the original plan, then working on his own concept over the summer holidays. It would have ensured that he got full credit for anything workable.
“You have to cast the spell precisely,” Celadon said. He sounded more like a condescending older brother than a student talking to a peer. Emily didn’t need to see Frieda’s face to know the younger girl wasn’t happy about his patronising tone. Too many people had talked down to her in her life. “If you don’t get all the moving parts going in the right direction, the spell will fail.”
Frieda’s temper flared. “And you never heard of the KISS Principle?”
“This isn’t something that can be kept simple,” Celadon said. “Mixing a potion, let alone an alchemical brew, is complex. The magic must be inserted in precisely the right form or it will fail.”
Emily shared a long look with Cirroc. Sergeant Miles was very fond of the KISS Principle—he’d often explained that complex plans had a habit of going badly wrong from the start—but Celadon had a point. Alchemy was far more than merely throwing ingredients into a pot, inserting a little magic and hoping for the best. Anyone stupid enough to try would be lucky if they merely blew off their own hands. Brewing required a delicate touch and careful handling. Emily had never liked it. The slightest variation could have unpredictable—and spectacular—results.
“And how many alchemists are going to take the time to charge the fingers?” Frieda demanded, harshly. She picked one of them up and held it in front of her eyes. “Anyone who might want one will have the fine control necessary to brew the potion without it!”
“The idea is to market them to people who want to make potions without spending years mastering the skill,” Celadon reminded her. There was a hard edge to his voice, but Emily could hear desperation under it. “Or even to people who don’t have magic!”
Frieda glared at him, then cast the spell again. Emily watched grimly, knowing it was unlikely she’d be able to make the spell work while she was in a bad mood. Anger could power some spells, but none of them were particularly stable. Celadon’s spellwork was far too unforgiving, too complex to allow raw magic to overpower any flaws in the spell itself ...
She blinked. It worked?
“It worked?” Celadon stared at Frieda. “It worked?”
“It worked,” Frieda said. The finger glowed in front of them, ready to use. “I cast the spell.”