Page 24 of Reluctant Wizard

As she skimmed down the hall, making sure to walk softly and silently—the spirits muffled sound, but didn’t silence and it took a lot of concentration to maintain a silencing shield on the move—she passed a proctor staring into space, stationed at the entrance to the wing to keep non-wizard students out. Too bad they don’t keep malevolent proctors out, Alise thought acidly. The good news was that the bored proctor never even blinked as Alise passed.

So far, so good. She passed students, proctors, and the occasional faculty member on her way to the archives, all of them blissfully unaware of her presence. It was incredibly restful. Why didn’t she think of this a long time ago? Because you never before existed at this level of crushing paranoia, she reminded herself. Oh, right.

She made it to the archives without incident, feeling quite pleased with herself, all things given. Approaching the reference desk where Cillian worked the night shift, she realized the major flaw in her plan. How to notify him of her presence? Alise pondered the problem as she watched him assist a young, blonde uncat. Cillian had erected a courtesy silencing shield, but Alise could guess at the conversation from the visuals. He seriously explained something to the girl, probably about sixteen years old, who giggled and nervously twirled her hair around her finger. Suspicious, Alise noted two of the student’s friends hovering a short distance away, avidly observing. Ah, so that was the way of it.

Alise rolled her eyes, since no one could see her, and settled in to observe the amateur flirtation underway. Cillian, naturally, remained utterly oblivious to the blonde’s posturing, even when she bent over his shoulder, frowning prettily, to read whatever he pointed to. She turned her head to ask him a question, her face much too close to his and Cillian replied without looking at her. Typical Cillian. If the girl lived in a book, he might notice her, but no chance otherwise. Why was she interested anyway? He was much too old for her.

Not so much intrigued as bored with waiting, Alise sidled closer to the spectating friends, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. They whispered to each other quite audibly.

“Dark arts, he is so cute!” the first quietly squealed.

“I can’t believe Treena won the draw,” the other pouted. “Wizard Harahel has barely looked at her.”

“He’s so serious, so thoughtful. I would love to be his familiar.”

“Yes, he’d be a lovely wizard-master. Such a cinnamon roll.”

That raised Alise’s brows. Cillian baked cinnamon rolls for these students? Not that he wasn’t free to distribute his baked goods to all and sundry, and probably did, but she’d somehow thought she was special.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, all sweet and soft and warm on the inside. The perfect man.”

The two sighed in dreamy unison.

Sweet? Thought Alise. The guy was bossy and annoyingly stubborn.

“He has the best mouth,” one of the pair said in a reverent hush. “So pretty.”

“Like an angel. I bet he kisses like one. Or like a demon!”

“And those black curls. What wouldn’t I give to run my fingers through them?”

“They’re not black—they’re more like dark chocolate. Those ringlets are just long enough to for you to get a good grip and hold him down while he devours you like one of his pastries,” the other agreed, both breaking into a spate of giggles.

Alise blushed furiously, face hot as she belatedly got their meaning. She knew about sex, naturally, even the… ah, variations, the girls giggled over. But Maman had raised her to be a lady. Alise had never been so ribald with friends in discussing potential bed partners. Although, the more she thought about it, the more Alise could see that she’d never really had that many friends, at least not to giggle over romance with, even before she became a social pariah. And how pitiful was that?

She grew impatient with Treena’s extended flirtation attempt, and with listening to Treena’s friends extoll Cillian’s many virtues—observable and fantasized. Cillian showed no sign of flagging, clearly re-explaining the same concepts to Treena. Alise nearly threw up her hands in frustration when another two students queued up, waiting their turns. At this rate, she would be there all night.

At least the new arrivals made Treena give up her personal siege. With a batting of eyes and a last, longing glance that was utterly lost on the oblivious Cillian, she dragged herself away, then fell into a gleeful analysis with her friends. Alise continued to wait, shifting from foot to foot, unable to stop thinking about the many admiring and frequently salacious comments the students had made about the quiet archivist.

He did have soulful eyes, full of compassionate intelligence, with a fringe of black lashes that softened the sharper lines of his face. “Cheekbones to cut glass,” the girls had said, and a “bow of a mouth” in a “heart-shaped face.” Alise couldn’t help considering their descriptors. She supposed all that was true, though never how she would have described him. It was his kindness that shone through for her, that innate ability to look for the best in people. Even in her, she who least deserved it.

Cillian finished with the final student and looked directly at Alise. “That’s a long time to lurk,” he commented, startling her. Before she could think up a reply—she really hadn’t thought this part out—he added. “I’ve got a private place for us to talk.”

Setting out a sign next to a spelled Ratsiel courier, encouraging patrons to send it to fetch him if they needed immediate assistance, Cillian came around the desk and began walking briskly to some remote corner. With no other recourse, Alise followed, firming her resolve. No matter where he led her, they would finish this and be done.

They ended up in an obscure nook of the library Alise had never seen. Judging by the stale feeling of the corner, neither had anyone else. A desk piled high with binders sat to one side and Cillian confidently moved to them. “You can drop the spirit cloak,” he told her. “No one will see us here.”

Feeling a bit foolish, she let the entities float up to hover near the ceiling. “How did you know I was there?” she demanded.

“I smelled your magic,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with a wry, half-smile. “I know it’s not really a scent, but that, of course, is the synesthesia via which most of us experience the magic of others.”

“Synesthesia?” she echoed.

“Essentially a kind of sensory crossover, though that doesn’t apply perfectly when one is sensing the presence of magic.” He sorted the binders, continuing in a professorial tone. “Our physical senses didn’t evolve to detect and interpret magic, but our sensitivity to magic still alerts us to its presence and our brains decode it as something that is standard sensory information. Olfaction, being the oldest sense, is the most common synesthesia, but a significant portion of wizards and familiars experience the presence of magic as a visual field, or even somatosensory. Auditory is the rarest, for unknown reasons. Anyway…” He cleared his throat. “I smelled your magic the moment you walked into the library.” He inhaled deeply, smile fully blooming. “Roses and hot sunshine.”

So freaking charming. Alise glared at him in impotent annoyance. “Brinda Chur gave me some magic. That’s the hot part you sense. Or smell.” Immediately she regretted telling him that. She’d wanted to combat his sentimentality, not confide sensitive information.

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