Page 132 of The Black Witch

Buthewrote the history text. And I’ve already read it.No. I’m not getting the whole story.

I bid Priest Simitri goodbye and depart the lecture hall in search of answers.

There’s only one history professor that I know of who isn’t a Gardnerian. Professor Kristian. The Keltic professor who defended Ariel when I took her spice cake.

* * *

Professor Kristian sits at a small, battered-looking desk in his disheveled office, its door wide-open. Equally worn wooden shelves line the walls, stuffed to the brim with books and papers, some shelves containing double rows of books crammed into them every which way. There are still more piles of large, well-read volumes stacked on his desk and on the floor by the walls.

He sits, engrossed in writing, several books open in front of him. He pushes up at his wire-rimmed glasses every now and then as they repeatedly slip down his nose.

The gesture and the office make me think of Uncle Edwin. My uncle has the same habit of always having to push his glasses up, and a similar tendency to attract clutter, especially books and stacks of violin music.

I cough uncomfortably to get his attention.

He looks up and does a double take.

There’s a brief storm of emotion in his eyes, there and gone again as he regards me with wary caution. He pushes his glasses up and blinks at me several times before saying anything. “Mage Elloren Gardner.”

I try to smile, but it comes off more like some bizarre, crooked lip tightening.

He continues to blink at me as I stand there in the door frame.

“I...I have a question,” I stammer awkwardly.

More blinking.

The words come out in a tangled rush. “I was told...that my clothing, or the cloth anyway...might have been made by slaves. Is there any truth to that?”

He inclines his head to one side, looking perplexed. “Why are you coming to me with this question, Elloren Gardner?”

“I thought you might give me an honest answer. I went to Priest Simitri, but his answer seemed...biased.”

Professor Kristian makes a contemptuous sound and removes his glasses. He grabs a cloth on his desk and peers up at me as he cleans the lenses, eyes narrowing. Replacing the glasses on his nose, he sits back, folds his arms in front of himself and considers me squarely as I hover in the door frame.

“Your clothes, Elloren Gardner,” he begins, “were most likely made by Urisk women on the Fae Islands. Some of these workers may have been children, but all were most certainly paid barely enough to survive and are laboring in conditions akin to out-and-out-slavery. They have no freedom of movement, no means of leaving the Islands for a better life, as they are heavily guarded. They can get off the Islands via pirates who will smuggle them out for a steep price, often delivering them to a worse master who will forever hold deportment or time in prison over their heads. Or they can get off the island by becoming indentured servants to the Gardnerians, which is, again, little more than glorified slavery with the threat of deportment always hanging over them. So, Elloren Gardner, if you are asking me whether your dress is made not of the finest silk, but of the oppression and misery of countless others, the answer would be a firm yes.”

I swallow hard.He certainly doesn’t mince words.His blunt manner of speaking makes me uncomfortable, and I have to remind myself that I haven’t come here looking for more dancing around the truth.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” I tell him, feeling ashamed, thinking of little Fern and her fear of returning to the Fae Islands.

The hard edge of his expression softens a little. His brow knits together, his eyes full of questions. “You’re welcome.”

Having heard more than enough for today, I turn and walk away.

* * *

The next day in the kitchen, I take my place lugging piles of dirty plates and trays from the open dining hall counter to the sinks. I’m in my old, comfortable clothing from home—the brown woolen garb dark enough to pass muster as Garnderian clothing, but just barely. I look more like a Kelt than a Gardnerian. But I feel like myself again. My old tunic and skirt are a far cry from elegant, much too loose to show off even a hint of my figure, but I’m finally able to move and breathe.

My new attire has attracted a good many confused and disapproving stares from my fellow Gardnerians, and even more disapproval from non-Gardnerians.

“You must be kidding,” Iris snaps when she enters the kitchens, her eyes immediately lighting on me as I transfer a pile of plates.

Heat stings the back of my neck, but I attempt to ignore her and keep working.

Bleddyn almost drops the sack of flour she’s lugging when she comes in. “So she’s a Kelt now, is that it?” She spits at the floor, her mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer, her eyes hot on me. She looks to Fernyllia, outraged.

Fernyllia shrugs and glances at me, then gestures discreetly with flour-dusted hands for Iris and Bleddyn to stop.

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