Page 15 of Magic in My Bones

“More than okay,” he assured me. “We'd be delighted to have you. It's in the Willow Commons, right off the main courtyard, at seven. I hope to see you there.”

He stood then, brushing bits of grass off his robes with an easy grace. “I should be getting back. I've got a stack of essays on the ethics of resurrection waiting for me to grade. But I meant what I said, Ren. My door is always open.”

“Thank you, Professor Crowe,” I said, infusing the words with as much sincere gratitude as I could muster. “I feel like I say that a lot.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He inclined his head. “Oh, and don’t forget to give your new companion a name. I’ll see you later, Ren.”

With a final warm smile that sent my heart into somersaults, Professor Crowe turned and walked back toward the main campus, his forest green robes billowing elegantly behind him. I watched him go, my mind still reeling from the revelations of the last few minutes.

I glanced down at the caterpillar, who was now contentedly munching on a leaf it had found on my robes. For the first time,I didn't feel embarrassed or disappointed by my new familiar. Instead, a sense of cautious optimism bloomed in my chest. If Dorian Crowe saw potential in this little guy, then who was I to doubt it?

“Guess it's just you and me now, huh, buddy?” I said softly, stroking a tentative finger down the caterpillar's squirming back. “Both of us are in the middle of becoming something new.”

I thought about my own transformation, of the years of waiting, the pain and uncertainty, the triumph of finally feeling at home in my own skin.

“Everyone wants the end result, you know? The butterfly, the finished product. But there's something brave about being in the cocoon stage, isn't there? About trusting that you'll come out the other side as something beautiful, even when you can't quite see it yet.”

The caterpillar responded by contentedly munching its leaf, but somehow its presence felt more purposeful now. Like maybe the spirits had known exactly what they were doing when they sent me a companion who understood what it meant to transform.

I smiled. “Looks like we both have some growing to do.”

6

Watchful Eyes

Dorian

As Dean Vane andI completed our weekly stroll through the hallowed grounds of the Ossuary Memorial Garden, I could not help but marvel at the sheer artistry on display. The gardens had always been one of my favorite places to visit in the necropolis. Nowhere else on the grounds could one find such a fitting and beautiful juxtaposition of life and death. Delicate arrangements of sun-bleached bones had been put on display, each one telling a story of a life once lived.

Stone benches were nestled in hidden alcoves, each one adorned with hand-crocheted throws in deep jewel tones, a touch I'd added after finding too many students studying here in the cold. Antique lanterns hung from wrought iron posts, their glass panels painted with protective sigils that cast dancing shadows on the paths below. There was something endearing about how the students had turned this place of remembrance into a kind of cozy communal study spot.

Even the maintenance was a community effort. Herbology students tested their skills against the particular challenges ofgrowing plants among bones, artistic souls adding their own careful arrangements, and my necromancy students learned to tend to both the physical remains and the lingering spirits with equal care.

Threading through each display was a carefully curated collection of flora, tended to by our master herbalist student body. Lovely green ivy snaked through smiling skulls and moonflowers spread their delicate blooms, reaching through metacarpals. I smiled at a particularly creative arrangement where someone had woven delicate fairy lights through a ribcage, making it look like a heart still glowed within. It reminded me of something Gran would appreciate, that perfect balance of respectful and whimsical. I made a mental note to mention it in my next letter to her, along with a sketch of how the lights had been placed. She always said the best magic found ways to make beauty bloom in unexpected places.

It was a poignant reminder of the fragility of our mortal coil, and the importance of treating the deceased with the utmost respect.

Dean Vane, however, seemed far less involved in the artful displays of our dead, though I couldn’t blame him. He might have been the head of the spiritual studies department, but he was, at heart, an eldritch mage and not a necromancer.

“I must say, Eamon, I find myself rather troubled by the recent uptick in spirit activity,” I began, my voice carrying a note of concern as we walked. I found myself slipping into the cadence of my grandmother's speech, the way I often did when worried. “There's an old saying back home: 'When the dead grow restless, the living should grow wise.’ Gran used to tell me that the spirits were like the weather in County Cork: generally mild, but when they turn stormy, you'd best pay attention.”

I absently touched the protection charm she'd given me years ago, a small silver disc engraved with Celtic knotwork that I keptin my vest pocket. Its familiar weight was comforting as I added, “The old ways might seem quaint to some, but they understood something about maintaining balance between the worlds. Just last week, I had to dispel a particularly aggressive shade that had taken up residence in the library.”

Dean Vane raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild interest tinged with skepticism. “A few restless spirits hardly warrant such concern. It's to be expected in a place like this, where the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. As for the unscheduled dispel in the library… Well, isn’t that what we keep you necromancers around for? You might just be the first necromancer at Blackstone to complain about the prospect of job security.”

I shook my head, unconvinced. “It's more than just a few isolated incidents. The spirits seem... agitated. Unsettled. As if something has stirred them up.” I paused, running a hand along the smooth surface of a skull adorned with a crown of forget-me-nots. “I fear that if we do not address this issue, it may escalate into something far more serious. Something…dangerous.”

The dean scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You worry too much, my friend. The spirits are our allies, not our enemies. They are simply making their presence known, as is their right.”

I frowned, my brow furrowing. “Be that as it may, I believe we have a responsibility to maintain balance. To ensure that the living and the dead can coexist in harmony.”

Dean Vane let out a heavy sigh, his eyes flickering with a hint of impatience. “And what would you propose, Dorian? Shall we send out a strongly worded letter to the spirits, kindly requesting they settle down and behave themselves?” His tone dripped with sarcasm, a sharp contrast to the serene beauty surrounding us.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the image his words conjured. “No, no, nothing quite so formal. Perhapsa gentle reminder of the rules of engagement. A metaphysical nudge, if you will, to encourage a return to the status quo.”

We continued our walk, the crunch of gravel beneath our feet punctuating the momentary lull in conversation. As we rounded a corner, a particularly striking display came into view. It was a towering spiral of bones, each one polished to a gleaming ivory, interwoven with delicate strands of silver sage. The heady scent of the herbs mingled with the crisp autumn air, creating an atmosphere that was at once ethereal and grounding.

Different types of magic left distinct impressions on the senses: the sharp, metallic tang of protective wards, the honey-sweet whisper of growth charms nurturing the plants, and beneath it all, the deep, rich current of death magic that felt like velvet against my skin.

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