Page 28 of The Exorcism of Faeries

The pancreas is marked in dark blotches resembling a pattern. What is the correct deduction?

D: Autolysis

What method should be used for heart dissection if there is suspicion of inferoseptal myocardial infarction?

C: Removal of the inferior wall of the right ventricle

Atta flew through the rest of the answers, confident she missed—at most—two, and turned her paper in at Murdoch’s desk.

“Stick around after class,” he told her quietly without looking up from his book. She noticed it was the same one he’d had in his office and her desire to know what had him so captivated pulled at her once more.

A few moments later, he told the students they had only one minute left to finish marking their answers. When the time was up, he rose and flipped through the papers before he proceeded to throw them all in the rubbish save for one, which he left facedown on his desk. Murdoch moved to address the confused class of about fifteen students and Atta.

“This is not secondary school. I will not be giving any other quizzes or tests aside from the final, which, in this course, is to perform a full autopsy on your own with the parameters given. We’ve gone over enough prerequisites and it’s time we dive into the true material of this course.”

A pasty lad with sandy blonde hair raised his hand.

“Mr Murphy, do you raise your hand to interject your thoughts into a conversation with your peers?”

The lad blinked at him. “No, Professor.”

“Then let us be intellectual peers here as well. That's the aim, anyway.” Murdoch walked a slow line in front of the class, one hand cutting the air as he spoke. “The first two weeks are meant for introductions and syllabi and all of college’s damned requirements. Now that we have that shite out of the way, I want this to be akin to supervisions more than lectures. When we don’t have our arms elbows-deep in cadavers, this course will be conducted as small group, intensive discussions.” He stopped pacing and nodded at the lad who’d raised his hand. “Now, Mr Murphy, go on, then.”

Everyone turned to look at him and his cheeks developed splotches of crimson. “I only meant to ask why we took the quiz at all if you were just going to toss them out.”

“Because the order in which you turned your answers in, is the reverse order of who will get their hands dirty first.”

All the students looked at one another sheepishly, and Murdoch went on. “Those whose hubris or over-studied minds led them to turn their quizzes in the quickest need to understand they don’t know everything. That there is much to be deduced by observation and employing an irritating level of patience.” He clasped his hands behind his back and took up pacing again. “Those who took their time or perhaps had no knowledge of the material, well, they need the most exposure to corporeal subjects and a chance to be thrown to the wolves to knock the apprehension from their bones.”

Something in the air changed. It felt charged with that distinct dopamine hit unique to academics at the height of study.

Atta could see it then, why he had been granted such accolades before the age of forty. How this professor was so gifted to teach, such a powerful lecturer, even if all his pupils were frightened of him. Professor Sonder Murdoch was the cliff-jump that terrified, the majestic wolf that captivated, the risk you knew might kill you, yet you couldn’t pass it up.

Murdoch began writing on the board, his handwriting the sloppy mix of tight cursive and adolescence that indicated either a certain level of genius or psychopathy. When he moved out of the way, he’d listed the students in order of who had, Atta assumed by his explanation, turned their answers in last to first.

Her name was absent, as she’d expected considering she wasn’t one of his students, but a thread of disappointment still knotted in her stomach.

“Read chapters 17-20. If you have something against standard-issue surgical gowns, I suggest you bring your own to class and don’t wear your pretty shoes. Now, fuck off, the lot of you.”

The students filed out, and Atta was left trying to determine if she should sit at her desk or stand. Sitting made her feel too much like a fledgling fresher, so she stood.

Murdoch reclined on the corner of his desk, one foot swaying as he looked over Atta’s answers. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw as he did so and Atta looked away, trying not to fidget.

“You missed number eight.” It seemed to her that his voice was deeper when he spoke to her. Far less charismatic and more guarded. “Petechiae are minute haemorrhages. After asphyxiation, they can be found not only in the heart and other organs but in the eyes and even areas like the scalp.” He handed her the paper. “But our deal was to pass. And you did.”

“I can do more than observe, then.” She didn’t form it like a question. “Prove I can do more.” They’d had a deal after all.

“I will not have the integrity of my course jeopardised by your involvement or need to prove something to yourself.”

“A deal is a deal,” she ground out.

“And I’m not going back on that. I’m merely ensuring that you know the parameters of this arrangement. I will ban you from my classes if you interfere and I don’t see that going well for you.”

A couple of hours ago, she would have thought him an arrogant prick for saying such a thing, but now she saw it for what it was: a professor protecting his students.

“Professor Murdoch,” Atta implored him gently, “I don’t want to jeopardise the integrity of your classes. But I do want to do more if I’m here. If you just want me to fetch tea, fine, but I’d like to prove to you that I can do more if you’ll grant me the opportunity.”

He was close enough that the smoke and spice scent of him cloyed with her senses again, but she stood her ground as he regarded her, brows pinched. It was the most expressive she’d seen his face to date.

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