Chapter 150: 150: Academy Life Starts VII
---
Warden Lutch stepped in front of him. She was angry, wearing gray, and had a key ring that made heavy noises just by existing. She raised one eyebrow. It was a very strong eyebrow.
"Orientation," she said. "Started at the bell. Ended at the bell. You were not on your assigned bench."
Ray tried a smile. "My cousin kept me," he said. "Second year. Family. You know."
The warden’s eyebrow did not move. "Family can keep you out of trouble," she said. "It cannot keep you out of a rule."
Ray opened his mouth and then noticed the way everyone was staring at his face. People were not subtle. They were elbowing each other in the ribs and making small choking sounds. A girl put her hand to her mouth to hide a giggle. A boy in a plain coat—the stubborn-jaw one—actually covered his eyes for a second as if second-hand shame hurt him physically.
"What," Ray demanded, trying to sound dangerous. "What are you looking at."
The warden produced a small tin mirror from her pocket with the slow drama of a woman who does not have many joys but clings to the ones she has. She held it up. Ray leaned in.
He saw the mushroom first.
He froze. His eyes crept sideways. He saw the mustache. He saw the tear. He saw the angry fake brow. He made the face of a prince and told his horse had been replaced with a goat.
Fizz, from John’s shoulder, made a tiny squeak noise that was very much like a laugh that had been tied up and told to behave. John’s mouth stayed straight, but it was a battle.
The warden clicked her tongue. "After curfew," she said, ticking the points on her palm. "Noise in the corridor. Late to orientation. Vandalized face."
"It is vandalized upon," Ray tried, noble grammar failing under panic. "I am the vandalizee."
"Still a report," she said. "Ink comes off. A mark in the book does not. Come with me."
She took his sleeve —not unkindly, but in a way that said the sleeve belonged to her now— and marched him toward the east office. Ray went, sputtering, trying to wipe the ink with the edge of his coat, only making the mustache darker. As he passed under the heart–window, the light put a halo over the mushroom. It looked like a saint. Fizz had to hide behind John’s head for a moment because laughter had turned him weak.
When Ray and the warden were gone, the yard remembered its business. The river of students broke into streams that flowed to boards and stairs and doors. Names went onto lists. Lists turned into lines. Lines turned into lessons.
John and Fizz walked to the signboard for first-year choices. It was a huge board with wood so smooth it looked like it remembered every name that had touched it in the last fifty years. Paper sheets hung from brass pegs: Circles (Basic), Circles (Apprentice), Ground, Safety, Library Method, Gym Drill, Contract Conduct, Arithmetic for Mages, Ethics of Work, Herb Lore, Potions (No Fire), Potions (With Fire), Small Devices (Permitted), Small Devices (Forbidden) — that last one was a joke, but the proctor beside it did not smile.
Fizz tapped the board with one tiny paw. "We must choose wisely," he said. "We must choose things that make us the best we can be and the least likely to be expelled."
"Basic Circles," John said, marking it with the stub of a pencil. "Safety. Gym. Library. Arithmetic. Contract Conduct."
Fizz sighed dreamily. "Arithmetic," he said. "Numbers are pancakes that never go stale."
John gave him a look.
"It makes sense in my heart," Fizz said.
They signed what they had to. For the rest, John looked at the boards and listened to the buzz. He chose Small Devices (Permitted), because he liked tools more than charms, and Herb Lore because it fit in his head like something that would help on a road when nothing else did. He skipped Potions (With Fire) because Fizz and fire in a room full of bottles felt like a story that ends with new windows and old angry teachers.
When they were done, they stepped aside to let a dozen bodies take their place. A fan boy at their elbow asked Fizz if the mushroom on Ray’s face had a name. Fizz said, "It is called Consequence," and the boy laughed so hard he had to lean on the signboard while a proctor told him to mind his weight.
By noon, the yard thinned. By afternoon, the halls found their shape again. By late afternoon, the sun slid down the east walls and laid a gentle hand on the stones. John and Fizz walked the stairs twice more so their feet would remember them. They found the laundry chute (Fizz almost slid down it; John stopped him with a single finger and a very firm look). They found the best water tap—cold and fast, hidden behind a fern. They stood in the library door and just breathed for a moment because the smell of paper and old glue and ink is a kind of food.
On the way back to their room, Fizz floated in silence for a while, which is when you know he is cooking a plan.
"Two days," he said at last. "Then you are eighteen."
"Yes," John said.
"We will celebrate," Fizz said. "I will ask the desk if we can go to Bent Penny. If they say no, I will ask the other desk. If that desk also says no, I will bribe Penny to sneak in with stew. No rule will be broken. Only bent. Lightly."
"No breaking," John said. "Promise."
Fizz put a paw to his chest. "Promise. We will do it clean. No guards. No bells. No mustaches. Unless Ray asks for another. Then yes."
They reached East House at the same time as a pair of girls from South House who were arguing about the ethics class. Fizz bowed like a prince to them. They giggled like bells. John pretended not to see him bow too low and nearly hit his head on the door frame.
They climbed to their floor. The door to their room stood ajar. John pushed it open with two fingers.
Ray was not there. The bed was made in the manner of boys who are trying to mend a thing they broke with effort alone: the blanket was straight, the pillow was perfect, and the mustache had left a ghost of itself on the sheet where Ray had pressed his face down too hard. A folded notice sat on the desk. John did not read it. It had Ray’s name on it in red ink. That was enough to understand: a warden’s note, a small fine, a "see me," a nail to hang a lesson on.
Fizz sat on the desk, swung his legs, and looked very pleased with himself. "A good morning," he said. "We learned things. We joined things. We did not explode. We saw a hat. We saw a mushroom become a saint."
John hung his coat on the hook and set his schedule above the desk where his eye would catch it every time he sat down. He put his token on the nail beside it. He touched both once, like a boy touching wood for luck.
"Classes start in a week," he said.
"In two days, we will party," Fizz said.
John gave him a sideways look. "Who will you invite?"
Fizz started his list again—Penny, Pim, Sera if she could, Elara if she promised to scowl from the corner, Edda if she brought bread and no bells, the shed cat if the rules allowed cats and if the cat forgave them for leaving.
"And Ray," John said, just to see Fizz’s face.
Fizz recoiled in horror. "No. He must earn a party invitation. He owes me good dreams."
John laughed, quiet but full. "We will see."
Fizz floated to the window and looked down at the yard. The light turned the grass gold in patches. A group of first years tried to throw a hat onto a statue and were told to stop by a proctor who did not even look up from his book. In the distance, the bell tower flexed like a man about to lift something heavy and decided not to yet.
"We will do it right," Fizz said softly, to himself and to the room and to the day. "No tricks. No lies. Only cake and gifts. I promise."
John nodded. Promises mattered here. He could feel it in the way the walls held heat and cool in equal parts.
Far off, under some other arch, Ray argued with a warden about the difference between ink and dignity. A late laugh rolled across the stones as someone finally told him how the mushroom looks like a ding dong. The warden wrote one more neat line in her book and snapped it shut with a click.
The academy, old and wide and full of stairs with moods, took a long, calm breath. Orientation was over. The week of choosing had begun. Two days lay like flat stones in front of John’s feet, waiting for the steps that would make them part of a path. Fizz tapped the window with one paw, as if tapping the future to check if it was hollow or full.
"It sounds solid," he said.
"Good," John said. "We will walk it."
They stood a moment more in the soft light, two small shapes in a big old house that had seen a thousand small shapes grow into their work. Then the bell rang for the evening meal, and the day moved on. Rest of the day pass by in the blink of an eye.