Chapter 148: 148: Academy Life Starts VI
---
Morning slid into East House gently, like a cat sneaking onto a warm bed. Thin light pushed under the curtains, turned the dust into glitter, and made the river in the wall painting look almost real. The air was cool and honest. Far down the corridor, a bell tinkled once as a warden checked a latch.
John woke before the first hall bell. He always did in new places. The habit had teeth. He lay still a moment, counted four in and four out, and let the room come into focus: two beds, two trunks, one desk with a neat kit of inks and quills, one narrow wardrobe that smelled faintly of soap. On Bed A, Ray Flame snored like a wet saw. On Bed B’s foot, Fizz was a small orange blanket with ears. His whiskers ticked as if he were chasing pancakes in a dream.
John sat up, pulled on his boots, and washed at the basin. He combed his hair with short, patient strokes. It still sat odd from Edda’s blade, but at least it now looked like a choice and not a crime. He buckled his belt, checked his token, checked the folded schedule Master Venn had given him, and checked the slate a second time because forgetting a slate is a silly way to become a story other people tell.
Behind him, a tiny voice said, thick with sleep, "No, Susan, the star-cakes are for sharing, but I will keep the ribbon..." Fizz stretched, popped upright, and blinked. "Ah. Dawn. Good. We will make the day behave."
He floated to the ceiling, peered down at Bed A, and scowled. "He snores like a broken kettle. We should throw him out the window so the stairs can raise him better."
"Leave him," John said. "We have orientation. He will learn to race bells on his own."
Fizz’s glare turned sly. He drifted over the desk, found the little bottle of student ink and a thin quill, and gave John an innocent look that was not innocent at all. "We are leaving him. But we are not leaving his face."
"Fizz."
"It is a public service," Fizz said in a solemn whisper. "He woke me from love. The law of stories says: a mark must be paid."
John tied his laces. "Nothing that will get us thrown out before breakfast."
"I am not a monster," Fizz said, deeply offended. "I will be tasteful."
He dipped the quill. He hovered over Ray’s sleeping face like a careful bee and drew, tongue poking out in concentration. First, a neat little curl above Ray’s lip: a heroic mustache, ridiculous and very dignified. Next, two dots and a line between his brows: a fake frown, so his face looked upset even in sleep. Then, the masterpiece: on Ray’s right cheek, a small, lumpy mushroom with a wide cap and tiny dots, the kind of mushroom that looks like it tells secrets to gnats. Fizz signed it with a single invisible flick—nothing anyone could see, but enough for him to feel proud.
He drifted back, admired the work, and made a tiny chef’s kiss in the air. "Very art. Much honor."
John put on his coat. "Done?"
"One more," Fizz murmured, and added a single tear under Ray’s left eye. The tear looked like it had a tragic backstory. "Now I am done."
They left Ray snoring and stepped into the corridor. East House was already waking. Doors clicked. Soft voices traded sleepy greetings. Someone down the hall did a little dance with both feet in a cold wash basin and hissed like a cat. The stairs shifted to their morning place with a satisfied creak. In the corner painting, a boat drifted past a willow and the man inside lifted his hat. Fizz waved back. John nodded to the man because it felt polite.
They went down the humming stairs, crossed the wide ground hall where light fell in long rectangles from high windows, and stepped into the cool yard. The sky was the soft gray-blue of a fresh slate. The academy’s big trees stood like old teachers: quiet, stern, pleased to see the day try again.
"Orientation," Fizz said, bouncing a little in the air. "We will sit in a hall and hear ten men say ’welcome’ and one woman say ’do not break anything’ and then we will clap."
"Likely," John said.
They joined the slow river of first years moving toward the north hall. Coats brushed coats. Voices tangled. A boy tested a coin between his fingers like it might tell him the future. A girl in a plain dress stood on her toes to see the roof and then pretended she had not. A pair of friends argued in whispers about whether the library kept ghost books or only live ones. Fizz air-swam above John’s shoulder, putting on the serious face of a spirit who knows everything even when he knows nothing.
The north hall was a belly of old wood and grand stone. Its doors held iron that had been hammered by people who liked their work. Inside, rows of benches spread like furrows in a field. A high stage waited with a long table and a stand. Behind the table, the wall held a big round window cut in the shape of a heart rune. Light poured through it like water, and dust floated in it like tiny fish. John liked it at once.
Students filled the benches with the quiet shuffle of a hundred small decisions. John and Fizz found a place in the middle left. Fizz sat on the back of the bench and folded his paws, trying to look like a dean. He failed in a charming way.
John looked around as the hall filled and the low hum of voices grew. He liked to see the shape of a crowd. It tells you what a day will be.
He saw boys with bright crests and clean rings on their fingers, girls with simple hair and eyes that missed nothing, a big boy with a nose that had been broken more than once and set badly, a small girl with a braid so tight it made his own scalp ache. He saw coats cut to show money and coats cut to hide none. He saw the faces he had learned in the yard — the boy with the stubborn jaw, the tall one with freckles, the girl who had put her little brother behind her when Fartray had thrown water. He saw curiosity. He saw nerves. He saw the city sitting down all in one place and pretending to listen.
Fizz saw different things. He saw "pretty" and "prettier," "handsome" and "handsomer," "strong" and "stronger," but also "coward," "bragger," "snack-sharer," "likely to steal pens." He made mental notes in huge, messy letters. He leaned to John and whispered, "That girl in the green ribbon is cute. That boy in the gold trim has ankles like a foal. That pair in the second row holds hands under the bench; scandal; love; drama."
"Eyes on the stage," John said, but his mouth twitched.
The proctors lined the side aisles with their quiet shoes and quiet faces. They carried clipboards like weapons and caught whispers with the corners of their eyes. The front row had a few second-years who had been told to sit there as good examples. They looked very proud of their own spines.
Master Venn came first to the stage, chalk tucked behind one ear, hair doing what it wanted. He did not use the stand. He put both hands on the table and looked out like a farmer checking rain on his field.
"Morning," he said, dry as toast. "Welcome to the first thing you cannot be late to. After this we begin counting lateness. We do not enjoy counting lateness. It creates paperwork."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room like wind through grass.
"I am Venn," he said. "I teach circles and the bad habits that make circles fail. You will learn both. This week is for finding your legs and your rooms and the places you did not know you would love or hate. Ask questions, but please ask them at the right desk."
He stepped back. Master Hale took the stand next. She wore blue like a well-kept wave and had a face that could make a yard fall into silence without raising her voice.
"Welcome," she said, and somehow the word did not sound like the other welcomes John had heard in his life. It did not sound like a door someone let you in through while they watched you, or a word said for show. It sounded like a map.
"You will hear the rules," she said. "You have read the rules. You will break rules. When you do, the consequences will teach you faster than we can. But let me put three stones in your pocket to carry all year. First: do not lie on paper. Paper keeps the lie longer than you do. Second: ask for help before you are drowning. Pride is heavy when wet. Third: your spirit is your work. Your work is your spirit. Treat both as if you would like to sleep well."
Fizz whispered, "She is scary, but I like her."
"She is fair," John said.