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TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 25 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 06:18:09 +0000 UTCChapter 25 - Gossip
If we all said to people’s faces what we say behind one another’s backs, society would be impossible.
- Honoré de Balzac.
“Come now, what is it, Hughes?” Seraphina asked, voice laced with mild exasperation. Still, the forced smile she wore glowed with such vibrant elegance that it deserved to be captured in oil paint or shaped from marble by the hands of a master sculptor.
“Ah—Seraphina... you don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” he ventured in a hushed tone, glancing around as though expecting a librarian to materialize and scold them both. “We’re both in the Wisteria, after all…”
Never in his life had Hughes been so glad for such a serendipity.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured, wondering why she was so quick to grant him leave to use her given name. “What is it you need?”
“Well,” he began hesitantly, “it’s about Riconetti. One of the passages says, ‘no man may come after that is a man at all.’ I’m having trouble understanding that...”
Seraphina resisted the powerful urge to roll her eyes. How could he be so, well, obtuse and stupid? Their teacher had already explained that it was a misquote, its meaning distorted through a famous and flawed translation. Still, she caught herself, remembering her sense of responsibility. Hughes, with his wide, earnest eyes and apologetic smile, compelled her somehow.
“Show me the question again,” she commanded, hoping to expedite the process. He looked so utterly lost—like a lamb that had strayed far from the safety of its flock.
Hughes handed over the text. With a sigh, Seraphina scribbled the necessary explanation in the margins. “Now do you see?” she asked, tapping the paper.
“Amazing,” he breathed, bobbing his head in admiration. “You make it look so simple.”
Pride flickered in her chest at his directpraise—though, in truth, his lack of grasp of the subject matter was what made it seem easy by comparison. Nevertheless, she could not help but feel a small swell of satisfaction.
Then Hughes swallowed, squaring his shoulders. “I have a confession to make... and a request.”
Her brow rose. “Yes, Hughes? Out with it.”
He closed one eye, half-flinching as though he feared a sudden slap. “Perhaps you could help me with this other problem, too?”
Seraphina groaned. “This really will be the last time. You need to learn to solve these on your own. By the Goddess, how did you ever get into the Academy in the first place?” she asked, genuinely baffled.
Despite her admonishments, she spent the remainder of their free period guiding him through each troublesome question. Books spread out around them like walls of knowledge, the library’s hushed atmosphere broken only by their whispered exchanges. When the bell finally rang, marking the end of their respite, Hughes practically glowed with triumph as he gathered his things and followed her into the corridor.
Seraphina’s mind flicked briefly to Gravens—the tall, dashing sort the other girls swooned over—and to the train of admirers who always seemed to hover around her, not to mention the Crown Prince to whom she was officially betrothed. Hughes could never compete with their looks or bearing. And yet, as she studied the grateful smile lighting up his face, a secret part of her found his earnest determination... disturbingly endearing.
Little did she know, at that very moment, Hughes was relishing a victory he dared not put into words. He could not match Sir Gravens or the Crown Prince in status or prowess, but he had something else—a steadfast heart captivated by Seraphina from the first instant he laid eyes on her, a devotion so deep it twisted his very soul. He would climb this impossible mountain, he told himself, even if each step felt like a miracle.
***
Mathematica class felt never-ending that day, and the simple problems presented, at least for the young noblewoman, did little to help Seraphina keep her focus. Her eyes kept wandering, and she fought off yawns for most of the hour. Back in her home country, lessons were shorter and varied in pace. But here, in this quasi-medieval world’s equivalent of a high school, they believed in lengthier sessions, certain that such would help them develop greater powers of concentration.
While most of her classmates fumbled with their abaci and muttered over sums, Seraphina, with cool ease, solved every problem in her head. Their teacher, Mistress de Alalucia—an austere woman well past her prime, with salt-and-pepper hair pinned in a severe bun—was the very picture of suspicion at first. Yet there was no denying the truth of the numbers. Grudgingly, she had to concede that Seraphina was simply “gifted,” serving as a sharp reminder of just how exceptional the girl who ranked first truly was.
It gave the girl a little time to clear her mind and just think of nothing for once.
No sooner had the bell rung than Fleur, Amanda, and a whole cluster of well-born girls swarmed Seraphina in the corridor, praising her for what they considered near sorcery. Between curtseys and excited giggles, Seraphina caught sight of Hughes still hunched over his desk, face pinched in frustration. A twinge of pity tugged at her, but she had her own audience to entertain.
“And you can do it all in your head?” Fleur asked, dark eyes alight with curiosity, hands clasped as though praying for enlightenment. “How? What ever is your secret?”
For a heartbeat, Seraphina didn’t quite know how to explain. How did a hawk teach landbound creatures to fly? She smoothed her robes, her perfect features frowining before responding. “Practice regularly, break down problems, learn shortcuts, spot patterns—truly understand the concepts, don’t just memorize formulae or methodology. And, well…” She paused, nearly slipping into the word “talent” but catching herself just in time. “…the big one is practice.”
A thrilled round of playful clapping rose from the girls.
“I wish you could teach me,” Amanda sighed, running a through her flaxen hair. “Everyone in my family is dreadful with numbers. It’s quite embarassing. But, I guess that is why we have to hire well…”
“Oh, please teach me!” chimed another girl, only to earn a pair of death-glares from Fleur and Amanda.
Seraphina offered a playful shrug. “If I teach every last one of you, where will I find the time for my own assignments?” she teased, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, we must keep Mistress de Alalucia employed somehow!”
The gentle laughter that swept through the group rang with that polished, dainty quality.
Cordelia de Aserac, a petite, flame-haired thing from a dukedom bordering the Grass Sea, suddenly groaned shaking her head. Her pigtailed hair swished in sympathetic frustration.
“Urrggh! I just remembered we have to finish everything before the First-Year Ball. Curses upon the teachers and their insufferable assignments!” she grumbled.
Fleur, like a doting mother, reached over to pat Cordelia’s head as if to soothe a child. The young redhead squirmed away indignantly. “Stop that!” she half-yelled, cheeks aflame.
“Well, there’s also the daily practice that Bellfrost assigned,” Seraphina reminded them, her green eyes glinting with renewed seriousness.
“That… I’m actually looking forward to,” Fleur admitted quietly. “My father’s lands suffer droughts sometimes. Mastering Water could truly help him…”
“Oh, you could even run off and join one of those caravans heading south across the Al-Lazar deserts!” Amanda added with an irreverent grin, casting a mischievous look around the group.
Collective gasps—more for show than any real horror—rippled through the circle. Fleur’s face went beet red.
“Why, I could never,” she insisted, completely missing the joke. “It’s not proper for someone of my station. And I—I wouldn’t even know how to pack for such a journey!”
Amanda just rolled her eyes and laughed. “The prim and proper Fleur, gallivanting off for a life of adventure. It’s too scandalous even to imagine!”
She leaned closer, voice lowering. “Anyway, about that ball—did you get a new dress? Your last one was two whole seasons out of fashion!”
Fleur groaned, tugging at one of her neat brown braids. “I actually forgot all about the ball, and I have nothing ready. It’s impossible to have something made.”
Amanda’s eyes lit up triumphantly. “Then it’s a good thing I had one set aside for you,” she declared. “But I warn you—don’t you dare ask one of my brothers to be your escort. They’re far beneath your station,” she added in a theatrical whisper.
“I—I hadn’t planned on it,” Fleur stammered, looking mortified. “I might not even go if I can’t dance properly. I’ll make an absolute fool of myself. Maybe I’ll just take a chaperone, or not go at all…”
“Oh, you have to go!” Amanda declared, scandalized. “Not attending would be unthinkable.”
As the chattering and preening continued, Seraphina seized the moment to steer the conversation. Her gaze swept the corridor, as though ensuring no one else listened in. “Speaking of different stations,” she began, voice silken, “tell me, what do you know of that commoner girl? The silver-haired one. I heard rumors that she’s an orphan from the slums. What was her name again?”
“She’s called Este Lize,” Cordelia offered quickly. “She’s in Camellia, I think.”
A catlike satisfaction gleamed in Seraphina’s eyes. Camellia… so she was in Camellia. She nodded politely, filing the information away.
Cordelia shrugged. “Some of the people of Meridian say she’s a Living Saint or something. That’s the rumor I heard.”
“A Living Saint?” Amanda repeated, eyebrows arching high. “Really?”
They all glanced at one another, half-curious, half-incredulous.
“Well, if she truly were one, she would have the ‘Healing Hands,’ wouldn’t she?” Seraphina purred, letting the question hang in the air. “Isn’t that one of the prerequisites for sainthood?”
Fleur pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. Would anyone here really know?”
“And just exactly… what would be the difference between that and well the healing that some adventurers do… or like from Alchemical concoctions?” chimed in Amanda. “Not that I would know anything about adventurers or their ilk of course.
Cordelia nodded thoughtfully. “Shaykh Hassan back home says Saints channel the Covenant—a holy light of redemption that mends reality itself. Healing spells or Alchemy are different. Those just accelerate the body’s natural healing, albeit empowered with Mana. A Saint’s power ‘corrects’ what’s wrong in the world.”
“Fascinating,” Seraphina commented softly, allowing a faint, knowing smile to linger. “Perhaps someone should find out if there’s any truth to this rumor. After all, a false Saint would be…” she paused meaningfully, “…blasphemous.”
Cordelia, rather direct by nature, tugged her sleeves with a grim nod. “Yes, Seraphina, that would be a terrible offense against the Goddess.”
Was this girl on the spectrum? the young noblewoman asked herself.
Seraphina felt a secret satisfaction. This conversation was unfolding exactly as she wanted, and she made sure her expression remained composed. Still, she couldn’t appear too invested. Let the rumor grow its own wings, free from any suspicion that she, Seraphina, was behind it.
Suddenly, Michelié—round-faced and perpetually munching on sugared sweets—popped into the group. “Ooooh, do tell, do tell. I heard something about Este Lize eyeing the Crown Prince, but I need the full story!” She giggled as she offered the bag of candy around.
A ripple of delighted shock went through the other girls. The Crown Prince was a subject of countless daydreams and hushed speculations. Seraphina shook her head politely, refusing the sweets. Michelié shrugged, happily popping another candy into her mouth.
“That simply will not do, will it, Seraphina, darling?” Michelié teased, shooting a sly wink. “I mean, an upstart from the slums chasing after the Crown Prince. I can’t imagine you’d let that stand…”
Seraphina arched a brow, all poise and composure. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if Michelié was an ally in the gossip game or a lurking enemy, waiting for the right moment to twist a rumor. “Let us not jump to conclusions,” she responded with pointed calm. “I doubt she’s the one claiming to actually be a Living Saint.”
“Oh, I have to tell some of the others!” Michelié clapped her hands, eyes shining with mischief. “Just imagine what Rashana would say! Getting a reaction from her about such things is always such good fun.”
Seraphina put on an expression of mock seriousness. “You should be careful baiting Rashana, Michelié. Even the patient have their limits.”
Michelié just laughed and offered the candy tin again to a few girls who had passed on the first round. Meanwhile, Seraphina watched, a calculating gleam in her green eyes. She needed the rumor of this mysterious ‘Living Saint’ to drift through the academy halls, yet remain untraceable to herself. In the cutthroat world of privileged youths, a quiet, well-placed whisper could accomplish far more than any open declaration.
Bidding them all good day, she curtsied to the giggling cluster, drifting away down the corridor with a measured grace to regroup with her subordinates. Behind her, gossip bubbled like a fresh spring, only too eager to spread its waters wherever it could find purchase. Seraphina smiled. Let them chatter. Let them speculate. By the time the First-Year Ball arrived, she would know exactly where to strike.
