“Conjury at its crux is creation!” effused Professor Field, the announcement bouncing off the walls of the room at an hour of the morning that should never be dignified by that amount of energy. “And at this nascent stage of your education, do not trifle yourselves with exactly what you create, merely the act of creation in itself! I behold here a class of fledglings – nay, a flock! A flock of fledglings fizzing for flight! You’ll all light your candles as I’ve seen you can do, sparking a concentrated energy source before you, and use that energy to create! Create what?” she demanded grandly, seemingly to the ceiling, and then her voice became sharply insular and reflective. “Well, I haven’t the slightest idea, quite frankly. And that’s the excitement of it.” Her hand zapped through the air. “Onwards, my fledglings!”

  I wasn’t flying anywhere today. The arcany drained me like a leech and even if I found it in me to commit to something, I’d only be hack-and-slashed by comments from one particularly vocal individual way down the other end of the room. And what would Field do to stop it? Nothing, as always.

  “You aren’t trying,” said Kaspar. He still looked and acted the exact same as he had since my first day here. A little too handsome for his own good and he certainly knew it, but eh… He lit his candle and left it aside. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “I dunno. Kinda feels like a load of effort for nothing.”

  “For nothing? In three years you could be a graduate. You could study freely as an alum or as a travelling scholar in whatever field you liked. Write a thesis on a discovery, earn a merit, become a sage, make a name for yourself. Do great things. Be recognised for your work. I do rather believe that’s something.”

  “But people are hurting now! If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war going on not so far away. Things need fixing now and we aren’t doing anything to stop it.”

  “And what would you posit?” he asked in that easy, refined tone he never seemed to shake out of. “Have you discovered some healing magic no one’s ever found before? Because please, let us all hear of it. Shout it from the rafters.” I slumped a little lower to my desk, and his tone softened. “I… We can only do so much in this world. Most of what we do is enabled by those around us, and trust me, I know. I believe in finding what you can do, and doing the best you can at it. I understand it frustrates you, but…”

  He stopped for too long and I looked up at him. “Is this connected to why you’ve been busy on Ressdays?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Then what keeps you so occupied on the day you’re supposed to rest? With what you call it here, it’s more or less in the name.”

  What could I do? Tell him there was this other guy I was spending time with and risk it sounding wrong and getting him unsettled, even jealous? Risk jeopardising all I had with Kaspar? “I go back and see my family. That’s all.”

  “I was given the distinct impression they were no good for you.” I think he was going for compassionately protective, but it felt more judgemental than I was willing to stand for.

  “Sometimes we need to do things we don’t especially want to. It’s what normal people do since we can’t pay our way out of every problem we’ll ever experience.”

  “Oakley!” bellowed a voice and I ducked instinctively into my robe. The professor materialised by mine and Kaspar’s part of the long desk. “Unless you’re having a particularly vociferous debate on the minutiae of our current lesson, I’d suggest bringing the superfluity to an end. I mean…” she said quieter, gesturing at my candle, still unlit. “I know you can do this, Oakley. Don’t let me down.”

  “But what about Stack?” I said pointedly.

  “A bird in the treetops worries not about the snakes on the ground. Can you at least act like you care about the lesson, my lesson, for a few minutes, please?” She stood back, ran her eyes down the both of us, and neared us again, dropping to a low tone. “You two are some of my best students and if it’s not one of you, it’s the other. I’m not responsible for how anyone spends their time in this place, but… Do you actually want to be here, or is it an alternative to something you don’t want instead?” She tapped the desk, right beside the candle. “Puzzled. Perplexed. Peripherally perturbed.” With one more deliberate tap, she left us, and I slumped over the desk again.

  I thought about things. What I was doing here. More to the point, what I wasn’t doing here. I was doing too much, yet not enough. This was meant to be my escape from the war, from my fate, and now with how much I wanted to be back in the Glade, I found myself wanting an escape from this place too. An escape from an escape. Where could I be where I could finally stop running?

  “Before the lovely professor admonishes one of us again,” Kaspar said out the side of his mouth, “would you like to come to my dorm later?”

  More than anything. “Please,” was all I said.

  *

  I didn’t think much through the rest of the day, cos I knew where the thoughts would go, and I didn’t want to be there. When I did think, I thought of what Kaspar might be hoping for with me, if he’d had any plans or ideas or desires running through his mind when he’d invited me over. I thought of how he wanted to be around me. How he wanted me. And I tried to think of the things he wanted me for.

  And of all the things I thought he’d want, me tumbling onto his bed and my body growing heavy and slow as soon as I touched the soft fabrics of his sheets and his pillows, that was probably not one of them. Hey, he’d used his conjury to light the fire, crackling so soothingly in the hearth: how was I not supposed to want to sleep?

  The flames swayed and rolled as his hand ran down my back, reaching my tail and caressing the length of it. “Rest if you need,” he said so softly, warmth running through me. “I couldn’t ask for any more than this. You remember those different kinds of love you asked me about in my language?” I barely mumbled. Words were beyond me. “I think this is my favourite kind.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  *

  I woke in the moonslight, the whole room bathing in faintest silver. The fire barely an amber hum, the clock on the wall a few minutes past four.

  Memories of my dream floated vaguely around the room and I watched them drift, chasing them, toying with them. Letting them roam, letting them see the world. Letting them touch Kaspar, my Kaspar, in all the places he’d touched me in the dream. I must have fought with the covers too, as he had barely any over him, yet still he slept so soundly. Peacefully. Blissful in his tranquil ignorance that he was lying right on my damn tail –

  I managed to extract myself with all the grace of a newborn lamb with its head stuck in a fence, yet miraculously Kaspar still didn’t wake. And while I padded silently around the bed, trying to urge some feeling back into my numb tail and hoping the pins and needles wouldn’t be too bad this time, I collected down from the air all the memories of my dream, and stashed them away somewhere very safe inside me. Hey, I’d likely be wanting them later…

  On tiptoes I reached, concentrating, channelling the buzz through my body, directing it through my fingers and sparking flames on one, two, three of the candles in his chandelier. Gave up on the fourth after a half dozen tries, stifled a welcome yawn.

  Even in the barest amber glow, his room was entrancing. It felt like he did: grand and dignified, with a vague air of cool superiority but not one he hadn’t duly earned. It looked like he did: impressively well put-together in that way that looked like it took no effort at all. It smelt like he did too: clean, deep, genuine notes of a castle’s finest drawing room. I traced a hand over his impressive tapestries, and then brushed my fingers through his fine-trimmed rug. How did his whole existence feel like something I’d never known before, yet somewhere I’d always belonged?

  On his desk lay a twin set to the pens he’d bought for me, and his paper pad rested enticingly open, almost as an invitation. And as much as I wanted to draw the tapestries or the carvings in the bed posts, some of the artworks, or maybe even the insignia on the trunk beside the wardrobe, none of it felt meaningful. The bare thought of opening the balcony door to draw the moons among their clouds made me shiver. As he muttered something gently in his sleep and settled a bit deeper into the bed, my sights came to Kaspar again. Laying easy on the sheets. Just like an artist’s model…

  If he hated it, I’d burn it and never speak of it again. But with how I’d come to know him, I really was inclined to think otherwise.

  I’d drawn here and there back in Dreadfall, when I could get the pencils and the paper – and much more than the usual Dreadfall fare of offensive caricatures of other people’s ancestors, choice facial features enlarged beyond all reality. No, I’d drawn rabbits and foxes I’d spotted on the path, warily frozen for no more than a minute, yet captured forever on the paper. Hedgehogs slumbering in the hedgerows, caterpillars wandering across leaves, butterflies sipping from flowers. Even a bear that wandered through our backyard in the twilight one amberfall evening, hunting for dinner in our refuse meant for the goats. And I’d drawn Calico a few times when she’d been around, sitting and pecking at seeds on the tree stump in the yard or the year later, up on my windowsill.

  And then Miles had plucked pencils from my stash and taken some paper, and with years less practice, drew at least as well as I had. Seemed to awaken something in him. I’d saved up to get him a set of beginner paints from Baronbridge for his birthday, and he barely left our room for the entire two weeks till they were used up. In his wake he left art that may have been a little askew, but was so vivid and lively you felt if you gave it a chance, it’d hop or crawl or flutter off the page into the room. I’d happily taken most of mine down from our wall to make space for his. Never touched it since he’d been… away.

  Then all of it was used for kindling last Icemoon, in that bitter two-week cold snap. I’d been over in Vitriol seeing if they had any firewood left when every piece was taken from my room. They’d even taken the ones Miles had made, though I’d fought and clawed to snatch them back. The monsters they were.

  But I’d still drawn things. And Kaspar wasn’t so different. He too was a thing that could be drawn. An unerringly, unshakeably hot thing… I’d spent a hundredtime sketching out his form, sat on one of his desk chairs with my foot propped up on the bed corner and the pad balanced on my thigh. His entire essence, wrought in ink and wood pulp and the occasional smudge mark. It was almost perfect, the way the covers had drifted down as he’d moved, revealing a little more than perhaps he’d show to the world but then didn’t the classical masterpiece artists work with the whole body anyway? Not like I hadn’t seen him before… He shifted a little further, reaching out, reaching out for where I would have been. Patting the sheets. Eyes opening. Glancing around. Spotting me. “So, you’re drawing, hm? You’re drawing… me?”

  A dry drawl of a voice and yet how did he sound even better when he’d barely woken up? “Yeah, I was awake a while ago and didn’t want to disturb you. Hope you don’t mind. Wasn’t much else to do.”

  “Hope I don’t mind?” He sat up, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. “Drawn inexorably to it – I’d prefer to think that instead.”

  “Drawn in sketch pad, actually,” I said.

  “Very nice, Gan.” He pandiculated – I remembered that from a book several years back – and rose from the bed, pacing to me, laying a finger softly on the corner of the page. “Mesmeric,” he said effortlessly. “You’ve taken so much care and dedication over my face and the body that I don’t feel I’m looking at a drawing – I feel I’m looking at myself, captured in the paper.”

  I knew he was talking me up. I liked it but half of it was wonky and not in a nice kind of way. “Thanks, I did my best.”

  “May I take it?”

  “Take… my drawing?” I sat very still. “What for?”

  “To keep, silly! What would I wanna do, use it for kindling?”

  I didn’t move.

  “If that’s okay? Naturally, if you’d prefer to –”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine,” I said. “You can have it. Like you said, I’m being silly.”

  His fingers slipped from the page. “You seemed to be having a rather rough time yesterday. You’re rarely free when I attempt to arrange things with you. You’ve been acting quite on edge lately, increasingly so. I’m not sure what I can do for you. Can I offer you a hug, or something, if you’d like that?” He asked it so gently, yet it hit me so hard I flinched. “If that’s okay?”

  I felt like I’d been winded, and when the words finally spluttered out, they came with a choked sob. “Yeah. Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I’m sorry.” I did an atrocious job of clearing my throat and lost more air than I gained. “I can’t remember anyone asking my permission to put their hands on me before you came along, Kaspar.”

  He circled me and draped his arms over my shoulders, melting onto me, so warm and soft and firm and so right. “Far be it for me to say this, but I think you are, as they phrase it, kinda fucked up. I love who you are, but you are also, as the people around here seem to say a lot, kinda fucked up.”

  “Oh? You wouldn’t say it that way?”

  “Your guiding stars are quarrelling in their constellation. Much less crude.”

  And he was right, like he always was. I let the imagery of stars falling out and splitting their constellation in half, flutter through my head. It felt nice. He felt nice. Everything in this room felt nice. “You’re right. I am kinda fucked up.”

  “I am too, in other ways,” he said. “Lots of people are. Anyone who isn’t, isn’t worth getting to know.”