The Apprentice's Path: The Alchemist, #1

By Stacey Keystone

Dana Bedwen never wanted to be a dark mage. It's in her blood. It's her destiny. But what is that, compared to a young woman's desire to be an Alchemist?

So she is looking for a job as an Alchemist, despite the suspicion and discrimination she faces as a dark arall. She wants to build steam trains and make money, not spend time on silly, antiquated rituals. But the Universe is conspiring against her. In order to save her own life, she'll have to accept the fate she fought so hard to avoid. On the path to her destiny, she'll regain longlost family, a boyfriend, and uncover some secrets about herself.

Book one of the Alchemist series, which will take you through Dana's personal growth story, as she accepts her destiny and matures to become the great woman she will become. Without forgetting alchemy, of course.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacey Keystone
• Release date: Aug 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839880018

Book preview

Part I

1

The titrant was slowly dripping into the half-full beaker. It took me some time to adjust the stopcock in the beginning of the experiment, but now the drops were falling slowly enough that I could close it without a single extra drop, but no slower than necessary.

Of course, for those that have no patience, even that is not enough.

When will it end? Joe whined.

Shush, I said, keeping my eyes on the dripping tap, watching the beaker with the transparent solution of unknown concentration Prof. Gunnel had assigned us. It should become pink as soon as the titrant balances the analyte.

Joe yawned. Widely.

I knew that without ever taking my eyes off the beaker, because he did it theatrically, exaggerating the sound. I'm sure Mr. Ricker, the lab assistant invigilating the session, gave him the stinky eye.

But then, Mr. Ricker had enough reasons to be unhappy even without Joe's antiques.

We were the only ones left in the lab, and Mr. Ricker didn't like to stay late. Can't blame him, really.

This happened every single time.

The liquid in the beaker became a bright pink. I closed the stopcock, and the solution became transparent. It was not fully balanced, but it was almost there. I would need to make the drops slower.

I opened the burette just a tiny bit — to get half drops.

One. Two. And close before the third one falls — the solution acquired the bright pink color it needed.

I waited, shaking the flask a bit.

This time, the color change was permanent.

597 microliters, Joe noted, checking the volume left in the burette.

I wrote it down.

Close it, I ordered Joe, who quickly complied.

Now that I knew the right quantities, calculating the concentration was a trivial task.

Joe stood over my shoulder as I filled the journal, pretending to be working.

If you didn't insist on calculating the concentration to the third decimal, we wouldn't have to be here so long. I told you — if you made the sodium hydroxide solution a bit more concentrated, this would have been over much earlier. Instead, we're going to cross the campus in the darkness, Joe complained, as I ignored him, cleaning up the bench and the beakers.

Mr. Ricker gave me another unhappy look when I handed him the lab journal, but accepted it, and ticked our names off the list. I checked — wouldn't put it past him to accidentally lose our lab journal.

See you next quarter, Miss Bedwen, he said, with a frown that was transformed into a smile, and then back to a frown.

He couldn't figure out whether to be happy to get rid of me for two weeks, or whether to dread my eventual return to his lab, poor guy.

Thank you, Mr. Ricker, I said, avoiding mentioning the next quarter. He tried to be nice about the situation, after all.

Of course, that could be because of self-preservation (Mr. Ricker had seen enough dark arall to be aware of how petty we can be). But still.

I picked my bag and headed out, Joe still complaining. Now that I was done for the day, I could listen to what he said — if he caught me ignoring me completely, he would get offended.

Seriously, Dan, Joe said, repeating the same complaint for the hundredth time, if it weren't because you get the best grades, which he could also enjoy on our common assignments, I would never work with you. You always insist on doing everything to a ridiculously high standard.

We were getting down the steps of the New Alchemy Building, lit by the gas lamps the university just spent a fortune on.

Wasted money, if you ask me — the light wasn't very good, and I firmly held the handrails as I went down.

Because I'll get dinged if I don't, I said, and you know it. And it's not like you're doing any actual work, like you would have to if you were in somebody else's team.

Fair enough, Joe said. I can handle the calculations, but the grunt work — argh, I don't even know how you tolerate it.

Such work was the basis of alchemy.

Calculations without data to back it up were useless.

This wasn't the first time Joe complained about Alchemy — which didn't make it more tolerable. He was criticizing the love of my life.

Remind me again, why are you getting a degree in Alchemy? I said.

Because my father thinks it's a very promising field, and I should understand the alchemy behind the manufacturing process before I can manage a factory.

Joe came from a rich family of merchants. He was the third son, though, so he would need to make a living for himself — his eldest brother was getting the family business.

Why didn't you go to the School of Accounting? I asked. That is what merchants usually study. There is also law school.

Because as boring as watching you titre is, having to deal with cash flow statements and balance sheets would be worse, Joe said. And I'm not suited to be a lawyer. I'm not small minded enough.

So stop complaining, I said. Or go to the School of Accounting.

Joe sighed.

We had gone over the same conversation many times before. I never tolerated his criticisms of Alchemy.

I turned on my heels and headed down the stairs.

Joe followed, and patiently waited as I put on my heavy coat, wrapped a thick woolen scarf around my neck, and put on my oilskin fedora (very sensible, protects from the rain), and a pair of woolen gloves. He'd dressed while I talked with Mr. Ricker.

Despite my assurances that it was absolutely unnecessary, he insisted on accompanying me in the evenings. As if somebody would dare molest or assault me.

I wish they did.

It had been a while since I had a good fight.

We reached the dorm building as I liked, in complete silence, Joe's annoyed heavy breathing the only sound I could hear.

I took out my pocket watch.

It was eleven o'clock.

My stomach grumbled.

I didn't feel like cooking.

I suppose, I said, turning toward Joe, who was about to leave, that I could compensate you for the late night. I'll buy you dinner.

Joe's face brightened.

For somebody who came from a rich family, he really liked free food.

Nice, he said, slapping me on the shoulder. I grabbed his hand and pulled the middle finger up — just enough pain to remind him.

I hate being touched.

Like all dark arall.

Ouch, Joe said, his face expressing the pain he was in, an expression that quickly changed into a smile. You're buying me beer for this. Two pints.

Sure, I said.

The beer would serve my other purpose, too.

I wanted Joe in a good mood.

I needed a favor from him.

We managed not to get into another fight on the way to the pub, although Joe tried. I didn't understand how he could be so insufferable and survive to adulthood.

How did his mother resist the desire to strangle him in his crib?

Probably like mine, with endless patience and an array of psychological manipulation instruments that would put an Inquisitor's to shame.

But as I filtered out all of Joe's complaints, the walk was actually nice.

The boulevard was empty. The trees were an amalgamation of green, yellow and reddish colors with brown hues. The usually annoyingly chirpy birds had fallen quiet, preparing to migrate, and flies and mosquitoes were busily reproducing to be reborn next year. I love autumn here in Ashford.

The trains go from the sleepy summer schedules to the usual, busier ones. The city, which empties every summer, fills up with students again. Drinking and fights return to the pubs and the night streets around the student area. Police lose the pounds they gain during the summer by having to patrol during the cold, dark nights under the rotten-eggs smell of gas lamps. Criminals come back, from whatever they were doing in the summer, to scamming naïve freshers, pick-pocketing in the busy crowds, and robbing drunkards on the streets. Meat markets will soon be full of freshly killed livestock, fattened up during the summer, and students will eat a year's worth of meat in a few barbecues, then go back to eating plates of potatoes and oatmeal. This is also the time when the scholarship loans get paid, so all debts get paid off, and everybody is the most generous.

I was hoping to use that to get Joe to do me a favor.

It's not that he would refuse; he never refused. He just always made sure to get his money's worth in exchange.

We were friends, Joe and I, in the sense dark arall have friends.

Ours was a mostly transactional relationship, where I helped him with the academic part, and he helped me navigate the fine detail of the social life in Ashford. Joe, a gregarious guy from an influential family, had contacts everywhere, and was aware of all the gossip.

I was in my fourth year of studies in Alchemy. Experience was going to be critical for me to get a job after I finished, and I could not get any. I had been interviewed at every alchemical company in Ashford and rejected in every single one of them.

The Floyd scholarship, which paid for my tuition and the dorm, would give me a job at the end of my studies, but that wasn’t the kind of job I wanted (I would need to work the same number of years as I received in education. Five years in some rural hellhole. Did I come from Crow Hill to end up in its replica? My father had an alchemical shop in Crow Hill. Could have worked there, without getting the expensive education, if I wanted to).

There was a way to avoid that, by paying a lump sum to the fund. But I would need a sponsor for that. A large alchemical firm willing to make the investment.

And for that, I need a very nice CV.

I’m good, but that doesn’t overcome my main issue — I'm a dark arall.

These aren't the times of the Inquisition — fifty years have passed since the Reformation. But the attitudes toward dark magicals are still present in society.

Not that they didn't deserve it. I haven't met a single dark arall who wasn't an asshole.

Magic changes us, shapes us to one mold. It makes us physically stronger, much stronger than non-magicals. And also more aggressive, power-hungry, and status-seeking. I, a woman, am equal or superior to most non-magical men in strength. Most would say I have quite masculine traits, if they want to be polite about it. A male dark arall…

Well, let's say there's a reason I avoid their stomping grounds.

My weak magic had nothing to do with it. I couldn't use it before Initiation, anyway, and magical fights are illegal.

And it's not considered sportsmanlike for initiated mages to use magic against uninitiated magicals (or anybody else, really. It's just that nobody else would be crazy enough to get into a fight with a dark mage in the first place). Not that dark arall cared much about rules, but you didn't want to look weak.

A mage using magic against a non-magical in an ordinary bar fight would get laughed out of every bar in town.

So it's not that I didn't understand where the interviewers came from. I did (but did not sympathize).

That didn't help me one bit.

I still needed a job.

And discrimination laws or not, but nobody wanted to hire a dark arall alchemist. We work with valuable equipment. Team work is important. Nobody wants to throw a bomb like that into their research and development department.

Now that I had run out of every other venue at my disposal, it was time to get a favor out of Joe.

Let's just hope he doesn't ask for too much in return.

I tuned into what Joe was saying, to make him believe I had listened to what he said (hopefully I could pretend well enough; not a clue what he said before).

So, anyway, my father said I have to finish my degree, Joe said. And he'll get me a job after that. But I don't get why he insists on it so much. It's not like he has any kind of education. And he didn't make my brother do it, either.

But he had a trading empire that brought him an income sufficient to hire as many alchemists as he wanted. Which his oldest brother would inherit.

I could give some sarcastic answer, but I had to be nice. I wanted Joe in a good mood, after all.

Your father probably wants the best for you, I said, giving him a tap on the shoulder. Better to cut this short, as I'm not good at listening, or offering any kind of consolation. Look, there's the pub. You get the table, I get the beers. I get the usual, as always?

The pub served quite decent gammon, with potatoes. It was their best dish, and we always ate that one.

Sure, Joe nodded. The mention of food distracted him.

When we entered the pub, he looked around, while I elbowed my way to the bar, making my way through sweaty and smelly men. Some of them got annoyed at first, but when they saw me, they went back to minding their own business. The regulars knew me, and the others saw my pitch-black, unnaturally so, hair, and recognized me as a magical.

At the bar, I ordered a pint, and after the barman poured me one, ahead of everybody else, I also made the order. I took a sip of the overflowing glass and looked around. Joe must have gotten a table by now. I squeezed my way between the tightly packed tables, and tiptoed from the center, trying to get a good view. I pushed a guy when walking behind him, as the chairs were packed back-to-back. He spilled his beer, cursing, but lowered his voice when he looked up at me, muttering something unintelligible.

There, at the center, after I pushed a few others around, Joe noticed me, probably because of the field of annoyed stares that surrounded me.

Hey, Dan! Come here.

Dan, he calls me, instead of my proper name, Dana. Because I'm his pal, he says.

I didn't mind — dark females get treated as men, for most intents and purposes. That's the only way society can handle the idea of aggressive, dominant women — by reclassifying them as men.

Somebody from the next table heckled me obscenely. There weren't that many women in the bar, so I guess he was desperate. I gave him the finger. After some hooting, he didn't take it further.

You show remarkable restraint, Joe commented. If somebody made such lurid comments about me, I would be furious.

Would that be just because of the comment, or because they'd be implying you're gay? Men get incredibly insecure when their sexual orientation gets questioned. In my case, I don't like it, but not enough to beat them. It hasn't been easy maintaining a clean police record.

Joe blinked at the last comment. For a dark arall to have a clean police record was quite rare, as my peers tended to get into fights. It's not that I never fought, to be clear; the trick was never getting caught, and not destroying any property. Choosing people who wouldn't go to the police if beaten by a woman was very important in not getting caught. Such dinosaurs still exist, and I'd gotten good at detecting them.

Are you saying you have a clean record? Wow, I never thought that would be possible. That opens some interesting possibilities.

What do you mean? The only reason I cared about the police record was my father's desire not to get any attention. Although his marriage to Mother and his long residency in Kalmar had allowed him to gain citizenship, he still didn't like to get on the authorities' radar. A bit absurd for one of the most prominent men in our town, but it was probably because of his Yllamese origins. He tended to be very skeptical of law enforcement, which was why he studied the law (and made me read it).

Well, I saw this advert recently. I knew you were looking for a job, but I didn't think about you, because it said you'd need to have a clean record, but… He paused, as if unsure he should continue.

What, what did you see?

Well, I saw that the army was offering alchemy jobs for students. They're doing a collaboration with the University. It's a pilot project, the first time they're doing it.

Where did you see that? When did it appear? Joe had this uncanny ability for learning about everything before everybody.

It appeared on the student board a week or so ago.

Ah. The student board! The corkboard in the Main Hall was so full of adverts, stapled one on top of the other, that reading anything from it was almost impossible. People posted everything there: love confessions, poems, offers of puppies and kittens (how did they keep them in dorms, when they were banned?), and adverts for all kinds of things. Nothing serious ever got posted there, so I tended to ignore it. Whoever was helping them do the recruitment wasn’t very thorough. But if somebody at the university was unhappy at the collaboration… Whatever the reason for such an odd place for an add, I was interested. My father avoided contact with all official structures, but I’m a legal citizen, born right here, in Kalmar, so I have nothing to worry about. And, considering it was a job in the university, I wouldn’t have to put up with too much of the hierarchical bullshit (it’s not that I hate hierarchies; I hate being at the bottom, that’s all).

Thanks for the tip. I'll check it out, I said, and took another sip of beer.

Joe helped me unprompted.

I would need to keep that in mind next time I had the desire to struggle him.

No problem, Joe said, and smiled. But you still owe me one.

I spoke too soon.

2

The night went well.

Well, relatively well.

I didn't get assaulted on my way back.

But maybe that's for the better, because Joe, despite being drunk, still insisted on accompanying me.

I don't know why he does it, considering I'm stronger than him and better and fights, but I was used to Joe being illogical.

So I left him on the door of my dorms, leaning on the wall, as I entered the building.

I wasn't drunk.

Alcohol is very bad for magicals, which is why I keep to a maximum of two pints of beer a night. Always. Never so much as taste stronger drinks.

I would have accompanied him to his apartment, but he wouldn't let me.

So I just left him outside. If he didn't go home, campus security would collect him and let him sober up in the infirmary.

I nodded to the girl at the reception (the university doesn't let us bring guests; the receptionist makes sure everybody follows the rules. I never understood why anybody would want to bring a stranger to their intimate space. Sure, sex is nice, but there's lots of other places where you can get it).

She stood up.

I approached the desk.

Letter for you, Miss Bedwen, she said, handing me a think envelope. I accepted it.

I knew even without looking at the sender who it was.

My mother.

Nobody else wrote me letters.

Thanks, I said, and signed the form the receptionist helpfully handed me.

I then headed up to my room, where I left the letter on the desk. I would read it the next day, when I was completely sober.

As I undressed, I hang my clothes on the back of a chair, under the dim light of a gas lamp, a square box-shaped contraption that was placed by the entrance door, on the farthest part of the room from the bed.

It was nice to be able to switch a light on even this late at night.

Thankfully, I didn't have roommates that could complain about it. The building manager, when she first saw me, wisely assigned me an individual room, a privilege usually only afforded to postgraduate students. Nobody complained; the manager threatened that whoever complained would have to be my roommate.

So I changed into my pyjamas, switched off the light, pulled the curtains, and went to sleep, dreaming of the new possibilities a good job could give me.

I woke up early, as always, and without a hint of headache. Not getting drunk helps avoid hangovers.

The room wasn't filled with much light when I opened the curtains, as days were getting rather short.

The problem of living so north.

But I was used to the even shorter days of Caerland, the state I came from. In summer, the sun barely touched the horizon in Crow Hill; in the winter, it barely appeared.

Crow Hill is a mining town, as there is no other activity that brings money that far north. Basically nothing grows there.

I'm not sure how exactly my father, a fairly decent alchemist (if not properly licensed; I'm not sure what kind of education he got in Yllam, but he got no certificate from it), and my mother, a Kalmari university-educated woman (quite a rare thing for a woman her age) met. Or how they ended in that godforsaken place. With their skills, they could have done better. And even though my father was an illegal immigrant, his status was legalized when he married Mother.

They never answered my questions. When asked, they claimed that it was because she wanted me to grow amongst my own kind (that's my mother's argument) or that he wanted to experience real freedom, without much government over him, after living his youth within the Yllamese constrictions (my father's argument). I didn't find any of them persuasive.

Sure, I grew up amongst my kind. Caerland is the one region where dark magicals weren't prosecuted by the Inquisition, because despite theoretically being part of Kalmar, the arms of the law don't reach that far into it. The roads are dark and muddy and many an Inquisitor has fallen off the horse there, accidentally breaking his skull.

But for that same reason, my three younger brothers didn't grow amongst their own. There are basically no light arall in Crow Hill, or in the entire Caerland.

My parents probably didn't expect that to happen, I suppose. Dark and light magicals are never born in the same family. But then, dark and light magicals don't marry. In my family's case, Mother is a descendant of a light magical family (hence the surname, Bedwen), and Father comes from an Yllamese dark magical family.

None of them had any magic. And that's why they were able to marry each other.

I know many people got shocked when they heard my surname, as I'm obviously dark, but have a light surname. I think that's how I got most of the interviews (although, as soon as they saw my dark hair, interviewers nervously glanced at my resume, and nervously inquired whether I was indeed Miss Bedwen).

Father took Mother's surname when he married, probably because his Yllamese surname is unfamiliar to most people here, and because he desperately wanted to fit in.

Whatever.

When I was a kid, it drove me mad, but when I grew up, I learned to accept it (and beat up everybody who questioned my or my brother's parentage; we were full siblings, and that was it, as far as I was concerned. My parents secrets were theirs to keep. As long as they brought no danger to the family, I would not intrude).

Not completely, of course. One of the reasons I came to Ashford was that mother had studied at Ashford University.

But the only thing I could find out was her student record (my mother was a good student). No other Bedwens in Ashford. Nothing that could point at Mother's past.

I sat in front of the desk, and opened the envelope.

The first thing I saw was a check for a hundred crowns, which I tore down. My parents both worked hard to give my three brothers a good education. As much as that is possible in Crow Hill, a place with no light mages.

My brothers needed to go to schools with classes for light arall, or they would grow up ignorant.

A good magical education requires a lot of money (or having a magical parent). I got it in Crow Hill from neighbours and friends, being socialized among my kind.

My brothers didn't have that chance.

I felt guilty enough about not sending them money. I wasn't going to cash any check my mother sent me, whether I ate dinner or no.

Such are the responsibilities of the head of the family, which I would become as soon as I finished my education.

Somebody had to protect them.

After collecting the pieces of the torn check and burning them in a bin (better safe than sorry), I took out the other contents of the envelope.

The photographic film I asked for in my previous letter. I would need to rent some time in the photography lab to reveal it. And the letter. I quickly read it. Same as always. Mother lamenting the lack of visits (considering it takes a week of train travel, I barely have time even during summer vacations to visit), telling me the last news in Crow Hill, Father reminding me to bow to my ancestors, my brothers chiming in to boast about their various accomplishments. Billie got straight A's. I would need to buy him the third tome to the Vegetative Key To The Kalmar Flora. Another expense that would drain my meager funds.

But a promise is a promise.

I sighed.

I loved my family, and I wanted to take good care of them. Being so far, there was little I could do, so I compensated by sending gifts.

Which, considering my tight budget, was not something I could really afford.

But what is another hundred crowns to my already sizeable debt…

I really needed that job Joe mentioned. An opportunity to advance my career, and earn some money?

Whatever it was, I'd take it.

I could handle the discipline issues.

The army was full of battle mages, and they somehow tolerated it, right?

So I headed to the kitchenette I shared with twenty other students, put the kettle on he stove, and peeled the eggs I had boiled the previous day.

Piping hot tea and hardboiled eggs were my usual breakfast, one I can eat on the run between tasks.

I quickly munched the eggs, chugging down the black, bergamot flavored tea.

Time to go find that advert before anybody else did.

When I went to the Main Hall to check the announcement board, it was same mess as usual. It took me a while to find the advert, as I had to remove a ton of stupid love messages, advertisements, and drawings of male genitals. Finally, I found it. It was a small note written on a typewriter.

Looking for fourth- and fifth-year alchemists for training in repair and logistics. Must have clean record. Bring CV, grades and record to office G22 in Old Alchemy building.

The advert was small. I'd be surprised if they got many applicants, but that might mean I would get a shot.

In the G22 office, I met a smiling secretary who collected the documents, made me fill out a form, and promised to call me in a week. We'll see.

After dropping off the documents at the office, I got nothing for an entire week. Classes had already started, so I just focused on managing my schedule, with all the labs, seminars, and lectures. This year, maybe to give some jobs to the people in the Interpersonal and Intercultural Relations Department or maybe to annoy us, they had changed credit requirements for Alchemy students to include a course in the IAIRD.

That was bad news. The IAIRD was the place where almost all the empaths were. I did my best to avoid all light arall. I loved my brothers, sure, but my tolerance for light magicals ended there. Who wants to interact with people that can mess with your head? Yeah, I know that’s illegal. But they could still do that. Or at least read your emotions. I liked to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, thankyouverymuch. Light magic is much finer than ours, more related to the living, whereas dark magic works better on inanimate objects. Hence, Practical Magic. Light mages can get echoes of other people's feelings (though thankfully not their thoughts), and they can manipulate living organisms. The only practical uses of their magic that aren't ethically questionable are their plant and animal breeding program (although there are still huge debates over whether it was OK to modify spiders so they wove their webs to death, only pausing to lay their eggs), and healing. Healing requires a very strong soul to not go crazy with all the pain and suffering you feel the patients go through. Healers were actually the only tolerable light arall, with their dark humor and cynicism. But the only thing more risible than a dark arall empath was a dark arall Healer, so I had to choose something else.

Dark arall were not capable of empathy and I wasn't interested enough in ancient cultures (who cares what a bunch of primitives did? Modern technology is so much more interesting!) nor foreign languages (my father had forced me to learn classic Yllamese, my ancestors' language; there were no alchemy books written in classic Yllamese — none at all!), I decided to take a course called The Kalmar Republic's Law. Knowing the law is useful — especially if you want to break it.

3

Monday morning, the classroom was busy and noisy. I had come exactly on time, but it seems that had been a mistake. The lecture hall was packed. I found just one spot — in the middle of a row, with a rucksack on it. Most people would not bother everybody in the row just to sit, but I wasn't that nice. So I maneuvered across the feet, bags, and desks in the row. When I reached that spot, I lifted an eyebrow. The girl sitting by the rucksack glanced at me, and silently removed the bag. I sat down and took out a notebook and a refillable ink pen. Great invention — don't have to carry an inkstand with me.

Have you heard? the girl behind me said. There’s been a change of Lecturer. Apparently, they’ve invited this very experience lawyer from Ecton. For once, we’re going to have someone with actual practical experience.

Really? a guy’s voice asked from the left. You know his name?

Not sure, the girl said. Something magical, that’s for sure.

I listened attentively, trying to collect all the information. Having a change of lecturer right in the beginning of the quarter was unusual. Why would they do it? Or was this new lecturer really a big shot lawyer, and the University was keen to have him?

This class might actually be interesting, even if it is delivered by a light arall (there’s no chance a dark arall would agree to be a lawyer, and the girl said it was a magical surname).

I couldn’t catch any more interesting info, because the professor entered, confidently walking in right on time. He was dressed in a suit, very formal attire for a light arall, and he looked kind of familiar — which was strange, considering I had never seen him before.

Good morning. My name is Professor David Bedwen, and I will be teaching you the course The Kalmar Republic's Law.

Bedwen?

This was the first time I encountered somebody with my surname. I had heard of other Bedwens in Ecton, and the south of Kalmar, but this one was in Ashford.

Could he have something to do with my mother’s past?

I started to absentmindedly sketch the professor. Drawing people helped me understand them. I sketched his face, copied his stern, serious expression. The way he stood, with his back straight, one foot at a sharp angle to the other. There was something in the back of my brain telling me I had seen it all somewhere…

And we’re going to start with the most fundamental law, Kalmar’s Constitution. Now, before I start, I would like to get a feel — could you tell me what you know?

There were a few raised hands. I wisely kept my hand down — why would I make a fool of myself in front of a hundred people? I might have studied the law, but that doesn’t mean I understood it — not like I understood alchemy.

The Professor ignored all the raised hands, and instead took out the list of students.

Miss Bedwen.

Why me?

Was he targeting me because we shared a surname? Was he insulted by that, or something?

I stood up, notebook still in my hand, and looked at the stand.

Here.

Could you tell us what you know about the Kalmari Constitution?

It was written at the Constitutional Convention, right after the Reformation, I said, trying to put together everything I knew. I hadn’t prepared for this, dammit. It specifies the fundamental rights and responsibilities of Kalmari citizens, magical and non-magical. It is the most progressive in the world, as it gives equal rights to all people, regardless of magical status, polarity, or gender. It establishes the fundamentals of our government structure…

The rest of my knowledge about the Kalmari Constitution was a lot sketchier. I knew the part about my rights (in case I ever get arrested) and responsibilities (in case I get drafted) but not much about the structure of government and such things.

Enough, Miss Bedwen, Professor Bedwen said. I sighed of relief, sitting back. I see that you haven’t forgotten your high school civics class.

Not exactly praise, but I wasn’t humiliated, at least.

He didn’t call out anybody else and proceeded to deliver the lecture. I barely had the time to write down the barrage of information he released, much less sketch or pay any attention to the Professor himself, too busy jotting down everything.

By the time of the toilet break (the class was two hours, so we had a ten-minute break after the first hour), my hand was hurting. I stretched it, massaging it with my left.

The Professor, unlike most of his colleagues, who usually used the break to get some coffee from the cafeteria (awful beverage; too bitter and too sweet at the same time), sat at the desk, reviewing his notes.

I used the time to observe him.

Why did he seem so familiar?

I continued sketching him, his face, his stance, the way he cocked his head when he looked up, scanning the room. How he reviewed his notes, and absent-mindedly put both his index and middle finger to his lips before turning the page. Just like…

Every time Mother read books at night, first to me, then to my brothers, she would lick her index and middle finger absent-mindedly. My brothers also had a tendency to do that. And now that I’m thinking of it…

I rummaged through my bag and took out the photographic film I was going to reveal in the afternoon. I looked at it through the light.

I turned the page of my notebook, and drew Professor Bedwen on the left side. His narrow face, strong jaw, widely set eyes, aquiline nose. On the right side, I drew Sam, the oldest among my brothers. Same facial features, but with an Yllamese complexion, and narrower eyes.

They looked remarkably similar.

Like they were very close relatives.

And since Professor Bedwen definitely wasn’t Sam’s father…

And he was way older than Mother, so not an uncle, either.

Professor Bedwen was likely my grandfather.

I didn’t have much time to digest that revelation, as the ten minutes were over, and I was back to taking notes.

But this time, I used the skill developed over many lectures, to take notes without paying attention to what was being said.

This was the