Fall in love in a weekwe get by

I arrived at the Academy earlier than yesterday; the large clock above the professor’s desk said ten minutes to ten. But he was already sitting with a newspaper, exactly like yesterday – he’s spending the night here, or what?!

“Good morning, professor,” I indicated my presence.

– The disease progresses and threatens to develop into a chronic stage. “He looked at his watch and again buried his face in the newspaper, and I suddenly remembered how the Dougal boy sternly turned away from the sheet of Rose … what’s her name, who was stroking him? Aurus? Aleus? And she could barely contain an inappropriate smile. – During the third couple I have a meeting in London. If you cannot agree on a replacement, please notify us immediately. There will be something to keep them busy.

– Fine. I will solve this issue right now.

Fortunately, yesterday I already had to deal with the schedule, and I knew where to run and who to contact. Otherwise, it is unknown how she would have gotten out of it. The deputy director for academic affairs, a stern, gray-haired lady, was accustomed to Charlotte’s frequent visits and changed the schedule without question. This time I was even happy:

– How fortunate, Professor Levy just asked for extra hours for chimerologists.

That's what I reported when I returned. And she sat down to sort out the mail.

Today the professor had little correspondence; at first glance, nothing particularly urgent. I drove away the obsessive thought that even the urgent might soon become irrelevant for him. She followed the straight back in the black jacket, looked at the clock – second by second, the utmost degree of punctuality. It's probably easy to be punctual when traveling through portals – no traffic jams, random encounters or sudden changes to the usual route.

The letters, arranged in piles, went to the professor’s desk, and I took up the newspapers. It's time to see what's happening in this world!

I don’t know whether Professor Norwood watched the press so carefully, or whether the same set was delivered to all departments, but on his table were all, apparently, more or less popular publications, from the Times and the Daily Telegraph to a funny newspaper with the title “Positive news” and several sheets of free advertisements. That's where I started. After all, how else can you quickly and thoroughly get acquainted with the new world while sitting at your workplace without the right to leave and the opportunity to chat with the same unfortunate people tired of work? And it was interesting what the local press is like – from a professional point of view.

She grabbed the entire pack and took it to the table, which at the department served as either a general worker or a lunch table – empty and clean, occupied only by a kettle, always full of boiling water, and a decanter with always ice-cold water. A convenient piece of magic… Cups and a supply of sugar, cream and biscuits were stored in a cabinet nearby, on the top shelf. The bottom two were filled with test tubes and bottles of reagents and brought to mind jokes about biologists who had dead mice stacked in the refrigerator next to their sandwiches, awaiting dissection. Thank you for not talking about the morgue and pathologists…

I made strong black coffee, poured crackers onto the saucer and unfolded the top leaf. Well what can I say. Beautiful, catchy, stylish. Bright colors, fairly thick paper, good layout. It's nice to hold it in your hands. As for the content… The very first ad made me choke.

“An experienced magician-ritualist provides advice on creating individual rituals.”

What is this, you ask? A hint from the universe? Sign of fate? But Sabella argued that no ritualists would help in my case, although she promised to still find someone for consultation. We need to show her. I could hardly resist not immediately hiding the piece of paper in my purse. It’s better to ask permission, at least out of politeness.

I looked at my watch – forty minutes left until the end of the class. For now, I’ll read what else the universe offers…

“Recharging amulets, updating enchantments, enchanting objects of any complexity from scratch on a turnkey basis.” Will it be useful or not? Ask Charlotte if any charms in the house need updating? The gaze darted across the sheet chaotically, drawn to the bright frames. The most ordinary “buy-sell-search” side by side with the same “buy-sell-search”, but completely incredible for the world I was familiar with. In fact, “I’ll buy a piano inexpensively” or “I’ll give away a crib for half the price”, and next…

“A young female pointy-eared manticore is looking for a boy to mate with. Red color, excellent pedigree, exhibition diplomas.” Brrr… I can just see an exalted lady in stiletto heels, embarrassed to say the words “male” and “bitch.” And it doesn’t matter that it’s not a collie or a Doberman, but a manticore – breeders in all worlds are probably the same. So, if you suddenly need a manticore on your farm, don’t look here.

“A nanny with a quick response is urgently needed. The child is 3 years old and has learned to open portals.” Hmmm, what else is this? Sweeping across the ad in black ink. “For the child – a nanny, for the mother – brains!”

I rushed to the professor's desk. Somewhere here lay his work diary… No, I don’t have the bad habit of rummaging through other people’s notes, although sometimes it can be very useful. But look at the handwriting…

Yes. Exactly. Although I could be sure: behind the short but very poisonous note, the intonations of Doctor Norwood could be heard. Well, well… Some people have fun with crossword puzzles, but the professor seems to be resting his brains on free advertisements? I understand – you won’t find anything there!

She put the diary back in its place, adjusted it so that it lay just as smoothly, strictly parallel to the edge of the table, and returned to the newspaper. Absentmindedly, she took a sip of the cooled coffee.

"Required! Part-time necromancer. Flexible schedule. Contact the caretaker of Kensington Cemetery." Brrr… Indeed, there’s so much you won’t find! It turns out there are necromancers here too? Although… Sabella said that they tried to accuse Dougal of trying to raise zombies. So this is basically real?! Oh, mommies. It seems that I somehow didn’t fully understand where I was headed.

The note in the same black ink in Dr. Norwood’s sharp handwriting: “there are no places for new dead, it’s time to disperse the old ones” did not make me laugh at all. Who knows, maybe it’s true!

But now I began to look through the sheet purposefully in search of announcements that attracted the professor’s attention and received his special valuable opinion. There were few such people, and not everywhere did the “especially valuable opinion” ooze poison.

"The hit of the season! Gloves, handbags and accessories made of ostrich, alligator, python, and dragon leather. Buyers of the full collection get a discount!” I thought about the cute juxtaposition of ostrich and dragon, in which Dr. Norwood apparently preferred the ostrich (“gloves! ostrich. 9.09”). Even strange. It seemed to me that the dragon was cooler, even in the form of skin. I wonder what will happen on September 9th? Besides, it's Saturday and our fifth day? Someone's birthday? Picking up a gift?

“I’m selling ruined Nasturtium. She’s healthy, but she’s spitting!” Oooh, and here’s another dose of poison: “Idiot. Buy fertilizer." ?x yes, Dougal doesn't like botany, but he understands it. A screaming nasturtium that also spits… yeah. ? It would seem such a cute flower.

“I'm looking for an advertising manager! Please apply only to people with three higher specialized educations! It is mandatory to provide a portfolio, a standard package of documents, statements from all existing accounts, and recommendations from four well-known professionals in the world of advertising!” However, requests! The funny thing is that these types of figures who demand “stop-size” recommendations and a portfolio worthy of a Nobel Prize are themselves, as a rule, absolute zeros. Here, apparently, too, judging by the malicious “I forgot the key to the safe in the Swiss bank” in the same black ink.

The same sharp and black-inked “Miss Blair” caught my eye. What? Was he not really… that is, noticing Charlotte after all? Maybe everything is not as hopeless as I thought?

I read the advertisement, then the professor’s sharp handwriting. “I’m looking for models to star in commercials. Textured girls are welcome, beautiful eyes are a must.” By the way, Charlotte’s eyes… now mine… are truly beautiful, unusual, with a magical green. “They write “eyes”, they think “chest”. Just right for Miss Blair. Good use of its texture and, of course, the eyes.”

Yes, yes, I did, I did. I imagined my reaction if I found out that our editor-in-chief considered me a brainless slob, good only for shaking my tits in advertising. I would quit right away! This is, after all, humiliating! But Charlotte… She couldn't be that idiotic?! Still, they took her here, to this “most prestigious” educational institution! although… what did she say about her rich father? Maybe it was not only or not so much for your own merits that you were lucky enough to be in this place? Or does the professor simply have excessive demands on his assistants? But what is there to exaggerate, if even I, knowing nothing about the world in general and the academy in particular, can cope quite well? Or have I not encountered any difficult tasks yet?

I looked at the even lines of the advertisement and the slanting, sharp, flying handwriting of Dr. Norwood and could not understand what to do now. Because, to be honest, the first and so far only option that came to mind was stupid and hysterical – to grab the professor by the lapels of his immaculately pressed jacket, shake him and scream: “I’m not her!”

Okay, no need to shake. And don't yell. But something needs to be done?! Because now my-Charlotte’s chances of getting attention from him are close to absolute zero. And I can't even blame him for that.

Nightmare.

The coffee ran out, I looked in surprise into the empty cup – I didn’t notice how I drank it. And no fun.

Should I do more?

No. Useless. I’ll drink one more or ten more and nothing will change. Neither this stupid ad nor Dougal Norwood's opinion of Charlotte will go away. Hopelessness.

I put the leaf down, pressing it with an empty cup.

– Sydney. Five days, even a half. “Great,” she said out loud and didn’t recognize her own voice. Oh yes. He's not mine anyway.

“Dream during your lunch break,” came a voice from the door. – You are needed in the lower laboratory. Workshop on sublimation with alchemists. “The professor walked to his desk and suddenly turned around. It seems that this was the first time he looked at me like that – directly and for an infinitely long time, and his dark eyebrow slowly crawled up. Can a person actually arch his eyebrows like that? So what's going on? Not a single muscle moved on the professor’s face, but for some reason it seemed that this was an extreme degree of amazement for him. – Since when are you interested in newspapers? And why wasn’t the main flower garden covered with snow for such an occasion? – he asked venomously. – Mrs. Trunberry suddenly went on vacation? So find another healer.

“I already found it,” I chuckled. – I’ll take this number, there’s just a suitable ad here. Do you mind? If you still need it, I'll return it tomorrow.

– Not needed. And hurry up. In fifteen minutes, even Mr. Obley should be standing at the cauldron with a set of ingredients.

This is where panic overtook me. “I’m coping”? Well, of course, I managed until I was required to do anything more complicated than sorting through mail and making changes to the schedule. I don't even know where this lower laboratory is! Not to mention Mr. Obley and his ingredients.

“Charlotte, your mother, where are you wandering? That is, you fly! WHAT SHOULD I DO?!"

The mental scream was a complete success – Charlotte appeared nearby.

– Calm down, nothing bad is happening. Come down, the lower laboratory is next to the ritual rooms, in one of which we met.

The road seemed to magically appear in my memory. A corridor, a staircase, an open gallery with marble statues, again a staircase and again a corridor, narrow and cold. A group of boys and girls appeared in front of the desired door.

– Open the storage room, tell the students to take the sublimation kits. You'll follow up. Mr. Obley, whom the professor mentioned, is an alchemist who was almost expelled from his first year. Almost expelled thanks to Dr. Norwood. He cannot stand careless treatment of his subjects. Look, he’s disheveled, in a lopsided robe.

They made way for me, but from behind someone called out in an oily voice:

– Good afternoon, Miss Blair. Nice weather today, isn't it?

“Mr. Applestone,” Charlotte explained. – Likes to flirt. Nothing serious, don't pay attention.

“If you, Mr. Applestone, want to go to the beach more than to the workshop, I don’t dare detain you,” I attached the key fob to the lock and was the first to enter the opened door.

Yeah, it's gloomy. Tables with tripods, vividly reminiscent of a school chemistry classroom. Three sinks right next to the doors. At the far end of the classroom there is a teaching table and a glass cabinet full of test tubes, flasks and some other chemical glassware, the name of which I did not know. Nearby is a door with a sign “Storage No. 4”. And cold. The students were in no hurry to plunge into this atmosphere, and I turned around and slightly raised my voice:

– What are we standing there, who are we waiting for? Let's go in. You have a workshop on sublimation. You know where to get everything you need.

She leaned against the teacher's table, watching the lazy swarming of the students. They didn’t pay any attention to me: they joked, discussed yesterday’s party and tomorrow’s football match between alchemists and healers, wondering whether “this beast Norwood” would give a test or immediately start with the “lab”. Only Applestone glanced sideways and, for some reason, winked as he walked towards “Vault No. 4.” His flirtations are strange. I wonder to what extent Charlotte encouraged them?

The thought distracted me, and a sudden roar made me jump on the spot. I immediately saw the cause of the noise – a lanky disheveled man in a lopsided robe was sticking out in the middle of the laboratory, confusedly looking around the cauldron lying at his feet, fragments of something glass and scattered… what? fruit slices? It seems like I don't understand something!

The others reacted as if they saw this almost every day. Most didn't even turn in his direction.

– Obley! – exclaimed a red-haired girl not far from me. – I spilled water because of you!

– Be glad that today we don’t have anything poisonous! “The guy at the next table sighed and, with a wave of his brush, swept into a pile shards of glass, fruit, torn paper packaging and a dead spider that had come from somewhere. The next swing sent it all into the trash can that stood at the entrance near the sinks.

“But there are no more ready-made sets there,” muttered this bungler. – Ellie, can I work together with you again?

– Steve, again! – moaned the girl who occupied the table next to him – obviously the same Ellie. – Maybe you can at least sit further away, huh? I'll soon turn gray from your antics.

“Let him take the sublimation apparatus on the rack on the left, on the bottom shelf,” Charlotte told me. – And the basket of apples is in the refrigerator. There, in the closet.

Feeling like a stupid actor relying on a prompter, I voiced all this to Mr. Obley. Adding from myself:

– I hope you are able to complete this additional flight without incident? Enough for today. “You have,” she looked at her watch, “three minutes.” The rest, in their places.

“We have three more minutes,” Applestone cooed velvety almost right next to my ear. He walked past, clutching his cauldron tightly to his chest, brushed his shoulder, apologized with exaggerated politeness and asked: “How about we go to the beach together, Miss Blair?”

“Not until you stop staggering every step of the way, Mr. Applestone.” Or have you decided that Mr. Obley is not enough for all of us to provide the thrill? Go to your seat and get ready for class.

The lover of beaches and, apparently, boobs, was amazed. It seems I have behaved differently than Charlotte should have behaved again.

– Mr. Applestone, would you be so kind as to sit down and benefit our esteemed academy – at least slightly exercise your brain, and not what usually replaces it for you? – The insinuating voice with velvety intonations absolutely did not fit with the usual professorial “don’t loom.” But the effect on the students was no worse than a warning burst over their heads from something very rapid-fire and very deadly.

The glass slipped out of the red-haired girl's hands. Someone, it seems, decided to try laboratory apples on the tooth and was now coughing hysterically. Applestone turned pale and disappeared. The younger generation's nerves were clearly out of whack.

? Dougal Norwood walked quickly towards his desk, waving his hand as he went – and the objects on the students' tables moved in some order known to him.

– I see you had a successful summer. If I ever need to return my brain to its rudimentary state, I will know who to consult. Let me remind you once what a laboratory bench should look like before the experiment. You're not at the market, Miss Gray, and this is not an apple stand. A cauldron, Mr. Savage, is not a top hat, and unless you're going to put it on your head, it shouldn't be upside down. Miss Smith, your passion for books has no place here. Stash this impressive stack in your bag if you don't want to sublimate the paper.

Okay, infection! Watching the flow of polite malice when, for a change, it was not directed at you, turned out to be a fascinating experience. I was tempted to ask for a master class.

“Mr. Obley,” the professor stopped at the table and now looked at the unfortunate bungler, who had just come out of the storage room, like a boa constrictor at a rabbit. ? he froze on the threshold, gently pressing a glass structure made of a flask, a glass and some tubes to his chest – obviously, the same sublimation apparatus. A large red apple miraculously held onto the narrow neck of the flask.

– Good afternoon, Professor Norwood.

– You give me hope that there is still constancy in this world. Get off the floor and, please, bring this surrealist still life to the table intact.

I moved to the far corner of the class, again at Charlotte’s prompting. “We will have to monitor safety, there could be an explosion. From the professor's place it is difficult to control the entire laboratory, this edge is on you. I’ll help you today, then you’ll be on your own.”

"Explosion?!" – I can’t say that the prospect of explosions made me happy. Moreover, Mr. Obley, from whom one should expect trouble in the first place, was sitting much closer to me than to the professor. And very close was the place of Mr. Applestone, who was already quite openly looking sideways at my, Charlotte’s, tits.

“So,” the professor walked around the class, and the students froze, afraid, it seemed, even to breathe. He knows how to… hold an audience. In fear. Perhaps it's a shame for Charlotte to complain compared to this. – I believe that even in brains that were baked or dried out over the summer, the idea should have appeared to familiarize yourself with the topic of the lesson in advance. If you didn’t even have enough for this, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. We don't have much time to spend repeating theory. Are there anyone in the class who did not receive credit for aggregate states? – the question struck so sharply that even I flinched.

“Y-yes,” squeaked the same Miss Gray, whose table at the beginning of the lesson really resembled a counter with apples.

– Retake the experience as soon as you pass. Now you can be free or be a spectator. The rest go to work. For those whose memory is too short, I remind you of the sequence of actions,” he turned to his table, on which the same design as the students had managed to appear. He moved his brush slightly noticeably and smoothly. – We're cutting it. – The apple flew into the air, spread out into even, neat slices, which fell into a glass of water. Another gesture, just as smooth, polished, and beautiful: “Let’s freeze.” We place it in the container,” obeying the wave of his hand, apple slices in shiny ice armor flew into the flask one after another. – We're closing. We are creating a class “B” shield; those who have forgotten how to do this can be free until retaken. Then there is a vacuum under the shield. Mr. Obley, do you understand well? First the shield. Then vacuum. Under the shield, not outside.

“He’ll be fine,” Applestone muttered.

– Don’t forget to remove water vapor. The speed of the process depends on the invested force, the end of the experiment is determined intuitively. I hope it won’t be difficult for any of you to notice in time that your apples have turned into dried fruits.

“It sounds simple,” I thought, “for magicians. One, and frozen, two, and a vacuum. You can also store instant coffee at home for future use.”

“Naturally,” Charlotte confirmed, “coffee is made using the same technology.” You're not as stupid as most of them. Do not be distracted. Follow. Vacuum is dangerous.

Watching the rapidly drying apple slices was… perhaps not so much interesting as creepy. I have already used magic, learned to boil water or fry toast with almost a snap of my fingers, managed to appreciate cosmetic charms, portals, magical tailoring, but for some reason I only now understood the obvious. The fact that magic is a weapon more terrible than a nuclear bomb. If every dropout student is able to create a vacuum zone in a separate area… for a minute, someone's head may well be inside! What then can truly strong and skilled magicians create?

“Don’t be distracted,” the familiar feeling of a jellyfish swallowing you, a short gesture with both hands at once – again, I didn’t even have time to understand what exactly I did, but for some reason I knew that if necessary I could repeat it. Sharp shards of glass and ice, scraps of apples and, for some reason, paper hovered over Applestone’s table, as if in a freeze-frame. Some kind of note or letter.

This shocked and offended expression will probably give me nightmares. Goggled eyes, a glance slanted towards the bridge of the nose – the fragments hovered literally an inch and a half from Applestone's face. And he, it seems, could not decide now what should be more surprised: that he was still intact or that he had made such a mistake.

“Congratulations, Mr. Obley, you have a worthy competitor,” the professor appeared next to me, I felt him behind my shoulder – a feeling of strength and for some reason security. – Let go of the shield, Miss Blair. Follow the group while I deal with the effects of Mr. Applestone's brain softening. – A hand flashed in front of my face, taking a piece of paper out of the air. – Hm. You may be pleased to know that this worthy young man lost control of the experience because he was trying to impress you, Miss Blair, with his poetic talents.

“Oh yes,” I couldn’t resist. – I was amazed. Right into the liver.

She lowered her trembling hands – only realized that until now she had unconsciously, on a reflex triggered by Charlotte, been holding the shield. And I fell in love with Norwood. He now looked like a conductor or a surgeon. The fragments collided with a quiet ringing sound, gathering into a prickly sparkling ball, similar to a curled up hedgehog. Scraps of apples and scraps of paper were strung onto “hedgehog” needles, and then it all simply evaporated. All that remained was Applestone's stunned face – although no, no longer stunned, but frightened. I realized how it could end.

– If anyone else wants to hit the object of their dreams, please do not stifle your impulses. Alchemy lab is the perfect time. I will be happy to personally escort you to Mrs. Maskelyne’s office for your documents and with no less happiness will say goodbye to you forever. Mr. Applestone, gather your things and leave the classroom. Tomorrow after classes, I’m waiting for you at the department with all the knowledge you have. We will decide your fate thoughtfully and comprehensively.